We ain’t really learned nothing about who these boys were ‘til Uncle Dave and I broke out the Ouija board one night in the cemetery. It was a Friday, after the basketball finished up. Mancos done whipped our ass real good, but that was to be expected, what with that big Samoan kid they had. Boy dunked on us twice in the first half and we ain’t never seen a kid who could do that kinda shit. Good thing this was way off-season. Boys were all just warming up for camp up at Mesa State. Uncle Dave and I ducked out third quarter and hopped in the Cherry Popper, hauled ass out past Deckerville and started asking questions with that planchette he’d cut in the shop and a hand drawn talking board. Next thing you know these three sumbitches show back up, just how I remembered ‘em after that jimson weed incident…comin’ outta the dirt and tumbling toward us like a trio of Dorfer-Denton-cousin-on-cousin offspring. All lanky and crippled-like. But they weren’t no Dorfers. Or Dentons. They was some kinda dirt ghosts comin’ to tell us what’s what.
They started this chant, sounding kinda backwards but the words were still coming out in the right direction, going, “Intooooo. Pfffffalling. Ssssssskyah.” Uncle Dave and I were both pretty twisted on Robitussin and it sounded, like…I guess menacing is the only proper word for it. This was the first time ‘ol Dave had ever seen ‘em and he was pretty much hypnotized. That planchette was zippin’ round the board spelling out, “B-O-B-O-K-B-O-B-O-K-B-O-B-O-K”, over and over again while these three mudpuppets kept chanting and shuddering like they was bein’ electrocuted.
Then they went quiet and the planchette stopped moving. One of ‘em offered up a burlap sack just like the first time. Uncle Dave took it, and back into the dirt they went, making a sound kinda like one of those rain sticks them hippies make outta dried cacti.
Dave got his shit together and we opened that bag to find a single sheet of paper; A flier for a show the next night clear on the other side of the state. The band was Naughty Monkey. The place was called The Slaughterhouse. And it was in Pueblo. We got back in the Cherry Popper and headed east, fast as hell to make sure we’d get there in time.