                Road Trip of the R&P  Part I:  THE JOURNEY     

          Ah, those were the days.
          40 maniacs
          crammed in a charted bus
          and headed for excitement.
          but first, the fuel...
          $30 each and an LBS means that
          this puppy is juiced and ready to rock.

          On the road, the games begin.
          Kaiser soon loses fans to
          blackjack for shots.
          A run of bad luck means 14 ounces in five minutes,
          a possible combination pointing to things to come.

          Three hours in and the 
          hunger strikes.
          This is where the show begins
          for one
          and all, or at least those who can still 
          see.

          The mystical KFC across the highway
          offers life to all.
          Those first few off the bus head for 
          the ribbon of pavement
          separating them from the servings of deep-fried
          destruction.
          but they soon find that not only is that snow on the ground,
          it's filled the deep ditch.
          If they were too drunk to make it across,
          they just made snow angels 
          until reinforcements arrived to pull them free.
          Most just stumbled, fell, and added to the snowy silhouettes.

          A blackjack induced haze conveniently fills
          the next three hours
          as day transitions into night,
          hiding Calgary until it's all around us.

          The bus rolls quietly into 
          the hotel that this band of 
          nutjobs
          will call home for the next few days.
          A breezy whisper of airbrakes...
          then every possible opening of the bus
          pours forth dazed and drunken bodies
          eager to claim a piece of floor to call
          their own.

          One quiet evening at the local nightclub
          getting blitzed on green beer and bargain shots
          belies the coming storm of insanity.

                              -WindRider 07/97


          Road Trip Part II:  INTERLUDE

          Morning comes.
          It's time to take a tour of 
          the target area.
          Wandering around the snow-covered
          campus
          in such a large group makes reconnaissance easy.

          A quick trip to see the Olympic Oval.
          We find the puffing Zambonie cleaning
          the speed skating tracks
          while Pee-Wee hockey teams practice on the center
          rinks.

          This is gonna be great.

          Exiting the great structure and passing the 
          Olympic monument out front
          brings the target into view.
          15 floors of brown bricked terror called the 
          Engineering building.
          Our trek towards the imposing entrance drags us 
          past one of the many campus parking lots.
          The student tour guide says there aren't any
          in and out
          privileges for it.
          That sucks.

          We're taken for a little spin around the building.
          A select few slip away to check the important details
          (and jimmy some locks),
          while the rest stall with questions about the 
          campfire sculpture
          outside the student lounge's bay window.
          The piece sits in the courtyard.
          Apparently an enigmatic force paints it a different colour
          every year.
           It better resembles a 3 foot high pile of blue crayons
          than a fire, but that's okay too.
     
          Silently the missing members slip back
          into the fold
          and signal that everything is according to
          plan.

          A jump on the skytrain
          (we didn't pay, of course)
          brings us to the Mountain Equipment Co-op.
          Thousands of square feet of 
          fun stuff and
          useless crap.
          More importantly, the tools needed to get the job
          done.
                    
                                - WindRider 07/97



          Road Trip Part III:  GROUND ZERO

          2 am and the strike team assembles
          for action.
          Two loads of crew driven to the destination
          in a beat-up old Datsun, rumbling through the deserted streets.
          Truly the stealth vehicle of choice.

          A rolling exit from the car ensures that no one is spotted.
          Blasts of white fog and a million needles
          greet our bodies.
          It's starting to seem like it's either too late
          or too cold
          (or both)
          for this operation.
          But what the hell, go out with a bang.

          Team one heads for the rigged doors and bolts
          up the stairs
          through the blinding fluorescent lights and 
          eerie silence
          in order to get things rolling.

          Team two is meant to cause a diversion
          so that the real action goes unnoticed.  
          Commando crawls over 10 foot walls 
          and through groves of frosted pines,
          with a bag full of unstable fireworks,
          feels like a journey across the arctic to
          blow up Santa's workshop.

          A quick radio call and the plan goes into motion.
          Unfortunately, it seems Duracell didn't bother to
          test their batteries to -30 Celsius.
                    Those bastards.

          The prickling numbness starts to creep through the 
          gloves about 20 minutes later.
     
          Every flash of headlights means another dive into 
          the firs.

          Making the move to the fireworks' ground zero
          goes for not.
          A glance up the silhouetted tower reveals
          four
          new, thin shadows against the harsh street lights.
          Soon the darkened figures join them, sliding of the side.
          Jason gets tangles in his gear, hanging halfway between heaven and hell.
          Minutes pass like hours until he manages to get free.
     
          The numbing has passed.
          That couldn't be good.
          Sludgy muscles scream resistance in an attempt 
          to find an open door inside to the healing warmth.
          No such luck.

          Now ready for what is to come, 'it' moves out into 
          position alongside the four.
          Shapeless wire frame instantly transforms into a 
          new constellation of stars.
          But there's something wrong.
          These aren't stars.
          It's a ten foot tall "E"
          and it's row on row of twinkling Christmas lights.
          From far above, a cheer wafts down to greet us.

          The awe of the moment passes when our jaws 
          won't move in response.

          A vain bang of the radio.
          A tentative yell to the others.
          Finally a door opens and safety from the elements
          is ours.
          Even the heat of the stairwell lights warms the heart
          as we desperately hope to feel the linoleum-tiled stairs
          under our butts.

          Team Captain gives the sign to move out
          (more of a nudge really).
          Mission complete, the "E" has been hardwired into the building's
          main electrical system.

          Who says danger isn't fun?

          Campus Security picks a bad time to show up.
          Hell, they almost run right into our scout as he 
          exits
          the building.
          His thundering bootslaps coming up the stairs
          and the yells of "RUN!"
          were enough to get everyone impersonating Donovan Bailey.
          Two flights of stairs in 8 seconds and across the 
          building in almost the same.
          Then dead quiet.
          The Pigs hadn't seen our scout, or didn't know where 
          we were.
          ...begin full stealth mode...

          Now seemed like a good time to
          leave.
          Out the door and right into the concealing bushes.
          The heavy wooden beast closed with a thunk and a growl.

          Victory,
          for now.

          Keeping to the snow-laden undergrowth was 
          a brilliant move.
          It was also equally funny.
          Every blink of headlights in our direction sent
          10 bulky bodies diving into a 
          5 foot shrub.

          "Let's head back inside" Lanny says.
          Seemed like a good idea.
          A quick charge though an oddly unlocked door 
          brought us face to face with...
          a directory box.
          Jackpot.
          Too good to be true.
          Some sweet finessing pops the lock open.
          Within moments, the Engineering list has been
          raped
          of all its "E"s (I still have mine).
          The rest of the tiny white letters rearranged to proclaim our greatness.

          It's really time to go.
          Day is beating night into submission.

          Inching through the building towards the skytrain,
          every sign becomes a spoil of war.
          Arms filled with posters, letters, warning signs and office signs
          when we finally reached the station.

          $1.50 into the ticket machine and we can head back
          to our hotel sanctuary.
          After all, we wouldn't want to be caught 
          doing anything 
          illegal.
          Now would we?


                                - WindRider 07/97

          

          The First Day

     Dawn breaks too early now.
     A sun
     so eager to light the world
     simply springs forth in full intensity,

     another unwelcome visitor on this sleepy morning.
     A morning like any other.

     The iridescent sky pokes its head 
     in my window, a 
     blue hue
     bordering on the surreal.

     Perhaps this is a dream.
     Dreams are things that lives are made of.
     Mine wears me like an old suit.
     Where ever it goes I will
     follow,
     because it makes me happy.

                                        -WindRider 07/97






          And on the Second Day

     I'm impressed.
     A quiet whisper in my ear
     makes me roll my eyes open
     and see another brilliantly blue sky
     smiling down at me.

     The day can't wait to tell me
     what it has in store.
     White wisps of cumulus clouds hint at 
     another
     refreshing 
     rainfall.
     The sweet static hiss of the sprinklers speaks
     of chores to do
     and those that can wait.
     Back to my left, the Beatles suggest 
     we should spend the night together,
     then Peter Noone tells me that I'm into something good.

     There's been an undulating roar for over an hour
      of rubber and road
     when the metal monstrosities make their way
     from a warm, cozy bed to a 
     small sterile office,
     resisting the day's call to frolic in the sunshine.

     Listening to this odd orchestra
     and breathing in the wet, heavy, tantalizing scent lingering 
     from last night,
     Herman's Hermits proclaim what a wonderful world this would be.

                                -WindRider 07/97





          Untitled

          Round.
          And firm.
          Just the way they ought to be.
          A truly miraculous sight to behold 
          (and be held).
     
          Gently caressing the curves and feeling the 
          innate heat contained within
          sets the mind racing about what is to come.

          A delicate and tentative reach below contacts
          a warmth both sticky and oily.
          Hesitantly bringing the lips ever closer, 
          pausing briefly to inhale the mingling scents
          then diving headlong into ecstasy.


          This is a great pizza.

                                -WindRider 07/97




               The Chicken

     The yellow and brown chickens
     played around the red
     fallout shelter
     on the day that the second sun appeared.
     Unaware of the world around them,
     the frittered and frolicked the hours away
     doing those chicken things
     that chickens always seem to do.

     The second sun came closer and closer
     to the land where the chickens did their thing.
     It wasn't really a sun at all,
     but an advancing wave of radioactive energy
     released by the first attack of World War III.

     The farmer on the porch looked from the chickens to the second sun.
     His jaw dropped.
     His shoulders slumped.
     His pupils became pinpricks.

     A second before the shockwave hit,
     the rooster looked up at the farmer
     and laughed.

     Scientists believed that cockroaches would be the only survivors
     of a nuclear holocaust.
     But nature demands that chickens rule the world.

                                - WindRider 07/97


SAUCE00Lit-1997                           WindRider           ACiD Productions    199805 6t3                                    