very soon, jeremy thought, as he walked down the dirt road, i will come to an abandoned farmhouse, or an old mansion with bats flying overhead.
i should move quicker than this, i am not getting anywhere.
an undercurrent of dread whispered through the dark trees.
dennis hopper, peter fonda, and bruce dern were waiting on the porch of the old mansion. their bikes were parked in front, gleaming in the moonlight.
in the moonlight, in the nmoinlight, strange creatures in the underbrush in the moonloght…
peter fonda looked at jeremy with his werewolf eyes.
all they all ever wanted was to be free…
pull yourself together, man, we got work to do tonight…
before this night is over, the human race will be saved, or be enslaved forever.
down by the river, the green lights of the spaceships were starting to blink on.
how did the assholes who run the world ever let it come to this pass?
fortunately, there a still a few guys who are willing to stand up, not just to roll over for the invaders…
you, what are you looking at it? are you going to ride with us or not?
peter fonda and bruce dern and dennis hopper all stood up.
it was time.
the invaders wouldn’t be getting no virgins.
silence descended on the earth.
let the dogs out…
o say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…
peter fonda, dennis hopper, and bruce dern kicked it into gear and headed on down to the river.
jeremy found himself seated between walter brennan and jack nicholson in a pickup truck trying to follow right behind them…
“those dang fools just can’t wait to mix it up with alvin,” walter brennan muttered as he gripped the wheel.
“alvin is the all-purpose name the guys give the alien invaders”, jack nicholson explained to jeremy, “like charlie for the viet cong.”
“i knew that,” jeremy replied.
they came to the river.
the shit went down.
because who are you going to count on when the aliens land - the candyasses with their hornrimmed glasses sitting in their air-conditioned offices getting calls from their wives making sure they donated to greenpeace, the coke-sniffing wombats in the united nations bleating about global warming - or the guys you spit on, that you don’t want your daughter living on the same planet with, the scum of the earth, the jailbirds, the losers… until you need them…
the losers…
jeremy woke up. the last credits of the movie - he didn’t know which one… were scrolling down the screen. the lights came on, but not very bright.
his pepsi was sitting in the holder beside him. he took a sip and it was watery and warm. one of the boxes of sno-caps had spilled in his lap, and the could feel the other in his pocket jabbing into his riight leg, which was asleep.
there seemed to be no other persons in the auditorium, , the same as when the movie started. it was quiet, with even the screen being quiet as it scrolled the endless credits about wardrobe assistants and cafeteria assistants and whatever.
where was the owner - the 1974 mafia man? suddenly jeremy was afraid he might get locked into the theater overnight. he jumped to his feet, spilling the sno caps on the floor. he grabbed the pepsi - disgusting as it was, he had paid for it and he was going to drink it.
he got safely outside the building, without seeing the mafia man or anybody else.
he took a deep breath of the night air. and then, he noticed across the street -
the sheriff’s car. it’s revolving red roof light was off, but leaning against the car were sheriff john agar, and deputy doug mcclure.
“the game is over,” sheriff john agar told jeremy, “and you lost it.”
the rear door of the sheriff’s car opened, and mayor vincent price stepped out of it.
“that’s right,’ he said, glaring at jeremy, “and it was a good game until you came along.”
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