Sixteen

By the time Rich made it back down to the trail head at the mile maker campground, he was covered in dirt and countless abrasions. He had fallen most of the way back to the scene of the crime unfolding in front of him; the scene of the crime of arson as perpetrated by Rich and his two friends in a National Forest while drunk and under the influence of a number of illegal drugs. It looked bad. It was bad. Apparently the campfire had touched off the small propane tank of the camp stove. Dave had set it up too close. There may have even been a small explosion. Flames were spreading along the dry ground and a fair amount of the picnic table was on fire. The branches of the shade trees above the campsite were ablaze. Even the paint on the side of the Cherokee looked like it was blistering in the heat. Rich had no doubt in his mind that they were all in very deep shit.

“BILLY, DUMP THE WATER FROM THE COOLER ON THE GROUND BY THE TREE! I’M GONNA MOVE THE CAR!” WHERE’S DAVE? GODDAMNIT, WHERE’S DAVE??

“You’re not going to just LEAVE us?” The male ninja minstrel shouted in a rage. The athletic ninja-minstrel couple had also returned to the scene of the crime and were frantically kicking dirt and stamping on the spreading flames. “You started this! You’re responsible! You’re all responsible!”

“YEEEEEEAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!”

Rich looked up from the steering wheel of the jeep where he was fumbling for his keys. He could see Billy silhouetted by the flames as he stood on the burning picnic table. He had the bottle of Dos Gusanos in his hand and was howling at the top of his lungs.

“I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, HEAR THAT GOD? I’M GONNA BURN DOWN ALL YOUR CREATION! FUCK YOU! WAHOO! NOW WE’RE REALLY HAVING FUN!!!”

“Oh shit,” Rich groaned. He had found the keys and started the ignition.