With the promise of mild weather (a freakish concept for DC in July), we succumbed to the lure of the road: To go someplace weird and remote, dig it briefly, and run back to the safety of home.
Our destination was due west. Friends from Arizona were staying at a timeshare in the far hills of Virginia, in a townhouse overlooking the Shenandoah mountains. We looked at the map and discovered we were within an eagle’s pee of the West Virginia border.
The scenery was marvelous, the air was clean and breezy, and the hills were dotted with enough houses to keep us wondering just where the hell do these people WORK!?!?? They can’t all be farmers or retired lobbyists.
We couldn’t stay long; this was just a brief diversion. But it was on our return trip that we spotted another, stranger diversion...
The Wetlands Trading Company reeked of craziness when we zoomed by on the twisted mountain road... Hell’s donkeys! We need to go back there!
The grounds were scattered with various lawn-and-garden oddities like stone angel statues, sun-faces, and water-nymph fountains dribbling water from all manner of orifices. But it was the large tiki-head which spoke to me deeply, on some primal level that should never be let loose upon the earth.
We are, all of us, feral beasts if you dig deep enough.
This tiki must’ve weighed about 130 pounds, made of solid, exterior-grade cement, and sporting a gaping mouth and typically long, insane features. Dammit, that thing needs to be in our front yard. I figured the neighbors would either dig it, or they’d form an angry, torch-wielding mob and run us out of town.
Somehow, we heaved the beast in the back seat and drove it home, not knowing how we’d get it out of the car again.
It’s all a blur at this point, but praise Allah for nice neighbors. We must’ve been quite a sight: two weakling whiteys, wrestling with this ungodly heavy piece of concrete. The tiki was still wrapped in its protective bedsheet when our neighbor heroes dashed across the street and hauled it up for us. I removed the sheet and with some effort, turned the thing around to gape its monstrous teeth at the street. Those poor guys had no idea they were hauling a demon for us.
So now the clock is ticking: I figure if the neighbors go all angry-mob on us, it's got to happen within the next 72 hours. If we make it past that point, we're good.
Oh yes, his name is Denny. Obviously.