Wonkette Presents THE SPLIT: Chapter Thirty-Five

In which our heroine does a bit of tactical shooting.

Soon they were seeing video billboards for Wonders of the Old South: Beautiful people dancing under flashing lights, surrounded by walls displaying old-fashioned stuff like plows and sickles! Chaotic Civil War battle re-enactment, with drunken men in crude Johnny Reb gray and Yankee blue uniforms, wielding rifles and charging each other and falling down as women and children on the sidelines cheered! Elaborate wedding scenes, the brides in big poofy dresses like Scarlett O’Hara and the grooms in Rhett Butler waistcoats and vests, with a million bridesmaids and a preacher all in black! Happy families sitting at picnic tables, waving hot dogs or hamburgers in one hand and Confederate — not CCSA — flags with the other!

 Lorinda, who had never heard of the place, was baffled. “This is … what? An enclave?”

“Fuck, no. It’s an amusement park.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard me,” Stimpy said. “It’s a place where people go to amuse themselves.”

“By celebrating a war?”

“That they lost. Yes.” He laughed. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but it takes all kinds.”

The final billboard in the series was nothing but a huge arrow pointing right, flashing the words: TURN HERE FOR WONDERS OF THE OLD SOUTH.

Lorinda turned onto a narrow, winding driveway. She drove slowly, not sure what to expect. The first amusement they encountered was, according to its sign, the CIVIL WAR FIELD OF GLORY. The field of glory was a rectangle of dirt the size of a football gridiron. From a public address speaker mounted high on a pole came the announcement, “And now … The Battle of Manassas.” A few dozen actors, some in blue uniforms, some in gray, clumsily stuffed their muzzleloaders, yelled a lot and shook their fists in righteous fury, then shot blanks at each other, and either spouted copious quantities of stage blood and tumbled theatrically to the ground (the blues) or performed elaborate victory dances and war whoops (the grays). A small, motley gaggle of spectators standing on the sidelines intermittently cheered (for the good grays) and booed (the bad blues) while gobbling unidentifiable comestibles out of paper bags.

Next they came to a big, festive tent behind a SQUARE DANCING sign. Fiddle music blasted, occasionally overwhelmed by a nasal caller announcing dance moves that sounded like, “HONNAYA PA-NAH, HONNAYA-KAH-NAH, ALAMMA LET LET LET…”  The dance floor was empty.

“That’s kind of sad,” Lorinda said.

“You want to do some square dancing?”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

A little way down the road was what appeared to be an oversized antebellum mansion. As they drew closer they realized it was in fact a whitewashed cinderblock edifice masquerading as a bloated house and festooned with ersatz antebellum signifiers. Its sign said BLUNDERBUSS RESTAURANT AND COCKTAI LOUNGE. A smaller fake-old-timey building next door identified itself as PLANTATION SPA AND HAIR-NAIL SALON.

“That’s where we’re going,” Stimpy said.

“To the spa? Great! I could use —”

“No. Over there.” He pointed to a sprawling single-story building that might at one time have been a warehouse or server farm. A billboard on the roof identified it as the DISCOTHEQUE OF THE OLD SOUTH, the bold words surrounded by a border of dancing Confederate flags and blinking musical notes. To Lorinda’s surprise, the vast parking lot was at least a third full.

“What are all these people doing here in the middle of the day? Free bar?” Her question was quickly answered by a sign atop the entrance kiosk: 75% OFF ADMISSION IF YOU’RE UNEMPLOYED. PRESENT UNEMPLOYMENT CARD IN SLOT.

“I’m unemployed, I guess,” Lorinda said, stopping at the kiosk. “But I didn’t get my card yet.”

“You forgot to ask that crazy woman for one,” Stimpy said, handing her his money card.

“Janelle Stark. Yeah, why didn’t I think of that instead of hitting her with my gun?” She paid and continued into the parking lot. “And why are we here?” she asked.

“For one thing, no cameras. We hacked them a couple of years ago and they never got it together to fix them. And no one’s going to see us meet our contacts.” He read the latest text on his device. “See how close you can get to that corner of the building.”

Lorinda found a spot and parked the Zhiguli. She opened the trunk while Stimpy gathered up the remaining weapons from the back-seat floor and brought them around. Hanging onto the two machine guns they had had with them on the Rapture Ride, he eased the others into the trunk and slammed the lid.

Lorinda scowled at the rifles Stimpy was holding. “I’m sick of carrying that big thing. I’ve got this,” she said, slipping her hand into her bag and bringing out the pink Lady SIG Sauer.

“In case you have to shoot a mosquito?”

“No, but —”

His tone turned apologetic. “We don’t want to attract attention.” He held out her rifle. “Consider this part of your costume.”

Lorinda sighed, then dropped her little gun back in her bag and took the rifle he was offering. Grumpily, she slung it over her shoulder, then tapped the key fob to lock the car, and passed it to Stimpy.

“You promise me there are no cameras?” she asked as they made their way to the nearest entrance.

“That’s what my people tell me. And my people know their shit.”

Inside it was vast and dark, with glowing signs pointing the way to four separate dance halls: GRAND OLE OPRY, LINE DANCE COUNTRY, METAL MANIA, and PSYCHEDELIA. A confusion of bass notes pulsing behind the walls caused Lorinda’s stomach to clench. Stimpy guided her to Psychedelia.

The room was cavernous. The music — wailing fuzztone guitars, pounding bass and drums — was overwhelming. Illumination was provided by ultraviolet lights. The décor consisted of blacklight-reactive murals, stickers of stars and planets, and random slashes of orange, yellow, and red paint. A blue pencil-beam — not blacklight — was aimed at a huge, mirrored, slowly rotating disco ball hanging from the middle of the high ceiling.

Lorinda, who had never seen anything like it (not counting the small glitter-balls in the rec room of Pastor Doug’s Church), stopped and stared at that massive, mirrored orb. Stimpy took her by the arm and steered her across the floor between dancing couples, many wearing glow-in-the-dark clothes, hats, dangly accessories, and long-hair “hippie” wigs. When they were under the disco ball she shook free of his grip, put her arms around him, and tried to get him dancing. He made a couple of perfunctory moves while attempting to keep their bulky guns from colliding, but his focus was on the far side of the room, and he continued gliding in that direction, taking her with him.

Then he spotted what he was looking for and changed direction by a few degrees. In a moment he and Lorinda were dancing next to, and practically rubbing shoulders with, a couple who had clearly spent some time preparing themselves for Psychedelia. The man, who was a head shorter than Stimpy, wore an obviously fake beard, a blond long-hair wig, a shirt covered with glowing palm trees, and radiant orange shorts. The woman, in a zigzag-striped shirt-dress, had UV-sensitive lightning bolts and swirly lines on her face that made it impossible for Lorinda to know what she actually looked like.

“What’s your name again?” Stimpy asked Lorinda.

“I can’t hear you.”

He leaned down until his mouth was practically in her ear. “Your name. I forget.”

She turned his head sideways and shouted into his ear, “Randi Something! Howling?” She brightened. “Howland!” She slapped his arm in triumph.

He turned her toward the other couple, who were standing and waiting patiently. “Randi, meet Sluggo and Nancy.”

The new people didn’t catch the name, but they gave her big smiles anyway. As Stimpy and Sluggo did an elaborate fist-bump-handshake thing, Lorinda saw Sluggo discreetly slip a small black object to Stimpy, then hug him and say a few words into his ear. Then Stimpy gave Nancy a quick kiss on the cheek. She and Sluggo resumed their dancing as Stimpy took Lorinda in his arms and started shimmying her toward a door with a glowing exit sign over it.

They were halfway there when she stopped and shouted in his ear, “You dance like an old fogey.”

“Thank you.”

Lorinda was setting up to twirl him around when the pop of a gunshot cut through the throbbing music. The couples surrounding them either dove for the floor, turned toward the exit and prepared to flee, or brandished their own guns. One or two fired in the direction from which they thought the original shot had come—but, between the pounding din and the room’s acoustics, it was impossible to know

Then panic swept the room. Many more shots were fired—from different positions, toward different targets. Everyone who thought they were part of the solution became, to someone else, the problem. Stimpy tried to pull Lorinda toward the exit, but by then the rush in that direction had already become a pileup: Far more people were trying to get through the door than could fit. A man next to them started screaming and waving his gun around; then suddenly there was blood gushing from the bullet hole in his neck as he collapsed at their feet.

Somehow, Lorinda was angered rather than distressed by this grisly chaos. As she coolly unshouldered her weapon and flipped the safety off, Stimpy’s eyes went wide. “No!” he yelled. But she had already aimed the gun toward the center of the ceiling. A short, deafening burst from her automatic sent dozens of bullets streaming at the chain holding up the disco ball. Understanding that there was no way to hit it if she simply aimed at it — she knew she wasn’t that good — Lorinda waggled the gun back and forth, as though watering a garden with a hose, passing across the chain holding the disco ball just enough to ensure that at least some of the deadly little missiles would find and shred their target.

The recoil launched her backward, and Stimpy grabbed her around the waist to hold her steady. The deafening gunfire plus the percussive clatter of the bullets hitting the ceiling, the chain, and whatever else was in Lorinda’s range caused a hush to fall over the crowd, accompanied by a de facto cease-fire. Suddenly the disco ball slipped its moorings and commenced its stately descent. Those directly under it were instantly screeching and scrambling. Before the crashing sphere ignited another phase of panicky gunplay, Lorinda and Stimpy managed — using their weapons as bludgeons when necessary, stepping over quivering or, in three cases, permanently stationary bodies — to hack their way to the exit.

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PREVIOUSLY in THE SPLIT!

Chapter One. In which we meet our heroine and her dainty little gun.

Chapter Two. In which Lorinda demonstrates her bartending virtuosity.

Chapter Three. In which our heroine receives a promotion and prepares to celebrate.

Chapter Four. In which our heroine proves herself an immoral citizen of the CCSA.

Chapter Five. In which our heroine goes to church.

Chapter Six. In which Lorinda contemplates her future, ignores Pastor Doug, and gets something unexpected from Emmie.

Chapter Seven. In which Lorinda learns something that threatens her big dream.

Chapter Eight. In which our heroine freaks out.

Chapter Nine. In which our heroine says the forbidden word as an unwelcome visitor arrives.

Chapter Ten. In which two unpleasant men perturb our heroine.

Chapter Eleven. In which our heroine seems to have found a solution to her problem.

Chapter Twelve. In which that black truck follows our heroine all the way to Austin.

Chapter Thirteen. In which Lorinda lashes out.

Chapter Fourteen. In which our heroine gets a taste of life in the big city.

Chapter Fifteen. In which our heroine meets a fellow bartender and has a drink.

Chapter Sixteen. In which Lorinda once again takes a swing with her little pink gun.

Chapter Seventeen. In which our heroine prepares to escape.

Chapter Eighteen. In which our heroine gets in a truck with a couple of slightly scary strangers.

Chapter Nineteen. In which our heroine learns that she’s got a long way to go.

Chapter Twenty. In which our heroine spends a night in a gas station.

Chapter Twenty-One. In which our heroine learns about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Two. In which our heroine learns way too much about the enclaves of the CCSA.

Chapter Twenty-Three. In which our heroine experiences liberty run amok.

Chapter Twenty-Four. In which our heroine’s escape is disastrously derailed.

Chapter Twenty-Five. In which our heroine finds herself back at the gas station.

Chapter Twenty-Six. In which Stimpy, on the road to Revelation, reveals Ren’s real name.

Chapter Twenty-Seven. In which our heroine manages not to crash the car as she learns more about CCSA enclaves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight. In which Lorinda and Stimpy enter Revelation.

Chapter Twenty-Nine. In which our heroine has pizza for the first time and readies herself to be an old fogie.

Chapter Thirty. In which our heroine finally gets to experience the Rapture Ride.

Chapter Thirty-One. In which our heroine’s long-awaited Rapture Ride experience is interrupted by some unwelcome visitors.

Chapter Thirty-Two. In which our heroine triggers the Rapture…or something.

Chapter Thirty-Three. In which Lorinda and Stimpy slip out of Revelation under cover of pandemonium.

Chapter Thirty-Four. In which our heroine trades arms for freedom.

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