by Lee Goldberg
The bus smoked and coughed its way down the street while Bertrum thought about his favorite Honeymooners episodes. He was trying to take his mind off the Hoagie Steak sandwich that crouched in his stomach like a brick. The next time he took a shit he figured he'd have to bring along some dynamite to clear the pipe afterwards.
Ralph Kramden, as immortalized by Jackie Gleason, was the only hero Bertrum could identify with. Bertrum had a nagging wife and a shithole apartment and drove a bus full of noisy punks and smelly winos just like hapless Ralph. He never missed an episode, rushing home for the two a.m. rerun on the UHF channel that never came in clearly. Under his driver's seat he kept a ninety-eight-page handwritten script for the ultimate Honeymooners episode. Should a Hollywood producer ever step on the bus, Bertrum planned to convince him that the world was waiting to see Ralph and Norton become folk singers. Bertrum had even written the songs.
The acid bubbled in Bertrum's stomach as he wrestled the bus around the next corner. A light of flame burst out of an alley, screaming across his path like a crackling fuse. He knew his eyes were playing tricks on him again; it looked like a human being at the center of the flaming torch.
Bertrum gasped, choking on the tablet and wrenching the wheel hard to the left. The back end fishtailed and swatted the burning body into a row of parked cars. The bus started to roll, hesitated on two wheels, and then slowly regained its equilibrium.
Bertrum lay across his huge steering wheel, gurgling for air, the right side of his head pressed on the horn, filling the darkness with a wailing bellow.
A speeding Camaro screeched within inches of the bus before Bertrum saw it veer away, plowing through the window of the Pistol Dawn. The customers fled as the car splintered the bar apart and smashed into the wall just under the TV set.
An instant later he saw another car closing in on the bus. He closed his eyes.
POW! ZOOM! To the moon, Alice!
Bertrum was knocked to the floor by the impact. An explosion rocked the bus, lifting the tail end up like a teeter-totter.
The customers stumbling out of the Pistol Dawn cowered against the searing heat of the flames that enveloped the bus. Arms of fire seemed to reach out to the adjoining buildings, wrapping around the structures and spiraling upwards. The customers scrambled down the street and could hear glass shattering like firecrackers in the inferno behind them.
The flames were licking the night sky when the local precinct desk sergeant, eating from a bag of corn chips, got the first call. The woman wanted to report an earthquake.