Fucking Hackey Sack

“Okay,” Ray said after Leslie had finished his semi accurate take on the state of the apocalypse, “Let me get this straight. The world is done for and humanity is fucked?”

“Yup,” Leslie nodded.

“And we’re up shit’s creek with a turd for a paddle?” Ray resorted to quoting Ween.

“Yeah,” Leslie nodded again.

“We have a sword though,” Ray mused.

“Can’t use it,” Leslie shook his head.

“Why?” Ray again.

“Bad nuclear shit, I guess,” Leslie observed.

“And you want to drop in on the most violent people in the valley to see if their Yarl is doing alright right after getting into a barfight with their number two?” Ray asked in clarification.

“That’s the long and short of it.” Leslie went to shift the Delica into reverse.

“Hold on,” Ray grabbed Leslie’s shoulder, “why me? I’m no good as backup. I weigh like a hundred and ten pounds. I’m fucking tiny, man.”

“They like you,” Leslie informed them, “you give them mushrooms.”

“Is that why you came to fucking get me?” Ray asked, a touch hurt.

“No, man” Leslie looked up into the rear view mirror and made eye contact with Ray, their shades a useless intermediary between them, “I came to get you because I love you.”

This wasn’t a word that Leslie threw around all willy-nilly.

“What?” Ray recoiled, “gross. I smell like trash. You’re in love with a trash person? You want to go on dumpster dates?”

“No dipshit,” Leslie chuckled, “not like that, I’d love you even if you didn’t smell like the underside of a portapotty.”

“I need a fucking shower man,” Ray joined in on the chuckle, “but I need to go back inside. I need my hack”

“Hack?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah, man,” Ray continued, “my hacky sack.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Leslie said.

“Little crochet bag with some beads in it,” Ray held up their hands about a hacky sack’s width apart. This was meant to be sarcasm on Ray’s part, so they chuckled while delivering what they thought was a joke, “‘bout yeah big. I carry it fucking everywhere. I hack all the time.”

“I got nothin’” Leslie shrugged.

“Hold the fucking phone,” Ray got intense for a second, laughter and sarcasm forgotten, “you have no idea what I am talking about?” Leslie nodded, “Tell me you have seen this thing.”

“I haven’t,” Leslie sadly informed them.

“Tell me I am a good hacky sacker,” Ray was very intense and serious.

“Are you talking about the dance you do?” Leslie asked, “I thought you were just on mushrooms a lot and kind of doing your own thing.”

“Fuck man!” Ray screamed desperately, “It’s not fucking real? Thousands of hours of my life? I crocheted that thing from scratch. I fucking spun the yarn for it. I learned to crochet. Crocheting is gay as hell. There is no way this isn’t real. I have the meanest jester around man! You have to tell me if you are fiucking with me.”

“I’m seriously not fucking with you,” Leslie informed them.

“Fuck,” Ray whispered sullenly, staring off at the ruined condo where they had been living a lie for the past decade or so, “I have to do something drastic here man.”

Ray got out of the Delica and went around to the rear hatch where Leslie had his tool kit. They rummaged around in there for a good minute. Leslie watched in the rear view as Ray found what they were looking for and walked around to the front of the condo. Ray was having an understandably emotional reaction to this whole thing, which was understandable. Leslie thought it best to not intervene, and let the whole thing shake out.

They had been looking for a blowtorch. From the rate at which it caught fire, it was kind of surprising that the condo hadn’t burned down in the last sixty years. The fire, rather than looking like an emergency, seemed more of a mercy, and the condo seemed relieved to be puking black acrid smoke into the cold afternoon air.
Ray, having burned what was left of their life, returned to the passenger seat of the Delica.

“Can I crash on your couch, man?” They asked, after a silent minute or so watching the blaze.

“Sure thing,” Leslie answered.