"Hey, boy," The Kid said. "I got the reflexes. I got the timin. I got three-fiffs of a second. You believe that?"
"Yes, sir," Trash said faintly. He felt like a man who has just used a stick to stir up a nest of snakes.
"I like you, boy," The Kid said in his odd, droning voice. His doll's eyes stared out over the fluorescent orange steering wheel at the shimmering road. Large Styrofoam dice with death's heads for pips dangled and bounced from the rearview mirror. "Getchall a beer out'n the back seat."
They were Coors and they were warm and Trashcan Man hated beer and he drank one fast and said how good it was.
"Hey, boy," The Kid said. "Coors beer's the only beer. I'd piss Coors if I could. You believe that happy crappy?"
Trashcan said he did indeed believe that happy crappy.
"They call me The Kid. Outta Shreveport, Looseyanna. You know that? This here beast won every major carshow award in the South. You believe that happy crappy?"
Trashcan Man said he did and got another warm beer. It seemed like the best move under the circumstances.
"What they call you, boy?"
"The Trashcan Man."
"The whut?" For one horrible moment the dead doll's eyes rested on Trashcan's face. "You jokin me, boy? Ain't nobody jokes The Kid. An you better believe that happy crappy."
"I do believe it," Trashcan said earnestly, "but that's what they call me. Because I used to light fires in people's trashcans and mailboxes and stuff. I set old lady Semple's pension check on fire. I got sent to the reformatory for it. I also burned down the Methodist Church in Powtanville, Indiana."
"Didja? " The Kid asked, delighted. "Boy, you sound as crazy as a rat in a shithouse. That's okay. I like crazy people. I'm crazy myself. Tripped right outta my f**kin gourd. Trashcan Man, huh? I like that. We make a pair. The f**king Kid and the f**king Trashcan Man. Shake, Trash."
The Kid offered his hand and Trash shook it as quick as he could so that The Kid could put both hands back on the wheel. They whizzed around a bend and there was a Bekins semi nearly blocking the whole highway and Trashcan put his hands over his face, prepared to make an immediate transition to the astral plane. The Kid never turned a hair. The deuce coupe skittered along the left side of the highway like a waterbug and they skinned by the cab of the truck with a coat of paint to spare.
"Close," Trashcan said when he felt he could speak without a quaver in his voice.
"Hey, boy," The Kid said flatly. Then one of his doll's eyes closed in a solemn wink. "Don't tell me - I'll tell you. How's that beer? Pretty f**kin gnarly, ain't it? Hits the spot after ridin that kiddy-bike, don't it?"
"It sure does," Trashcan Man said, and took another big swallow of warm Coors. He was insane, but not yet insane enough to disagree with The Kid while he was driving. Nowhere near.
"Well, no sense beatin around the motherfuckin bush," The Kid said, reaching back over the seat to get his own can of suds. "I guess we're goin to the same place."
"I guess so," Trash said cautiously.
"Gonna jine up," The Kid said. "Goin west. Gonna get in on the motherfuckin ground floor. You believe that happy crappy?"
"I guess so."
"You been gettin dreams about that boogeyman in the black flight-suit, ain'tcha?"
"You mean the priest."
"I always mean what I say an say what I mean," The Kid said flatly. "Don't tell me, ya f**kin bug, I'll tell you. It's a black flight-suit, and the guy's got goggles. Like in a John Wayne movie about Big Two. Goggles so big you can't see his motherfuckin face. Spooky old cock-knocker, ain't he?"
"Yeah," Trashcan said, and sipped his warm beer. His head was beginning to buzz.
The Kid hunched over the orange steering wheel and began to imitate a fighter pilot - one who had done his stuff in Big Two, presumably - in a dogfight. The deuce coupe rollercoastered alarmingly from one side of the road to the other as he imitated loops and dives and barrel rolls.
"Neeeeyaaaahhhh... eheheheheheh... budda-budda-budda... take that, ya f**kin kraut... Cap'n! Bandits at twelve o'clock!... Turn the air-cooled cannon on em, ya f**kin dipstick... takka... takka... takka-takka-takka! We got em, sir! All clear... HowOOOGAH! Stand down, fellers! HowOOOOOOOGAH! "
His face gained no expression as he went through this fantasy; not a single well-oiled hair fell from grace as he jerked the car back into its lane and pounded on up the road. Trashcan Man's heart thudded heavily in his chest. A light sheen of sweat had oiled his body. He drank his beer. He had to make wee-wee.
"But he don't scare me," The Kid said, as if the former topic of conversation had never lapsed. "Fuck no. He's a hard baby, but The Kid has handled hard babies before. I shut em up and then I shut em down, just like The Boss says. You believe that happy crappy?"
"Sure," Trash said.
"You dig The Boss?"
"Sure," Trash said. He hadn't the slightest idea who The Boss was or had been.
"Fuckin better dig The Boss. Listen, you know what I'm gonna do?"