The Slash

Good, I'm early. Larry shut off his snowmobile and listened. A decade of selling dope on the border had taught him to be cautious. Butterflies threated to swarm his stomach but instead, goosebumps filled him, squeezing the butterflies solid in case he needed them for fuel. Why can’t I calm myself on command all the time? I guess I do work better under pressure. Last time he told himself he wouldn’t sell again, but his wife needed to pay for her last year of school. He pulled out a piece of bubble gum, chewing gum always helped him relax.



He took off his backpack and opened it. Its metal zipper sounded out of place in the deep woods. The 10 pounds of high-grade marijuana he had crammed into it that morning was still there, and still dry. It was worth three grand a pound on the street. Fucking Half price. Today only. Larry wouldn’t sell from his home or to small buyers. Word spread fast and jail was no fun. He closed the bag and shivered against the 0-degree day.

Larry squeezed the handle bars of his high-powered mountain climbing machine. Fifteen years for smuggling? They’ll have to catch me first. From his heated seat, still hidden in the silent, drift covered forest, the slash, twenty feet of clear cut marking the border between the US and Canada, looked empty. Nothing but pine trees and mountains.

Larry’s head swiveled toward a twig snap. The local heat had a way of showing up when least expected. Deep breaths and remember the escape. If the law showed up, he planned to throw the dank, expensive cannabis straight at them and abscond hell bent downhill into the frozen cedar swamp below. They wouldn’t follow him through that horrible, tangled shit. Their sleds were tanks they needed to keep in one piece. Plus, they would have the ganja, and some nice trophy photos.



The woods settled. I hope they send someone that can ride this time. The last gang member had never ridden anything but his Harley. They spent hours digging his sled out of a ten-foot drift. Larry’s wife would be pissed if he made her worry again. Last year, after a sale on Christmas Eve, his sled broke down ten miles from cell coverage. When he got home Christmas night, she promised him that if he scared her like that again she would take the kids and leave.

An hour later, the sharp sound of snowmobiles ricocheted between the trees. Wow, just about on time. He worked his toes inside heavy leather boots. He stood for the first time since arriving, took off his green wool hat and stuffed it into his pocket.

The first machine launched into view. Three more sleds followed and sped up the slash. Four? What the fuck! Aw shit! Larry wouldn’t have to dig anyone out, but he was expecting a lone rider. Knots filled his throat. Why the hell do I always do this alone, with no gun? Just chew the gum slowly, don’t bite your tongue, breath.



The gang wouldn’t cross the border, so Larry had to. They parked in Canada. Things should be safer over there, from law enforcement anyway. Larry’s three-cylinder motor roared. No way I’m getting off this thing now, it’s my only defense. He nailed the gas and the paddle track flung twenty-foot rooster-tails of snow. He was a loud, yellow blur on the slash for a few seconds. The nibble machine put him alongside them in under a minute.



Their machines formed a half-circle, the leader had turned onto his own backtrack, ready to expedite their departure if needed. Larry’s butterflies threatened to take off again but the gravity of selling pot to outlaw a motorcycle gang, alone, in the middle of nowhere, kept them grounded. Later, he would let them fly, now he needed to be aware and fast. Larry shut off his sled next to the leader.



“Nice day today.” Larry said. He counted hands, all empty for now.

“Yea, it’s nice up here, tough ride though. Are you Larry?” He asked, shifting the bulge under his black coat backward on his hip.



“Yea, that’s me,” Larry answered, “Was it all clear on your way in, no cops?” The other three had gotten off their sleds. Under a half-open jacket Larry could see a shoulder holster. I don't even have a knife; I just need to get the money and get out of here.

“Not since we got on the slash, we’ve been breaking trail for miles. I think it's just us up here. Do you have the pot?” he asked.



“I do.” Larry said. He passed him the back pack. The weed was white widow and its sweet, earthly smell drifted out when he opened it.



“Looks good, is it hydro?” He asked. He took off a waist pack and tossed it. The flag pattern on the bag reminded Larry of his service. It felt solid and two stacks of cash stretched its seams. Larry concentrated on chewing gum and not speaking. His voice would waiver, not exactly the ice-water veined smuggler image he wanted to maintain. I never get used to stacks of cash, or any of this for that matter. Chew the gum, get home.

“I don’t know,” Larry lied. “But it will get you higher than a cat in a dog kennel after a couple tokes. You’ll be able to double your investment if you want.” He stuffed the money back and buckled it on his parka. “I’m all set, you?”

“We’re good brother,” he winked, “Keep on keeping on.” Their snow machines started and they drove away. Their revving engines reverberated with the tingles racing under his skin. He stayed put and watched them go. If there’s any law enforcement around, those clowns will draw them off.



Their two-stroke screams faded and Larry released a breath he swore he had been holding the whole time. The trip to the pokey was riding with them now, and he could go home. His butterflies fluttered to a landing and melted into a warm glow that ballooned everywhere. $15,000 wasn’t worth his freedom, but the buzz from earning it this way had him hooked.

The roar of liquid cooled horses shook the surrounding snow. Larry whipped his ride around and headed for freedom. Almost safe, just cross the border and head home. Larry glided back into his country and intersected a groomed trail. The wind had dumped fresh snow. Larry poured on the throttle and his machine launched up a big drift. A smile spread on his face. Lillian will be so happy! Wait till she hears her degree is paid for, in full! Larry lined up another drift and buried the needle.

The sled caught air at eighty. A rough, moss covered pine tree filled the world in front of the windshield. His wife, his kids and his family flashed in front of his eyes. The steel skis twisted and branches snapped; the fiberglass hood shattered. Larry’s skull hit the tree and his body piled onto the icy snow. Silence filled the slash.