The Trials of Peyote, Part 2 of 3: Varmint Man

After two days of driving and two nights of hard drinking, The Wagga and I crossed the Texas border in search of the mysterious shaman known only as:

HE WHO PASSES MUCH WIND

We made our way through the piney woods, across the prairies and lakes, and then into the South Texas Plains. The Nova Wagon was purring like a newly-juiced vibrator in one of those German lesbo films I used to download in my college dorm. The Wagga and I finally stopped somewhere just east of Laredo to fuel up on gas.

The gas station was run down, but had some old copies of High Society I missed. The Wagga grabbed the key to the bathroom and went back to take a shit. I picked the prized issues of porn up from the owner and asked the old guy if he knew where to find the reclusive shaman who would help us pass The Trials of Peyote.

“What’cha takin’ ‘bout young feller?” the wrinkly-faced varmint of a man said.

“My friend and I are seeking a man known only as He Who Passes Much Wind.”

Varmint Man scratched his crotch and spit some tobacco on the floor behind the counter.

“Don’t know nothing ‘bout him.”

I peered over and saw a copy of The Doors of Perception lying next to some scratched off lottery tickets. I pointed the book out to Varmint Man.

“What the fuck is a geezer like you doing with a copy of Aldous Huxley’s masterpiece?”

Varmint Man’s beady eyes squinted and focused on me. He then shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know what’cha talkin’ ‘bout. Now git the fuck out of here ‘fore I call the local authorities.”

Wagga returned from taking a shit and handed the key back to Varmint Man.

“Here you go old-mon. I wouldn’t go back there for awhile, if I were you.”

Varmint Man picked up his phone and started dialing a number. I grabbed the receiver from his hands and set it back down.

“There will be no need for that.”

I handed Varmint Man a $20 bill.

“This a bribe, son?”

“It is payment,” your humble Novanator said. “All we want is to know where to find He Who Passes Much Wind.”

“I ain’t telling no punk,” Varmint Man said. “And I certainly ain’t telling no nigger.”

The Wagga’s face turned the brightest shade of purplish-pink. He was about to jump over the counter and kill the old man. Thankfully, the door to the station opened and a voice of reason walked through.

“Be tranquil, my friends,” a proud Native American elder proclaimed as he entered the room.

We knew immediately who it was.

“He Who Passes Much Wind!” The Wagga and I exclaimed in unison.

“Yes. I found my way here after a particularly rank odor exuded from the exhaust fans. The stench permeated the air and called me to this place.”

“The crap of The Wagga!” I said.

“Nova-mon, it must’ve been all dem Jalapeño Poppers I done had in Louisiana! I had no idea that my shit had such power.”

“You’re a fucking superhero!”

“Yes, my friend. You have the ability to clear rooms and fill them at the same time,” He Who Passes Much Wind explained.

The Wagga was baffled. He looked past the beer cooler and back down the hall at the bathroom door.

“I had no idea, mon. My shit has the power to summon Indian Shamans. I wonder what else it could do? Perhaps my shit can heal the sick, levitate the dead, and eliminate acne?”

“Well one thing it better not do is clog up my cotton-pickin’ toilet, you fucking nig—”

But before Varmint Man could finish his sentence The Wagga grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him over the counter. The irate Jamaican dragged the wrinkly racist back to the bathroom.

“THAT’S RIGHT YOU DUMB CRACKER! I DONE CLOGGED YOUR TOLIET UP WITH THE SHIT OF A DARKIE! HOW YOU ENJOY EATING IT, YOU BAG OF BONES MUTHAFUCKER!? OPEN WIDE!”

He Who Passes Much Wind and I listened to The Wagga screaming at Varmint Man (while he was presumably pushing the old man’s face down into the toilet bowl). After things grew quiet I inquired about the sacred drug we sought.

“You seek enlightenment and you will find it with peyote,” He Who Passes Much Wind said.

“I think we need some,” I replied, pointing towards The Wagga as he emerged from the bathroom.

“He is alive,” my friend assured us. “I shoved my own shit into his racial epithet slurring mouth!”

I was amazed that the kid could get so angry but if I was in his position I could see myself doing the same thing. Varmint Man had it coming. I was more amazed, however, that The Wagga knew the meaning of the word “epithet.”

He Who Passes Much Wind directed us towards the door.

“Come now, we must head out into the desert. The peyote awaits… as does the answers to many questions.”

We all hopped in the Nova Wagon (The Wagga called shotgun, so He Who Passes Much Wind had to sit in the back—thus bringing upon the Jamaican a heap of bad karma). The road into the desert was ahead of us. Behind us, Varmint Man was cursing our existence and cleaning shit out of his false teeth.

The secrets of peyote were about to unfold, in a way neither The Wagga nor your humble Novanator could possibly imagine…