Buckskin Man’s Cryptic Semen Comments
balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner- about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions
- without any flattery at all
- the eerie rustling of my robes
- a little liar, a boy-liar, a sweet, white boy-liar
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Buckskin Man’s cryptic semen comments remained mysterious, because Svetlana declined to offer any explanations. Wanting to find out what happened to John drove my decision to show up at the coordinates anyway, assuming I could decode them from the soggy paper scraps in my pocket. Leading the treacherous contortionist by one elbow, I struck off in search of a temporary base of operations.
It was nearing dark when we reached a bar where I felt safe. It was a corrugated metal shack in the hinterlands with a row of motorcycles out front. But the bikes were more rust than chrome. Entering the shabby building, I sized up the occupants. A table with four men hunched over it, someone drinking alone at the bar in a long tan trench coat, and someone I took to be the bartender, a reedy mustachioed man who balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner behind the bar.
One of the four men at the table erupted in noisy laughter, leaning back and showing me that he was about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. I can say without any flattery at all that the elaborate pyramid they’d built from their empties was the most sophisticated example of such architecture I had ever seen.
I stationed us at the opposite end of the bar, away from the enigmatic person in the trench coat, and got to work on the coded messages while Svetlana tried to summon the bartender to get a drink. The skinny, nervous man glanced in her direction but otherwise did not respond.
“You’ll need to help yourself, if you’re thirsty,” said the trench-coated person. The voice was dry and droll, reminding me of the eerie rustling of my robes when I graduated from the Hopscotch Academy with a degree in advanced duplicity. I couldn’t determine its owner’s gender.
Svetlana took the advice and sprang nimbly over the bar despite her wrists being bound. She used her toes to mix herself a sidecar while the bartender trembled behind her. Back at her stool, she again employed her toes to raise the glass to her lips.
The code concealing the coordinates looked tricky, but knowing that the message was intended for John was a big clue that it would be simpler than it appeared. He always sucked at ciphers. I stuffed the solved cryptograms back into my pocket and told Svetlana to finish her drink.
The bartender moved at last. He lunged up against his side of the bar, still on one foot, and hissed at Svetlana, “You know he’s a little liar, a boy-liar, a sweet, white boy-liar!” Everyone in the place heard him, even the suddenly quiet group over at their table.
“We’re leaving,” I said.
bonus points for using them in order