This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Thirty-seven

(Friday, October 14th)

We change into the uniforms in the quartermaster’s basement, and Vince very caringly shows us how to fold the trouser legs into the top of the boots. Sergeant Williams gives us each a camouflaged green rucksack to put our things in. Additionally, Ron gets an ammunitions pouch. “I’ll give Mr. Ashton a ring, so he can come down to sign.”

“No need, Sergeant.” Richard walks in, as if he owned the place, which, I suppose, in a sense, he does. “The list, please.” He takes the clipboard from the Sergeant. “Let’s see: Vest, mans, OG, three; Jacket, Combat, Lightweight, Woodland DP, three; Trousers, Combat, Lightweight, Woodland DP, three; Jacket, DPM, Field, three; Backpack, DPM, 25-litre, three; Beret, green, three; Pouch, Ammunition, DPM, one. Is that correct, Lads?”

The three of us mumble affirmation. Richard signs and has Vince countersign. “Now, the pea shooter and the five-hundred peas.”

“This way, Sir.” Sergeant Williams leads Richard and Vince to the armoury, where he enters and pulls down a metal counter, barring anyone from entering. We have to stay down the corridor, since we are happy civilians, except for Ron, who is half in and half out of his own country’s military.

Richard has Vince check the condition of the killing tube. Vince declares, it appears to be in suitable working order. “May Corporal Matthews and I take Mr. Upton into the range, Sergeant?”

“As long as you’re with them, Sir.” Sergeant Williams has a mild disposition but plays by the book. He hands Richard a clip.

Richard motions to Ron to join them, and the three of them disappear through a metal fire door at the end of the corridor. For the first time, I have a chance to really look at my other half in his uniform. I must say, he does look good. But then again, he’d look good in a fucking Halloween costume, or dressed as Santa Claus. This thought, of course, makes me laugh. And, of course, Raphaël wonders what the matter is, using only non-verbal communication to express himself.

I open my mouth to tell him, when a burst of automatic gun fire, followed by several single shots and another burst, interrupt me. Both Raph and I jump. I always underestimate how loud gunfire is in a building, but now we know for sure that military weaponry is much louder than Marty’s 9 mm handgun.

Raph scowls. “Wonder how many will come out alive.”

The door to the firing range opens with Vince declaring: “fucking amazing. Uh, sorry, Sir.”

“No bother, Corporal.” Richard takes the sheet of paper, which looks as if they’d taken it from Mildred’s Big Chief tablet, with a hole in the centre. Richard hands it to Sergeant Williams.

Sergeant Williams looks closely at the sheet of paper. “Did he hit it once and put twenty-nine rounds into the wall?”

“Looks as if, doesn’t it?” Richard’s rhetorical question actually gets a comment.

“It’s a shame that Sergeant Griffin is on leave.” Vince chuckles, looking at Ron fondly.

“How so?” Richard inquires.

Both Vince and Sergeant Williams laugh weakly. The good Sergeant explains that the absent Sergeant Griffin is responsible for recruitment. Richard gives Ron an almost lustful glance and pats him on the shoulder and Vince stiffens.

This is when I make the decision to talk to Richard. I lean over and whisper into Raph’s ear: « As-tu encore la clef de notre appartement ? », wondering if he still has our apartment key.

« Elle est là-haut. » is his affirmation that he does.

« As-tu des objections, si je la donne à Vincent et Ronald ? » I ask if he’s okay with my giving it to Vince and Ron,

He shakes his head to signal that he doesn’t but nods in Vince’s direction. “Give me what?” Shit! It seems that everyone who went to school in England understands French. Raphaël and I are going to have to watch ourselves when we get to Brighton.

“Tell you in a minute, Vince. Once we get upstairs." Luckily, he just gives me the thumbs up and doesn’t pursue the topic any further. Richard gives me a curious look but doesn’t say anything. And good ol’, super-marksman Ron is oblivious to everything.

We get to the paved space between Richard’s residence and the guard’s house, when Vince approaches. “You wanted to give me something?”

“Uh, yeah.” I’m not quite sure how to approach this. “You really like, Ron, don’t you?”

He laughs a bit sarcastically. “Does it show that much?”

“That’s why Raph and I are going to give you the key to our apartment,” I watch him blush, which turns his bronze skin just a shade darker. I wonder about his ethnicity but then decide that it’s none of my business. “so you’ll have a place to meet outside the barracks.”

“You’re quite a mate, you know that?” He gives my neck a hug, just like he did yesterday, when he wanted to know if I play soccer.

“And, believe me, if I didn’t already have Yves-Raphaël, I’d be after you myself.” Sometimes it is amazing how people deal the with truth. In this case, he ignores it.

“Have to go get ready to leave. See ya in a bit.” And off he goes.

Now, I have to get permission from Bob, who is sitting in the kitchen exchanging war stories with Liam; Jennette appears to be taking mental notes between gulps of coffee.

As I walk through the kitchen door, Liam is relating something about the Aden Emergency and a particularly fierce fire fight between British forces and the National Liberation Front on the Dhala road. Either Bob and Jennette do know where the Fuck Aden is and have, in fact, heard of the emergency there and are familiar with the Dhala road, or, the alternative, which I consider the more likely, they are faking it.

 “Excuse me.” I interrupt meekly. “Can I have a word with you, Bob, outside?”

“Sure, Albee.” He scoots his chair back. “Let’s go.” He gets up and puts his arm around my shoulder. Of a sudden it hits me: I’m really going to miss Bob. He leans in close. “Can’t say that the uniform suits you.”

“Yeah.” I confirm. “Halloween came a couple of weeks early, this year.”

We are standing at the top of the drive, and I notice the one black suit with a hand-held parabolic microphone and a cassette recorder, dangling from a shoulder strap and the other with a telescopic lens on a camera, which is making whirring sounds and clicking noises, which we can hear the twenty yards or so up the driveway.

“C’mon Bob,” I glare at the FBI agents and consider flashing them the bird but reconsider. It could endanger our escape. “Let’s go back behind the house, so the buddy fuckers can’t eavesdrop.” Bob glares at the agents and nods.

“Okay, Dan, what is it?" Bob's private gentleness is, as always, in glaring contrast to Brown Bear, the soldier.

“Would you mind if Corporal Matthews and Ron use our apartment as a retreat?” I’m trying to be as euphemistic as possible, but Bob laughs anyway.

“Guess you haven’t heard.” Bob replaces his big paw on my shoulder. “Ron is moving into Marty’s room. So sure. If they want more privacy, they’re more than welcome to use the apartment.” He chuckles. “Joey, oh, crap, Seph paid the rent for two years, anyway, and you and brother Raph didn’t even live there for two weeks, so, yeah, I’m fine with it.”

“Thanks, Brother Bob.” I look around the courtyard-like area. “And let’s keep this hush-hush. I wouldn’t want what happened to Marty to happen to Vince.”

Liam sticks his head out the door. “Departure in ten.”

“Thank you, Colour Sergeant. I’ll be in presently.” This makes Liam smile broadly, and this is also definitely going to be the extent of my military swashbuckling.

“Wow, Albee. You even sound British.” Bob starts to choke up and pulls me in for a huge hug. “But don’t you ever forget, Honey Child, that yous really only just passin’ for white.”

“How could I ever forget that, Brown Bear?” My nose is starting to run. “I love soul food far too much.” I have to turn and leave before this turns into a hopelessly sloppy farewell.

Through the kitchen and up the stairs, I hurry, neither looking at Liam nor Jennette. Raphaël is waiting for me with his and my backpack filled with the necessities of a couple of changes of clothes and toiletries.

Our bags, along with our household goods are being shipped by diplomatic pouch. He has our passports on top and hugs me, when he notices my distress. « Qu’est que tu as, mon amant ? »

« Je viens de dire au revoir à Bob. »

He nods, understanding the difficulty of saying good-bye. « Voilà la clef. »

He hands me the key. I pocket it and kiss him. « Je t’aime, tu sais ? Plus que je ne peux dire. » Standing here in battle dress, it feels urgently important that I tell him that I love him before we leave.

« Moi, aussi, mon amant. » He helps me into my rucksack. « N’oublie pas ton passeport. » He kisses me again, as he tucks my passport into the left outside breast pocket of my field jacket. Then he puts his into his own field-jacket pocket, and I help him into the straps of his backpack.

As we come out into the corridor, we see Richard and Ron coming out of Richard’s bedroom. Richard is wearing a face of stoic rigidity. Ron has moist eyes. No telling what happened, and, at the end of the day, it’s none of my business. “Are you ready?” Richard's voice is just as stoic as his face. Since Ron is still carrying the submachine gun, I assume that he’s still part of the team.

“Yes.” is Raphaël’s simple reply. I nod and give Richard a quizzical look. He chooses to ignore it. When we get out back, Bob and Jennette are waiting next to the olive-green, four-door Land Rover, talking to the very shy Sergeant Aengus Maccan, when Vince passes by with a clipboard and goes into the residence.

Aengus smiles broadly when he sees us and motions us to the back of the vehicle. He opens the rear door, which reminds me of the back door of a yellow school bus. It’s a real door, not just a hatch. Only, this one has a spare tire attached to it. Inside are six seats in two rows of three and two single air mattresses on the floor for the drivers to sleep, I guess.

Above the mattresses, directly above the wheel wells on both sides of the Land Rover are ten twenty-liter, yellow, steel diesel cans fastened onto racks. Judging by the upholstered backs to the racks, they doubtlessly double as benches for additional passengers.

Virtually all of the residents of the guard’s house plus Richard and Liam could be transported at one time. Then, I realize, that this is probably their escape vehicle, should something go wrong.

Raphaël and I throw our backpacks onto the floor under the diesel cans. And we return to the group. For the first time, I notice that Aengus’ beret is dark green rather than crayon green like ours. “Why is your beret a different colour?" My question makes Richard smirk in anticipation.

Liam pipes up to speak for shy Aengus. “Because he is the most dangerous one of the lot. He might be soft spoken, but he’s one of our Royal Green Jacket snipers. That’s why the colour of his beret is called ‘rifle green’ and he wears the insignia of crossed rifles with an ‘S’ above them.

“When Mr. Upton arrived, Sergeant Maccan was up in the sniper’s nest along with Sergeant Taylor to take out any intrusive FBI agents, should they have violated our exterritorial status.”

Bob is very obviously impressed. “So, he’s the one with the license to kill.”

“As it were.” is Liam’s dry response.

“Damn, you guys are efficient." Bob looks at me. "This is the way it should be, Albee. Just like your passport. And here I am, watching Her Majesty making good on her promise to keep you guys safe. Damn!"

And Jennette seems to approve of her new job security, since she’ll now be in and out of here frequently. “I agree wholeheartedly. This is the way it should be.”

I notice that Aengus is looking at me and sort of smiling, so I wink. Blood shoots into his face. Of course, everybody thinks that he's just bashful. And perfectly mannered Richard comes to his rescue, but his military posture does surprise me. He is definitely in charge.

"All right, Men, listen here. We've got five drivers, i.e. Ron, Corporal Matthews, Sergeant Maccan, Dan, and I. When a civilian is driving, that means Ron, Dan or me, we will have either Sergeant Maccan or Corporal Matthews riding shotgun.” Soldiers with submachine guns totally redefine ‘riding shotgun’. “When one of the military members is driving, either Ron or I will be the armed guard.

“When we stop to refuel, we’ll require all three armed personnel to be at the ready, so Raphaël, Dan and I will be filling the tank.” He watches Vince return to the group. “Did you manage to hear what I just said, Corporal?”

“Yes, Sir.” Vince replies in his snappy manner.

“Did the rest of you get it?” Raph and I nod and grumble that we have understood.

The others chuckle at our not-very-military-like answers. This entire G. I.-Joe routine is getting old fast. The fact that an armed escort is necessary to get two totally harmless teenagers out of the country is absurd.

We have three submachine guns, one sniper’s long-range rifle, which is millimetre accurate at 1500 meters, a box of grenades and enough diesel to set half of North America ablaze. The only thing missing is a fucking cross-hairs hood ornament.

“Last latrine call before we depart.” Raph and I follow Richard and the crew over to the garage. Now, I find the showers and toilets for the gym, or maybe they’re multifunctional.

Aengus, at the urinal next to mine, is straining his peripheral vision to get a look at my cock. I’m less secretive and take a good look at his. Uncut, large, chunky and growing nicely.

I wonder if he might be up for a cuddle, when Dad’s words sound in my head. ‘There’s a saying in Ireland: The only difference between a happily married man and a raving queer are the first five bottles of beer.’ I have to smile to myself as I shake and zip up.

When we return to the Land Rover, Liam and Bob are back to their war stories, and Jennette is enjoying their reminiscing as much as if she were watching a movie. I can tell that once we’re gone, there’s going to be a long night in the kitchen with beer and gore. But right now, it’s time for good-byes. I can feel my eyes starting to brim.

Jennette is the first to get a huge hug and a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for everything. And please tell Wanda and Vicky, good-bye for us. I’m really sorry that we didn’t get a chance to tell them in person.”

“Will do.” She has her jaw clenched, so this might turn sloppy. “Take care, Dan. And write, ya hear? Do you want for me to tell Mr. Bruneau that you won’t be taking the exams, after all?”

“Please do.” Raph takes over hugging Jennette. “Also please thank him for going out on a professional limb for us and tell him that we’ll be in touch as soon as we get settled. I’m sure Maman will give him a call, as well. But I think he’d like to hear it from you.”

Before I know what’s happening, Bob grabs me and has me in a bear hug. “Albee, you are the craziest motherfucker, I’ve ever known.”

“Uh, father fucker.” I correct him, and of a sudden, you could have heard a fly fart.

Bob still has hold of me. “Think we can settle on 'pussy licker'?"

Of course, we’re the only ones who know what he’s talking about, but when Richard gasps, Jennette snorts, setting off a chain reaction of hilarity. The painful emotions, that our leaving is causing, have found acceptable release. Big boys don’t cry. Or so they say.

Liam takes both Raph and me by the neck. It’s amazing how strong the man is. “Ya know, Lads? If I had ever had sons, I’d have wanted them to be like the two of yus.”

Colour Sergeant’s composure is waning and his face turns to stone. Just like Marty's did at Bob’s father’s birthday party and like Richard's did when Ron broke up with him and just like Jennette’s did, less than a minute ago.

I hope that that never happens to Raph and me. I never want to learn how not to cry. As far as I’m concerned, big boys do cry. Sometimes a lot.

“I’ll take the first three-hour shift driving.” Richard declares in his authoritative mode.

We all head for the car. Vince is the first to ride shotgun and Ron is between them. That must present an emotional strain on all three. But once more, it’s not my concern.

Raph and I start to get into the back and Aengus maneuvers to get in between us. “Have to be able to shoot at both sides." is his explanation. Whatever it takes is fine with me. Raph chuckles at his blatant move on us. And then again, you tend not to argue with an armed sniper.

Richard slides open the driver’s window on the left side; the Land Rover has been converted to drive on the right. “Are the snipers and dog handlers in place?”

“They are, Sir.” Liam salutes as Richard starts the car. “Safe journey, Sir.”

As we approach the open gate, one military policeman with a German shepherd is standing to the left saluting, the other is in the middle of the street, blocking any traffic that might come along, including the black Chevrolet from the FBI, and salutes as we pass in a right-hand turn, gaining speed.

The FBI car is facing in the wrong direction and will either have to execute a three-point turn or drive around the block to take up pursuit, but only after the RMP in his scarlet beret gets out of the way, which, I imagine will take some time. The Special Agent at the wheel honks and waves with his hand; the RMP ignores him. And we’re off.

Richard hangs a left onto Wornall Road off of West 55th Street. He is driving in a concentrated manner just above the 35-mile-per-hour speed limit. Everyone is watching out for anyone in pursuit.

No one is talking. Hopefully, the rising tension inside the vehicle will lessen, once we’re out of the city. He makes a right onto 54th Street and four short blocks later turns left onto Main Street. We’re heading north.

At 49th Street, just short of the Plaza, Richard turns right and guns the engine to catch the green light at Brookside Boulevard and merges somewhat abruptly into the sparse traffic on Volker Boulevard.

Richard breaks the silence. “Does anyone know if Jennette is related to this Volker?”

The tension and the question send me into a tailspin of laughter. Luckily, Raph is more in control. “No, it’s just a coincidence.”

And Richard appears satisfied with the answer as he signals for a left-hand turn onto Oak. We’re driving up the hill, along the parks, when of a sudden Richard turns left onto East 45th Street.

This is the street that, at the Art Institute, becomes Warwick Boulevard, where our apartment is. Richard again speeds up to a little over forty miles per hour. As we speed by our place, he honks the horn at the FBI agents standing by their car parked at the curb in front.

“This’ll keep them on their toes.” he giggles as he turns left at 43rd Street and right onto Main. We speed past the Judo Academy and Katz drugstore.

In the near distance, I see the FBI car in hot pursuit. I lean forward in the seat just at Richard’s ear. “They’re after us.”

“About bloody time.” He grins and seems content and slows the car to the normal speed of 35. “Just baiting the trap, so they can waste a lot of time and money. Wonder how long it’ll be before they run out of petrol.”

When we approach the corner where Memorial Drive leaves Main Street across from the north tip of Union Cemetery, Raphaël starts to laugh. Of course, I know exactly what’s going through his mind. Since Richard wants to know what he’s laughing about, he relates the story of how I set Alma Mae Bottemly’s tits on fire with my cigarette butt.

Everyone’s laughter dies, when the FBI pulls up parallel to us. We’re driving down Union Hill and headed for the Union Station.

The agent on the passenger side motions for us to stop. Richard ignores the hand signals. The agent holds up his rifle.

Vince, Ron and Aengus hold up their submachine guns. Richard speeds up.

The FBI car speeds up. Richard veers abruptly to the right onto Oak and our pursuers miss it and keep speeding down Main.

“And you actually set her brassiere on fire, Dan?” Richard smirks.

“Yeah.” I emit a sigh of relief that the FBI car is gone. “That was the advantage of having right-hand drive on the right side of the road.”

Aengus, Vince and Richard all nod and chuckle, while Ron looks as if he’s trying to figure out what we’re talking about. I give off another sigh of relief, when Richard turns onto Troost Avenue and I see the markers for US Highway 71. This time, I assume that we’re going to keep going north until we get to the border, as I let my eyes fall shut.

***

Richard’s voice wakes me: “Do you feel rested enough to drive?”

“Ya missed all the excitement.” Aengus tells me with a smirk.

“What excitement?” I stretch and yawn, raising my head off his shoulder and my left hand off his submachine gun.

“We just passed through Clarinda.” He chuckles, patting my hand.

“Where the Fuck are we?” I ask Richard.

“Just northeast of Clarinda, Iowa.” He says coolly, looking at a roadmap on the seat next to his. Ron and Vince are outside relieving themselves, and Raph is stretching, slowly making way for Aengus to get out to piss. “Just keep to Highway 71 until we get to Atlantic.”

“How do we get to the Atlantic, if we’re driving north?” I open the door to get out and light a cigarette, thinking it unwise to smoke inside the Land Rover with 200 litres of diesel in the back.

“The town is called Atlantic, Iowa. That’s where Highway 71 turns right and then left.” He points out on the map. “Basically, you can’t miss it. But have Raph point it out. He’ll be your navigator and Aengus your shotgun.”

After watering the plants, Raphaël and Aengus come over to look at the map. I field strip my cigarette. “What’s the next town of any size?”

“Audubon.” Richard chuckles. “But it’s for the birds.” Raph and I moan. “But the highway doesn’t make any turns, there. Keep going until we get to just outside Templeton. That’s where there’s another right-then-left sequence.”

“Where’s the problem?” I light another cigarette to get a high-enough nicotine level to last me a while.

“There is no problem with directions. There may be a problem with drowsiness.” Richard looks at me sternly. “The monotony of the terrain and the straight-as-a-string highway can put you to sleep. If you feel drowsy, pull over, and we’ll change drivers.”

“I understand.” I look up and down the road, expecting to see the FBI closing in. Nothing. Not a car in sight. I turn my back to the others and pull out my cock and pee all over the concrete highway. I hold the butt of my cigarette into the stream to put it out. After all, Smokey the Bear always says: ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.' even if there is no forest. I tear off the filter and flip the soggy remnants of tobacco into the puddle of piss.

We pile back into the Land Rover with Aengus as shotgun, Raph in the middle and myself at the wheel. I signal and pull back onto the road. Raphaël has the map. “You’ll have to watch out in Auburn.”

“Why? What’s in Auburn?” I’m thinking in terms of police or FBI.

“Highway 71 turns first left and then right.” Raph laughs.

“Wow.” is my unimpressed comment.

“Don’t forget that we are guests, here.” Richard says sarcastically from the back seat. “And we wouldn’t want to offend our hosts, now would we?"

Raphaël is correct. In Auburn, Pine Street, better known as US Highway 71 ends at 370th Street, which just happens to be one block north of 4th Street. Ah, yes, you have to be on your toes in Auburn. We turn left.

Then, about a mile out of Auburn, the unthinkable happens. We have multiple turns in Iowa, which is a welcome diversion since the rhythmic thumping of the tires over the tar seams between the concrete plates of the highway could easily put me to sleep.

We turn right onto Union Avenue, which runs north through open pastures as flat as anyone can imagine. Then, within a couple of miles, we turn again. Now, we’re on 330th Street. And, lo and behold, we have to turn again. We’re finally on Katt Avenue and heading for Early according to Raph the Navigator.

“The weather has been steadily deteriorating since crossing the Missouri state line into Iowa.” Richard remarks nervously. The pleasant autumn day is turning into blustery, cloudy weather with winds of varying velocities and temperatures. For anyone from the Midwest, it’s an ominous sign, but unusual for October.

We’re still on US Highway 71, driving north on a stretch as straight as Flash Gordon’s ray-gun beam through a countryside flatter than Twiggy’s tits. The wind dies down, then gusts, then slows again. First it’s warm, then chilly, and the sky is turning that sickly greyish green, when Raph turns on the radio. “Guess we better be listening for reports.” I nod, looking up through the windshield for signs of anything.

“Reports of what, Raph?” Aengus’ even voice has a note of urgency to it.

“Looks like, we could be running into some tornado weather.” My Raphaël chuckles to soothe the sudden tension inside the Land Rover, as he calmly searches with the radio’s dial. Finally he gets KAYL in Storm Lake. “Now, if that’s not appropriate.” Raph and I both chuckle, this time.

We listen as the announcer repeats the severe weather warning with tornado alert, that’s been in effect for Northern Iowa since 2:25 p.m.. “What do we do now?” ponders Richard with a forced bland voice. I can smell perspiration coming off Aengus.

“We keep driving.” is my opinion.

Raph nods agreement, and Ron adds his unruffled: "Yeah, that’s our best bet."

According to Raph the navigator, we’re just a little more than half way between Storm Lake and Sioux Rapids, when Ron spots the twister as it’s forming, luckily for us, in the southeast.

“Holy, Shit!” Ron states in awe of its size. And that’s also generally my reaction, when I spot a funnel cloud of any size. I pull over to the shoulder, cut the engine and get out to see which direction it’s moving.

“For Christ’s sake, do be careful Daniel.” Richard expresses fatherly concern.

“Yeah.” is my response, meaning that there is sweet fuck all we can do about it in this part of the Great Plains, except to lie flat on your belly and kiss your buddy’s ass good-bye.

I watch it form in its final stages and touch down about five miles to the southeast. Normally, twisters move in a north-easterly direction, so we’ll just have to look out for secondary storm clouds.

I get back into the Land Rover and start the engine. “We’ll be okay. She’s moving away from us. But everyone’ll have to be on the watch for another one, while I drive.”

Rain mixed with wet snow is splattering onto the windshield. The wipers are barely keeping up, but our advantage is that we are in an all-terrain vehicle, which can more than likely deal with any flash flooding. Static in the radio is making any important news unintelligible. Raphaël twists the dial. Nothing.

Of a sudden, the rain and snow stop. At first, there is a dead silence, only the squeak of the rubber windshield wipers on now dry glass.

A break in the cloud lets the early afternoon sun shine onto the pavement. We can hardly hear Ron yell: "There it is." over the roar of the pinkish amber funnel crossing the highway ahead of us.

I manage to stop the Land Rover at a safe enough distance. The beauty of the many colours, shades of yellow, brown amber and rose interplaying on the wet surface of the roadway, on the hood of the car, off the side of the funnel, as it bounces over the concrete.

The dark grey of the low-hanging cloud from which the now russet collared funnel extends alternates between grey-black and bluish grey. And as suddenly as it appeared, it dissipates, retreats into the heavens, leaving a path of minor destruction in its wake.

Uprooted trees and brush litter US Highway 71, as we approach Spencer. The civil-defence sirens are sounding the steady, monotone blast of all clear.

A highway patrolman waves, laughs and shakes his head as we pass. Who knows what he’s thinking, and again, who cares? The man’s probably just happy to, once again, not to have been the target of nature’s wrath. I wave back and smile, giving him the thumbs up.

“I’m astonished.” is Richard’s comment. “It was utterly terrifying but yet stunningly beautiful.”

Aengus is nodding in agreement. “Don’t think I’ll forget that any time soon.”

“I’ve never seen anything quite so amazing.” Vince enthuses. “We have storms in East Sussex, but they don’t perform ballet.”

“Well, quite." Richard agrees. "So, Gentlemen, after that rather adrenaline-pumping display of nature's brute force,” Richard retrieves a large backpack from under the fuel canister rack, which, I presume, Liam packed for us.” is anybody hungry?" Everyone grumbles that he is.

“Tell us, Raph,” Vince is inquisitive. “what did the Indians do to avoid tornados?”

“Ah, my wise forefathers, Ke-mo sah-bee,” Raph is using a fake Indian accent, mimicking Tonto from the radio. “like wise bears, they knew where the caves were.”

Ron and I snort and laugh, but the others fail to see the joke. Raph shrugs and smirks, as he unwraps a roast-beef sandwich to share with me. Again, the weather clears and blue skies and sunshine return, and the drive becomes more or less carefree.

“Uh, Richard,” I glance over my right shoulder and see that the three in the back are catnapping. He forces his eyes open. “we’re going to have to put some diesel in the tank soon.”

“How far down are we?” He leans over the seat to see. I feel his warm breath on my neck. My dick acknowledges the sensation with a twitch and starts to engorge with blood.

“Just under an eighth of a tank. It’ll easily get us through to the other side of Spirit Lake and several miles into Minnesota.”

“All right, then,” Richard leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. “Stop when you think we can get out without all too many people nosing about."

On the southern outskirts of Jackson, Minnesota, I pull off the road at the entrance of a cemetery, which is next to a cemetery and across the road from a cemetery. Not too many walking around. “Okay, Guys, let’s fill the tank.”

Aengus, Vince and Ron take up their respective positions as guards. It’s amazing how well they can conceal their Sterling submachine guns, without even trying.

Raphaël, Richard and I move to the back door and remove three of what Richard calls jerry cans. Richard releases the cam lever mechanism, which has a short spout secured with a snap closure and an air-pipe. No fuss and practically no smell.

Bob would definitely approve, claiming that this is the way it should be. And the contents of the three twenty-litre cans fit nicely into the tank.

“Let’s go, Lads.” Richard locks the back door and we resume our positions in the Land Rover.

Since we were parked between cemeteries, none of us felt like taking a pee. We can stop again in open country, which we, of course, find on the other side of the airstrip to the north of Jackson.

***

About a half an hour later, I’m straining for a piss and a cigarette. Quite simply, I’m ready to trade off. I want to get in the back on the mattress with Raphaël and maybe Aengus. And we’ll have to see what happens.

“Richard, we just passed through Windom, and I’m ready for a break.” I pull off the highway at the corner of 480th Avenue and 370th Street, which is at the corner of 71 Highway and a country dirt road. Iowa and Minnesota seem to have an abundance of 370th Streets. But again, who am I to ridicule their street system?

Richard and the others go off down the country road to stretch their legs and probably to get off the main highway to relieve themselves, should a car come by. I’m not so modest and pull out my friend in front of the Land Rover.

I’m half through pissing, when I notice that Aengus is standing next to me. He has apparently already finished, but still has his cock out. It’s stiff as a board and his breathing is increasingly laboured. I assume permission to be granted and take hold of it with my left hand while I finish my business with my right, which is becoming progressively more difficult.

When I see the group approaching up the road, I put mine away and Aengus follows suit. "I’m going to get into the back on the air mattress with Raph. Why don’t you join us?”

He nods and walks off, and I light my well-deserved cigarette. The nicotine being absorbed in my lungs makes me slightly lightheaded. Rothman’s are stronger than Cavaliers, despite the filter.

Wish I had a joint, but we left the bag of Bob’s dope back in our suitcases, since we didn’t know what the procedure would be at the Canadian border. And since the luggage is going by diplomatic bag, it’s less of a worry.

Raph comes up and gives me a peck on the cheek and whispers into my ear. “Wanna relax after a long drive?”

I nod and he extracts a joint out of his field jacket pocket. This is too good to be true. “You were a busy little beaver, while I was talking to Bob, weren’t you?”

“Hmm." He purrs and lights it off my cigarette and inhales deeply. I fieldstrip the cigarette and pocket the filter. He hands me the J.

“Do I smell something, I shouldn’t?” Richard is coming up behind Raph, smiling. I offer him a toke. “No thanks. I still have to negotiate the Canadian border with a semblance of sobriety.” He turns toward the passenger door. ”But please do get rid of it before we cross into Canada."

“That’s exactly what we’re doing.” Raph spouts and takes another toke, while I fondle him through his battle-dress trousers. He’s already hard and there’s a wet spot forming through the cloth. I lick his moisture off my hand. It tastes of mothballs.

Vince is the first to get into the Land Rover. He’s driving. Richard is navigating, and Ron is riding shotgun.

Aengus, Raph and I get in the back. Aengus secures the door and we lie down with me in the middle. I go to kiss Aengus, who withdraws and shakes his head to signal that he doesn’t kiss. I’ve heard of this at the theatre. Straight guys, who only want a hand or blow job from queers. Bet this goes down a treat in the barracks.

I smile and roll over to kiss Raph. Now, this is quality kissing. And before I know it, I’m asleep. The drive, dodging the FBI, the tornado, smoking the joint proved to be exhausting.

The first thing I recognize is Richards voice. “Let me back at the wheel, Corporal.” Doors open and close. The back door opens. "The three of you better get on the seat. It might look too conspicuous, if they can't readily see your faces."

We drag ourselves out of the back. It’s pitch black outside. I look at my watch; I slept for more than five hours. Aengus is looking at my watch over my shoulder and acting as if nothing has ever happened. And, of course, it hasn’t really.

I’m still warm from Raphaël closeness. My better half seems more awake than I am. “Did you sleep any?”

“I dosed a little.” He grins sheepishly and holds his left hand up to my nose. Cum. I look quizzically, and his eyes glance quickly at Aengus. I'm glad it's not his own. It would have been a shame if he’d had to jack off, and I’d been too tired to help him out.

We climb onto the back seat. Richard is in the driver’s seat, Ron in the middle, and Vince is riding shotgun.

“Here’s how we'll proceed. No talking when we approach the guard on the US side. I’ll hold my diplomatic passport and accreditation up to the window, and he has to wave us through.

“On the Canadian side, I’m not a diplomat, and I’ll show them my civilian passport as will Yves-Raphaël and Daniel. Corporals Maccan and Matthews will present their military identification cards, and all you have to do, Ron, is to say where you were born. Are we clear?”

We nod and mumble and grumble. That is except for Vince, Aengus and Ron, who reply with a snappy: “Yes, Sir.”

We approach International Falls, Minnesota on 71 Highway, which is now called 3rd Street. We are driving through a residential area, which resembles Geneviève’s new neighbourhood in Overland Park. So, I can’t help myself. I have to relieve the tension. “Toto, I have a feeling, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Yeah. that did it.

“And, Ladies and Gentlemen, one of the highlights of International Falls can be seen to your left. It’s Smokey Bear Park. But since it’s night time, all we can see is the sign.” Another round of tense guffaw.

We continue along 3rd Street through downtown, which is reminiscent of the Brookside area of Kansas City, or the Square in Independence, or Harrisonville, or Chillicothe, or Olathe. Two-storey buildings with little or no character, other than brick or stucco.

Tension becomes borderline unbearable as Richard turns onto 2nd Avenue and we can see the bridge crossing into Canada in the distance. Richard approaches the first shack slowly with headlights off and parking lights on. He holds his accreditation up to the window on the driver’s side.

The fat border guard, who probably stood model for the Smokey Bear statue, reads it with his flashlight and struts around the Land Rover shining his light through the windows and at the special Missouri license plates. The guard snaps his fingers and points to a spot under the canopy.

Richard puts the Land Rover in gear and proceeds onward to the next checkpoint. “Halt! Or I’ll shoot!” We hear Smokey yell.

Richard stops. The guard comes up to us waving his handgun. Richard slides his window open, letting in cold, acrid, industrial fumes from outside.

Smokey is out of breath and growls: “When I tell you to park, I damned well mean it.”

“You, Sir, snapped your fingers. That does not communicate anything.” Richard is speaking very precisely and calmly. “This, however, does communicate something: I am, as you read, an accredited diplomat in your country on Her Britannic Majesty’s service. If you should as much as touch this vehicle or try to enter it, I will give the order to fire. Sergeant Maccan, take aim!”

Aengus slides the window next to me open and aims his submachine gun at Smokey. We all hear the click as Aengus disengages the safety.

Again Richard lets the Land Rover roll forward and we proceed past the second sentry, who does not attempt to step in our path. Richard regains normal speed to cross the bridge.

When the sign Welcome to Canada – Bienvenue au Canada comes into sight, Yves-Raphaël takes my hand and squeezes. We both know that we have left the United States for the first and last time.