The Ducky Bus

After Jon mentioned in that interview that he’d probably die by being hit by a Ducky Bus (I love how he said the word ‘ducky’ with such disdain – it made me smile) I had a wild thought. Then I put it away. Then, in one of those torrential email downpours that we girls are wont to drown in, I floated the outline for the ending, saying that I should sit down and write it over lunch to see if I could still get the words out. They said hell yeah. So I started it at lunchtime. Finished it by dinner.

The sky was a cloudless blue on this crisp spring London day. Jon smiled as he looked out the window of his penthouse suite. The city wasn't quite awake yet, he thought, perfect time for a stroll. There were few things Jon loved more than getting himself lost in one of his favorite cities.

Donning his ubiquitous ball cap and sunglasses, he swiped a toothbrush across his smile, grabbed his room key, and stepped out into the hall. It was quiet, which was good. There wasn’t anyone else on the floor but his people, but they were exactly who he wanted to avoid just now. He’d have enough of them later. He rode down in the service elevator to the kitchen, and stopped to flirt with one of he pretty prep cooks who was bustling around, trying to start her day.

After stealing a kiss, he made his way out into the impossibly bright sunshine. The few pedestrians out and about were all busy with their own thoughts, nobody paid him any attention. It was refreshing to just relax and take in the city without having to be ‘on’ the whole time.

As he strolled around, enjoying the sights and smells of the city, the sun rose higher in the sky. Jon shook his head ruefully to himself. Soon enough, the streets would come alive, with people getting back and forth to work, or going about their normal daily business.

Normal.

His version of ‘normal’ was enough to make even a saint cry. He figured if saints can bleed, they can cry, right? He thought so. He reached for his iPhone, and was chagrinned to find that he had left it behind. That wasn’t like him. He couldn’t remember the last time he was out on the streets without some sort of technological companion. Shrugging, he ran down his mental to-do list, and laughed when his stomach announced that “find breakfast” was the first thing on the list.

Checking for traffic on the street corner, he frowned when he saw not a car in sight. Odd. Well there was one car. Or truck. Lorrie. Whatever. It was far in the distance, though, a mere shadow on the horizon, and Jon stepped off the curb.

Almost immediately, a horn blared. An annoying ah-OOH-gah kind of horn. Over and over again. Startled ,he goose-stepped across he street and turned back to see a little old man driving what had to be the oldest running car on the planet.

What the hell? He would have sworn that the car wasn’t there when he looked.

“Stupid American!” the man shouted. “You looked the wrong way!”

Shit.

“Hey, you could have slowed down, asshole!” Jon called back, slashing at the air with his arm. He frowned when the little man scowled, extended a long arm out the window, and raised his middle finger in salute. With a little burst of speed, and another tap of the ah-OOH-gah, he was gone.

“Daffy bastard,” Jon growled.

He walked the length of the next block, and didn’t encounter a single pedestrian. Not a one. Odd. This time, when he came to the corner, he looked both ways (and behind him too, for good measure) and didn’t see anything. Well, nothing close. That strange truck-shadowy vehicle was still in the distance, though now it was closer.

At the next intersection, again he looked, and again, he saw that shadow-car. This time, it was close enough that he could discern the shape. It was one of those touristy vehicles. The amphibious kind that tours the city then splashes down into the river for a little cruise. He couldn’t remember what they were called, but for some reason, he felt a bit uneasy.

“You’re weak from lack of sustenance, asshole,” he said out loud. “I thought there was a bakery around here somewhere.”

“There is,” Richie said, from his side. “Just a couple blocks u.”

Jon jumped. “Damn, man, where did you come from?”

Richie smiled. “Man, I’ve been following you. You know that old guy nearly ran your ass over.”

“You’re following me? Why?”

His friend shrugged. “No reason, I guess. It was just something to do. You really should be more careful with what you say to people you don’t really know, man.”

“Well, his attitude pissed me – hey! How did you know I mouthed off to him?” Jon was confused. “I didn’t see you.”

“I’m a fuckin’ ninja, man. I’m keeping tabs on the boss. Don’t want our CEO to get into any trouble or anything.”

“Fuck you and the CEO shit. And are you that bored that you have to follow me for ‘just something to do’? Clearly you don’t have enough to keep you busy. Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast, then your BOSS can give you a list of shit to get done.” He looked at his watch and waited for Richie to make some remark about food. He ALWAYS had something to say whenever he brought up eating.

No answer.

Jon looked up to find Richie gone.

“What the fuck?” he said, craning his neck to the left and right, spinning all the way around in a circle. “Where’d you go, Sambora?” Not even a breeze answered him.

“He’s a big fucking dude,” Jon muttered to himself. “He couldn’t have just disappeared.” He walked up the block a few steps and tried the door of the shop.

Locked.

“No fucking way,” Jon said. “Not possible. People don’t just vanish.”

A few moments later, he had a new problem to worry about.

He stepped out into the street without looking, and heard a great loud QUACK! The vehicle he had seen in the distance was suddenly behind him, almost on top of him in fact.

“FUCK!” Jon screamed, and tried to jump back, but found he couldn’t. For some reason, the command his brain sent to his feet to jump got translated into something else.

Run.

So he ran.

Jon ran down the middle of the road as fast as he could, with the damned duck boat behind him. As if he were on a string, he followed the line down the center of the road, never turning left or right. He thought of diving for cover in one of the many shops that lined the street, but when he looked to his left, all the doors and windows were gone, replaced by steel plates. When he looked to the right, he saw that the sidewalks were gone as well.

There were no alleyways.

No side streets.

“What the foul fuck is going on here?”

“YOU’RE FUCKED, JON,” a voice said from the vehicle behind him. QUACK!

The voice sounded like Richie’s but it didn’t give him any relief to know that. “What the blue hell are you talking about?” he yelled as he ran.

“YOU. FUCKED.” Richie said, louder than before. “PRETTY SELF-EXPLANATORY, BOSS.” QUACK! QUACK!

“Boss?” Jon yelled. “Are you still pissed about those stupid questions? I told you guys it didn’t mean anything. Why are you doing this?” Jon threw back over his shoulder as he ran.

“JUST SOMETHING TO DO, BOSS; JUST SOMETHING TO DO.” Richie’s maniacal laughter rolled over the static that came through the speaker and chilled Jon to the bone.

The vehicle came ever closer.

QUACK!

“Fuck me,” Jon said, trying to run harder, panting for breath, slowing a little as his muscles screamed for oxygen. “I really am going to be killed by a damned Ducky Bus.”

* * *

"FUCK!" Jon sat bolt upright, moisture beading on his forehead in the cool hotel room. His heart was pounding to beat the band, and his hand actually shook as he brought it up to push through his thick, sweaty hair.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Shit, no more drinking tequila," he grumbled as he slid from the bed. He stretched deeply, relishing the little pops and cracks his spine made. "Damn, that feels good," he said, massaging his lower back. He sat back down on the bed with a whump and stretched his neck, touching each of his ears to his shoulders. He flopped back onto the mattress and snatched up the phone receiver, punching the button for room service.

"Coffee. Two pots. Black and strong." He hung up without waiting for acknowledgement.

He linked his fingers together behind his head and stared at the ceiling, waiting for his go-juice to arrive. As the shadows in the room lightened, his mind brought him back to the dream. He was tired, that's all, he thought to himself. They all were. That 60-Minutes interviewer didn’t help; bringing up all that shit about how Richie and the guys were "disgruntled employees; mere cogs in the Jovi Machine". He snorted. He marveled at how his brain refused to let shit go, even when he slept.

Finally, the discreet knock at the door he'd been waiting for. He stood, wrapping the hotel's plush robe around his naked body, and made it to the door in five long strides. After looking through the peep hole to confirm it was indeed room service, something he learned the hard way was ALWAYS a good idea, he opened the door.

"Over by the window, thanks," he said, and waited for the man to leave.

Jon poured a steaming hot mugful and brought it up under his nose, inhaling deeply. "Ah, perfection," he said, taking a small sip. He waited a few moments for some of the heat to dissipate before taking a bracing mouthful. Then a second. And a third. He waited for the shock of the high-octane brew to kick-start his ass. He reached over to the drapes, pulling them aside.

The sky was a cloudless blue on this crisp spring London day. Jon smiled as he looked out the window of his penthouse suite. The city wasn't quite awake yet, he thought, perfect time for a stroll. He shook his head at the chill that accompanied the déjà vu. “No,” he said to himself. “No, it was just a fucking dream you piece of fuck.”

He plunked down his mug, sloshing hot coffee over the sides, and sucked the drops from his hand as he made a bee-line for the bathroom. After a quick shower to wash the morning’s sweat off him, he dressed in loose jeans and a faded pale green long-sleeved tshirt. He filled his over-sized travel mug with the untouched pot of coffee, stuffed his bare feet into his sneakers, grabbed his room key, and looked at the ball cap and sunglasses on the entry table. He turned his back on them and was at the door when he rolled his eyes at himself, went back to the table and snatched up the damned things. Sometimes having a creative mind was a pain in the ass.

Jon thought a moment of mentioning something to Richie, but no, he knew his best friend would ride his ass forever and quack at him for days if he said anything. As it was, after that interview aired, David had bought dozens of ridiculous red rubber ducks. Their bottoms were shaped like the double-decker tour busses that carry tourists around the streets of London. David had someone tie little nooses around their necks, and hang them all over his dressing room. Richie had cackled like a fucking loon when he came to see what Jon was ranting about.

Asses. Both of them.

Jon left the floor, choosing to use the elevator that would take him down to the kitchens. He snuck out the back, not seeing Richie loitering around, bothering the pretty lady who was their personal chef this month. He checked the alley and ducked out into the sunshine, glad he had brought his shades. He walked up to the top of the block, turned south, and relaxed. There was just something about taking the time to walk around, rather than drive, that helped him think. Not having to worry about talking to himself and having his driver give him the hairy eyeball through the rear-view. Not having to worry about how he’s a right-sided driver in a left-sided country, and how people here don’t expect to get run down by cars going the wrong way through a round-about. Not having to worry about the congestion of traffic.

Yep, sometimes, hoofing it was the way to go.

Three blocks up, he turned, following the scent of freshly baked bread. He took another swig of coffee as his stomach started to growl. He really should put something else in his gullet besides caffeine. A buttered roll would be just the thing. He knew he needed the carbs – he’d need energy for later. He could see the bakery’s awning poking out from a building about three blocks away.

Smiling inwardly, he picked up his pace, and started to whistle. He didn’t register the sounds coming from behind him. He didn’t see the shadow rushing up to overtake his own. But, when an enormous QUACK sounded, he jumped a mile and spun around, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to get away.

He backed up away from the noise, and it was a few seconds before the haze of fear lifted, and he saw the grinning maw of his best friend.

“What the fuck man,” Jon said, laughing at himself even as his heart thumped out a staccato beat in his chest.

“Oh you should have seen the look on your face, bro,” Richie said, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes. “I got you good.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon answered, shaking his head. “C’mon, asshole, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“The big boss buyin’ breakfast for the lowly employee?”

“Shove that shit, Rich,” Jon said, irritably. “You wanna eat or what.”

“Yeah,” Richie answered amiably. “I could eat.”

“When can’t you. Why’d you do that anyway? What the fuck did I do to you lately?”

Richie shrugged. “Nothin’. It was just something to do.”

He didn’t notice the look of shock on Jon’s face as he continued up the block.

Jon stared after his friend for just a moment before continuing. He looked down at the sidewalk, then back up, just in time to catch sight of the back-end of an amphibious vehicle disappear behind a building.

Jon shook his head and followed Richie into the bakery. “It was just a fucking dream, Jon,” he said to himself. “Just a fucking dream.”

** THE END **