Smell of Stabbing.

"One mustn't get stuck in routine."
I'm kicking myself. If I hadn't adhered to that mantra then, I might not have this killer headache now.

It all started when Skrimpf got it in his head to take "the short trip" to the native reservation for what he called "cheap tobacco."

Let's take a second to examine Skrimpf as I understand him. In his mind, adjectives applying to people are a commodity. I'm almost positive he thinks he can buy that commodity with seashells.
The reason I say that, is he's got a display of bowls set up in his bedroom. I saw them while I was putting those child-proof plugs in his electrical outlets. The bowls are labelled with what you or I may deem to be offensive discriminatory words; the N-word, the C-word, Justin Beiber... He places the shells in whatever one suits his mood and suddenly he thinks he owns those attributes.

Back to the story.

I awoke to Skrimpf tanning his forearms under the oven broiler. On this day he was going to be a particularly blonde Taylor Lautner armed with a fake status card and a corn cob pipe. His problem: he had no tobacco. Disgusted, I dismissed him with a wave of my hand and he went trooping gayly towards the door.

"Grack!"

In a fury I discovered one end of a leash around my neck, the other was in his hand. Clearly this was a day Skrimpf would need supervision.

Don't get the wrong idea. I don't get paid to watch him. He's a good guy, and a close friend. Things have just been a little strained since the fire, and we're adjusting.

I like to have fun. I like to get out of the house. This situation though doesn't fit my standard definition of fun.

The closest native reservation to our place is about 10 minutes away. I'm pretty sure the casino there even sends a bus around for patrons. Not good enough for Skrimpf. He wanted the "genuine experience" and was going to get his tobacco cheap. I told him I don't even know that there's a price difference. Maybe the taxes might be adjusted or something, with valid status. How would I know? Well he insisted we start driving, and he'd give directions.

Three hours later we'd driven through the Rocky Mountains, through the foothills, and now everything had become flat. I watched the single yellow line down the middle of the highway break. Space. Dash. Space. Dash. Space. Dash. Annoying. I became dazed watching the fence posts drift by. Skrimpf burst out a stuttering scream! Gritting my teeth I tried to focus and react, locking the brakes and skidding across the rumble strip and coming to a rest two feet into the gravel along the road. The tumbleweed continued its lazy journey, unconcerned that, if not for a recent bathroom break, my upholstery might need to be replaced.

Skrimpf stepped out of the car, and began frolicking down a narrow country road I hadn't seen. I spied a street marker crooked and wind-worn.

Shell Road. Weird.

Okay. I took my time to catch my breath, to stop and listen to the wind. I tried to compute how much fuel this trip might cost me. The V-6 Celica isn't exactly a VW. Numbers. Mechanical stuff. Bleh.

Oh shit, Skrimpf!

I blasted down the road, noticed the dust billowing out behind me for a mile when I saw it: a single-pump run down fuel station with an old indian chief painted on the side, head dress peeling and fading revealing the aged lumber behind. Is this spring time in Alberta?

I pulled up to the joint and hopped out, finding Skrimpf pawing through some magazines, key chains, beef jerky. I became bored. He finally came around to the tobacco that he *just had to have* while I absently started mumbling the vehicles I could see outside. Dodge Spirit, Nissan Quest. A little cliche for the setting, maybe. Skrimpf gave me a funny smirk and said, "Sure, yeah."

Time to go home.

I'm not sure what happened. Maybe one of my exhaust flange bolts broke. My memory of the drive back is a little hazy at best. I also don't think what Skrimpf bought was tobacco.

What I do know, is when I got up and got out my cereal, my bowl was labelled "Leprechaun," and it was full of sea-shells.