Free The Damned Highway by Nick Mamatas

cards. The night manager doesn’t even blink at a man walking up the highway alone with a large kit bag and asking for a room. Hell, he doesn’t blink at all. It’s almost as though he’s long forgotten how. Maybe I’m not the first to miss my bus out here in the wastelands. He barely acknowledges me as I check in, preferring to communicate to me in a series of grunts and wheezes. A Lucky Strike dangles from his mouth, dropping ashes onto the counter. Another burns in an ashtray behind him. His fingernails are stained yellow.
    â€œAnd who are you going to vote for in the upcoming election—Democrat or Republican?” I ask.
    He looks at me as if I were a brain-damaged geek. “Nixon, of course. Why? Who are you going to vote for?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” I say. “What matters is the process itself.”
    â€œWell, of course it matters! Don’t tell me you’re one of those doesn’t matter who’s in office, they’re all gonna screw ya type of people. Because that’s not what I fought for during the war.”
    â€œWhich war? Korea?”
    The manager nods, and as he does, he sucks his gut in and stands a little taller.
    â€œThanks for your service, friend. I keep thinking I should go see Vietnam. The place is causing so much trouble; I ought to have a look at it. Haven’t been there yet, though.”
    The manager sneers at me, the derision practically oozing from his pores. “I could have guessed you never served.”
    â€œOh, but I serve my country in other ways. What part of Korea were you in during the war?”
    His proud expression falters. “I was stationed in Germany the whole time. Sign here.”
    Sign I do, chuckling as I scribble my name on the receipt. It feels good to be writing. It always does. Almost as good as it felt to bait the inept little manager who proudly fought to protect this country from the Moloch-worshiping heathen Democrats by sitting on a base in Germany and peeling potatoes while his friends went off to die.
    I have a lot to write this night, and on the tiny desk in the dank little motel room, that’s exactly what I’ll do. First I take a shower, letting the oily, strange-smelling motel water sluice away the road dirt my body collected during the bus trip. Then I light up a cigarette, find some ice from the machine down the hall, and pour myself a tumbler glass of whiskey. I like to drink when I write. That’s when my writing is at its most pure in essence, when the truth comes barreling out like machine-gun fire, and typos abound, word counts be damned. Taking a big swig from the glass, I consider the brown paper bag lying on the bed. I pull out one of the mushrooms. It’s cool to the touch, but not slimy, as its appearance would seem to indicate.
    â€œYuggoth, eh?” I announce to the empty motel room. “What the hell . . . Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
    Shrugging, I toss it into my mouth and chew slowly. It tastes just like any other shroom—basically, like a moist paper bag—so I swallow, and then get down to business.
    I write about how despite all the demographical changes supposedly sweeping this great country—the Black Vote, the Women’s Vote, the Youth Vote, the Antiwar Vote, the Labor Vote—none of it is going to matter. Nixon made his deal with devils unknown; the Democrats have the minority vote, but the Republicans are counting on hidden and secret races revealing themselves on Election Day. The Democrats are in bed with Moloch, that ancient god of one-sided trades and unfair deals. The Phoenicians were an industrious bunch for their time, trading across the Mediterranean on their triremes, but there was a price; oh, there was a price. Moloch, their great, fiery god, craved the succulent meat of children, and oh boy did those sandy buggers pay up with baby flesh. Never mind the pound. Those bastards paid by the ton. Anything to keep