Home to roost in howling spades

Milo's head pounded. Too much tequila. Again. Still.

Below, were uncomfortable signs of the pounding his poor gonads had endured since Lenore had packed him and Armand unceremoniously away from Dinkley, Elvis and the haunted Cahuachi diner in in a trail of dust.

Since, to the utter consternation of anybody who had chanced a glimpse through the delivery van's open side doors, Lenore and Milo had driven the entire way nude. They were driven by an inexplicable urge. Maybe the tequila.

Somehow, the labouring laundry van had managed, almost of its own accord, to navigate the desertified highlands to the East slopes of the Andes, switchbacking its weaving way from one hair-raising sheer drop hairpin turn to another, all the way down to Lake Titicaca. Uncounted miles and an alcoholic blackout or three later, they had finally breasted la Paz, where, after a drunken pitstop for fuel and more booze, the ominous mechanical omens that had caught Milo's ear several hundred miles previous, finally began coming home to roost in howling spades.

Gnashing its shattering gear teeth, the savaged clunking rear end held together until a few miles east of a place where the road finally flattened into rolling hills. Then it imploded with a rending crunch, throwing the van lurching toward the ditch. The smokey air that surrounded the machine as it gave up the ghost was redolent of the rancid fishy aroma of terminally-abused gear oil.

Milo and Lenore poured themselves bonelessly from stricken van's seats and underneath to assess the situation. Then, too drunk to do anything else, they shamelessly screwed their brains out under the dirty grease-caked arch of the van's undercarriage, obscenely pumping legs thrusting out from beneath the back bumper. They were driven by an inexplicable urge. Maybe the tequila.

Many hours, a couple of hard naps, and a few crapulent bouts of titanic, kamasutric roadside sex later, a slow, shabby horse-drawn cart wheeled up. The lone occupant seemed fascinated by the rutting spectacle in the ditch before him. He made no move to avert his eyes as he approached. Quite the opposite, in fact. Two or three yards away, he reined in the tired horse, raptly regarded Lenore's quivering, comely, but grass-stained calves, and politely waited for an opening.