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Tornado Alley
serious serialized fiction by Joe Souza

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** Day Three **

     My head pounds. I reach up and notice that there's a fresh scab on my skull. And I realize that I must have banged my head against the mini-bar last night. The gash under my eye has caused the whole socket to turn black-and-blue. I'm sitting in a Wintburgers in the middle of nowhere when I notice this. The half-eaten Taquita Twister in my hand tastes terrible. Grease drips onto my palms and then down past my elbow. Destiny is micro chewing and gazing lovingly at the imaginary bug on the table, unaware that I'm still quite taken with her.
     Frank begins to walk over to our table. We're both holding pens in our hands as if we're about to duel.
     "Save me," Destiny squeaks, staring down at the table.
     "What?" I whisper.
     "Save me," she repeats, looking up at the ceiling and swallowing. Or it's what I think she has said.
     Frank saddles up to our table and slaps me on the back. Then he asks if I'm ready to chase wind vortices throughout Wind Vortex Alley.
     "Ready when you are, Frank."
     "What a weenie." He waves me away in disgust.
     I'm worried; only a few days left to find a tornado before I head back to Manhattan.
     Once back on the road Frank begins to stop at each small town we come across. It's part of his lecture circuit, he tells me. These stops are timed perfectly so that he can remove the clutter from the Foreign One and empty it into the trash.
     A certain protocol develops at each stop. The three of us climb out of the conversion van and follow Frank as he makes his way to the town's center. Once there he climbs up onto a raised platform and starts to speak to whoever's gathered. Usually only a few people kick dust beneath him, but in a matter of minutes a crowd typically appears. Frank then bangs the podium with his shoe, stomps his feet and waves his arms around like a lunatic. He rips off his football helmet and drop kicks it into the crowd. Near the end of this speech he performs a salute. This salute is conducted by narrowing one's toes inward and lifting one's arms over one's head so that a large V is formed; the sign of the funnel cloud. By the end of this speech Frank is typically drenched in sweat, his hands raised in the air and reveling in his celebrity. And the crowd, who by this point is joining in the salute, repeatedly chants Respect the Tornado!
      We stop at one small dust bucket of a town. I stand next to Destiny. She has her arm looped through Phineas's arm and is gazing lovingly up at Frank as he speaks. The first time out Frank had spoke for just over an hour. As word spread from town to town, however, Frank's speeches began to get longer. Near the end reporters would jostle by the stairs waiting for an interview. Out of journalistic instinct I began to find myself jostling amongst them. Frank typically gives a quick, hostile interview and then fights his way through the enthusiastic throng of supporters, who want nothing more than to reach out and touch him. I am shown no journalistic preference by Frank and am treated like all the other common scribes.
     Once back in the van a tired Frank relinquishes the driving to Destiny. I find that I cannot stare at her from where I sit. But I don't complain. At least I'm not getting bombarded with pistachio nutshells every few seconds. Destiny drives cautiously and in this way I'm assured that I won't die in a fiery conversion van crash.
     He goes through the same routine at each small town. Granaries and metallic silos are ubiquitous. The land is flat and desolate, as it is long. Skies are blue and flags undulate gently in the breeze. Enthusiastic cheers greet us as we pull into each successive town. Harmless cirrus clouds line the sky like a rib cage.
      Respect the tornado! Frank shouts angrily to the crowd. We respect the tornado, Frank! they chant back. Respect the goddamn wind vortex, huskers! We respect it, Frank.
Once back in the van I notice Frank's hand reaching over the emergency break and coming to a rest on Destiny's supple thigh. She doesn't complain about his liver-spotted hand resting on her lap. I don't complain either, but I'm not happy about this development, especially when he makes a subtle move for his syringe-filled bag. Poor Destiny can't be more then sixteen. I remind myself to re-read that article on How-To-Pick-Up-Chicks written by my ex-girlfriend's beau.
     "Why are you so desperately chasing a Fujita Six?" I ask Frank as he reclines in his swivel chair, wiping a hanky across his brow. His hand moves slowly up her thigh.
     "It's all for you, Weenie. So that you can keep your job."
     "But isn't that a virtual death sentence?"
     "Roger that. My wife says that chasing the big one is proof of my latent homosexuality. See previous career for additional evidence, she says. Blames it on mother's habit of smothering me with affection - the cunt! My wife calls my passion for wind vortices 'chasing the big dick.' And I can't really argue with her. I'm not that way, though. Or at least that I'm aware of. Sure, it might have something to do with my missing prostate gland or the fact that I need a syringe needle to get hard. It might just be the fact that I sometimes get this terrible phantom pain in my prostate that causes me to wake at all hours of the night and not pee. Or it may just be as simple as this: I love the adrenaline rush of seeing a monster cyclone drop down from the sky and reign its particular brand of terror. Watching as it makes passionate love to the land. Respect the wind vortex, Weenie. Lemme hear it."
     "I respect it."
     "Roger that and don't you ever forget it, pal."
     "I won't, Frank."
     "Good. And remember, I ain't your pal!"
     Rule Number Eleven: Frank Ain't Your Pal.
     We pull into the last town for the evening. The sun is setting low on the horizon. Before getting out Frank empties the Foreign One of its clutter and dumps it into the green trash bag. Images flash non-stop across the laptops: Doppler, barometric readings, still-shots of granaries, corn fields, wheat stalks and Wintburgers.
     In the center of town a huge crowd has gathered to hear Frank speak. It is the largest crowd in the two days he's been doing this. They stir anxiously as a man up on the platform shouts into a bullhorn and calls out slogans. What Do We Want? Frank! When Do We Want Him? Now! There are people standing on top of buildings and climbing poles and scaling ladders hooked onto water towers. There are large banners draped over the town's main drag with the words, This Little Town Respects The Tornado, Frank! On the brick wall behind the platform is a thirty-foot high poster of Frank in mid-salute. Behind him a yellow tornado races across the landscape, and above his helmeted head are the words E Pluribus Tornado. At the bottom of the poster it says Respect the Tornado! The speech he is to give is sponsored by Wintburger and Tradre Inn.
     Frank jumps out of the van before it comes to a full stop and sprints onto the platform like an aging rock star. The large crowd cheers wildly.
     I saunter lazily out of the van behind Phineas and Destiny. I'm hungry and tired. Chasing non-existent wind vortices around is grinding, difficult work. I'm worried about keeping my job, having yet to see a tornado. Maybe I can capitalize on my experience with Destiny and write an article on how-to-pick-up-sixteen-year-old-chicks in Tornado Alley (and then the follow-up article, how to prevent going to jail).
     Her words - or what I think she said - resound in my head. Save me! But save her from what?
     It seems I've heard Frank's speech a thousand times now, and I am loath to hear it again. Especially the part about Being One With The Tornado.
     Rule Number Six: Be One With The Windstorm.
     I wander off. It is like a ghost town. Everyone is in the center watching Frank speak. Fortunately I run across a small pizza parlor that by chance happens to be open. Frank's booming voice can still be heard inside followed by the intermittent shout of pizza orders. A party of five young people, I notice, are sharing a large vegetarian and sipping yellow drinks poured from an icy pitcher. I order a slice and then sit across from them and sip my Lemonado in peace. The party of five becomes silent. Someone brings my slice over and in a matter of seconds the five resume their hushed conversation. Maybe I'm being paranoid, I think; because it seems as if they're talking about me. But what is there to conspire about? I must be tired and fatigued from chasing non-existent wind vortices. The thought even crosses my mind that maybe Destiny's words were a figment of my imagination.
     "Please join us," one of the young men says to me.
     I push a chair over to the table and join them.
     "The slice of pizza gave you away. It signifies the land," a girl says. "Submarine sandwiches indicate that you're with them."
     "With whom?" I ask.
     "The question is not if we're going to assassinate Frank, but when," a pretty young girl with dark brown hair says. "Any input?"
     "Input?" I say. "Look, I realize that Frank is often difficult to deal with, but why would anyone want to kill him?"
     "Because he could drop a house down on your head with a snap of a finger," a young man whispers. "Because that tyrant could put you through the proverbial wringer with a shake of a stick."
     "That's right," another young man says. "One minute you can be minding your own business planning Frank's assassination, and the next you can be walking around with a railroad spike through your skull."
     "Come now," I say, "I think you're overestimating Frank's powers."
     "I think not. The politics of Tornado Alley is very complex, but we know who butters the bread around here," the pretty girl says, folding her slice in half. "Let's just say that there is an underground movement growing within their underground movement. Our revolutionary efforts run counter to their revolutionary efforts. And stuff like that."
     "Oh? And what is it that your movement stands for?"
     "At the moment we stand for assassinating Frank. Once that is done we will devise a plan accordingly. One thing I can tell you, and that is we are definitely not one with the tornado," the pretty girl says. "You are new here. We saw you ride up with him. Is there any chance you might care to smuggle a bomb into his conversion van and blow yourself up for the cause."
      "Blow myself up for the cause?"
      "Yes. After all you did try to kill yourself by swallowing eighty-seven valiums."
      "That was an accident."
      "Sure. Whatever you say. But is it asking too much to blow yourself up?" the pretty girl says, obviously their leader.
      "It most certainly is asking too much," I say. "Besides, I have a deadline to make and if I don't make it I'll be writing about how-to-pick-up-chicks. Or worse, guns and beer."
      "Frank is a terrible man. If he only knew that we were plotting against him there'd be a steep price to pay," she says.
      "Come to think of it he has tortured me with his pistachio nutshells," I say. "And he's forced me to eat Wintburgers and lodge at Tradre Inn."
      "You poor thing," the pretty girl says, shaking her head. "Wintburgers is owned by them. The food is despicable and a scar on Tornado Alley's dining scene. And Tradre Inn's mini-bars are the worst on the planet, unless you like Porcelain Schnaaps, which practically no one does. But we have our moles." She takes a wooden spoon and mixes the pitcher of yellow liquid until a vortex appears. "So smuggling a bomb into his conversion van is out of the question, you say?"
     I nod my head as if to say, out of the question.
     "Fine then. Eat your pizza. Sip your Lemonado. We'll be in contact with you."
     "How?"
     "Wintburgers. Tradre Inn. We have moles located throughout Tornado Alley. Peek inside your wrappings after every meal. There will be messages scribbled for you in the grease. Follow them to the law. Check inside the mini-bar at Tradre Inn, underneath the nips of Porcelain Schnaaps. But you must be extremely careful and cover your tracks. Frank has contractual obligations which he can't get out of."
     "I totally understand."
     "He can't break the peeps chain, however. Respect the integrity of the land, Weenie," she says, holding out her palms face-up as a salute.
     "I certainly will," I say, holding out my palms. Everyone holds out their palms furtively, looking around the room to see if they're being watched.
     "And let's be honest here while we're at it and call a spade a spade," she says. "They're tornados not wind vortices."
     "Agree to disagree."
     "And don't worry. We know you suffer from vertigo. We don't hold against you that you tried to kill yourself by swallowing eighty-seven valiums. Nor do we care about the meltdown you had in that bubble bar."
     "I suffer from panic attacks."
     "Please don't lecture us about panic attacks as we live in Tornado Alley and panic constantly about life and limb."
     "Of course. But how did you know about all that?"
     "Don't be a weenie. We know about that girl in the bubble bar, too. What a geek," the pretty girl says, giggling. "We must do our homework. Do you think our movement would let just any old weenie try to assassinate Frank?"
     "I understand completely."
     "You are a kinetic hero; a possibility in the works. Someday you may be considered one of the bravest men in our counter-revolution. Someone our grandkids can look up to. A founding father perhaps. You might even consider leading us into the next phase once we figure out what that phase might be."
     "I'm honored that you have chosen me," I say, turning to the handsome young men. "Out of curiosity, do any of you guys know how-to-pick-up-midwest-chicks?"
The men shake their heads and give me pointers on how to pick up counter-revolutionary chicks. I am grateful for their input. I find I am really enjoying myself in their company. It is the most fun I have had in Tornado Alley.
     The pizza is delicious. It is the best meal I've had in days. I finish off the last piece and then lick the sauce off my fingers. The counter-revolutionaries are loud and boisterous now, and seem to be having much fun. The pretty girl is prettier than I initially thought. Her dark black hair is tied up in a ponytail and it runs down her slender back.
I turn to leave and when I do I notice that Destiny has her hands cupped around the pane of glass and is watching me from the window. How long has she been there? She is not smiling. She is not staring at imaginary bugs on the table. She looks hurt and betrayed. A lone tear falls from her cheek.
     The sound of Frank's voice rises another octave as I step onto the sidewalk. The air is warm and moist. Destiny loops her arm in mine and we shuffle past all the empty shops and cafes. I see a lone cirrus cloud in the darkening sky.
     "I hear a cold front is moving in," she says cynically. "Isn't that all you care about? A warm front meeting a cold front?"
     "That's so not true."
     "Men. You have only one thing on your minds. Warm fronts meeting cold fronts."
     "If you only knew how much I care about you."
     "Care? Ha! If Frank knew you were in there he'd have a fit," she says. "That pizza joint is a well known hang-out for the counter-revolutionaries."
     "Please," I say. "A man cannot live by Wintburgers alone."
     "I so happen to love Wintburgers and take comfort in knowing that wherever I go in Wind Vortex Alley the food will be equally bad," she says with hurt feelings as she squeezes my bicep. "I was able to slip away from Phineas during the group salute. He gets so mesmerized whenever Frank speaks. He forgets I'm even there. I can slip off his arm for hours at a time and be totally me. I get so tired of chewing while I look down and swallowing when I look up. Do you know how old that gets pretending to stare at imaginary bugs on the table?"
     I nod my head as she grabs my hand and pulls me along.
     "Hurry. We only have an hour before Frank is finished."
     "Hurry where?"
     "To the conversion van."
     "Let me ask you something, Destiny," I say as we walk briskly along. "Did you say 'Save me,' this morning in that Wintburger?"
     "Of course not. Get over yourself. I said savor me. Love me. Screw the living lightbulbs out of me. Damn! How could you not know that I wanted to make passionate love to you in one of the swivel chairs? You're so inconsiderate, Weenie."
     "How could I have known?"
     "Would it have hurt you to come right out and asked?"
     "I suppose not. But you're only sixteen. I could go to prison for making love to you in a conversion van."
     "And killing Frank wouldn't send you away? Did you ever think of that, loverboy?" she says bitterly. "Anyway, I'm twenty-eight not sixteen."
     "Twenty-eight?"
     "I've been riding around with those two for over a year now. They're like family except they're more dysfunctional. If I ever made a run for it Frank has threatened to harm my parents. They live in a trailer park outside of Oklahoma City. If I left him it wouldn't surprise me in the least if a killer tornado dropped down on their house and carried them away. I guess you could call what Frank did kidnapping if I were a kid. More like adultnapping. Carrying a person against their will across state lines for moral purposes, which is to chase wind vortices."
     "Twenty-eight? No, you can't be. Frank says you're sixteen," I say, staring at her, crushed beyond belief. I half expect a bubble to blow back in my face.
     "Frank says a lot of things. Frank also says that anyone who messes with me will rue the day."
     "Why did Frank kidnap you?"
     "It's a long story, Weenie, but I guess we have a few minutes until we reach the van."
      Pulling me by the hand, we walk briskly ahead. 
     "When I was a week old a tornado touched down in my backyard and swept me out of my bassinet. My biological mother was impaled by a crochet needle and killed instantly. Three days later a family ten miles away discovered me lying in a bush next to their trailer park. Except for the nicks and bruises, I was perfectly healthy. I was on all the news stations and was written up in all the newspapers. I became a celebrity baby in these parts. In fact I was the most famous child in Tornado Alley until I hit puberty. I was even Ms. Tornado in the ninth grade. Because of all the attention I received growing up, my passion for the limelight grew but my talent lagged considerably. I took up smoking and stealing, and running away for days on end. I became a poster child for juvenile delinquency. So I moved west for a fresh start and got started in films. My talent grew enormously with each successive film, as did my passion for stardom. My films became the most popular films in the adult entertainment industry, and I even won an award for best female in a foursome. Gale Sturm, I was known as. One of my party tricks was to suck golf balls through ten feet of garden hose. My biggest hit was called The Wizard of Shloz. It is about a girl who walks the streets of Schloz picking up strange men and propositioning them. That's how Frank came to know me. He's seen this film hundreds of times and he sent me creepy letters, stalking me endlessly throughout Simi Valley. I had to take out a restraining order against him. This girl I play in the film becomes lost and needs to see the Schloz. She believes the Schloz can take her home. When she finally meets him she's bummed bigtime. Because he's not a great Schloz at all but a wrinkled-up old thing who can barely catch wood. But in order to go home she has to do some nasty things to him behind a velvet curtain. My character is then kidnapped by an evil witch and is forced to perform various acts with a broom and a couple of midgets dressed up as flying monkeys. You get the rest."
     "Wow."
     "That movie grossed over two million dollars and is still going strong."
     "I guess I'm still disappointed to learn that you're twenty-eight? Does that make me a perv?"
     "Oh no," she says bitterly, smacking me in the chest. "It's perfectly normal. Besides, all men like woman who chew when they look down and then swallow when they look up. Men are such dogs."
      I am stunned to hear this. Destiny is actually twenty-eight and wants to make passionate love to me in the conversion van? We begin sprinting, but for some reason I now feel reluctant about having sex with her. Once inside the van Frank's voice booms over the Foreign One's clatter. We undress quickly and begin to make love. The swivel chairs go up and then down. Destiny is on top of me and making the conversion van buck every which way.
      Fuck the tornado! she screams as she bucks her hips to the rhythm of the Foreign One's clacking.
     "I'm overly fond of you, Destiny," I lie, holding her delicate hips in my hands and remaining perfectly still. I wonder why I'm saying this. Because ever since she told me that she's twenty-eight I feel as if we've begun to drift apart. I enjoyed her company far more when she was staring down at imaginary bugs on the table or looking up while she was swallowing. Tattooed above her privates, I notice, is a large green twister, the tip seeming to penetrate her womanhood with each violent buck. Above it in Gothic lettering it says, Fuck The Tornado!
     "On June 17th, 1975, a violent wind vortice ripped through Maxwell, Kansas," she screams in ecstasy, pulling her hair up into a bun and bouncing up and down on my pelvis.
     "It was a half a mile wide on the ground and sweeping across the landscape at an estimated speed of thirty-five miles an hour. Winds within the vector were measured to be roughly 150 miles per hour. A baby was taken from her mother's arms. Destiny! A star was born."
     It takes a tornado to raze a village! Frank shouts to the crowd. I look over at the RULES tacked onto the side of his van.
     Rule Number Sixteen: It Takes A Funnel Cloud To Raze A Village.
     I'm sweating. The Foreign One seems to be clacking louder and faster than normal. Frank is now attempting to shout over the cheers of the crowd. I look up and see that Destiny is looking down at an imaginary bug on my groin and smiling wickedly. She looks about thirty-eight now instead of twenty-eight. Sweat is pouring down her face and she is breathing in short, gasping spurts. Fuck the Tornado, she repeatedly screams in ecstasy until her body slumps around mine and the van stops rocking. The Foreign One hesitates momentarily as Frank puts the finishing touches on his speech. The crowd starts to chant in Latin. E Pluribus Tornado! Destiny leaps off me and dresses before I realize what has happened. She urges me to do the same.
     We walk back to town with a sense of urgency. Once we get there I realize that I will be obliged to congratulate Frank on his wonderful speech.
     "Are you going to do it?" she asks, her arm looped in mine. Crows nests line her eyes.
     "Do what?"
     "Don't be a weenie. Assassinate Frank?"
     "A man has to do what a man has to do."
     "Just be careful of Phineas. That stuff about selling vacuums was a load of crap," she says. "The truth is, he used to be a cognitive intelligence officer for the U.S. Army. Smear campaigns and psychological warfare. He's been traveling for years now with Frank, building up Frank's constituency in Tornado Alley."
     "This is all good and fine, Destiny, but that doesn't help me one bit. What I need is an interesting story for my magazine or else I'll be writing about how-to-pick-up-chicks - and what do I know about that?"
     "What am I chopped liver?"
     "For three days now we've been looking for tornados and all I've seen is that one supercell dissolve into the atmosphere. Where's the Big One?"
     "Trust me, the Big One is not what it is made out to be. I've had the biggest in the industry and it means nothing in the wrong hands."
     "The men in my magazine do not want to hear you say that. Because clearly size does matter to them."
     "You're my only hope, Weenie. Frank claims that I'm a born-again virgin and need to be sacrificed for the good of the cause. He says that if the Big One ever comes down the pike he'll make me Fuijita's bitch."
     I pull out pen and try to think of a fascinating story in case there are no tornados to write about.
     "He believes tornados are manifestations of God. He believes God put tornados on earth to punish mankind for their sinful ways. He believes that we should repent for our sins by being one with the tornado."
     I grab Destiny's arm as we walk hurriedly toward the platform, but as we near it she saddles up to Phineas. The crowd is chanting in unison. E Pluribus Tornado.
     It takes a tornado to raze a village! Frank shouts into the bullhorn.
     "Frank says that Jesus wasn't ascended into heaven but rose up in a tornado," she leans over and shouts.
     I can't seem to shut her up. She's driving me crazy. I turn and glare at her as if to please shut up!
     "Frank says that tornados are indigenous to North America and that in itself is a sure sign that Tornado Alley is God's country," she says. "Frank says that Native Americans living in the plains fashioned tee-pees to resemble inverted tornados, and that is why they were wiped out by the white man and disease; they didn't respect the tornado. Frank says that it explains all this in the Bible."
     I can't wait to get back into the relative quiet of the conversion van. Destiny is driving me batty with all this gibberish. I yearn for the good old days when pistachio nutshells would fly back intermittently and hit me in the face, causing me to bleed all over the van. Frank's constant verbal abuse now seems like a walk in the park compared to her nagging.
Frank is up on the platform and saluting the crowd. His face is sweaty, but he looks ecstatic. After the salute is completed he starts to pump every callused hand reaching up to greet him. The leather helmet is greasy and wet, and gray hairs poke through the holes where the yellow tornados have been painted.
     "Hey, Weenie," Phineas says. "Isn't this exciting chasing wind vortices throughout Wind Vortex Alley?"
     Frank steps off the platform and motions me over. I clear a path through the crowd as his supporters mob him. It takes all my might to push the masses away. Behind me Frank is shaking hands and greeting people with the words Respect the Funnel Cloud. And the masses respond with We respect it, Frank.
     Once back in the conversion van Destiny takes the wheel. Behind us the Foreign One is clacking maniacally, as if trying to tell him something. I turn around and notice that the colors on the screens have radically changed and that there are now images flashing non-stop.
     "I detect an odor," Frank says to no one in particular.
     I sit motionless in my swivel chair. I seriously hope he doesn't find out about Destiny and I, or the fact that I am now a messenger from the other side sent on a mission to kill him. The idea of killing Frank doesn't bother me in the least. It is for the good of the counter-movement. It is for the good of the fine people living in Tornado Alley under such a brutal despot.
     "It smells like…" he says, his nose sniffing the air, "…a vigorous surface circulation. Assume the positions, people!"
     Frank races to the back of the van and clears out the Foreign One. He speed reads through the clutter and then studies the images flashing up on the laptops. He races to the front of the van and takes over the driver's chair from Destiny. Sweat is dripping from his face and he looks as animated as I've ever seen him.
     "Bingo!" Frank announces. "Seems a large mass of Arctic air is making it's way down through Canada. Below us is a gigantic warm front off the Pacific known as the Pineapple Express. When the two meet all hell will break loose." He splits open a fresh bag of pistachio nuts. "Ready to chase wind vortices through hell, Weenie?"
     "Ready when you are, Frank?"
     "I'm always ready for that, jack-off," he replies, tossing a bunch pistachio nuts directly in my face. "Respect the damn wind vortex."
     "You got it."

** Day One **  Day Two ** Day's Four and Five