The all-terrain vehicle slowed to a stop, and a wake of dust overtook it. For a moment, in the light of late afternoon, he couldn’t see the driver or drivers of the trespassing vehicle. A gust of dry desert air blew through, however, from the west, and when it had done so, Bix Rafferty saw at last a young sunglasses-wearing American Indian man, with long black locks, combed back in a kind of stylized version of rockabilly idol, nattering like a madman into one of those things implanted into his wrist. What would bring that here? People came this way sometimes by accident, but the array of survivalist signage along the primitive road that led to the Forsaken Mining Corp. usually created in them the strong desire to reverse direction.
Bix took a good long pull on some non-drowsy formula, and then he headed down the hillock and into the wash, jogging as best he could, with his thumb on the safety of his old-fashioned firearm. If the car stayed where it was, he would come out in the wash directly adjacent, by the gas tank, maybe, preserving the necessary element of surprise. The all-terrain vehicle idled loudly. Its vulgarity would cloak him. It was a method of transport designed to show off, just before it flipped over and crushed you and your passengers. That’s why they didn’t make them anymore.
With the heaving respirations of a man who would not be bothered with ventilation systems in his place of employment, Rafferty set upon the sunglasses-wearing American Indian man, shouting at him an inquiry into his purpose. Unfortunately, with the din of the vehicle, and his anxious intention to communicate his needs to a caller on his personal wrist assistant, the interloper didn’t hear the initial threatening articulations of Bix Rafferty, who therefore redoubled his efforts:
“I’m intending to give you, young man, a brief lecture on the idea of possession, because what I am thinking is that you and I have different ideas of possession, and in particular, young man, what I want to tell you about is the idea of possession of the land, good land or fallow land, this is neither here nor there; what I want to say is that possession is central to what we have going on right here, in this region, good or ill, and possession confers certain kinds of rights and expectations upon him who is doing the possessing, because him who possesses nothing has no dignity and no livelihood, because when you come driving in here, like you are the gypsy, the tinker, the vagabond, who doesn’t understand one thing about how we have made this desert here into a land of possession, well, then that’s a conflict in need of resolution, because look at how things kind of got all used up when civilization wasn’t based on a possession type of a footing; there just weren’t any operating profits, and there was chaos, and the buffaloes all got made into tents and hamburgers, and water resources got all salinated. If you think about philosophy, you only have to read a little bit to see that what a man possesses is the very portrait of himself, and he has got to want to possess more to see the shadow of himself, and what you are doing, right now, young man, is you are coming here and throwing your shadow on what I possess, and what I possess, in case it wasn’t obvious with all the signs and whatnot, is the Forsaken Mining Corp., and in this operation there are no heirs and no signatories, just me here, and what I mean to do is wherever possible to assert my one and only claim to mine this land, as conferred on me by the federal government, and thereby to deplete this land of its gold, and to claim ownership of whatever I find, and I further assert my one and only right of quiet enjoyment of this land that I possess, in the absence of other persons—”
At some point the fellow with the all-terrain vehicle, who was probably, it seemed to Rafferty, just a small-business owner from Rio Blanco, an importer and exporter, who was going to meet a friend in one of the washes, where they would in concert attempt to break some kind of land-speed record, this fellow turned and saw that there was, in fact, a firearm directed at him. Now, he immediately, as if he knew of these things only from popular entertainments, raised up his hands, and a whole history of legal interactions between persons was summoned in this performance of meanings. Because he was too stunned and surprised to remain completely silent, the fellow in the automobile pleaded, “Can you please not point that at me? I’m happy to turn my car around right now and go back the way I came, honest to God.”
To which Rafferty said, “You certainly can. You certainly can go back the way you came, back through the twists and turns that brought you to this place, and you can make sure that you never fall into this particular rut of bad ideas ever again. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say. You’re going to forget I was ever here. I promise.”
“I certainly am, but before I do I was going to do you the favor of employing your name when I explained to you that I was about to fire from this foreign-made and damned reliable firearm over the hood of your vehicle a symbolic shot, a shot designed to avoid going through any kind of soft tissue, so that you would know that the law permits me to fire upon persons who I believe are a threat to my property. However, I’d be just as happy to omit your name if that’s your wish.”
Whereupon Bix Rafferty, who was not a tremendously good shot, assumed a stance that he had been told to use by the uncle who raised him up and kicked his ass from one desert town to the next during a period of high interest rates and joblessness. This stance did not ennoble Bix Rafferty, but it did help him remain calm as he pushed the safety into the off position, squeezed the trigger, heard the satisfying report, and felt the kick at virtually the same instant. He watched a pair of hawks startle from the cacti, and then he reached into his pocket for another pull on the phial of non-drowsy formula. The taillights of the all-terrain vehicle followed the hawks out. All in all, it was not a profitable day, really, but it was a good day.
Vienna Roberts had obtained the Pulverizer in the course of her first big modeling job. She’d failed to consult her parents about the job, as she failed to consult them about many other things, though this was perhaps less from a feeling that they would not have consented than it was from a feeling that her parents were not to be disturbed because they were changing the world. Changing the world was more difficult even than assembling, for example, one of those inexpensive home media cabinets with the dowels and special little screwdriver thingies. The specifics of her modeling assignment, which she failed to disclose, were also a tiny bit embarrassing. Well, the sponsor of the photo shoot was the Navajo Corporation, a wholly owned subsidiary of Indigenous Ventures, LLC, and in the photo shoot she was to flirt up another girl while rolling some dice on a felted table. They wore whiteface, they were wanton, young, especially pale, and given to reckless wagers, the better to suggest that going to indigenously owned gambling casinos led to casual sex with underage girls who had been vaccinated for human papillomavirus and other venereal contagions.
Vienna, as in all modeling narratives, had been discovered at a mostly deserted leather goods store down by the bus station. Across the street from the guitar store. Her parents did know this: she was working at the leather goods store, part-time after school. She didn’t know how many guys had come into the store saying, “Would you consider letting me take your picture?” It seemed to Vienna that in some dialect, the dialect of vulgarians, these words must have meant: “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Most of these countless guys had flecks of saliva at the corners of their mouths, or they smelled like the interior of a pizzeria. In times of worldwide sexual slavery, you could make big money exploiting yourself with these types of men. You could also wind up hacked to pieces live on the web.