Barry Gavin

Diane’s chariot, a twenty-year-old hatchback with rusty wheel arches, glistened pink in the twilight.
“Meet Betsy, my bestie.”
“Shotgun!” I hustled into the passenger side as soon as she beeped it open.
Bringing up the rear, Bab Sabcot slid in, leaned between the front seats and grabbed a stack of discs. “CDs. How quaint.” He examined one with a plain white cover. “The Beat-Less? Well, that’s a rather self-defeating moniker for an aspiring troupe of bards.”
“It’s pronounced ‘beetles’,” I said, “like the insect.”
“Then why’s there an A in it?”
“It’s a pun. Remember those?”
He squinted at the offending typographical misrepresentation. “Still not getting it.”
Ah, puns: my own personal nemesis? The last one I’d championed got me fired. I rued the day that potato ever sprouted into my life.
“Still hung up on the potato?” Impotent Frustration sighed. “I bet no one even remembers. Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It was yesterday morning. That’s when Wilmots decided my services were no longer required, and why.”
“Dude, let the spud go. There are tastier treats to savour. Speaking of which …”
Diane cranked her banger into gear and mashed into traffic with the gung-ho abandon of a woman who had somewhere else to be.
“Whoa there, partner!” Bab Sabcot yelled.
“No cowboy hat; no cowboy references.” She scowled at him in the rearview. “I want this over with the minimum level of stress, nonsense or bullshit from either of you. Got it?”
We did, indeed, get it.
Dusk slowly claimed the skyline, allowing the neon of shopfronts and billboards to glare with harsher fluorescence. Street lamps, twinkling on in neat rows, formed luminous sentries to our wild ride through accumulating rush-hour traffic.
Diane flipped off another driver. “Where’s this shit-hole of yours, anyway?”
I tapped the address into Maps, then plonked her phone back into its mount on the dashboard.
She leaned in to get her bearings. “That’s at least thirty minutes away!”
“Probably ten at this speed,” Bab Sabcot called.
“How many trips will we need?”
“I can’t see it taking more than … two.” I squeaked. “Maybe three?”
She head-butted the steering wheel. “You owe me for this. Big time.”
“Dazzle her with your culinary prowess, Heston!” Flawed Logic shouted. “It’s pretty much the only thing you’re not awful at.”
I adjusted my tone for squeakage. “I do make a mean lasagne …”
“And I make a mean drunk, especially when I’m not drunk enough, so you better not leave mama thirsty.” She slammed her foot down, pinning me to the backrest. “Let’s get this clown convention over with.”
We zoomed along the street at warp speed. If she knew where her indicators were or how they worked, she showed no sign. Lights from other cars whizzed past in elongated blurs. I checked my seat belt: still fastened, but I was leaving nothing to chance. “Perhaps you could slow down, just a little?”
“Perhaps you could shut up.” She took her eyes off the road for the umpteenth time and frowned at the android in her mirror. “That severed hand was messed up.”
“Charged your phone, didn’t it?” He scooted forward. “Would you like to see it again?”
“Not a hope. And anyway, what would seeing it a second time prove?”
“It didn’t prove anything the first time. I was already an android whether you accepted it or not.”
“Here’s one for you.” She peeled her stare away and nudged me. “Get your phone out.” Then, eyes back on the android, “What’s the sixty-seventh digit of pi?”
“After the decimal? Eight.”
I checked online. “Yup.”
“Okay, try this one. How many days have passed since, eh … the fall of the Roman Empire?”
“It’s debatable if it ever fell. Changed form, certainly, but many historians agree the Roman Empire is still chugging along. It just rebranded.”
“Really? Into what?”
“The Catholic Church.”
“Very funny, asshole.”
I Googled his latest assertion. “He’s … not joking.”
Diane forced a breath past her lips. “Fine. What’s the meaning of life, the universe and everything?”
“Forty-two,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Oh.” I turned to face him. “You’ve read Hitchhiker’s Guide?”
“Hitchhiker’s What?”
“But you said forty-two …”
“Of course I did. It’s the obvious answer. Next question.”
Before I could think of one I caught sight of his brow tightening. He spun around, scanned the street behind us, then settled back into position with a worried ‘Hmmm’.
“What’s wrong?”
“No need for alarm, General. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Dusk faded into night as we hurtled towards the outskirts. Diane maintained her focus on the road for an uncharacteristically long duration. She sucked in her top lip, eyes narrowed.
“Something on your mind?”
“Just thinking.” She flicked her thumb towards the android. “He couldn’t have known the sixty-seventh digit of pi off the top of his head. How did he look it up so quickly?”
“Dunno. I guess it confirms he’s not human. That and the—”
“Yeah.” She shuddered. “The wrist thing.”
“You should see what I can do with my ass.” He stole another glance over his shoulder.
“You keep doing that,” I said. “Do you think we’re being followed?”
“I know we’re being followed. There’s traffic aplenty. The question is whether we’re being pursued.”
Without indicating, Diane zipped into another lane. Aggrieved drivers honked, which quickly deformed into fading background noise. “Well? Anyone following—sorry—pursuing us?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Good.” I sighed relief. “We’re not far from my hobbit hole. The streets should be quieter this far outside the city centre. Should make it easier to spot a tail.”
Diane veered left to obey her GPS master. “Why do you both assume anyone has the faintest interest in where we’re going?”
“Have I mentioned my nemesis?”
“Once or twice,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Well, he surely has henchmen in his employ. Goons, if you will. They’ll no doubt stop at nothing to apprehend me.”
“Either them,” I added, “or the police. There’s still the matter of yesterday’s shooting.”
“In a few hours, it’ll be the day-before-yesterday’s shooting. I’m sure the boys and girls in blue will have something more interesting to chase by then.”
“Perhaps some butterflies,” I said absently.
“Whatterflies?” Diane asked.
“You know, moulted caterpillars.”
“Whatterpillars?”
“Are you joking? They’re squirmy little maggots that transform into colourful, flying insects with beautiful, delicate wings. They flutter about all graceful and pointless.”
She afforded me a blank stare. “I’m beginning to wonder which of you is crazier.”
I again called on my trusty device, bringing up a Google image search.
Did you mean Buttered Flies? its helpful algorithm suggested.
I tried again.
Did you mean Battered Fries?
“Hmmm.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Plenty of results, but nothing specific to what I searched for. Even Wikipedia’s drawing a blank.”
“Told you,” Diane said. “Butterflies—pfft. That’s a made-up word if ever I heard one.”
Baffled, I checked the spelling, but Google was usually smart enough to account for my meaty thumbs. Other search engines also came up empty so I turned to the one in the back seat. “You know what butterflies are … right?”
“Of course. A Red Admiral once landed on my nose.” He touched his index finger to the tip, as if to confirm what he meant by ‘nose’.
“Then wha—”
“City girl?” Flawed Logic theorised.
“Haven’t you ever visited the countryside?” I asked Diane.
“Never saw the need. All that grass and crap.”
“Botanical gardens, natural history museum, the frickin’ park?”
She wrinkled her nose, sticking her tongue out at the notion.
I let out a pent-up breath. “Phew. Thought I was going mad there for a second.”
“Jury’s still out.” Diane slowed her death-wagon as we approached my former lodgings.
Devil’s Advocate refused to release the lepidopteran. “Still doesn’t explain the lack of online results.”
“People rewrite Wikipedia for fun,” I said. “Heck, I’ve done it myself. Google plays pranks from time to time, or maybe it’s a glitch. Could be a lot of things.”
“You have reached your destination,” Diane announced in a fake mechanical voice, complete with irritating accent. She yanked up the hand brake but left her seatbelt fastened. “Okay, let the box-moving commence.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ve been on my feet all day.” She tilted her seat and reclined. “I don’t usually do this but I’m playing the gender card. Chop chop, boys.”