Well, well, well. Two sections in one day...you guys sure are lucky...also, i loved this so very much I had to post it. Please note, the beliefs held by Gonzo may not be the writers.
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Gonzo lay on his back inside the empty cement mixer. What a lot had happened to him since last Christmas, in fact, since the last day. A jail break, a car chase, a new home…a friend.
The stars were always beautiful. When he was very little, he’d been told there was a star in the sky for every single person on earth. Every person, and creature. Were there stars for Whatevers?
There was a clank of something sharp tapping against the outside of the truck. Gonzo lay very still. What was…There is was again! Two taps and a scurry of claws. Rats? No…bigger…
Gonzo listened hard, but heard no more. At about four o’clock in the morning, he fell asleep. And dreamt of a green frog who believed in him…
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They found the car the day after Christmas. Someone had been driving by the deserted site, and had seen a parked car. On closer inspection, it had belonged to the police. The nosey couple had called the locals, and were told that, no, there was no raid happening at the construction site. Yes, they did know the car was there, no, actually they didn’t, but, yes, now they did. No, no one had been murdered there. Yes, they had no bananas. No, they wouldn’t like to buy any duty-free fruit from the black market. The couple were picked up the next day as smugglers, or so Gonzo was told later in his life. But for now that didn’t concern him. The motorbike did.
The motorbike crunched to a stop outside the high wire-mesh walls, skipping gravel. Large ‘Danger. Keep Out’ signs, blown by the wind, and damaged by sleet and snow, flapped from staples like sails in the wind.
It was early. Gonzo had been jogging. He stopped behind a pile of roofing slates that were covered in sheet plastic. He lifted his head, and peeked at the visor-helmeted rider.
The first day of his life in the construction site had been perfect. Christmas Day had never been better. He had a friend to share it with. Fozzie hadn’t mentioned the trailer, and Gonzo hadn’t brought it up. If Fozzie didn’t want to talk about it…
In exchange, Gonzo hadn’t mentioned the scratches. He didn’t want Fozzie to be worried. Or to think he was imagining things.
Fozzie had shown him around the site, and they’d eaten crackers from a packet that Fozzie had procured someplace. Gonzo wanted to climb the crane, but Fozzie said it wasn’t safe. Still, Gonzo planned to do it one day.
The man stepped off the bike, and lifted his visor. Gonzo shrank back. N. Holiday. The torch was clipped to his belt. And cuffs. He’d heard someone at the jail refer to him as Nicky. Nicky Holiday, policeman.
The car. Gonzo felt his stomach drop. They should have parked it further away.
Nicky didn’t spare the car a glance, but strode towards the fence. He cupped his hand above his eyebrows and gazed at the site. “Yes,” he said. “This will do nicely.” He tapped the wire, and it shivered, making that scraping sound. He walked slowly along it, shaking the fence from time to time. Until he found their entrance. The wire was bent up from their excursions under it.
He knelt and stared hard at it, then turned and walked back to his bike. He mounted, drove away. And Gonzo knew something had just happened.
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Gonzo ran up to the trailer, paused, and then knocked on the door. He heard a sound like something falling, then Fozzie opened the door. Fozzie looked guilty, and innocent at once. He began to say something then changed his mind at the sight of Gonzo’s pale face. “What’s wrong?”
Gonzo looked past him, glimpsing inside, glimpsing a sight of…
Fozzie shut the door. “Gonzo, what’s wrong?” he asked again.
“Something…” Gonzo said. “Something terrible.”
”Something terrible…” His voice echoed back. “Hahahaha-hoo-hoo!”
Gonzo whipped his head around. Nothing. There was a clatter of stones from near his cement truck. Gonzo ran. Fozzie stood undecided, then went after him. “Gonzo, no!”
Gonzo stopped by the truck. A red X had been spray painted on the cracked yellow paint. Fozzie grabbed his arm. “It’s the ghosts,” he said. His face was white with terror. “They’re back.”
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“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Gonzo said. “I know enough to know they don’t exist.”
Fozzie tried to unscrew the lid off a jar of peanut butter. Breakfast. “If you know so much,” he said. “You know there is so much we don’t know.”
“I know that much though,” Gonzo said. “I might look like a street person, but I still know what I believe in. Here. Give me that.”
Fozzie handed the peanut butter over, Gonzo unscrewed it with a quick twist and handed it back. “So, what do you believe in?” Fozzie asked him.
Gonzo helped himself, scooping peanut butter on two fingers, and chewing it thoughtfully. “I believe,” he said slowly. “I believe there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“We got that one,” Fozzie said. He licked his fingers.
“I believe…if we try hard enough, one day we’ll find it.” He thought of Kermit. Kermit the Frog.
“Find what?”
“Maybe our hopes, maybe our dreams. Maybe our star, or our rainbow. What do you believe?”
Fozzie frowned. Then he sighed, and said he didn’t know what he believed. But Gonzo saw a different answer in his eyes.
“And I believe in me,” Gonzo said finally.
Fozzie nodded. “I believe in your too, you know.”
“Know...know...ho, ho, ho! Go, go, go...”
If your mind is boggled by the events before...if you are desperate to know more, if you are rolling around on the floor, wait for the next episode, or call a certified physician.
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