Before the Rain, Part 13: The Great Green Vortex

WHERE WE LEFT OFF: Loomis had undergone an emotional paradigm shift by scooting out of Ms. Lyndsey Patter-son’s orbit and drifting off by aluminum dory to a strange Spiritual Church in what was most likely the Seventh Ward.

Down the Irish Channel in the Gar¬den District, Mr. Purslane had quit trying to light his fat cigar. “Dammie,” he snarled, “Now where is that doggoned wife of mine?” She was nowhere to be seen; likewise, a huge ancient cypress had swept down, flattening his porch and separating Purslane from his house.

Meantime, the harried Lindsey Patterson was now in command of a swollen-tired amphibious APV, choogling up the swirling eddies of Poydras Street, the convention center was fading into a blurrish speck. Her seatmates in the amphib were two Louisiana guardsmen in full camo with loaded assault weapons and a guy in a tie who could have been anchor Brian Williams or roving troubleshooting reporter Anderson Coo¬per. She couldn’t care less who it was. Where in the blazes was this poor Loomis? More importantly, why did Lindsey care about this befuddled middle-aged man-child?

At this moment the object of Ms. Patterson’s obsession was on a most peculiar trajectory, indeed. Manning the prow of the aluminum swamp dory, Sistah Helena Temple stood impassively as her ‘flock’ guided the dented (but not yet stove-in) metal craft over a slew of tarry-looking slop. Loomis, in and out of his inner fog, observed to no one in particular. Then all Hades broke loose as the boat clipped a partially submerged hearse from Ghislaine’s Mortuary.

Amazingly, the Sister held sway, but Loomis, astern and unaware, bounced out into the slop. The row boat drifted southward, and Loomis, spluttering and dog paddling, shoved away from the wrecked hearse, and wound up on the roof of a shotgun house with a hole chopped in. He grabbed for dear life onto a weathered blue and red tin sign reading “House of Goofer Dust and Other Remedies.”

Loomis slipped awkwardly sidewise across his backside over a few rows of rough tarpaper shingles, be¬fore dropping through the hole in the house’s roof and falling into a stifling, but strangely dry, room. He spotted a most wizened figure, wearing a sequined head scarf and peacock feather. He squinted, trying to make out the shape… could it be… it was!

“MOJO MAN,” cried Loomis almost in terror “Is that… You?!!”

“Ask no questions. Too soon,” the figure croaked softly.

“W-what’s Goofer Dust?”, asked Loo¬mis Reader, trembling.

“It might be whut got me back heah, boy…So, would you like to try some?” ”

(To be continued)

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