A small town gas station. An employee cleans grasshoppers off the rig’s windshield with an ice scraper and plenty of glass cleaner.
Inside the station Joe feeds coins to a machine and selects a Mr. Pibb.
Sherry drinks a Coke and opens a king-size pack of Doublemint gum.
Kenny paces nervously.
An old farmer in a seed cap pays for gas. “They’re swarming right now. It’s a hell of a thing. Happens every fourth year. Just like the Bible says. When hoppers swarm, you got a plague on your hands. Ever read the Bible?”
Kenny says, “A little bit.”
“Son, you ever hear of Armageddon and all them plagues?”
“Yeah. I heard of that.”
“Well, that’s what we got here right now. A plague of locusts.”
“Tell me about it,” Joe says.
The farmer sticks a finger in his ear, wiggles it to get the wax out, wipes it on his coveralls and leaves as a sleek, silver first-edition DeLorean pulls up to a pump.
Both Sherry and Kenny see the car as simply a DeLorean. But Joe has a different point of view. He sees it as a “Car of the Future.” The driver’s side gull-wing door opens and Joe catches a glimpse of what’s inside — eight aliens, dressed in thrift store suits, sitting in one another’s laps, eating dough balls, cramped into the vehicle like clowns at a circus. They look fundamentally humanoid, but with hints of grasshopper. Their jaws work on a non-human principle and their mouths have many moving parts. They speak softly in a tongue that most resembles a blend of Spanish and Latin.
The driver gets out. Sherry and Kenny see him as just a dissipated lounge lizard in a shiny silk suit. Joe sees him as an alien in a cheap thrift store suit.
Kenny waves at him. “Nice ride, man.”
Joe drools. Sherry stuffs a handkerchief into his mouth and cautions him, “Don’t stare at the man.”
The man waves back, points to his stomach, then vomits all over the gas pump.
Joe sees the vomit as bright green in color, similar to grasshopper goo. Sherry guides him to the rig.
The rig barrels down a Kansas highway. Joe plays “Nearer my God to Thee,” a handkerchief dangling heavy with saliva. Sherry turns on the radio. A distant station broadcasts the news, barely audible. “One man was found shot to death execution style yesterday in a café near Hays City. Robbery has not been ruled out as investigators search for a motive in the killing.”
Kenny tries to dial in the station a bit better. “What was that? I couldn’t hear it.”
“Me neither,” Sherry says.
Joe stops playing. “Nothing. Some guy got shot in Hays.”
The Truck City Café in Dodge City. Kenny, Sherry and Joe finish breakfast.
Joe says, “This whole town smells like shit. And blood.”
Sherry puts a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Not so loud.”
Kenny is thinking. He says, “Look, you two hang out here. I’m gonna check a couple of places, see if I can find a load of something to take south, make a few bucks.”
“Watch out,” Joe says, “there’s a lot of aliens around. They’re here for the wheat harvest.”
When Joe looks around, about half the patrons appear mildly alien to him.
Quite a few grasshoppers and other insects crawl on a nearby window.
The floor is littered with crushed-underfoot grasshoppers.
Kenny peels a couple of twenties from his roll and leaves them on the table. He gives Sherry another twenty. “Entertain yourselves. I might be gone awhile.”
Kenny’s rig pulls out of the parking lot. Moments later, Moe’s pickup pulls in, parks. He gets out, enters the café, quickly spots Sherry and Joe and slides into their booth. “Well, goddamn, look who I just happened to run into. My two favorite people.” He points his niner under the table at Joe. “Sherry, Baby, you do anything to draw attention over here and I waste young alien-brain. Then you.”
Sherry isn’t intimidated. “I’ve never seen you crazier, Moe. What are you doing? Stop this shit and move on with your stupid mullet life.”
Moe says, “I killed that guy in the diner, you know.”
Sherry says, “I don’t believe it.”
Joe says, “I do.”
Moe waves the weapon. “Believe this. I want the three of us to walk out of here all calm and collected…like a regular happy American family. Where’s Lenny?”
“Kenny went somewhere,” Sherry says. “He’ll be back in a minute.”
Joe is petrified. From his point of view, Moe appears increasingly alien-like.
Moe stands up and motions toward the door. “All right, let’s boogie. Right now.”
The three exit, attempting to look calm and collected. Sherry has to pull Joe along.
In the pickup, Moe starts the engine, which runs poorly. The firearm is in his lap.
“Where was you headed to?” Moe wants to know.
Sherry pops chewing gum into her mouth. “Austin.”
Moe is interested in this idea. “Austin, huh? What’re you gonna do, put the maestro to work down there?”
“Maybe. Did you really shoot that guy?”
“I swear on my daddy’s grave I did.”
“God, Moe. That sure was moronic.”
Moe backs up, turns around, approaches the highway, looks west. “Nothing but trouble that way.”
He turns east. “We all goin’ to Austin.”
Joe says, “My saw’s in the big truck.”
“Fuck it,” Moe says. “We’ll git you one at the hardware store.”
“And my bow?”
“We’ll stop at a fuckin’ music store. Now, shut up and don’t start with any o’ that alien shit. I’ll open up a can o’ whip-ass on you.”
Wichita, Kansas, late afternoon. Sherry, Joe and Moe stand around a hardware store saw display. Joe bends the blades sharply and listens to the tone.
Moe says, “Git a good one. I’m payin’.”
Sherry chews gum anxiously, her eyes darting around, looking for an opportunity to do something about her predicament. She sees a security guard strolling slowly a few aisles down and tries to make eye contact. But he disappears into the plumbing supply aisle.
A music store in a shopping center. Joe plays the new saw with a violin bow. Employees and customers are enthralled. Sherry is more at ease, perhaps resigned to the circumstances, and equally smitten by Joe’s performance. Even Moe listens with a modicum of pleasure.
A flour mill outside Dodge City. Kenny watches as the last few sacks of flour are loaded into his trailer. He drives out and shortly pulls in to the Truck City lot. He jumps out and hurries into the café. Through the window he is seen looking around for Sherry and Joe, then conversing with the cashier, who points south, as in “They went thataway.”
Moe’s pickup roars past the Welcome to Texas sign.
Not long afterward the DeLorean roars past the sign.
Even later Kenny’s rig roars past.
In Moe’s pickup, he steers with his right hand, the gun in his left, Metallica on the tape deck. Joe sleeps with a spit-soaked handkerchief dangling from his mouth. Sherry punches the off button on the deck. “Grow up, Moe. You’re not sixteen anymore. Why do you listen to that shit?”
Moe cups his crotch with his right hand while steering with the gun hand. “Sixteen this, bitch.”
“Very creative.”
He switches Metallica on again, this time even louder. Joe stirs, but doesn’t awaken. Sherry turns it off. “Let him sleep.”
“Mamma’s baby need beddy-bye?”
“You’re scaring him to death. He thinks you’re the Devil.”
“Yeah, he’s artistic, I know. You still love me, don’t you? A woman like you can’t resist a Devil, can she? I’m the goddamn Devil from Kansas.”