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Tornado Alley
serious serialized fiction by Joe Souza

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** Days Four and Five **

     We travel throughout the rain-swept night. The sound of the van's windshield wipers lull me to sleep and every so often I jump up to the sound of stereophonic thunder and catch split-second glimpses of the low-level plains in the crackling illumination. Except for a quick stop at the drive-through at Wintburgers we continue on. The conversion van is now traveling at a speed of one hundred and fifteen miles per hour. The sky is roiling in agitation and clouds are racing above us in fast-forwarded motion. The radio has been turned onto a gospel station but only static crackles over the airways. Frank says that lightning causes static and that listening for such static helps track down potent storms. Frank says that every gospel station worth their salt provides him with reliable static. Frank jokes that this must obviously be a sign from above.
      I hold pen in hand and prepare to write something down. I'm palpably excited.
     "I'm palpably excited, Frank," I say nervously.
     "Shut up!"
Off in the distance I see a massive cloud tower forming in the flits of light. In it are various striations, which I have come to recognize from my discussions with Frank. The cloud towers are columns of air in which supercells develop. I open my vegetarian Wintburger and lift it off the wrapper. Underneath where the burger sat is a puddle of grease. Scribbled in this grease it says, "We're with you, Weenie. Be one with the land." I devour the vegetarian burger and fries. It tastes awesome. Someone in the underground movement is watching out for me.
     I wake from my nap and notice it is light out. We've been chasing a monster storm all night, Frank informs me. Destiny looks back and winks seductively; Fujita's bitch. The clouds are vicious and threatening. Phineas informs me that we have been straddling the Nebraska-Kansas border for most of the night. Rain splatters the windshield and the wipers squeak frantically to keep pace. Off in the distance lightning strikes in jagged bolts and the booming sound of thunder resonates in my bones as Amazing Grace plays over the speakers. We don't stop in any of the small towns we pass, but as we delve deeper into the heart of Tornado Alley I increasingly notice billboards along the side of the road with pictures of Frank's face pasted on them. Underneath his picture it says, Got Tornado?
     And then I see it and it is everything Frank has described and more. My first twister. It drops so daintily to the ground that for a moment it looks harmless. It dances on the plains for a few seconds before finally taking hold of the earth's surface. I hold pen in hand but realize words wouldn't do justice. It is an event of such immense beauty that in the rearview mirror I notice tears streaming down Frank's cheeks and dripping onto his leather jacket. The funnel cloud is maybe a mile from us now and it is long and thin, and sweeping majestically from side to side. The sky is now a brutal shade of turquoise and debris is shooting through the air.
     Frank screeches the van to a halt opposite a seedy looking Tradre Inn and jumps out. Destiny follows behind with video camera and tripod. The two of them set up the equipment along side of the road and begin filming.
     "Don't think I'm not onto your act, Weenie," Phineas turns to me and says rather sinisterly in a deep southern accent. "You think you can just come in here and destroy everything we've worked for?"
     "I'm not following you, Phineas," I say, watching the twister.
     "You come crawling to us with this shallow existence of yours, demanding a good story. How pathetic! You swallow eighty-seven Valium and then have the gall to interview Frank about his relationship with his mother - that bitch? You live in a two-hundred square foot apartment in Manhattan and eke out this neurasthenic existence writing about guns and beer."
     "Let's get something straight," I say, turning angrily to face him. "I never write about guns!"
     "Sure, boy, sure. But what is it inside here that makes you tick?" he says, poking his finger into my chest. "Where is the powerful vortex in your soul?"
     "I don't know."
     "At least we have the tornado on our side? Our own personal instrument of destruction. What do you have? Suicidal panic attacks? Constant rejection in bubble clubs? Vertigo?"
     "We all have our vices."
     "And do you think that little vixen cares about you? Ha! She'll screw anything with a pulse. Did you know that in her last film she handled five construction workers in one scene? And they had to do three takes. Po dudes. Must've felt like stickin' that sunbitch in a damn manhole by the second shoot." Phineas laughs and then pulls out a vial of pills and starts to pop them in his mouth. "Did you know that our little wind vixen gained celebrity as an infant when she was swept from her crib in a F3 storm?"
     "She told me all about it."
     "Oh she did, did she? And I suppose that hussy mentioned that she was known as the Tornado Baby for years after. Then she got older and less cute and couldn't deal with her star dimming. That's why the little lady likes to tell everyone she's sixteen. But don't all them little ladies like to fib about their age?"
     "I'm well aware of your background in psychological combat."
      "You're sharp, boy." He popped two more pills into his mouth and stared over at Frank, who was busy filming the storm. Just then two smaller tornados touch down on either side of it, all three spinning away like a child's pinwheels.
     "She told me all about the work you've done."
Phineas slides closer to me on the seat and wraps his deceptively strong arm around my shoulder.
     "You listen here, boy. For the last fifty years a secret branch of the U.S. government has been experimenting with a psychotropic drug. We've discovered something amazing; an almond-shaped region in the brain that if properly stimulated induces hallucinogenic effects similar to religious ecstasy. Why do you think I take all these pills, boy? For my dagdamn health? It is this part of the brain that makes us ponder our existence. It is this sphere of the cerebral cortex that requires answers to questions such as: why am I here in this conversion van chasing tornados through cornfields? Some scientists believe it's a spiritual receptor. Others theorize that it is a coping mechanism to deal with death-consciousness. In the course of such debates our research has determined that life-threatening events tend to stimulate this region of the brain as much as psychotropic drugs. Further more, we now understand that this stimulation causes people to spend their hard-earned money like drunken sailors. See, boy, once you believe that there is life after death money becomes meaningless."
     My heart is racing and I'm palpably excited. Phineas's face is maybe an inch from mine and his breath reeks of prune juice and medicinals. I wish he would just stop all the blah, blah, blah and watch the damn tornados.
     "Picture this, Weenie: prosperity and crime-free living. Think product enhancement and brand identity. Envision punishment meted out by the threat of killer tornados. It's virtually a gated community without the gate. Sure, boy, a few lives will be sacrificed in the process. But then again doesn't every great revolution require sacrificial lambs."
     "Look, Phineas, I really don't care what you do or how you do it. Rule the world, for all I care. My goal is simply to write a good story for my magazine. Do you know how boring this trip has been up until now? I have not had a thing to write about the entire time. In the absence of tornados, my future consists of how-to-pick-up-chicks."
     "Picking up chicks is easy, boy; let the tornado do all the heavy lifting." He laughs, his face still in mine. "Work with me here, boy. There are any number of products we can develop using the power of cyclonic technology. Already we're a billion dollar industry and we haven't yet scratched the surface."
     I sit staring at the approaching tornados, watching as debris lifts into the air, and wonder what the hell is he talking about?
     "I tried it out with earthquakes once in the mid-seventies but it didn't work. There's just too much damn time between intervals and I don't have five hundred years to spare. But tornados have an annual season that you can set your watch to. So the more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. The people here are salt of the earth, and through a reign of terror I aim to keep em that way."
     The trio of twisters dance and groove, swaying side by side. In a matter of seconds the winds kick up around us, spiraling viciously. I want to shout to Frank and Destiny to get back in the van or get left behind in Tornado Alley, but they are too busy filming this for scientific study.
     "Revolutions fizzle, boy. It's an inevitable fact of history. Take the French Revolution. The American. What we have here in Tornado Alley is an opportunity to build a new society from the ground up; a society built on conspicuous consumption, spirituality and Old Testament-style retribution. The cyclone is a strong and vital symbol of our people; the power of centrifugal motion. The vitality of cyclonic action in people's every day lives. It's what we in Corporate call branding enrichment. We hope to attain synergy."
     I reach over and lay on the horn but Frank and Destiny continue to film. The tornados sweep nearer and seem close to merging as one unified storm. The wind starts to pick up and the van is now rocking from side to side.
     "Frank is a dupe. Frank has come to believe he is more powerful than the movement itself. Corporate wants him downsized. And the people in Corporate are powerful people. Who do you think owns Vortex?"
     "The new editor? He's one of you?"
     "Of course that good ole boy is one of us," he says, massaging his chin. "Problem is, Yankee Frankie really has come to believe he has certain powers. He thinks he can drop a funnel cloud on a dime if he so desires. The good people of Tornado Alley labor under this mistaken belief as well. And this, boy, is a good thing, although you may not think so. Rest assured, terror is a very efficient management system. But Yankee Frankie has gone too far. He's usurping the power invested in the tornado for his own selfish interests. E pluribus tornado, boy, and all that good shit. But not at the expense of Corporate. That is why we called you in; because your own personality is so spectacularly shunted." He pauses for a second. "It's the Peter Principle at work: people are promoted to their level of incompetence and remain there."
      I'm frantic. I'm not even listening to Frank now. I start the engine and lay on the horn. Frank and Destiny have no choice but to pack up their equipment and head back in the van. Phineas is driving me nuts with all this psychobabble and mumbo-jumbo about cyclonic activity, synergy and Corporate Entity. All I want to do is live to see another day, maybe even write an article for Vortex about how-to-pick-up-chicks.
     "It's okay that you screwed Destiny. She'll get over it. In fact she'll be dumping your sorry ass any day now. Would a few bubbles ease the pain?"
I put both elbows on the horn.
     "A good rogering helps her with this staring-down-and-chewing thing. We in Corporate like to keep her happy in new dick whenever possible, after all, she is a highly respected employee. It's just that the poor thing gets hurt feelings when she doesn't get laid every now and then. That little vixen has been after me for years to give her the high hard one. She'd ask Yankee Frankie but she knows how much he hates sticking that needle in his pecker. So why not you; everyone else in Tornado Alley has sunk the Bismark with her. And don't get fooled by that kidnapping story. She loves all the attention she receives from looking down when she chews and up when she swallows. Now she gets paid by the Entity to ride around in a conversion van chasing the Big One."
     Frank and Destiny struggle against the wind to make it back into the van.
     "Here," Phineas says, handing me a gun. "Don't worry, boy. The counter-revolutionaries are all friends of mine. Without our revolutionary movement they can't have their counter movement. It's called competition, boy, and love it or hate it it's the way the world works. We all want the same thing in the end. The only difference is that they think the land is their friend and will provide for them once rampant consumerism runs its course. We believe in the power of the tornado to further human progress. Most of all, we agree that you are the person to lead us to the next phase. You are the chosen one. So take this gun and perform a heroic act."
     "I do not write about guns," I say.
     "I'm not asking you to write about guns, boy. I'm asking you to use one. Simply pull the trigger. Take it. This here's a mighty fine air pistol. Manufactured by Corporate's Tennessee division. Revolving cylinder. Laser sights. My only request here is that you not turn it against yourself."
     "How many times do I have tell you. The eighty-seven valiums was an accident."
     "Sure, boy, and I got a cornfield to sell you in Brooklyn." He laughs and turns toward the tornados.      
"Mighty fine twisters, huh? We call em rainmakers in Corporate."
I place the gun inside my coat as Frank and Destiny hop into the conversion van. Franks then puts the pedal to the metal and peels it out of there.
     "Ready to get chased by wind vortices, Weenie?" Frank asks, trying to catch his breath.
     "Ready when you are, Frank."
"I'm never ready for that, suck-up," he says, tossing a handful of pistachio nuts over his shoulder so that they spray in my face. I grip the gun in my jacket; I will use a gun, I finally concede, but I make a promise to myself to never write about one.
     I grip the gun in hand and prepare myself to use it.
The visibility is terrible. The greenish hue obfuscates the road ahead of us. Alongside the van race the trio of tornados ripping up the flatlands and sweeping everything up in their path. Debris flies past: uprooted trees, automobile parts, silos, and giant billboards with pictures of Frank on them. The tornados are now so close to each other it is impossible to distinguish one from the other. Static from the gospel station is blaring and Frank starts singing Sweet Chariot at the top of his lungs. Destiny is not smiling anymore; she is screaming obscenities like a drunken sailor. But technically she is not breaking any of the RULES.
     In one fantastic merger the three storms combine into the ghastliest-looking tornado I have ever seen. Frank wrestles with the steering wheel and turns the conversion van onto the side of a wheat field. We buck up and down in our leather swivel chairs and for once I notice that the Foreign One is not clacking or spitting. The constant bucking combined with the cyclonic activity causes a distinct and not unpleasant stir in my loins.
     I scream at Frank to go faster but it doesn't seem to do any good. I debate pulling out the gun and making him go faster. The van is now traveling at a speed of hundred and thirty-one miles per hour. No longer am I afraid of dying in a fiery conversion van crash. Go faster, Frank! I shout. He manages to steer the van back onto the paved road. But the massive tornado is not letting up. I look back and notice it is still on our tail. Next to me Phineas is chanting, "Ka-ching, boy. Ka-ching."
     "Sometimes you chase them," Frank shouts, holding up his index finger, "and sometimes these mothers - the bitch! - chase you!"
      "Faster," I scream. "Faster!"
     "I'm going as fast as I can. This baby catches up with the van it'll rip us all a new asshole."
     "Put a sock in it, Frank."
     "If only mother could be here, riding out this tornado with us - the cunt!"
The tornado moves in arcs around us. Just up ahead is the square where Frank gave his last speech. It is where I met the young counter-revolutionaries for pizza and cold refreshment. The tornado is picking up strength and aiming directly for the town now. Frank turns off the main highway and then speeds down a dirt road that heads straight into town. The tables have now turned; it seems as if we're back on course chasing the storm. On either side of us we are hedged in by spindly stalks of corn rising up past the van. I recognize this parcel of land as one of the representative sectors of Tornado Alley flashing up on the laptops. The Foreign One hiccups. Frank doesn't stop every fifteen minutes to clear the Foreign One of clutter, primarily because there isn't any. I scribble inside my notebook. I scrawl a heart, write Destiny's name inside, then draw a vigorous line through it. I slam shut the notebook and then try to stave off a powerful panic attack warbling throughout my central nervous system.
     The tornado makes a wide, dramatic arc. The base at the top of the funnel remains fixed to the heavens. When it arcs back it will be right on target to obliterate this conversion van and the small town it aims to reach.
     We kick-up dust as we enter. Tumbleweeds and straw-like projectiles fly through the air. A telephone pole by the side of the road resembles a pincushion. The town center looks like a ghost town. Frank runs out of the van like an over-the-hill rock star with a diminished following. There is no crowd to cheer him on, no jostling reporters, no group salutes. He gets up on the platform with his makeshift bullhorn and starts shouting that everyone must respect the tornado. There is no one to obey him; everyone is ten feet below in their comfortable storm cellars, respecting the tornado. The town's sirens are blaring. The wind picks up as the funnel cloud approaches. The atmospheric pressure is dropping dramatically. The tornado is now a swirling huge monster, thick as an inverted Mount Everest. It looks as if it could rip me a new asshole. Frank has walked back off the platform and is now staring in awe at the tornado, his arm around Destiny's petite shoulders. He is chewing wistfully on a pistachio nut. Tears are streaming down his gray-stubbled cheek. Destiny is sobbing violently, her pigtails flying in the breeze and looking like tethered ropes.
     "Take a good look at it, Weenie. You'll never again see anything more beautiful in your life," he says. "It's God's most beautiful creation."
     "I'm palpably excited, Frank," I say, gripping the gun in my pocket.
    "Beats looking down when you chew and up when you swallow. Huh, Destiny?" She shakes her head and starts to hyperventilate into a paper bag. "Respect the wind vortex, Weenie."
     "I do now, Frank."
I must admit; I'm in complete awe of this scenario. The funnel cloud is deserving of much respect. But not Frank; I am now ready to rip him a new asshole. I grip the airgun in hand and prepare to commit a heroic act. The windstorm has invigorated me, has filled me with a sense of duty to this desolate slice of middle America. I pull out the gun and point it at his leather-helmeted head. I tell to Phineas to go back in the van and get some rope and he goes back and gets it.
     "I knew it was you all along, Weenie," he shouts, watching the funnel cloud decimate the earth in front of us and begin its pendulum-like swing back toward the center of town.
     "I want some respect, Frank!" I shout, trying to keep my equilibrium.
     "Sure. Whatever. I should have figured that no one could be that pathetic without an ulterior motive."
     "Shut your vortex and prepare to be one with the tornado."
     "Et tu, Weenie?" he shouts. "I remember the lazy days when mother used to take me to the amusement park come summer. We'd eat corn dogs for lunch and then ride the Cyclone for hours. Afterwards we'd go around back and puke our brains out near the bearded lady's tent. It was the first time in my life I remember being completely one with the tornado. Life was never better than when mother was clutching me to her chest and pressing her Press-On nails into the small of my back. Just thinking about it now makes me want to break out that syringe needle." Frank closes his eyes and raises his head up to absorb the gusts of wind. "To this day I can still smell the Porcelain Schnapps on her breath as she clutched me between her sweaty breasts. And after we finished riding the Cyclone she'd stagger across the grounds, flashing all the greaseballs manning the rides. And then of all things, she goes off and marries Arty the plumber while I'm bombing Charlie in the Gulf of Tonkin - the ingrate! So if you want to refer to them as tornados be my guest. Just know my story. Work with me here, people."
     "I'm done working with you, Frank."
     "Is that the thanks I get? Look at the beautiful vortex I created for you, Weenie. Now you won't have to write about guns or how-to-pick-up-chicks, not that you know anything about either subjects."
    "You overestimate yourself, Frank," I say, waving the gun in his face. "I'll use it if I have to."
     "Go ahead then, Weenie. Rip me a new asshole."
     "Don't push it, pal," I say, unintentionally breaking one of his Rules.
I tie Frank to one of the legs of the platform. He doesn't resist. He chews pistachio nuts and winks at Phineas. While I'm tying him up a shell flies back and hits me in the face, but I still adhere to his RULES and don't complain. He smiles at me and stares up at the massive green funnel cloud sweeping across the landscape and approaching nearer.
     "Just respect it, Weenie."
     "I will, Frank," I say, kneeling next to him. "Sorry about everything."
     "It's all good. Because I'm one with the storm."
     "Are you really?"
     "If not now than I'll be one with it in a few minutes," he shouts. "Truthfully, I can't wait to be one with it."
    "Good for you, Yankee Frankie," Phineas shouts to him. "And take good care. Your contribution to Corporate Entity was inestimable to our bottom line. But your time is up. Hey, that's the way the ball bounces in corporate America. Sometimes you chase them and sometimes Corporate catches up with you and rips you a new asshole."
     I pull off Frank's leather helmet and strap it on. Then the three of us wave to Frank and wish him well in his future endeavors. We pile into the conversion van one by one. I turn the ignition and peel out of there. The conversion van is now traveling at a speed of one hundred and forty-five miles per hour. In the rearview mirror I watch as the massive system plows through the small town and obliterates everything in its path. Tractors fly through the air, as do entire houses, silos and barns. It is total annihilation. I look over at Destiny and she is beaming radiantly at the road ahead. Making love to her in a swivel chair has obviously been beneficial to her health; she looks younger than I've seen her look in the last few hours, and all at once I feel my loins stirring once again.
    A mile down the road I stop at a Wintburger for a quick bite. Inside the lobby a plaque states that this particular restaurant has never been hit by a tornado, but that it is ready and willing in the event of such an honor. The food is pleasantly horrible. The pockmarked young man at the register, an obvious counter-revolutionary, frowns at me as I take my Steak Fujita in hand, the juices dripping onto my bony wrists. All the other employees are running around and preparing for the destruction of this Wintburger with commemorative plaques and news clippings. I turn to Phineas and smile and he holds out his waxen paw to shake.
     "Now that's what I'm talking about, boy," Phineas says, patting me on the back. "Very impressive, the way you let that tornado do all the heavy lifting for you. And the way you shit-canned Frankie. You got ladder-climber written all over you. Trust me, Corporate's going to hear about this."
     "Respect the tornado and not the personality, is what Corporate has taught me the most. And if I ever want to go back to Manhattan I must successfully learn how-to-pick-up-chicks and then write about it in succinct prose."
     "Sweet Jesus, boy, that's profound," Phineas says, tossing back a greenie. "Come work for us at Corporate. Travel Tornado Alley and help us build a new society. Lead us to the next phase of conspicuous consumption and economic stability."
     "I'm honored, Phineas. Already I feel a powerful vortex developing in my being."
     "That's just the start, boy. Wait to you see what it does for your love life," Phineas says. He then executes a crisp, perfect salute.
     I stand with my toes pointed in and my arms raised above my head.
     Phineas sits across from me and empties his hallucinogenics out onto the table. Destiny sits three tables away and smiles at an imaginary bug on the table. It's enough to make a grown man cry. My lunch tastes awful and I find it comforting.
     A good-looking young fellow comes up to me inside Wintburger and introduces himself. He tells me he is writing an article on tornado chasers and has arranged with Phineas to ride with us. He hails from Chicago and writes for a men's magazine called The Windy City. The magazine features half-naked chicks and has articles on sports, cigars and beef. He walks over and sits down next to Destiny, who is still staring seductively at the imaginary bug on the table.
     "Hey, new guy," I shout. "You wouldn't know a windy city if it blew you over." Phineas and I exchange high-fives.
     "Chicago can get very drafty in the spring," he replies. "Did you know that they have the finest hot dogs anywhere in the world. Kosher dogs, Brats, Kielbasa. In fact two chili dogs for lunch have been known to rip pathetic weenies like you a new asshole."
     "That's super," I say. Then I query, "Anyone up for chasing wind vortices?"
     "Ready when you are," the young reporter responds. He sits in front of Destiny, watching her chew.
     "I'm always ready," I tell him, staring out at the funnel cloud off in the horizon. I put the leather helmet over my head. "Respect the tornado."
     "I'll respect it," he says.
     Then we get in the conversion van and peel it out of there. Behind us the Wintburger is being demolished. Cruising down the highway I spit pistachio nutshells out the window. They fly back through the window and hit the new guy in the face. But he doesn't complain.

** Day One **  Day Two ** Day Three  **