Monster Truckers - Episode Two: The Devil Went Down to Georgia (Poplar Bluff)

By the time the convoy reached Poplar Bluff, the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

Twelve hours on the road had taken their toll. The highways had deteriorated considerably since leaving Omaha this morning, and the last hundred miles had been particularly unpleasant. Broken pavement, abandoned vehicles, and stretches of roadway slowly being reclaimed by the surrounding forest had reduced their progress to a crawl.

Most of Poplar Bluff was dark.

The convoy passed empty storefronts, boarded-up businesses, and houses whose roofs had long since collapsed. Trees grew through the pavement in places, their roots pushing apart the asphalt.

Then, along North Main Street, they came upon something unexpected.

An old house stood behind a neatly maintained lawn.The grass had been freshly mowed. The shrubs were trimmed. There wasn't a scrap of litter anywhere on the grounds. Warm yellow light shone through the windows. A sign near the sidewalk identified the building.

MARGARET HARWELL ART MUSEUM

As the convoy approached, a sign beside the driveway flickered to life.

OPEN

A glowing arrow pointed toward the museum's parking lot.

“Anyone need to take a leak and take a peek at the Museum?” Drags calls out to his comrades.

"I could do wit' stretchin' ma legs some," Johnny replied. "We been on the road a long time today."

Dragula downshifted, slowing the 'Warlock and pulled a hard right into the parking lot. Fluffy Bunny and Last Cathedral swing in behind, followed by Marrow and Samael.

The driveway led to a small parking area beside the house.

The convoy pulled in, their engines rumbling to a stop one by one.

The truckers climbed down from their vehicles. They approached the front entrance cautiously.

Before anyone could knock, the door opened.

An elderly woman stood in the doorway.
She wore a modest gray skirt, a cream-colored cardigan, and sensible shoes. A string of pearls rested around her neck. Her silver hair was neatly arranged, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain.

She looked at the assembled travelers and her eyes widened.

"Oh..." A delighted smile spread across her face. "Guests!"

She clasped her hands together.

"Oh, my goodness! Please, come in! It's been so long since anyone has stopped in, I was beginning to think that people had forgotten about this place."

She stepped aside, holding the door open.
"Come along, now. Don't be shy."

Beyond the doorway lay a spacious entrance hall, its polished hardwood floors reflecting the warm glow of several electric lamps.

The building was clearly much older than its present occupants. Ornately carved woodwork framed the doorways, and decorative moldings ran along the high ceilings. A broad wooden staircase rose from the entrance hall to the second floor, its polished banister supported by intricately turned balusters.

Everything was immaculate.

There wasn't a speck of dust on the furniture, a cobweb in the corners, or a scrap of litter on the floor.

Framed paintings hung along the walls, accompanied by small brass plaques identifying their artists and subjects. A glass display case stood near the staircase, containing several pieces of local pottery.

The elderly woman closed the front door behind her guests.

"Welcome, welcome! I'm Mrs. Whitcomb. Eleanor Whitcomb. I'm the curator here."

She smiled proudly. "The Margaret Harwell Art Museum. We have a wonderful collection of regional art, along with some fascinating pieces from the history of this house."

She gestured toward the surrounding rooms. "This was originally a private residence, you know. The Moore-Dalton House. A lovely old place, and we're very fortunate that so much of its original character has survived."

To one side of the entrance hall, an open doorway revealed a parlor furnished with antique chairs and a small writing desk. A peculiar mechanical device sat on a table beneath a glass cover.

"Oh! And that's our Dalton Adding Machine. Nineteen fifteen! Quite an ingenious little contraption for its day."

She seemed prepared to explain its operation in considerable detail, but caught herself. "Oh, goodness. Listen to me! You've only just arrived, and here I am launching into the history of the place."

Mrs. Whitcomb chuckled. "The first floor houses our rotating exhibitions, and our permanent collection is upstairs. We also have a little gift shop featuring work by local artists."

She looked around at the assembled visitors. "Now, I do have just a few rules. No food or beverages in the galleries, please. No smoking, and do be careful not to touch the exhibits. And please, be respectful of other guests so they may enjoy the museum as well."

Her expression softened. "Otherwise, you're welcome to look around as long as you like."

Sam fluttered over to the table and landed beside the guest register. "Well, now. A guest book! There's something you don't see much anymore."

He examined the open pages, then looked up at Mrs. Whitcomb. "Madam, you have a lovely establishment. Nice lawn, clean windows, no corpses hanging from the rafters. Five stars."

He picked up the pen, which was nearly as long as his forearm. "Do you prefer full names, or will a signature do?"

"Oh, whatever you prefer, dear," Mrs. Whitcomb replied pleasantly.

Sam bent over the book and carefully wrote:

Samael — Very Impressed

He set the pen down and admired his handiwork. "There. First-class accommodations. Now, tell me something, Mrs. Whitcomb. Do you have any paintings of dogs playing poker or maybe a Velvet Elvis?"

"Oh, I'm afraid we don't have either, dear. Although I have always thought those paintings of dogs playing cards were rather delightful."

She pauses thoughtfully.

"And I must confess, I've always had a soft spot for Elvis. Such a handsome young man."

Marrow signed the guest book. His writing was almost legible. "I collect junk my self, always like look'n at other's stashes. Gets me all itchy!" Marrow scampered up to the entrance and waited for anyone else that wanted to take a tour through the place.

"Oh, a collector! How wonderful!" Mrs. Whitcomb leaned forward to examine his signature.

"Well, I think you'll find quite a few interesting things here, young man. Although I must ask that you leave everything where you find it."

She led the way into the entrance hall, her sensible shoes making soft clicking sounds against the polished hardwood floor. "This building is known as the Moore-Dalton House. It was built as a private residence, long before anyone thought of turning it into a museum."

Drags walks into the yard and looks around at the conditions and wonders how this place so clean? As the little lady launches into welcoming them Drags says to his brother quietly “Who keeps this place up for her?” He walks in and doesn’t step foot on the floor. Too clean…he steps back and scrubs his boots a bit more before stepping foot onto the floor.  He then takes in the entry way.  Beautiful.  Clean. He wonders what children growing up here were like. He bets they were loved. And got in trouble for running on the stairs. He numbly signs the guest book “Drags.”  He asks her “Could we get the tour?  Please. Right guys? We want the tour?”

Mrs. Whitcomb smiles. "Come. Please, forgive me. I haven't given a tour in ages, not since before the... well, I'm sure you boys know."

She gestured toward the elaborate woodwork framing the entrance to the parlor. "Do take a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship. You simply don't see work like this anymore. Look at the detail in those carvings!"

The woodwork was indeed remarkable. Intricate patterns of leaves and flowers decorated the doorframes, while the broad staircase rising to the second floor featured a beautifully polished banister and rows of turned wooden balusters.

"Of course, maintaining an old house is quite a responsibility," the ghost continued. "There's always something that needs attention. A loose floorboard, a window that won't close properly, a little paint here and there. It takes a lot of my time but it's not like I have many interruptions these days "

She smiled. "But I believe that if something is worth preserving, it's worth taking care of."

Mrs. Whitcomb ushered her guests into the adjoining parlor. Antique furniture occupied much of the room, including several upholstered chairs, a writing desk, and a handsome wooden cabinet. Framed photographs and historical documents hung along the walls.

On a small table stood an unusual mechanical contraption. "And here we have one of my favorite pieces!"

The ghost approached the table. "A Dalton Adding Machine, manufactured in 1915. Isn't it marvelous?"

The machine was a substantial piece of equipment, with rows of numbered keys and an elaborate mechanical assembly housed in a heavy metal casing.

"Before electronic calculators, machines like this were used in offices and businesses to perform arithmetic. Quite an improvement over doing everything by hand, I assure you."

She chuckled. "Although I sometimes think people were better at arithmetic when they had to work it out themselves."

Xaden approached the collection of historical documents displayed along the parlor wall.

Several framed photographs depicted the house at different points in its history. In the earliest, the building stood beside an unpaved street, surrounded by young trees and a neatly maintained garden. Later photographs showed the neighborhood developing around it, with automobiles replacing horse-drawn carriages.

An enlarged newspaper clipping described the preservation of the Moore-Dalton House and its eventual conversion into an art museum.

Beside it hung a collection of photographs showing the building's restoration. Workers stood on ladders repairing the exterior, while others carefully stripped old paint from the elaborate woodwork. One photograph showed a group of smiling volunteers standing on the front lawn.

A small plaque beneath the display read:

THE MOORE-DALTON HOUSE
Preserving the History and Artistic Heritage of Poplar Bluff

Mrs. Whitcomb noticed Xaden examining the photographs. "Oh, those are some of my favorites!"

She approached, smiling. "It's remarkable how much this neighborhood changed over the years. There was a time when nearly everyone knew their neighbors. Children played in the yards, families sat on their porches in the evenings..."

She looked at the earliest photograph. "Of course, things change. They always do."

Her attention shifted toward the restoration photographs. "But people worked very hard to save this house. It would have been such a shame to lose it."

She smiled at Xaden. "I've always believed that old buildings have stories to tell. You just have to take the time to listen."

She stepped aside, allowing him to continue reading. "Please, take your time, dear. There's no hurry."

Sam flitted from one display to the next, examining the paintings, photographs, and historical artifacts. "Mrs. Whitcomb, you might not know this, but I invented..."

He stopped in front of the Dalton Adding Machine.

"...taxes."

He regarded the machine thoughtfully.

"Well, not taxes exactly. Tax collectors. Taxes were already around. I just suggested hiring people to collect them."

He shook his head. "One of my less popular ideas."

Mrs. Whitcomb regarded him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "Well, I suppose we all make mistakes, dear."

Sam nodded solemnly. "Yeah. That one's right up there with mosquitoes."

Xaden looked at Sam, "As long as you didn't invent ticks."

"And if I did, what would you do about it, champ?"

Mrs. Whitcomb interjected,  "Oh, those dreadful little creatures! I once found one on my husband after a picnic. Nasty business."

"Fine. I didn't invent ticks. Those little bastards were around long before I got involved."

He grinned at Xaden. "I just improved 'em. Bloodborne pathogens. Lyme disease. Rocky Mountain spotted fever. You know, the works."

He spread his little arms. "Before me, they were just tiny bloodsucking freeloaders. Now they're tiny bloodsucking freeloaders with a delivery system."

Eleanor allowed her guests a moment to stop talking about ticks and to examine the machine before continuing. "Now, the first floor is devoted primarily to rotating exhibitions. We try to feature artists from Poplar Bluff and the surrounding region whenever possible."

She led them toward another doorway.

Beyond it lay a gallery illuminated by warm overhead lights. Paintings hung at regular intervals along the walls, each accompanied by a small identification plaque. A few sculptures stood on pedestals, while several glass cases displayed pottery and other handcrafted objects.

There were landscapes depicting the Missouri countryside, portraits of local residents, and paintings of farms, rivers, and small towns.

Mrs. Whitcomb stopped before a landscape showing a quiet stretch of the Black River. "I've always been particularly fond of this one. Such a peaceful scene, don't you think?"

She regarded the painting for a moment and smiled sadly, "There's a great deal of beauty in ordinary places. Sometimes people forget to look for it."

In the distance, the sound of approaching motorcycles could be heard. The low rumble of their engines drifted through the museum's windows.

Outside, four black motorcycles rolled slowly into the parking lot.

Their riders were tall, gaunt figures dressed in weather-beaten leather dusters, heavy boots, and black gloves. Each wore a featureless black motorcycle helmet.

The engines stopped.

For several seconds, the riders remained seated. Then, almost in unison, they dismounted.

Mrs. Whitcomb looked toward the front windows. "Oh! More visitors!"

She seemed delighted. "My goodness. We haven't had this many people in years!"

Drags had been enjoying the actual art. It took him away from the war memories that haunt his mind. Then he heard the bikes getting closer. He thought about running for the truck but it was too far. He looked at the river painting a few moments longer. He would have liked to be there. #^%, they are here, he thought. He turned to Mac.  “We’re screwed.  Be cool.”

"It's definitely them. I can smell it. Are we hiding or running?" Marrow asked as he looked around for a way to a high window.

“Back door to the rigs?” Drags called out.

"Definitely run!" Xaden answered.

Mac looked for anything to block the door with before heading out. "Mrs Whitomb are there tunnels in the basement?"

Eleanor didn't respond as she hurried toward the entrance.

The front door swung open before she reached it. Four black-clad figures stood on the threshold. The one in front wore the white collar of a Catholic priest.

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled warmly. "Good evening, gentlemen! Welcome to the Margaret Harwell Art Museum!"

The Riders said nothing.

"I'm Mrs. Whitcomb, the curator. Please, come in."

She stepped aside. "Now, before you begin looking around, there are just a few rules. No food or drink in the galleries, no touching the artwork, no smoking inside, and no running. Oh, and please be respectful of the other guests."

The figure wearing a clerical collar beneath his black leather jacket stepped forward.

Mrs. Whitcomb smiled. "Gentlemen, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to remove your helmets while you're inside."

The Black Preacher continued walking. He passed straight through her. The second Rider stepped around, the gaze of his visor fixated on Johnny. He produced a set of drumsticks and started tapping them together.

Mrs. Whitcomb staggered backward and for the first time since the convoy arrived, her pleasant expression disappeared.

The third Rider brushed past Mrs. Whitcomb. Her image faltered and faded for a moment in his wake.

The final Rider strolled in arrogantly. As he entered, he stopped beside the door and closed it behind him before tilting his head to one side as if studying the scene unfolding before him.

The Preacher paid her no attention. His featureless helmet turned toward Johnny. The other three Riders entered behind him.

Mrs. Whitcomb looked down at herself. Then at the intruders. "Well! That was extraordinarily rude."

Mac yelled out, "Stand your ground, boys, these feel different." The Zipper draws a machete and stands in there way of johnny ..It's go time! Attack"

As soon as Mac's machete cleared its sheath, the Rider carrying the drumsticks began rapidly clicking them together. A low, menacing growl escaped from beneath his helmet.

Drags stepped in front of Johnny as well. "Let's take this outside, boys. No need to trash the place."

The Rider wearing the clerical collar tilted his head slightly. "Now, is that any way to behave?"

His voice was soft and strangely melodic, with the measured cadence of a preacher addressing his congregation. "We're simply here to collect some misplaced property. Surely there's no need for unpleasantness."

He spread his gloved hands in a gesture of reassurance. "None of us wants any violence."

The drummer growled again. The Black Preacher glanced over his shoulder.

"Well..."

He turned back toward the truckers. "Most of us don't."

Sam took a moment to look over each Rider. "Didn't bother fishing your little sister out of the river? That's fine. We've got the Little Drummer Boy, the fat guy must be the Funny One, and the quiet one in the back is the Dark Romantic One."

He turned his gaze toward the Rider wearing the clerical collar. "Guess that makes you David Cassidy."

The Black Preacher ignored Sam and extended one hand. "Johnny, we are here to take you home." Something moved beneath the leather of the sleeve and into the chest of the jacket.

Johnny took a step back, "N-n-no sir. I, uh, I gots me a ride o' me own. Ya'lls ain't gotta trouble yesselfs onna account o' me."

“The man said he’d rather not. You got a problem we will be outside." Dragula began guiding Johnny towards the back of the museum and what assumed would be a back door. He called back as he turned to face the riders, “We are taking this outside. We can talk about it there.”

Xaden put himself between the Riders and Drags,  "I got your back."

The Preacher extended his hand a little farther. "You misunderstand, Johnny. We are not offering you a ride."

Mac rushed toward the Preacher but the Drummer surged forward at the same time, his drumsticks lengthing into stout clubs as muscles began to expand beneath his leather jacket.

The machete came across in a gleaming arc. The Drummer took the blow on one forearm and began to grow. Black smoke, tinged with streaks of red, leaked from the shallow gash and swirled around his featureless black helmet.

The Drummer brought his weapons to bear. The two, now massive, drumsticks slammed into his chest, launching Mac backwards. He crashed through a wall and struck the grand piano with his back. The piano stopped the big Zipper but it slid back several feet, gouging the hardwood floor.

Sam darted forward, his wings carrying him across the room. He spoke quickly, trying to distract the Rider from his quarry, "Aw, ain't that sweet? David Cassidy wants to take Johnny home."

He fluttered a little closer. "Tell me something, Sunshine. Does Lou know you're out here playing dress-up, or did you boys sneak out without permission?"

Mac staggered to his feet and hurled his machete at the Drummer. The weapon tumbled end over end, flew past its target and buried itself in the doorframe beside the last Rider who entered. That Rider turned his head slightly and looked at the quivering blade. He pressed one finger against the handle and nodded slightly before opening his jacket and reaching inside.

Dragula continued ushering Johnny along in the direction of where he hoped a back door would be. Xaden followed close behind, "A window would work too!"

Meanwhile, Marrow scanned the ceiling, looking for anything that he might be able to drop on the invading bikers.

The Black Preacher slowly turned his helmet toward the little demon. "You speak of the Master with remarkable familiarity, little creature."

"I know how it works, Champ. You sell your soul, get a little talent, maybe a few screaming fans, and next thing you know, you're wearing matching outfits with six other losers."

Sam shook his head. "Talk about a career going downhill."

In the next room Drags reached a window that is about seven feel above the ground.  He called back, “Hold the door!”  He went to the window and opened it, sliding the bottom half up and punched out the screen. “Johnny, get the ^#^$ out!. Xaden get him to the rigs and get gone. I will hold them here.” As the old Bluesman clambers out, the Zipper turned and headed back toward the door, waiting for whichever of one of the Riders gives chase.

Meanwhile, Sam continued to do what he did best. Deliver insults.

He looked toward the other Riders. "Seriously, fellas. Did anybody explain the benefits package? Dental? Paid vacation? Or is it just eternal damnation and matching motorcycles? Because I gotta tell ya, Slick, Lou's really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days."

The Black Preacher's hand shot forward with unbelievable speed, closing around Sam's face. "Take Johnny. Kill the others."

The heavy-set Rider nodded and surged forward, heading toward the doorway where Dragula was waiting.

Xaden ran to the window, lowering Johnny to the ground and dove out after him. "Get moving  now!!" The pair raced toward the Last Cathedral and climbed aboard. Xaden turned the key and the diesel thundered to life.

Back inside, the Rider by the door pulled a violin and bow from the depths of his jacket. He pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss. A wave of sickly green and purple energy washed across the room and began circling around Samael as he struggled in the Preacher's grip.

The back of the violinist's jacket began to bulge and warp. The leather split open and a pair of red, bat-like wings emerged. They flexed once, twice, and then began to beat, lifting the Rider from the floor. He turned, opened the door, and stepped outside.

Xaden floored the gas pedal. "Buckle up, Johnny! It's gonna be a bumpy ride!"

Dragula roared his challenge and crashed bodily into the fat Rider in an attempt to knock him to the ground. It felt like grabbing fog wrapped in a leather jacket. Crackling black energy flowed up the Zipper's arms. The power gauge embedded in his wrist began flashing red as the needle within jerked and jumped as the electricity that kept him powered began to bleed into his enemy.

Words

The Preacher raised both hands high, holding the struggling little demon aloft.

Something moved beneath the leather of his jacket. A rattlesnake emerged from his sleeve, its scales glistening beneath the museum lights. It slithered across his forearm and coiled around his free hand, its rattle sounding softly.

The Black Preacher spoke. "In the beginning, the serpent entered the Garden and brought temptation unto Man."

His voice grew deeper. "For his transgression, he was cursed and cast down, condemned to crawl upon his belly and eat the dust of the earth."

The snake raised its head, its tongue flickering. "And now, serpent, I cast thee down again."

The rattlesnake burst into flames.

He brought his hands together.

Sam screamed. His tiny hands beat at the Preacher's wrists as he tried to escape.

For an instant, an impossibly brilliant light erupted between his palms. Then Sam exploded.

For a moment, the only sound was the soft rattle of the burning serpent as a shower of tiny, incandescent embers drifted to the floor.

"NO!" Mrs. Whitcomb's scream shattered the silence. She stood beside the ruined piano, one hand pressed against her mouth, staring at the place where the little demon had been.

"Oh, you horrible man!"

Her voice trembled with outrage. "He was just a little fellow! He wasn't hurting anybody!"

She hurried forward, her sensible shoes making no sound against the polished hardwood floor. "How dare you! How DARE you!"

She stopped a few feet from the Black Preacher, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I welcomed you into my museum! All of you! And this is how you behave?"

She gestured toward the shattered wall, the ruined piano, and the tiny embers settling across the floor. "Look what you've done!"

Her eyes returned to the place where Sam had disappeared.

For a moment, her anger faltered. "Oh, that poor little thing..."

Then she straightened, drawing herself up to her full height. "I want you out."

Her voice was suddenly very firm. "Do you hear me? I want you out of my museum. Right this instant!"

Xaden didn't let off of the gas. After three blocks, he pulled a hard left onto Highway 60. The bridge over the Black River came into the view at the same time Marrow's headlights appeared in his rearview mirror.

Then the winged Violinist passed the werecoyote's hearse.

Mac roared, "YOU Mot@#$ F&%$!" and hurled himself onto the Drummer. The hockey mask-wearing Zipper got an arm wrapped around the Rider's helmet and began to squeeze. The black shell groaned in protest and thin cracks started to appear. More of that red and black smoke swirled around and the Rider grew until Mac's feet rose off of the ground and the helmet became to large to keep in his headlock.

“SAM!” Drags yelled. "For f^#'s sake, they killed SAM!!

Dragula switched tactics and tries to twisted away from the Rider who was draining away his stored electrical energy. He threw a flurry of punches, connecting with the Rider's featureless helmet and drove him back a pair of paces. A hollow voice echoed from within the black shell, "Huunngryyyy."

Xaden kept his foot to the floor. "Any ideas, Johnny?" The Hunchback's were moving constantly from the road to the mirrors and back as the speedometer slowly climbed.

Johnny twisted around, staring at the mirror on his side through the passenger window "Lawd have mercy!"

The old bluesman stared at the winged figure approaching from behind.

"That ain't right. That ain't right at all!"

He turned back toward Xaden. "That fella's the one with the fiddle! He can take what other folks got and make it his own! That's what he sold his soul for! Only thing is, he cain't keep it! Never could! Whatever he steals, it don't last!"

The old man clutched the golden fiddle against his chest. "Don't know how long you got, son, but whatever you gonna do, you best do it quick!"

Ahead, the Black River bridge loomed in the headlights.

Behind them, the winged Rider continued to close the distance.

"Johnny! Cover your ears!" Xaden grabbed his CB. "Marrow! Floor your car and don't stop. Let's crush this $^#%" Xaden yanked down on the chain that powered his rig's organ pipes. A thunderous drone blasted out from the pipes taken from the church he worked at before the war. He stomped the brake pedal and the wheels locked.

Marrow's hearse closed the intervening distance in a moment, slamming into the back of the Kenworth. The Rider was not there.

The winged Violinist landed on top of the fifth-wheel turntable. His violin appeared again. The bow slid across the strings once again, sending out its purple wave once more. Bands of violet snaked through the windows of the Last Cathedral, wrapping around the Hunchback's arms and chest.

Marrow watched as the Rider's wings vanished. The muscles beneath the leather began to swell as the Violinist copied Xaden's great strength and began stalking forward along the back of the bobtail.

Xaden could see the Violinist making his way forward and began looking around the cab for something to hit him with. His fingers wrapped around the fire extinguisher jammed between the driver's seat and door and yanked it up. He stuck his arm out the window and flipped his improvised projectile backwards as best as he could. The Rider pulled his head back to avoid it while Marrow pulled into the other lane.

The werecoyote also grabbed whatever he could reach and came up with a faded plastic bottle filled with a blue fluid. He reached out of his own driver side window and tossed it in an arc over the roof of the car. The wind caught the bottle and vanished into the darkness of the night.

Meanwhile, back at the museum, Mrs. Whitcomb's ghost faced the Black Preacher. "I want you out."

Mrs. Whitcomb's voice was suddenly very firm. "Do you hear me? I want you out of my museum. Right this instant!"

The Black Preacher didn't even turn around. "Be silent, woman."

He regarded the tiny, glowing embers settling across the hardwood floor. "We have business to conclude."

Mrs. Whitcomb stared at him. For ten years, she had cared for this place. She had polished the furniture, tended the grounds, dusted the exhibits, and kept the doors open, hoping that someday visitors might return.

And tonight they had. For the first time in years, her museum had been filled with voices. People had admired the paintings, asked questions, and signed her guest register and these horrible men had come in and ruined everything.

Worse, they had hurt her guests. One of them had murdered that funny little fellow with the wings.

"No." The word was barely a whisper.

The Preacher's helmet turned slightly. "What?"

Mrs. Whitcomb straightened her cardigan. "I said no."

The lights flickered. A faint vibration passed through the floorboards. The glass in the display cases began to hum. "I have spent ten years looking after this place," she said. "Ten years making certain that everything was just as it should be."

Her voice trembled. "Because I believe that if something is worth preserving, it's worth taking care of."

The Black Preacher turned to face her.
For the first time, he seemed to be paying attention.

Mrs. Whitcomb looked toward the ruined piano, the shattered wall, and the tiny embers scattered across her floor. Then she looked at Mac and Dragula. "And that includes the people who come through my doors."

The lights grew brighter.

The Black Preacher took a step toward her. "Enough."

Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head. "No, sir."

Her voice rang through the museum. "I asked you politely."

The windows began to rattle.

The Black Preacher stopped.

"I welcomed you into my home."

A brilliant white radiance began to shine through Mrs. Whitcomb's clothing. Her silver hair lifted gently, as though stirred by an invisible breeze. "And you have behaved abominably."

The Preacher raised one gloved hand.

Mrs. Whitcomb pointed toward the front door. "NOW GET OUT!"

The museum erupted in light.

It poured from Mrs. Whitcomb in a blinding wave, racing across the polished floorboards and through the walls. The Black Preacher threw up his arms.

For an instant, his black-clad figure stood silhouetted against the brilliance. Then he vanished.

The Drummer's scream became a strangled howl as the light engulfed his enormous body. The red and black smoke surrounding him flared brilliantly before disappearing along with the Rider himself.

The heavy-set Rider turned toward the light. "Huunng—"

The light swallowed him before he could finish.

Outside, the wave swept across the lawn and parking area.

Four black motorcycles stood beneath the museum's electric lights. Their headlights flared.

For a fraction of a second, the machines became transparent, their frames and engines outlined in brilliant white.

Then all four vanished. There was no explosion. No scattering of metal or shattered glass.

They were simply gone.

Several blocks away, the Violinist was advancing along the back of the Last Cathedral.

He stopped.

His helmet turned toward the distant museum. A brilliant white light erupted above the rooftops of Poplar Bluff, illuminating the ruined city.

The Rider staggered.

He looked down at his hands. Purple energy flickered across his swollen arms. Then, without warning, his entire body flashed white and vanished.

One moment he stood on the back of the Kenworth. The next, there was nothing there.

Xaden slowed down and grabbed his CB, "Drags, Mac, Sam, anyone, do you copy?"

Back at the museum, the brilliant light began to fade.

Mrs. Whitcomb stood alone in the middle of the gallery.

The radiance surrounding her diminished until only a faint glow remained. "Oh, dear," she whispered.

The walls seemed different somehow. The paint was peeling. Dust lay thick upon the furniture. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling. The beautiful hardwood floors had lost their polish.

Beyond the windows, the carefully tended lawn was overgrown with weeds. The museum was showing its age. Ten years of it.

Mrs. Whitcomb gazed at the ruined piano. "Oh, my."

Her voice was very small. "I suppose I won't be able to fix that."

She smiled sadly.

Then something caught her attention. Someone was standing near the doorway. An elderly gentleman, dressed in a neatly pressed suit, waited patiently with his hat in his hands.

Mrs. Whitcomb's face brightened. For a moment, she looked almost young again. "There you are."

She smiled at Dragula, "Be a dear and lock up when you leave, please."

Slowly, her image became more translucent and she faded away.

Outside, the illuminated OPEN sign flickered once. Then went dark.

“Oh my, why yes, I will most certainly lock up for you. And thank you.”  Drags says to the ghost of Mrs. Whitcomb.

Mrs. Whitcomb's voice spoke once more, "Oh, you're very welcome, dear. And thank you for visiting. It was so nice to have company again. Do be careful going home."

"Drags, you think Sam's ok?" Mac asks from behind his mask. "Maybe they sent him back to Hell."

Drags turned to Mac and shook his head, "I don’t know. I don’t know Sam well enough to know if he gets sent back to Hell or what happens to it. Let’s go see if there’s anything left." Drags walked over to see if there was anything of Sam left on the floor.

The spot where the Black Preacher had destroyed Sam was easy enough to find.

A scattering of tiny blackened fragments lay across the dusty hardwood floor. Most were no larger than grains of sand, although a few recognizable pieces of charred fabric remained.

There was no blood - no body.

Just a faint smell of scorched cloth and sulfur.

Among the debris lay a small, badly burned scrap of black felt that might have been part of Sam's cowboy hat.

Drags carefully gathered the remains of the cowboy hat and tried to sweep some of the grains of Sam into his hand. It only took a minute of searching to find a shoebox in a closet near the front door. He looked over at Mac, "I think Sam's gone."

The two Zippers headed outside to their rigs. Dragula could hear Xaden's voice over the radio.

Mac picked up his microphone and answered, "Copy Xaden, what's your 20?"

"On the highway near the bridge," came the reply.

That was when Mac heard something moving near the front of his truck. There was a soft THUMP.

A moment later, the small shabby stuffed rabbit that had been zip-tied to the grille of his truck walked around to the driver's side of the vehicle.

The rabbit looked down at itself. It raised one paw, turned it over and then examined the other.

Then it looked at the two truckers. "Well, ^#^#. That's inconvenient."

It flexed its stubby fingers experimentally. Then it looked up at Mac

"Got a cigar? And a light? Preferably in that order."

“Sam? Is that you in the rabbit?” Drags asked with a bewildered look on his face.

“No, I'm Peter freaking Cottontail. Hippity-hoppity, kiss my @$$."

Marrow keyed his radio. "Y'all wanna catch up, or should we circle back?"

"Circle back," Drags replied. "I think we need to regroup."

He paused. "I hope you like rabbit."

"I like any meat!" Marrow answered.

As he turned the hearse around, Marrow took another look toward the bridge. With a tow truck available, perhaps they could dredge up some of the wrecked cars below.

He keyed his radio again. "Whaddid y'all do to those freaks to zap 'em with all that light nonsense?"

Meanwhile, Xaden found a suitable place to turn the Last Cathedral around and head back toward the museum.

The trip back took but a few minutes. When the Final Ride and Last Cathedral pulled up, they discovered the museum was in a far different state than it had been in when they left.

Sam looked considerably different as well.

Mac rushed the stuffed bunny and snatched him up, lifting him high in the air,  "PETER! YOU'RE ALIVE!"

The masked Zipper brought the bunny in close and hugged it.

The stuffed rabbit squirmed and struggled, "Peter? What are talking about, you enormous ignoramus?"

Mac set him down and laughed, "Mr. Cottontail."

The bunny stared back at him with unblinking, button eyes. "Well played, sir. Well played.... now, about that cigar?"

Drags walked out into the yard and looked at Sam Cottontail, chuckling to himself. He turned away, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Is it Wabbit Season?"

He pointed an imaginary shotgun at Sam before straightening up.

"Bugs and Elmer? What, no TVs in Hell?"

The rabbit looked up at Drags. "Three channels, meathead. That's all we get in Hell. Two are televangelists, and the third is Playboy, but it's mostly static."

He paused.

"Pretty sure I saw your mom on there once, though."

Drags laughed. "Maybe. She got around."

He scooped up Sam, tossed him toward Mac, and yelled, "Hot Potato!"

Mac caught the rabbit by the ears and set him down. "Here. Found half of one under your seat. But you'll need a light."

Sam glowered at Dragula. "No respect. Next time, I'm possessing your dumbass and walking you into a wood chipper."

He looked around at the others. "Now, where's what's left of my body?"

"I saved it for you! In a shoebox," Drags replied.

He handed the box to Sam. "Mostly devil dust. And part of your hat. I liked that hat."

"Yeah. It was a good hat. Let me see what's left of my body."

Sam peered into the box. He reached in with one paw and sifted through the ashes before shrugging. "I've seen worse. Probably going to take a month to grow back."

Xaden climbed out of the Last Cathedral and stared at the little rabbit for a moment. "Ain't no way I'm looking at a talking Care Bear in real life."

"One. Bunny, not bear. Two. Don't make the mistake of thinking I care. This could be worse."

Xaden looked at him. "I assume this is not the first time?"

"Duh."

Marrow walked over to join the group. "Bunny rabbit with no meat. I can't describe my disappointment..."

He looked at Sam. "So, ya want to keep those ashes?"

"They'll grow back."

Marrow squinted, his mouth hanging open in confusion. "...Well... anyway..."

He gestured toward the direction of the bridge. "We got to a bridge while driving, and everybody knows cars with lots 'o' stuff fall off those. We could throw that tow cable down a few times and see if we catch anything."

"So now what?" Drags asked. "I wish I hadn't stopped here. Let them catch us."

"Whaddya mean, 'what now'? We finish the run. We got a delivery to make."

"Well, let's get going," Drags said.

Mac blurted out, "We going fishing or heading the F#$^ out here?"

Sam shook his head, "Yeah. Let's stop and go fishing. That way, we can save Menudo the time and effort of having to look for us when they come back."

“Time to go. Got it. Can you drive as a bunny or do we tow or trailer your car?”  Drags made a driving motion with his hands.

Sam looked back at the Trans Am and sighed. "Hide it behind the museum. We'll come back for it."

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I would also like to take a moment to take the real-life Margaret Harwell Art Museum for actually replying to what was probably the weirdest email they received in quite some time.