PETE’S BARBECUE
Volume I
Open for Business
RICK CARTER’S FIRST BIG
ADVENTURE
By
SW Belcher
REALITY ISN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE
RICK CARTER’S FIRST BIG ADVENTURE
(Being the first one he didn’t screw up)
Or,
How I got a Free Trip to Guam and Almost Died
By SW Belcher
Dedicated to Della Louise Wyrick Belcher. She is the best and greatest wife ever. She’s also the reason I haven’t been locked up in an insane asylum over the past twenty years. So, blame her.
Table of Contents
Foreword by SW Belcher
Second Foreword by RC
Chapter One
Rick Carter: The Most Important Man in the World.
Chapter Two
Rick’s Spectacular Event
Chapter Three
An Insanity Syndrome
Chapter Four
Hafa Adai and Pete’s Barbecue
Chapter Five
Rick’s First Rodeo
Chapter Six
Is that a Giant Spider in Your Pocket?
Chapter Seven
Old Debts
Chapter Eight
Chaos Ensues
Chapter Nine
Dennis Gets Ready
Chapter Ten
I Think We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Gun
Chapter Eleven
Over the Hill and Through the Dale
Chapter Twelve
Meanwhile, Back On Guam
Chapter Thirteen
What has Eight Legs and Goes Splat?
Chapter Fourteen
The Unified Reality Theory, or the Common Man’s
Approach to Split Personalities
Chapter Fifteen
Anybody Order a Cab?
Chapter Sixteen
One Plus One Equals Zero
Chapter Seventeen
Pieces and Parts or Putting Humpty Dumpty Back
Together Again
Epilogue
Foreshadowing
FOREWORD
One chilly autumn night during a dark and terrible storm, a parcel was left at my doorstep by someone dressed in dark clothes and a long rain coat. He wore an old fedora and walked away into the night with not a word. What he left on my doorstep was a stack of loose papers that were yellowed with age and bound in some old twine. I was up alone that night, my family tucked away warmly in their beds, and so I took this stack of old papers and I proceeded to read through them. What I found amazed me and I discovered I could not stop reading them until I had finished the whole lot. What I read, what I learned in the depths of those pages, changed my understanding of all of reality for all time. And it gave me a bad headache from staying up and reading all night.
The tale that follows in this book is a direct result of what I learned that night. It has been painstakingly pieced together from the long narrative told in those pages. I locked myself in my basement with a small black and white TV, a mini fridge with a butt-load of Pepsi in it and a computer for four months until I had completed it. I believe every word of it to be true. And thus I have written this narrative based on that information. I think you will find it most remarkable. But, I warn you: be careful who you tell about its contents. Be vigilant about who is watching you (unless you have a stalker which is another thing altogether but, which you should still be very alarmed about.) The tale of Pete’s Barbecue is not to be taken lightly or by the light hearted. It is full of information most government agencies do not want you to know. Which government agencies, you might ask? Most of the really secret ones is the answer.
Some names and places have been changed in order to protect the innocent but really not that many. To be honest I didn’t change any of the names. Forget I said that. But, what I have done is edited together the long steam of conscious story told in that manuscript and tried to fill in the pieces and parts that were missing. I have spent countless hours piecing together the hidden meanings in the passages and interpreted them here as best as I could. I still have no idea who wrote it or why they left it on my doorstep, unless they were lost, or just looking for some money, which means they crapped out on both accounts because I’m not really that great a writer and certainly don’t have any money. But, I hope I have done justice to this remarkable account. The memory of reading it will haunt me for some time to come.
S.W. BELCHER Lexington, Ky
ADDENDUM
After the publication of this manuscript a letter arrived at my home with a message to everyone who dares to read this amazing tale. I have included it here for you to re
Second Foreword
Okay...I have been asked to write a foreword to this book. Sounds easy, right? Wrong. There are other, larger, concerns here. Like the fact that, on the advice of my lawyer, I absolutely cannot say that the events portrayed in this book actually happened...or that, thanks to generations of technobabble-spouting sci-fi authors, we cannot be certain that discussing the events portrayed in this book might not just change said events...
Well, either way, this was written from a selection of notes that may or may not have been made by me and others in the middle of world-altering events...(are events world-altering if nobody remembers the way things were before?) and, well, you know, take it all with a grain of salt, ok? Just remember, when confronted by a room-sized spider that wants to cocoon you and suck all the fluids from your body...kill it. Stomp it, smash it, hit it with a baseball bat, use a gallon of bug spray…whatever you gotta do...and if all else fails…run it over with a Crown Vic...
Look, I gotta go. I got a fare waiting to go to the 12th century…just kidding. Not about the fare…that part’s true. But, on the advice of my lawyer, I hafta say- I absolutely do not ever pick up refugees from other times. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Stay real.--R. C. Tampa, Florida
CHAPTER ONE
Rick Carter,
The Most Important Man in the World
27 March 2012
Driving a taxi in any large city in the United States is considered one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. It’s an occupation with a comparable lifespan to the toughest Alaskan fisherman or grizzly bear wrestler in the bush. Rick Carter was a taxi driver in the large and somewhat daunting city of Tampa, Florida, a sprawling complex of streets, suburbs, apartments and trailer parks not known for its crime free neighborhoods or it’s blissfully naïve and carefree citizens. These were hard streets with all the dirt and seediness of any New York borough or Chicago south side, the only difference being the palm trees, the heat, the sand and the annual love-bug infestations. The danger of the occupation was never lost on Rick. He kept a vigilant and watchful eye on everyone. He was blessed with a finely-honed instinct for self-preservation and this, on more than one occasion, saved him from ending up a statistic on the morning news. But, despite the risks, money had to be made, and bills had to be paid and even though he possessed no lack of self-preservation or street smarts, he put himself behind the wheel of his white Crown Victoria each night and faced what the darker reaches of humanity had to offer. Truth be told he was a little on the adventurous side despite his self-preservation, just not fully ready to completely throw caution to the wind. He was like that, not being one to let a little danger get in his way. Sometimes he would even court it, just to spice some of the duller nights up a bit. He was far too stubborn to let the pesky facts keep him from working, however, or from having fun while he did it. After all, that was where the money was, at least for him
. The clubs, the strip bars, the airport runs, and the sports events were busiest at night. And Tampa had an endless stream of seedy places and dark alleys and hostels that catered to an abundant night crowd. The money had to be made. Sometimes he did well, other times not so well.
This night had not been going well, however. He was behind in fares. It seemed no one wanted or needed a taxi. And he was doing the one thing he hated most about the job: waiting. He twisted in his seat trying to get his 340-pound body comfortable. Nothing he did alleviated the growing nagging in the back of his mind that doom was approaching. It was the same sense of doom and despair he conjured up about this same time each night when business was slow. It could be easy to get behind in this job. His wallet was starving, and he felt it shriveling in his back pocket by the minute. There were expenses to be covered, to meet gas and the lease on his cab, before he even began to see real profit for himself. So far even the expenses weren’t booked. So, in his semi-panic mode of desperation he was ready to take any fare offered, even the ones that seemed uncertain. When he finally got a call he pounced on it like a starving tiger on a gazelle buffet.
The fare, when he arrived and picked him up, didn’t seem to be one of those promising ones. It had all the hallmarks of the kind that starts out awkward and ends with trouble. The young man he picked up was alone on a dark deserted street with a fearful look in his eyes. He gave an address that was across town, across the bay to Clearwater, which normally would have been a good haul and a good fare. With even a little tip it would help cover most of his gas and some of the lease. But, the sense of impending doom was all over this fare. Rick had a terrible and accurate sense of other people’s intentions, especially when those intentions were going to impact him in a negative way. He began to watch the young guy in the back seat through his rear-view mirror.
The boy had been quiet and unresponsive the whole way, resisting every attempt by Rick to fashion a conversation or to ply small talk. He looked young, really young, maybe in his mid-teens. He was disheveled and out of sorts almost confused or scared, but nicely and fashionably dressed. Rick tried not to dwell on the negative as he kept an eye on the kid with his rearview mirror. He tried to fight the sense that was yelling at him from the dark recesses of his mind and concentrate on the driving and the destination that took five minutes longer then he estimated it would. But, that was nothing unusual. Tampa traffic, even late at night, was as unpredictable as the customers. Any estimation offered on delivery times was just that: an estimation and no more. He pulled into the small parking lot of a 24-hour store across from a motel that that the kid had given him as an address and parked his Crown Victoria.
“That’ll be $50.76,” Rick said with his usual cheerful and rehearsed voice. He watched the kid in the rearview mirror. The boy’s expression was dark and contemplative. Oh, no. Rick thought, really? His face began to turn crimson red with anger as he anticipated what was about to happen.
The boy grabbed the door handle, pushed the heavy door open and bolted out of the back seat. No, no, no, Rick thought as his hand instinctively reached for the cold plastic handle of the air pistol he kept tucked by his driver’s seat. His other hand pushed the power window button while his right firmly gripped the pistol and brought it up. He could see the young man running for all he was worth, but Rick’s reflexes and his temper were faster. He aimed and pulled the trigger in one motion. The metal BB hit its mark on the young man’s right butt cheek, and he squealed in pain, reaching back and twisting as he ran. The sudden reaction threw him off balance, and he fell forward into a light post smacking it with a solid thud and rebounding onto his wounded rear-end. He sat there on the broken sidewalk dazed for a moment looking back at Rick, who was still pointing the pistol out of the window. Then he quickly jumped up, holding onto his butt cheek and hobbled off into the night. Another fare jumper had dared to pull their craft on one of the only taxi drivers in Tampa armed with a Model 234 Smithson Super-action BB pistol with faux pearl grips and hair trigger, courtesy the local Wal-Mart for $49.56. This wasn’t Rick’s first rodeo.
He pulled away from the 24-hour store with a feeling of dejection mixed with anger and frustration. His depleted funds were no nearer replenishment then before, and the feeling of exhilaration he had when he first heard the fare’s destination was replaced with a sinking feeling of time ill spent. Now, it was back to square one and hoping that dispatch would give him something worthwhile to make up for it. Fortunately, his hopes were rewarded with the electronic ping of his radio that indicated another fare was available. He looked at the address on the readout and decided to put in his bid. It wasn’t a grand fare, maybe $15-$20, but it was better than nothing. Maybe his night would start to look up. Maybe the fares would get better. Ahh, he thought, there was that old optimism slowly starting to creep back. It was like a little turtle once frightened into its shell but ever so gently recovering and poking its head back out into the world…right before a large gator pops up and snaps its little head right off in one bite.
Rick drove the short distance to the address, a small strip bar where the business types and the suits spent their hard earned dollars knocking back rum and colas or tequila shots while the ladies plied their dancing skills. Rick was familiar with the bouncers that stood guard over the front door like giant golems protecting the gates of Hades. They knew him by name and for every customer he brought their way he got a $15 kickback. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a customer on his way to the bar but one who had already drunk his fill and was on his way to his hotel room to sleep it off. It wasn’t the type of fare Rick enjoyed because it usually meant a lot of baby sitting and patience as the wildly inebriated fumbled with wallets and words and tried not to throw up in his back seat or pass out. But, it was a large part of his nightly business, and that meant bread and butter. When the thirty-something man with the well-tailored suit popped into his back seat, Rick was pleased to see that he wasn’t falling down drunk. He was well on his way to tipsy but not sloppy and baked. And even better, this one was talkative. He looked back by his rearview mirror.
“Okay, bud, where to?” He said cheerily, giving no hint of his recent shooting spree with a BB air pistol.
The man looked at him with a slightly skewed smile on his face. “Beaumont Circle, the Hilton- Martrice, please,” He said as he fell back into the vinyl seat.
Rick drove off, pleased at this new turn of events. He decided to take advantage of the new fare to do what he enjoyed the most with the job: talk. “So, you in town on business?”
The man looked unsteadily at the back of Rick’s head. “Yeah. Here for Paul Blaylock’s PR&G group. I do their media work.”
“PR&G? I’m not familiar with that.” Rick stepped fully into the small talk arena.
“It’s a paranormal research and guidance group.” He stumbled slightly on the‘s’s. “I just do their public relations stuff.” He looked back out the window where the street was going by.
Rick was amused. “Paranormal Research? Seriously?”
“Yeah.” The man lightly chuckled. “I know. I know.” He said.
“Well, sounds interesting.” Rick tried to keep the talk going.
“Just a bunch of nut balls and kooks but really rich nut balls and kooks and they pay well.” The man affirmed his smile wavering and then returning. “You ever hear of Paul Blaylock?”
“Isn’t he that guy on channel 168? The one always going on about some conspiracy?” Rick realized he knew more about this then he thought or might have wanted.
“Yeah!” The man’s waning attention snapped back. “That’s the guy. He’s the owner of the company. They do all sorts of studies on paranormal stuff.” He exaggerated the pronunciation of the last words in a mocking tone. “They’re alright for the most part, although some of them are like Roswell out there. He has teams of researcher all over the globe tracking down crazy junk. Man, they sure do come up with some wild crap. Most of it I wouldn’t give you two cents for, but there is this one guy,
name’s Marcus or Mel or Major or something. I can’t remember. But, anyway, the stuff he comes back with sometimes has some legs to it. I just got back from this one trip to LA where we were wrapping up some contracts with studio execs and I got to sit in on some of the dailies the production boys were piecing together for his show, and it was all about this guy and his theory about trans-reality something or the other and traveling through pockets in space. He’s even got the science to back it up and claims to have pictures and documents. I don’t know. He’s about the only one of the crazies with anything interesting.” The man lapsed into an awkward silence, and Rick checked the mirror again to see if he was okay. He was just lazily staring out the window rocking to the gentle swaying of the big Crown Vic.
“So, um are you from around Florida?” He asked in an attempt to keep the failing conversation alive.
The man looked forward again. “Nah, I’m from Mississippi. How about you?”
Rick looked surprised. “Funny you should mention it, but I’m from there too. Well, that’s where I grew up anyways.” He said lightly, pleased that they had found a common point of interest to discuss.
“Really?” The man once again produced his unsteady smile. “Where from?”
“A little ole place named William’s Landing, cotton capital of the world,” Rick added with amusement.
“I’ve heard of it. I’m from the coast, near Gulfport. Say, you been here in Florida long?” The man’s interest kept his compromised attention span on the subject.
“I’ve been here about twenty years now. I moved down after my dad died.” Rick volunteered.
“Wow, you like it that much huh? You been driving the cab that long?” He asked.
It was Rick’s turn to lightly chuckle. “No, I can’t say I like it all that much. I’ve been driving for about fifteen years, though.”
Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1) Page 1