CASE NUMBER THIRTEEN

The Case of the Higher Archie

CHAPTER ONE

“The time has come to initiate Phase One of the Wescan Plan.”

“When do we depart?”

“In one hour.”

“What about the TPE?”

“He’s going with us.”

Lance heard the voices and though they were coming from only a few feet away they seemed to be coming through a football field-long tunnel. Something about some plan?

“Won’t he slow us down?”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take.”

“Can’t we just leave him here?”

Yes, we could, thought Cassy Castenada, and it made more sense not to take him than to bring him along but for some reason she could not quite explain, she felt it was necessary to take Lance along with them to the wilds of Western Canada.

“He’s going with us. End of discussion.”

At that point Lance tried to stand up but immediately fell back to the army style cot that was situated on the side of the cave. Cassy heard him fall and rushed to him.

“Are you ok, Lance?”

“I suppose but what’s this about a plan and why am I going with you?”

“We’re moving our operation to Western Canada. The Funies are closing in on us here.”

“But why take me?”

“Because you’ll die if we leave you here. The Funies hate TPEs.”

“I’ll tell them I’m a poor prospector down on his luck.”

“Wouldn’t work; one of our Raspberry Tarters has recently defected to the Funies and he knows who you are.”

While Lance by no means wanted to go to Western Canada, he also by no means had a desire to die so he reluctantly resigned himself to the upcoming move.

“Ok, Cassy, you’re the boss.”

“Now you’re making sense, Lance. A wheelchair will be here in a few minutes to take you to the bus.”

CHAPTER TWO

Do you ever feel like you’re close to finding something you’re looking for but for whatever reason you just can’t find it? After weeks of searching was I really close to finding Lance or was it just another mirage in the desert?

“OK, Nick, your dune buggy is ready.” It was Santa-Anta talking. I had finally convinced him that a never-ending tour of Normex Annex was no longer necessary and he had come to see the wisdom of a TPE traveling alone and had agreed to fix up an old dune buggy for my transportation.

“Thanks, S-A. How about one last cold one before I hit the road?”

I didn’t have to convince S-A on the salubrity of my suggestion and he immediately walked over to his tour bus and pulled out a couple of Old Marias from the small fridge that was a centerpiece of the large red double-decker bus.

“We’ll miss you, Senor, but we know your journey and your search must continue.”

“Thank you, S-A. It’s become obvious I’ve exhausted all possibilities in this neck of the woods.”

Just then Sage Brush walked over from the bus holding an Old Maria in his hand.

“Well, Nick, what are your hopes for the future?”

For some reason during the past few days I had been reading the works of Carlos Castenada and my answer came in the form of a Castenada quote:

Anything is one of a million paths. Therefore you must always keep in mind that a path is only a path; if you feel you should not follow, you must not stay with it under any circumstances.

Sage was himself a Castenada aficionado and replied:

All paths are the same: they lead nowhere. ... Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn't. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong; the other weakens you.

Was Sage saying I might never find Lance?

CHAPTER THREE

Lance would not allow anyone to help him get into the wheelchair and he was able to walk by himself the few steps that separated his cot from the wheelchair. Upon reaching the wheelchair, he slowly lowered himself into it and then proceeded to pilot the chair to the opening of the cave. All the Tarters except Cassy and her first lieutenant, Sammos Castenada, who was also her half-brother, were already seated in the bus. Lance then wheeled over to the bus door where he grabbed hold of the door’s side bars and pulled himself up on the steps and then slowly, almost agonizingly so, made it to the front seat directly behind the driver that had been left vacant just for him. Sammos folded the wheelchair and put it in the luggage compartment at the bottom of the bus. Sammos and Cassy climbed aboard and the bus left for Western Canada. Not too many dry eyes could be found on the bus.

After several hours of traveling on desert back roads, the bus came to a stop at the Mexico-USA border. Surprisingly, at least to Lance anyway, there were no complicating matters and the bus drove freely into Texas. He asked Cassy, “So the Tarters are on good terms with the U.S. Immigration Agency?”

“We’re all good American citizens in good standing.”

“I’m sure you are. Sometimes my thinking is warped by my theological background. I think of you as a cult and that thinking tends to prejudice you in other areas as well.”

“You mean political?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t worry. We have no desire to overthrow any government, even the American one. We just want a place of our own to grow raspberries and contemplate our navels while imbibing peyote.”

Sounded like the American dream,  Lance thought to himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

Just before I left, Sage came over to me and said cryptically:

“There are other Archies.” Editor’s Note: Sage Brush’s real first name was Archie.

“You mean Archie Manning?”

“He is a great Archie but there are even greater Archies.”

“You mean there are other Archies whose sons have won more than three Super Bowls?”

Sage arched his brow and then remarked: “Believe it or not, there are greater accomplishments than winning a Super Bowl.”

“I’m drawing a blank.”

“Nick, you’re a theological private eye. You should know that spiritual accomplishments are held in higher esteem than merely fleshly ones.”

Sage was right. I had allowed my love of pro football to cloud my judgment.

“Where are these Greater Archies?”

“They exist vertically. They ascend to just below the Third Heaven.”

“No cafeteria privileges?”

“No, but without the lower there would not be the higher.”

“So there’s a hierarchy of Higher Archies?”

“You’ve summed it up very well.”

“But what relevance does all this have with me?”

“If you could contact one of the Higher Archies, he might be able to help you find Lance.”

“But I’m spiritually incommunicado. I lost my celestial, remember?”

“There are other ways to communicate.”

I was about to reply when a host of flaming arrows started landing all around us. The Funies were attacking us with bows and arrows. I looked behind me and saw about twenty of them on a treeless and grassless hill about a quarter of a mile distant.

“Hop in!” I cried to Sage and he immediately jumped in the dune buggy. I didn’t know the old coot could move so quickly. The red double-decker bus with Santa-Anta was already speeding off in the direction away from the attackers.

Fortunately, the Funies had no visible means of mechanical transportation and we were safely out of their reach in a few minutes. About thirty minutes later I dropped Sage off at his hermitic abode. We said our goodbyes and I sped off into the desert sunset.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Tarters first stop after leaving the border crossing was Dime Box. Sammos had heard about the famous B6 Diner, Drive-In & Dive and had talked Cassy into making a stop there. Lance had one piece of advice.

“You better hide your stash of peyote. The Bellys, the proprietors of the B6 Triple D, are notorious anti-druggers.”

“What about beer?”

“You better hide that too; but for a different reason. They’re liable to drink your whole supply.”

Cassy and Sammos were appreciative of Lance’s advice and took appropriate steps. The bus then pulled into the parking lot of the B6 and the Tarters unloaded the bus so they could load up on the food. Lance stayed in the bus. He had long ago lost his appetite. When the Tarters returned, Sammos had a quizzical look on his face.

“I just don’t understand. We ate and ate and ate. We’re all so full we’re about to bust. Yet the owner, a Mr. Belly, complained that he had never seen such puny eaters."

Lance couldn’t help but laugh. The Bellys of Dime Box were probably the biggest eaters in the world; both in size and consumption. Jerry Jones of the Dallas Cowboys had tried to recruit Bellys to be on his offensive line but they had just laughed at him, saying it wouldn’t be fair of them to hit people with helmets and pads on. They preferred Scrappin’ and Cow Tossing. Jones had responded to their laughs by offering them lots of money. That didn’t work either.

Lance spoke to Sammos. “Look at the bright side. We should be able to make it to Wyoming before we have to stop for the next meal. “

Sammos tried to be cheerful but a very full stomach was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. “There may be a need for other types of stops though.”

CHAPTER SIX

The dune buggy was remarkably fast for its size and engine power. I wondered what kind of engine additive Santa-Anta might have come up with; the buggy didn’t have a speedometer but from the way the desert landscape was passing beside me, I guessed I was doing around 200 miles per hour; which was good because Santa-Anta had passed along a tip he had gotten from a wandering prospector. The old prospector had  seen another red double-decker bus (just like Santa-Anta’s) headed due north a few hours before talking to Santa-Anta. A sign on the side of the bus had a large raspberry tart painted on it. My old nemesis, Carlos Castenada, had been a raspberry tart fan and I had heard that one of his daughters had assumed leadership of the Castenada Cult when Carlos had passed over to the other side. Had the Tarters captured Lance and was he still their prisoner? It wasn’t much to go on but it was all I had.

As I was barreling along at a high, unsafe speed I thought about the Funies (short for Funiversalists) and wondered which particular group of Funies I was dealing with. Was it the Fun  Funies (Fun was short for Fundamental), or the Neo-Funies, or the Phony Funies? As Sage had explained them to me, they were all dangerous to one degree or another. The key factor was the location of a strip club. If a strip club were near, Funies from all three groups could be expected to be distracted from the task at hand. But, sad to say, there were no strip clubs in the part of Northern Mexico I now found myself in; therefore, theoretically, I was still subject to an ad hominem attack from a Funie battalion.

For some reason though that I can’t quite explain, I felt relatively safe. But how long would I feel that way? As long as I was moving at 200 miles per hour, there was probably nothing the Funies could do to me. But at some point I would need to refuel and also to sleep. At that point my vulnerability would be at its greatest. I pondered the situation and came up with the only answer that seemed viable to my continued existence as an intact and working TPE. I must find a gas station near a strip club. After filling up the buggy,  I would ask the gas station owner if I could park the buggy in one of his parking spaces and take a long nap. It would be a desperate move, but TPEs are used to living on the edge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the Tarter bus traversed the Texas countryside, Lance reflected on his many years as a theological private eye. The years had brought many changes: from a raw recruit straight out of the Pond of Fire TPE Academy to a seasoned veteran who had been busted for violating too many TPE protocols to a now chastened agent who had suffered and had survived the rigorous ‘re-edification’ of Pond of Fire Rehab. As he thought these things, Lance remembered the words of Epictetus:

Keep death and exile daily before thine eyes, with all else that men deem terrible, but more especially death. Then wilt thou never think a mean thought, nor covet anything beyond measure.

“An Old Mariachi for your thoughts.” Lance looked up to where the voice was coming from and there stood Cassy with two OMs in her hands. Lance took one and said thanks. Cassy sat down beside him.

“I was thinking about something Douglas MacArthur said: ‘Old soldiers never die. They just fade away.’ I was wondering what happened to old TPES.”

“Our medicine man is confident that you will make a full recovery.”

“He may be right but I’m not feeling it. You need to let me off in Denver.”

“Won’t the Funies find you? Isn’t Denver the site of their Rocky Mountain High headquarters?”

“It’s time I met the Funies head on.”

“We will help you.”

“No, it’s something I must do alone.”

“As you wish.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

As it may have occurred to the reader by now, it was not really feasible to maintain speeds of up to 200 miles per hour without arousing the interest of the local police forces of whose localities I was passing through. Therefore it was incumbent upon me (because speed was of the essence) that I stay off of anything resembling a real road. So it was two rut roads, dry ditches, even drier river beds, and rabbit and cow paths that became my highways of choice. So it was no coincidence that by following such unlikely bi-ways, that after 5 hours of non-stop gallivanting (the serious kind of gallivanting) I found myself in Dime Box, Texas. This should come as no surprise to the reader because as the saying goes, ‘All non-roads lead to Dime Box.’ But as it turned out, as far as finding a place to rest, Dime Box was a non-starter. The only strip club in town was Strip Bingo and most of the participants were 75 years or older; definitely not a distractible entity for Funies. There was a gas station though and I filled up the dune buggy with some non-ethanol gasoline. There was a town ordinance against using corn for anything but feeding farm animals and humans.

I was getting mighty weary. The Funies would know that too and would be planning to jump me when I could no longer keep my eyes open. The only real answer was parking beside a Shagah Strip Club & Weekly Bible Study, the Funies strip club and weekly Bible study of choice. Shagah SC & WBS were world renown for their tasteful aesthetics and corresponding profundity. No Funie alive could resist the allure of such a place. If I could arrive at one, say around 7 pm, I could be assured of a solid, unperturbed and undisturbed eight hour span of sleep.

The closest SSC & WBS that I knew of was in Dallas but I would arrive there around 1:30 in the morning which means only an hour and a half of solid shut-eye. My best bet was to motor on to Denver, which if my calculations were correct and if my buggy didn’t get any bugs, I would arrive at at exactly 7 pm on the following day.

CHAPTER NINE

The Tarter bus let Lance off on the outskirts of West Denver, exactly two blocks away from the Rocky Mountain High Shagah Strip Club & Weekly Bible Study. As Lance got off the bus he had one crutch under his left arm. He had decided that the wheelchair would not give him the mobility he might need if he came under duress. On the other hand, the crutch would not only help keep him in an upright position it could also be used as a weapon if the circumstances demanded it. But he had no intention of becoming involved in fisticuffs or physical violence of any kind. Lance was headed toward a verbal confrontation with the Shagah-Master.

The Shagah-Master was known throughout the western world as a first class debater. He had prepped many a presidential candidate in the fine and esoteric arts of debating. Lance planned to draw out the Shagah-Master by questioning his debating skills. By defeating the Shagah-Master in a one on one debate, Lance could throw the Funies into disarray. As the Art of War author had once propounded, the best way to defeat the enemy was by first cutting off the head.

Lance hobbled the two blocks to the Shagah SC & WBS, where he banged on the front door. A bouncer, a large bear of a man holding a copy of the Aztec Publishing Concern’s translation of the New Testament, opened the door.

“What can I do for you, sir? The Strip Club doesn’t open until 7 pm and it’s not the night we hold our weekly bible study.”

“I would like to see the Shagah-Master.”

“His eminence is not here at this present time.”

“When do you expect him?”

“We’ve been looking to the clouds all day but he has yet to be spotted.”

Lance immediately felt let down. He had used up almost all his reserves of energy in preparation for a head to head, brain to brain battle with the Shagah-Master and now he was at a loss in what to do next.

While Lance was lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed that a crowd of people had gathered behind the bouncer. When he looked closely at them, he was filled with something akin to fear and trepidation. He was looking straight into the angry faces of a dozen or more Funies!

CHAPTER TEN

I had made great time but when you drive across treeless plains in a 200 mile per hour dune buggy you should make great time. Luckily, Denver was on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains or the going would have been much slower. My timing had been on the money and it was approaching 6:30 pm as I approached the Rocky Mountain Shagah Strip Club & Weekly Bible Study.

As I pulled within sight of the afore-mentioned establishment, I saw what looked to be a man waving a large stick while tentatively backing up from what appeared to be a mob of assailants. As I drew closer it hit me that the lone man was Lance! I had finally found him but if I didn’t reach him in time, it would make little difference one way or the other. The crowd was obviously out for blood and under the circumstances, Lance didn’t stand a chance.

I yelled out Lance’s name as I pulled up to the curve. He looked my way and instantly recognized me. He then turned his back to the mob and start hobbling toward the buggy. The mob did the same thing, but they weren’t hobbling. All Lance had going for him was a slight head start. Things didn’t look good but after all the trouble I had gone to in looking for him I wasn’t about to give up now. I jumped out of the buggy, rushed over to Lance, and helped him to the parked vehicle. I don’t know how we did it (a little help from above?) but we managed to escape by the skin of our teeth.

EPILOG

This case ends here but in reality it doesn’t end. Nick has found Lance and fortunately Lance is still alive. But he’s in bad shape; can he survive their journey to find the Higher Archie?

As we will discover in CASE FOURTEEN: THE CASE OF THE WESCAN PLAN, there are many Archies, one existing above the other. Nick and Lance must find the particular Archie who can both heal Lance and also equip them to deal with the nefarious ramifications of the Wescan Plan. As usual, Nick will be flying by the seat of his pants.

THE END