Prologue The Barbecue Wire Boy

“For Cole’s a jolly good fellow. For Cole’s a jolly good fellow. For Cole’s a jolly good fellooooooooooooooooooow. For nobody can deny!”

“Thank-you,” I say, quietly into the microphone.

“Speech, Speech,” everyone cries.

Damn it, I knew that was coming next. My generally twittery temperament does not lend itself to protracted bouts of stampeding effusion. The constructs of my delicate being are more suited for endeavors of high snobbery, like writing checks and leafing through the Wall Street Journal but alas, these are not choices of a perceived societal superiority. You see my mind is iron clad, hand forged in the likeness of Einstein and de Vinci but my physique is a grotesque, off angle display of Mother Nature at her worst. It sucks to be eighteen and crippled but at least I’m not retarded anymore. A revised destiny guides my actions.

“I…er…you know there are times…it’s hard turning eighteen years old…”

This obviously isn’t going well. There must be something I can do to get out of this situation. Think damn it. Think.

“Is it hot in here?”

Shakily, I take hold of the microphone stand and busy myself by adjusting it up and then down and then up again. I clear my throat and grip the microphone tightly for comfort and the murmur of the crowd grows deafening and begins to sound like the din of some great Biblical swarm. Locusts? Nervously I reach inside my frilly button down shirt and run my fingers up and down the pink zipper of flesh and stitches over my heart. It’s been two weeks since my most recent heart operation. In my short eighteen years of existence I’ve had twelve such procedures. After this last operation the doctor said, "Cole, this will be the last operation for you." He wasn't smiling when he said this so I'm pretty sure I know what he meant.

“Come on my son,” my Pop cries, waving his white chef’s hat in the air.

I dig the toe of my Italian leather shoes into the red shag carpet and slowly open my eyes. My bladder spasms and I know this isn’t good.

“I uh…have to use the restroom,” I say and with the aid of my walking stick limp off the small stage in the corner of the restaurant. My Pop gave me the 18th century hardwood walking stick with an ivory stylized knotted knob for my birthday today and damn it if it isn’t easier to get around with it but I wish he would have given me something a little more stylish.

“Here comes the birthday boy,” my Pop says.

He reaches for me with his large hands and I smack them away with my walking stick.

“Not now,” I say.

“Okay?” Pop says.

Yes, it was rude treating my Pop like that but my bladder is fuller than a lush’s Chablis glass and if I don’t hit the restroom pronto there will be a soggy Hell to pay in my velvet suit pants.

“Excuse me. Pardon me,” I say.

I try to make my way through the throng of chattering guests but all feel obliged to fiercely shake my hand, kiss me on the cheek, or engage me in some sort of polite version of conversation. It’s time to get nasty. In my weak physical condition this is unfortunately the only way I’m often able to get things done.

“Step aside,” I say, smacking a buxom woman in a blue dress on the ankle with my walking stick. “No time to talk.”

“Happy Birthday,” Art Nixon says, putting his hand on my misshapen shoulder and corralling me to a stop. Evidently he didn’t hear me. “Your dad really set up quite a party here. There aren’t many eighteen year olds that get Pearl Jam to come to their birthday parties.”

In the stagnant goldfish pond that was radio the smallish Nixon rose up through the ranks like an apocalyptic carp fighting vehemently for every available crumb of publicity and grew HUGE with his in-your-face style; eventually swallowing up his competition. It wasn’t long before he could no longer be contained in the small pond of radio and branched out into television, movies, and books soon dominated all media. Several years back when Art’s career was just starting to peak I appeared on his radio show. Afterwards we quickly became good friends.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling away from him.

There is a line ten men deep at the bathroom and I know I’ll never last long enough to reach the front of it. As I see it I can either urinate in the shrubbery out front and risk having my unit photographed by the paparazzi or use the restroom in the gas station, which is part of the complex of the Spruce Pierre Gourmet Diner and Truck Stop, my Pop’s world famous restaurant. Damn it the paparazzi leave me no choice I must reach the gas station restroom.

I grip my walking stick like a Louisville Slugger and start whaling at people’s shins.

“Get—out—of—my—way,” I cry.

People start yelling at me.

“Ouch, watch it Cole, that hurts.”

“I’m taking my gift back!”

“Has that formula totally fried your brain?”

I cut through the guests like a machete wielding Cuban in a sugar cane field. The crowd parts to reveal the front door and I rush towards it as fast as I can, which really isn’t too fast because of my handicap.

“Move it, little man with a big walking stick coming through,” I cry.

I think of myself as Indiana Jones running through a gauntlet of poisonous darts that shoot from the walls. The door is so close but the tunnel of people is closing. Just as the gap of guests closes and I am about to hobble through to the front door my uncle Darwin bends over to pick up his lighter and his ass closes the gauntlet. I run into it and fall to the floor.

“Ugh…oh my back,” I say from the floor.

“Hey, little buddy,” Darwin says, grabbing me by the arm and helping me to my feet.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” I say.

With some help from Darwin I am able to get the heavy door open and make my way outside. Immediately I am hit with a gust of wind and my top hat almost blows off but I grab it in the nick of time and hurry on.

The immense blue neon Spruce Pierre sign above the diner--bloated like the silicone injected lips of some OD’d Hollywood starlet--buzzes frightfully and the sound of it reminds me of the clippers my Pop uses trim his chest hair and goatee.

The soles of my shoes scuff noisily against the macadam as I make the scant thirty yard journey across the parking lot to the gas station. For most, a walk of this length wouldn’t be a major undertaking but with my weakened heart I find myself out of breath and gasping for air.

“Fuck knuckles,” I say.

The sun sinks into a bog of black clouds and my shadow is engulfed in the ensuing darkness. There is but one lone vehicle saddled up to the gas pumps, a mud spattered black Aerostar minivan with Pennsylvania plates that read: Red 1. The man pumping gasoline into the minivan moves jerkily like a marionette; he is a study in creepiness. The clothing he wears is entirely black--black knit hat, black combat boots and long black trench coat—and I can tell immediately by the way he’s pushed back against the minivan that he is a shadow dweller, the kind of man that shrivels in the rays of the sun. His head is tucked against his chest and tilted slightly to the side and it snaps quickly to the right as if on a swivel and now he is staring at me over the top of his mirrored sunglasses. I can see the half moon of his fiendish rat like eyes. The edges of his mouth curl up like the scrolls on some fancy parchment and this frightens me inexplicably. It is a fear that dries my mouth and turns my spinal column to ice cubes. I shiver and hurry on as quickly as my spindly limbs will carry me.

With the end of my ivory walking stick I push the door to the gas station open. The cowbell above it rings.

“Oh, Cole how do you do?” Bazyli says, scratching at his long neck.

“What’s up? Could you give me the key? I really need to use the bathroom,” I say.

“Dees could be a problem. You see your father told me that I could break for dee bathroom but this was many many hours ago,” Bazyli says. “I have as you Americans say to sheet?”

“Sheet?”

“Terribly would you mind watching dee station while I go lose one?”

“No, but you’ve got to hurry,” I say, grabbing my crotch in an attempt to stop the flow of urine.

“I thank-you, Cole,” Bazyli says.

He grabs a Playboy off the magazine rack, tips his Yankees baseball hat at me, and hurries around the side of the building.

“Oh, and Cole,” Bazyli says popping his head back in the door.

“Yeah?”

“Happy Birthday.”

“GO TO THE BATHROOM!” I scream.

“Right,” Bazyli says ducking back out the door.

I shift my weight from leg to leg trying to ease the discomfort but it doesn’t really help. Pushing myself up on my tiptoes I look out over the counter at the gas pumps. That freak that was pumping gas is looking right at me. I duck, sitting back on my heels but squatting down in this manner makes me have to pee even more. There is no way I can wait until Bazyli gets back. I’m going to have to use the sink in the closet. There is no door but customers wouldn’t see me peeing in it unless the poked there heads in. I hurry to the closet and the sink and climb up on it using steps I’ve constructed out of cardboard boxes.

“Oh…yeah…that’s it…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” I exclaim as my urine streams into the sink.

KABOOM!

An immense explosion causes me to lose my grip on my unit and it flails about like an agitated cobra, piss spraying everywhere. In the gas station tiny diamonds of shattered glass cascade down and the sound they make when they hit the stainless steel hotdog machine is like that of wind chimes clanging in a stiff breeze. There is a sudden rush of warmth that peels the hair back on my exposed left hand and the closet is illuminated with a splendiferous orange light. I grab hold of my flailing member, tuck it away, and quickly zip up my pants.

With great caution I peer around the frame of the door as smoke and flames poor into the gas station. The fire has created an impenetrable wall between the gas station and the Spruce Pierre. Already the roof of the Spruce Pierre is on fire.
“What in dee Hell’s going on?” Bazyli yells.

He appears in the side door, his pants are down around his ankles.

“The Spruce Pierre is on fire,” I say.

“Who deed it?” Bazyli asks.

I don’t answer him but immediately I think of the horrifying man filling up the black minivan. In a trance like state I climb off the sink and walk out into the gas station.

Sparks shoot from the electrical appliances on the coffee counter. Some land on my velvet suit coat and it bursts into flames. I can see myself in the mirror against the front wall. I lift my arms up to my sides and flames outline my body. I look like the phoenix rising from the ashes.

“You’re on fire,” Bazyli screams.

I laugh. The flames are licking at my face. I fart and in the mirror I can see a ball of flames shoot out my backside.

“I am Tookoo, pygmy god of barbed wire and fire. I have risen from the ashes--”
“What in dee Hell are you talking about?” Bazyli says.

I feel like I’m going to faint. There is an explosion of white gas as Bazyli sprays a fire extinguisher on me. I see nothing but the red glow of twisting flames from behind a veil of smoke.

“You’re in dee shock,” Bazyli says.

“I thought I was in "dee" gas station,” I say, as the flames close in around us.