As vespers closed and the horns called the mullets in, Zombie stumbled drunkenly down the rocky path. ‘Auli’i and I laughed. He weaved. He stumbled. He tried to talk. To our left to sentries from the tribe of Chaos emerged from a tent. One was a man and one was a woman. We weren’t sure which.
Taz was the King of the Mullet Men. I am sure of it. He had the biggest mullet. You should’ve seen the size of the mullet on that one. That’s a man’s mullet: big, puffy. It says “I am a mullet man!”.
Briefly I considered scalping him. What a trophy his mullet would’ve made draped on the floor in front of my hearth. It’s been too long since I lay on a soft mullet-skin rug.
Taz, no doubt attracted to the activity near Zombie’s car approached. “Well met. I am TAZ of Chaos. And who might you be.”
I expected to hear Katy yell “Arrrgh, matey”, but no doubt, her awe of his mullet silenced her as much as it had us. We were speechless.
The rustling in the bushes was ‘Auli’i returning from the hillside. Taz’s senses, razor sharp, encountered a female he had not previously accosted. “I hear a girl rustling there in the bushes.”
‘Auli’i, likewise entranced with the size of his mullet said nothing. “That’s our friend Bob. He’s coming back from taking a piss.”
In a deep voice: “Hey.”
Taz, slighted by the night and his mead was stunned. His mullet had never mis-guessed the gender of another being (The mullet men’s amazing talent at determining the genders of others has evolved over centuries to help mullet men and mullet women discern which among them is male and which is female. God knows, I encountered a multitudinous number of mullet peoples who I mistakenly assumed were men, when in fact they were women. I think. Imagine having to date in that pool. Are those boobs or moobs. Is that a penis, or a severe lack of personal hygiene.)
Taz, slighted by the night and his mead, was stunned. His mullet had never mis-guessed the gender of another being: “I’m sorry good sir. It is dark, and I have been drinking.”
In a deep voice: “S’okay.”
We left him there and stumbled down the uneven lane. Zombie was drunk. He couldn’t see. That’s normal. He would literally stumble into a tree he’d been eyeing warily for a good 10 feet, or he would walk right into a tree he hadn’t seen for a good 10 feet. At one point, bent on walking over to an alleged lake, he marched off the trail and walked over every bush, shrub, and small tree in his path. ‘Auli’i and I, sighted, and not drunk held in our laughter and walked around the underbrush.
Eventually, Zombie came to the barbed wire fence he’d been approaching for a long while. He stopped. Bent really close. “Is this a fence?” Yes. It was a fence. It had been a fence for the last five minutes worth of underbrush crossing. It would be a fence later. Yes. It was a fence. And you will probably not climb it, you drunk git. Thank you. We will laugh now. So we did. “Fuckers. Why didn’t you tell me there was a fence there? I almost ran into it.” Surveying the swath of destruction Zombie’s stumble had laid across the field, this was just too rich.
Zombie, drunk, belligerent, led us back to camp. The horns had long ago called the mullets home, so the roads were quiet. We made it back to the tent. Zombie immediately fell inside asleep. We wanted one last cigarette, so we sat outside.