Thank God for Grapefruit: Or, Laric Meets the Witnesses of Revelation

By Harry M. Grant

Laric Sullivan must decide if the Spanish-speaking humanoids who have just arrived on Earth in a flying saucer are really angels from God, as they claim, or are clever aliens on the verge of consummating a plan to enslave the human race under the pretense of Christianity.

When Larics best friend inexplicably disappears from the outskirts of Los Angeles, he has no one to turn to except a mysterious television personality named Randii the Indian Magician, whose son was recently kidnapped by a rather awkward biker gang called the Black Angels. However, Laric soon discovers that Randii is involved in something much more complex than merely a search for her son. Indeed, she not only anticipates the arrival of an apparent spacecraft, but after making contact with it, she discontinues the search for her son in favor of fulfilling some vague religious program. Remembering the uncanny way in which his friend disappeared, Laric immediately suspects the occupants of the saucer of being responsible, but they maintain that they are angels from God on a harmless mission to recapture some escaped prisoners, the Black Angels. Though wary of Randiis alliance with the visitors, Laric now believes she is his best hope for finding his lost friend.

Unfortunately for Laric, his association with Randii becomes dangerous when her ex-husband, Aven, reveals to the world that the angels of God are really aliens, who devised Christianity as a means to harvest a willing human work force. Aven, furthermore, has captured what he believes is alien technology, and he demonstrates that its power can be used against the invaders successfully. Thus, Laric is ultimately forced to either profess allegiance to Aven and the rest of the human race or be condemned as a traitor, surrendering his life but, if Randii is to be believed, finally finding his friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 11, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462836406

Harry M. Grant

Harry was born and raised in Iowa. In addition to writing, he has spent time as a U.S. Marine and a student of psychology and biology. Currently, he lives in Maryland and works for the National Institutes of Health.

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Copyright © 2000 by Harry M. Grant.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996.

Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PRELUDE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

For the wounded Eagle

And the angel showed me a pure river with the water of life, clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb, coursing down the center of the main street. On each side of the river grew a tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, with a fresh crop each month. The leaves were used for medicine to heal the nations.—Revelation 22: 1-2

PRELUDE

Click-Gonrop wearily balanced a basket as he approached his final stop of the day. The women were so good at it, with their thick strong necks and fat breasts. The breasts must have something to do with the balancing. Great warm fruit. His goofy bird throat threatened to collapse under the weight on top of his small brown head.

For years he had made this journey north along the river to trade with the light-skinned people. His strange project required some of the most bizarre materials. Some of the objects he traded for were unknown and useless in his native land. They would have been useless to him as well if the god had never appeared to him with a godly mission. Black obsidian in peculiar shapes; black bitumen from the rich pits in the Jordan plain; pungent powders; heavy malleable lumps of metal; and thinly crafted, bendable material the color of the red soil in the southern jungles, brought from lands far beyond the sea at the river’s end. The god called these latter items Kawp-Ur Wy-Ur. Perhaps that is where they were made. The return trip with these baubles was always more difficult on his small frame. The weight of his trade.

Click-Gonrop peered through the open doorway from beneath his load, and, satisfied with the smoky scene, he grunted the basket off his head.

Here I am! he called.

A fire left over from the evening meal still burned in the oven, coughing out smoke and light onto a sun-darkened family hunched over some entertainment on the floor. The father turned to the voice at the door and recognized a small black man standing in flickering illumination against the dusky sky.

Ah, Ronhop! Is it that time already? He brushed dirt off his knees as he moved to greet the traveler.

Click-Gonrop, said Click-Gonrop.

Certainly! said the man as he affectionately patted the small trader’s shoulder. I wish I could say that, but this tongue . . . . Anyway, let’s go around to the shop. See what you have.

The torch shed light on a small pottery shop, with a few rows of beautifully designed jars and bowls and other vessels waiting to be filled with life-giving water or something else.

Let’s see the goods.

Click-Gonrop plunged his hands into the grain in his basket and fished around a bit. Presently, he pulled out a carved figurine. Then two more, all slightly different in form or material.

The man tested each one in his hands with a strange smile. His fingers ran over the large, cold breasts, the fertile hump above a simple but mysteriously pleasing slit.

Oh, yes, he breathed, these will do nicely. You’re a master sculptor! And now for you.

He reached into a nearby jar and pulled out a heavy wad of the thin red metal, bundled together like harvested grass. I can’t understand why you would want it like this. You should at least have it pounded into something useful: a tool or a weapon. What do you use it for anyway?

It is well, said Click-Gonrop.

Your loss as far as I’m concerned, the potter shrugged, cradling the figurines in sweaty palms.

* * *

Click-Gonrop was taking a completely different approach with this one: Basically, all of the work was in the head. He had been very hesitant when he was first presented with the idea, because it went against all his knowledge of how females were made. But because a god had bestowed this task upon him, he would have been foolish to resist. And he certainly needed the hand of a god to help him build the unusual head. The head and the body had separate origins. A tall but narrow rock that stood vertically out of the earth served as the body. For the head, the god had led Click-Gonrop to a nearby tumble of rocks and pointed to one in particular. It was roughly egg-shaped and as long as his forearm, but an oval section of the rock had broken away at some point in time, revealing a hollow interior containing crystal formations. After extracting the crystals, Click-Gonrop kept some of them and shaped them precisely according to the god’s instructions. He made the remaining crystals into delightful jewelry for his wife and children and trinkets that he could use for his trade. He rolled the hollowed stone up an earthen ramp to the top of the body and fastened it there with black bitumen. It had taken years of sneaking away to the secret location near the base of the mountain to add parts here and there inside the increasingly complex hollowed stone. Sometimes he fused parts together with fire and a magical paste the god had taught him to make; or carefully wrapped the thin red strands around and around heavy chunks of metal; or connected them from one part of the head to another. Other times it was just a matter of snapping oddly shaped rocks and other materials into gaps and holes somehow perfectly designed to accept them.

Finally, the day came when he sealed the carved wooden face of a woman into the oval opening, covering all his intricate work inside. He cleared away the earthen ramp and stumbled back from his work to see it as a whole.

He stared in shocked silence at the ugliness of his work. All of the beauty was hidden inside the head. By all outward appearances, Click-Gonrop had made a seven-foot tall monstrosity. A face beautiful but false, mismatched against the rock. Hair made from a bundle of sticks fastened to the head, pointing unnaturally skyward. Her body, sculpted by the god’s commands, sickly thin, with pierced nipples at the end of narrow, pointed breasts.

One day, the pale god told Click-Gonrop to bring his village to the secret place so they could worship the woman. He looked at the statue once more and grimaced at its strangeness. Then he reluctantly followed the god’s order.

When the people filtered into the clearing around the statue, they stared at it in disgust. The mothers instinctively covered their children’s eyes. What kind of god was this? they asked Click-Gonrop.

He walked in front of the people to the statue, unsure of what to do next.

Psst!

Click-Gonrop stared at the statue.

Psst! it said again.

Then he walked hesitantly closer, inspecting the lifeless face, but as he did, he caught sight of the pale god, wrapped up in his strange garments, hiding behind the statue’s stone butt, motioning for him to come closer.

Pull the vine! the god whispered, demonstrating on his own nose with a large smile.

Click-Gonrop understood and climbed the statue. One nostril on the wooden face was hollowed through, and a thin green tendril just visibly protruded. He had wondered about its purpose. Just another strange, ugly feature. Reaching into the nostril, he grasped the vine and gave it a good yank. He remembered how he had wrapped the vine around some contraption in the middle of the head. He could imagine it spinning smoothly now, as he listened to the whirring noise.

Jumping down from he cold woman, Click-Gonrop proudly gestured toward the head and the noise coming out of it. But this new development merely added fear to the village shock. Not the reverent kind of fear he was hoping for, but more like a response to a raging hippopotamus.

Perhaps they didn’t know that it was a statue of a woman. After all, it was quite a bit different from the heavy-breasted, large, fertile women he usually sculpted.

He took his youngest child from his wife’s doubtful arms and held it up to the statue’s breasts, demonstrating suckling. That should help them understand.

Suddenly, the child disappeared in a thump of air, leaving only a cloud of fine dust to fall gently toward the ground, past Click-Gonrop’s stunned, outstretched arms.

The whirring noise inside the head grew stronger then, but it was mostly drowned by the screaming and wailing villagers. The first people who tried to flee suffered the same fate, and the remaining villagers, seeing this, bowed to the ground in sobbing worship, finally recognizing their new goddess.

Click-Gonrop stared in horror at the thing he had made, at his child’s floating dust, at the pale god crouching behind the statue, who was smiling at him with his fearful white teeth. He watched, frozen, as the statue changed before his eyes. The wooden face and the entire body becoming smooth and changing to the color of rain clouds. Then he knew the statue had grabbed his body. A numbing sensation swept through him, touching everything, deeper than anything he had ever felt. He watched his hair and eyebrows fall away, and then he died.

When they noticed the rising noise coming from their new god, many of the villagers peeked up from their obsequence and watched the events in terror and awe. First they saw the woman’s form change into something else, from natural to unnatural. They saw Click-Gonrop lose his hair and then collapse. Suddenly, the jungle floor around the statue began churning and boiling. The strong smell of earth. Incredibly, the earth began to form shapes. Shapes of humans. As the details solidified, the forms took on a terrifyingly familiar appearance. The villagers watched in amazement as six more Click-Gonrops stirred to life. All of them, and the original, stood slowly and awkwardly to their feet, blinking from naked brown heads at the scene surrounding them. Then they, too, bowed to the ground as a new figure emerged from behind the goddess. A pale, frightening creature, slanted, and speaking a strange tongue.

Right! he said to the seven identical bald men. A bloody success!

CHAPTER 1

I

Moon will be rising shortly, Laric informed Adam.

Sounds about right.

Should be a full moon, I think, Laric explained further.

Spect so, said Adam.

They were lying on a grassy hill near some invisible border where the desert began to change into wooded hills, wrestling with their hunger. Roughly facing westward, they quietly and hungrily watched the fiery sunset. It was only earlier that day that they had started seeing any significant vegetation taller than their knees, having just barely crossed the Mojave Desert. Trying to hunt small animals with slingshots in the open desert had proven to be a formidable task, because they could rarely get close enough. Filching seasonal crops and fishing were the best options and made up a fair portion of their diet. Neither of them understood a great deal about California and did not realize that they had been skirting the tip of a great, rich valley. The beautiful sun squashing down onto the Earth helped ease their fringe starvation, and they enjoyed the grassy hillside.

The Preacher tole me how all of Creation shows God’s plan somehow, said Adam after a while.

C’mon, said Laric. It had been a hot day walking.

Fo sho. You jess have to think about it. He tole me once that the moon worked like the Church. It reflects the light of the sun into the darkness of the Earth, like the Church reflects the light of God.

But the sun goes down everyday, said Laric, looking for some fault in this scheme.

Comes up every mornin, Adam replied slowly.

We’re just going in circles then.

Yeah, sun stays the same, but we keep spinning all over the place.

Laric looked down the hill at the railroad tracks they had been following for so many miles. Two, red-glowing arcs curving off to the horizon where, silhouetted against the colorful sunset, the mountains stood in pitch-blackness, like a lumpy hole in the universe. Before they could reach Los Angeles, their chosen paradise, they would need to go through that hole.

The idea to spend a year or so exploring America had originated early during their time in the military. They had met in bootcamp and quickly became friends. At first, Laric was a little uncomfortable with being so close to a black person. Having grown up in rural Iowa, he had never known anybody of a different race but had only heard things that he supposed were true. The first time they shared a tent together, for instance, Laric had asked Adam if his eyes were closed because, as they talked within the confined space, he’d expected to see two white orbs floating in the darkness. Adam said that he wouldn’t punch Laric in the face because he was determined to become a Methodist minister. Furthermore, Adam was stunned that Laric had asked a sincere question. Instead of fighting, their conversation had turned toward dreams of freedom, and it was here, as their platoon slept through a rainstorm in the North Carolina woods, that they planned their trek across America, where nobody would be telling them what to do or how to think.

Don’t you smell somethin? Adam suddenly asked, sitting up on his elbows. His head was turning in different directions, sniffing the air in an attempt to locate the source.

You don’t want me to tell you what I smell, said Laric. We got to find some water. He wondered if people could smell things more keenly when they were starving to death.

Adam wasn’t satisfied. Naw, this smells different, don’t it? Sweeter, he said and pushed himself to his feet. I’m gonna take a look up here. He climbed up the low hill and disappeared over the summit.

Early that morning, as they continued westward, their unhindered view of the green and brown desert had given way to small hills covered with yellow grass and an increasing number of oak trees. There were also areas with low green shrubs, similar to those in the desert but growing much closer together. These looked like promising animal habitats and, therefore, a potential source of food. But these chaparrals were too dense, and in their attempts to penetrate the brush, their frenzied thrashing sent all living creatures dashing deeper into the undergrowth for safety. Frustrated and eager to get further away from the desert, Laric suggested that they give up hunting for the day and look for a more reliable source of food, such as a restaurant in the next town. As usual, Adam had expressed little interest in where their next meal would be coming from, and Laric knew that this had to do with Adam’s belief in God, a belief he didn’t share. He always seemed to be saying God will provide or talking about God’s will, but Laric always felt hungry and couldn’t understand how that could be the will of God.

Look! Look! Adam cried, sliding recklessly down the hill. When he came to a stop, he pushed the bottom of his shoe toward Laric’s face. I slipped on a rotten grapefruit! We got food, bro! It’s an orchard up there!

II

Martinez Robles watched the machine precision of Maria’s meaty but nimble hands as she filled the tortillas with good things, and he considered how fortunate he was to have a wife who was not afraid of fire. For Robles was deathly afraid of fire after a horrible accident in northern Mexico had permanently taken the hair off his eyebrows, giving him a strange, foreign look. His wife was not fat; her strong bulkiness had come from hard work. Robles liked the width of Maria because she not only brought in a fair share of their meager income with her strength, but also sufficiently blocked from his vision the flickering propane flame on the tiny stove.

Martinez, have you heard from Pedro? his wife asked in their native Spanish.

No, but last time he said they were in Fresno, in the Central Valley. He spoke these last words in English, because he wanted to practice speaking like an American. He thought that by getting rid of his accent, he would improve his chances of finding a decent job. That is, one that paid reasonable wages. He had no education that counted in the United States. It sounded like, Saintral Bahyay. He knew his tongue needed more work.

Martinez Robles sat on the bottom-level bed, protected from the propane fire, and considered somewhat enviously Pedro, his more successful, younger brother. Pedro, younger, better looking, able to speak English easily. Some magic ingredient had been dropped in Pedro’s blood, denied to Martinez. But again he considered his wife’s substantial butt defending him from the fire, and he remembered that he loved his family more than anything.

Racquel! Robles called for his nine-year old daughter.

Yes, Papa, she said when her upside-down head appeared to his left, hanging from the bed above him. She was the one who stayed at home with the three-year old while Robles, his wife, his son, and his oldest daughter went into the orchards to work. Next to her, and hanging on either side of Robles’ head, were his lanky, teen-aged son’s huge feet, for which they could only afford the occasional cheap sandals. The skin resembled the thickness and texture of an armadillo’s and was basically just as unfeeling. Robles knew this for a fact, because once, in a feeble attempt to gain elbowroom, he had jabbed Hector’s foot with a fork, yielding no response. The small table was for Maria and Julieta, the oldest daughter; everyone else sat on the beds to eat.

There was mail today, no? he asked Racquel, playfully grabbing her dark, dangling ponytails. Her large, brown eyes shined at him, but Robles suspected that his children secretly thought he looked insane without his eyebrows, which had been very thick.

Yes, Papa, she answered, but nothing from Uncle Pedro.

I hope Pedro can find some work for us up there, Maria sighed. Something better. Long strands of black hair hanging in her face, she slid the tortillas onto their plates. You and Hector have no rest.

She was referring to the second job Robles and his son did at night, watching the orchard against thieving spics, as their boss, Mr. Mann, called them. Robles knew that the thieving spics were the illegal immigrants who stole from Mr. Mann. Robles was uncomfortable with such language, because he knew there was only a thin difference between his family and the illegals. Picking fruit in the daytime and guarding the orchard half the night left very little time for sleep.

You know Pedro will help us, Maria, he said offhandedly, releasing Racquel’s ponytails. Her head floated up as if it had been a helium balloon. I think it will not be much longer now, but before we can leave, I must fix the brakes on the truck, he reflected. It seemed like he was forever trying to fix the brakes, but without them, everything would roll uncontrollably downhill.

Martinez, you have no rest, Maria said sadly.

When he had finished eating, Robles looked around their small shack as if he were looking for extra time, but there were huge feet blocking his view, which reminded him of walking and that it was time for him and his son to get going. Come, Hector, let’s go see Mr. Mann. He’ll want both of us to have shotguns tonight. There had been a rash of thieving spics lately, as jobs became more scarce. They pulled on jerga shirts against the night chill and went out to the darkness.

In Mexico, when the U.S.-based nuclear facility had hired him as a janitor, Martinez Robles did not have much knowledge about the intricacies of plumbing. Nor did he understand the fast-talking, horribly accented Americans who had pushed him, and a few other farmers, through a mountain of paperwork. In the end, they and their families had Government checks and no farmland. Robles knew that if Pedro had not already gone to southern California, he would not have lost his farm, because his brother was smarter than he was and probably would have recognized what was happening.

When the construction of the site was completed, Robles was lucky enough to get hired as a janitor. The timing was fortunate because the inadequate Government check had run out, and the odd jobs he found were not enough. He and Maria were nearly starving. Maria was also very pregnant with Hector, and maybe this sparse diet was the reason Hector’s body was too small for his feet. In the town near the nuclear plant, Robles and Maria sat in the dust of the street outside the gates of the new adobe mansion built for the mayor, and they waited for news of his job application. It was degrading, Robles thought, to come back to what had been part of his land and beg for a job, but he figured they might feel like they owed him something. Actually, the company had needed a janitor.

The builders of the plant thought safety regulations would be an expensive waste on Mexicans, so they only gave Robles a hard-hat, some keys, and a fast tour of the facility with an emphasis on the specific areas to be cleaned. To Robles, it was all very large and complex and seemed to be made out of nothing but pipes, passageways, and cement.

That night, after he had finished the first part of his cleaning, Robles was pushing his squeaky empty mop bucket in front of him as he wandered the maze of corridors in search of hot water. Everything looked the same now, and he could not remember where he was supposed to fill his bucket. He thought maybe they never told him where to go. Maybe on purpose. Imagining that they were looking for any excuse to get rid of him, Robles worried that he would not be able to mop the floors and would, therefore, jeopardize his job. Trying door after door, each one was either inaccessible or the wrong one, but finally, when he was near frustration, a gray door swung open on a room that appeared to offer water. It was a small room with four large pipes coming out of the ceiling and disappearing again through the floor, each one sporting a lucrative spigot. A small window in the far wall revealed the local river and, in the distance, the Gulf of California sparkling in moonlight. Below the window, and emptying into the river, was the dim form of a drainpipe. This looked like a reasonable arrangement to Robles, who began feeling the pipes. They were all cold except for the thickly padded one. Must be hot water, he thought. Wheeling the squeaky bucket underneath the spigot, he began working the complex handle.

Robles realized he’d made a mistake when it started to feel as if his forehead were being sandblasted. As soon as he had seen the coffee-colored liquid dripping into the bucket and felt the invisible flood into his forehead, he turned it off, but it was already too late. Robles stumbled helplessly through the corridors and looked toward the heavens for some explanation, but he saw only flames because his eyebrows were on fire.

When the Americans learned that Robles was okay, except for the strange, but apparently harmless, destruction of his eyebrows and the hair on his head, they gave him a wig and a check that was larger than the one for his farm, but they asked him to leave for safety reasons. In order to prevent further incidents, the Americans added the Spanish word for hot onto the thickly padded pipe. By hot, they meant radioactive; danger—hazardous material; only qualified personnel should use this spigot. Some time later, a less fortunate janitor would melt her brains while trying to get hot water for her mop bucket.

Not knowing what else to do, Robles took the money, bought a cheap truck, and decided that his family should become American. They had received the occasional letter from Pedro, who assured them that he could get them work. Besides, Robles reasoned, he would probably be treated better if he were one of them, in their country: an American citizen. They found Pedro working on an orchard where he had found favor with the manager, Mr. Mann, because of his smarts and his way of organizing things and his decent English. But when Robles showed up, Pedro went north. He let Robles take his spot in the orchard, saying he was going to find something better in the Central Valley.

What the hell! Mr. Mann said when he opened the door. It was his way of greeting people, a statement of frustration with the world.

Here for work, Meester Mann, said Robles.

Who is it, Frank? Mr. Mann’s wife called from the interior of their spacious home. This house was the closest structure to the actual orchard. The seasonal housing for the workers began a few hundred yards away from the orchard. Mr. Mann appreciated the foresight of his great-grandfather, who knew that the usual direction of the wind would carry the peculiar immigrant smell away from the house.

Ah, it’s just some night spics, he grumbled, recognizing the startling face of Martinez Robles in the porch light.

Robles was sure night spics were better than thieving spics, although he had the vague impression that it was not quite a compliment.

Jeez, Robles, why don’t you do something about those damn eyebrows—

Frank, his wife howled, who’s there? Is it Dot? I’m expecting Dot, you know!

No! It’s nobody! he screamed over his shoulder. Why don’t you just watch your damn magic show and shut up! His large bloodshot eyes seemed to be struggling to get out of his head. Maybe you’ll disappear if I’m lucky, he mumbled in quieter tones.

What! she screamed. The blaring voices on the television were nearly as loud.

Frank Mann ran his hand slowly down his square face then focused his eyes on the father and son like a predator. Shotguns tonight, all right? It was a declaration, not a question. Mann hated arming any of his workers, but he thought that, like Pedro, Robles seemed fairly trustworthy. Pedro had talked him into using shotguns after thieves had almost beaten Pedro’s boy to death one night. Mann had agreed not so much because he cared about the safety of the immigrants, but because of his geese. If thieves would club a spic, after all, what would stop them from attacking his geese?

Si, Meester Mann, we cardee shoteg’n, Robles agreed in his best English.

Si, echoed Hector, well-balanced on long feet.

And if you see any of the bastards, Mr. Mann continued, handing them the 12-gauges, shoot ‘em and drag ‘em back here. I’ll make an example out of ‘em! He wondered if he’d heard that line in a movie somewhere. "And don’t hit my geese, or I’ll make an example outta you!" he added.

Si, Meester Mann, said Robles.

Si, echoed Hector.

Every year, there were more and more illegals asking Mr. Mann for work around harvest time, so Robles knew there were increasing numbers of them who were turned away, some of whom would become desperate and begin stealing grapefruit. These were the ones he was supposed to shoot but never could. Most of the workers that Mr. Mann hired each season were illegal immigrants, and he paid them almost nothing for their work. Robles knew that his own wages were kept very low because of the illegals. He was afraid that if he demanded more money, Mr. Mann would simply replace him with someone who would accept even less. So to keep his family alive, Robles and Hector not only picked the orchard by day but also watched it by night. Robles supposed there were higher reasons for not shooting at thieving spics, but in the least, he could not understand how his American citizenship made him different from his brothers.

What the hell! Mr. Mann suggested, and slammed the door.

III

I hate grapefruit, Laric informed Adam, who was wiping the sticky mess off his shoes. They reminded Laric of the orphanage he had to go to when his parents died. They tried to pawn the stuff off on the kids at every meal. Tastes like cold piss.

How do you know what cold piss tase like? Adam reasonably wondered. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if he were a psychoanalyst about to perform a serious study of urine drinking.

Well, I suppose I’m hungry enough to stomach it, said Laric reluctantly, but it ain’t going to give me the strength for those mountains we’re coming to.

Shoot! You could walk the stairway to heaven on grapefruit juice, man! They’s good stuff, I’m tellin you. Adam turned his gray eyes to the thin blue-white band where the sun had just set and prayed, Thank God for grapefruit.

In the darkness of the olive-drab hooch back in North Carolina, as their sleeping bags slowly soaked up rainwater that was creeping in from somewhere, Adam explained why he would not punch Laric after the question about floating eyes. Although he outweighed Laric by about fifty pounds, a brick of human flesh, Adam abhorred violence. He said stuff about loving your neighbor, which made Laric mighty uncomfortable. Two men in a small tent. It did not take long, however, for Laric to relax again when, along with planning the initial stages for a trip across America, Adam had talked about God and how he wanted to be a Methodist minister.

Adam’s strength, if he had cause to use it, would leave any opponent with little hope of surviving, but the guy was as gentle as a lamb. His conviction to become a Methodist minister was serious, Laric discovered, and he would very often talk fervently about his love for peace and his fellow man. (Adam’s officers were incredulous, and they viewed him with the same mixture of disgust and respect one would give to a toothless Rottweiler.) So as Laric grew more relaxed around Adam, he would increasingly debate the future minister’s religious ravings, and no matter how heated things became, the two remained inseparable. They grew to love each other as if they had been brothers since childhood, despite the deep difference in their beliefs. The explanation for this, the most important bond between them, was their lack of family; neither one of them had anybody else in the world.

Unafraid, then, of receiving any physical pain or permanently ruining their friendship in the next few moments, Laric decided to taunt Adam.

"What did