Scanlon's Overpass

By William Higgs III

Scanlon's Overpass. It's a shitty place. But for Eugene, an ex-clown recruited by his former comedy partner into a para-governmental, supranational organization engaged in psychic warfare, the overpass is going to become something a hell of a lot weirder!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915546340

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Copyright © 2023 by William Higgs III

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by UK copyright law.

Contents

Foreword by the Author

Title Page

1. 1

2. 2

3. 3

4. 4

5. 5

6. 6

7. 7

About the Author

Other Titles from Planet Bizarro

Foreword by the Author

There was an overpass in the town I lived in after college. It was built for cars to go beneath a busy railway, which cut the town in half. When I wrote most of Scanlon’s Overpass, I lived near these tracks and drove beneath the other overpass almost every day. I won’t provide any more guidance in this foreword. This isn’t my book anymore. It’s yours! You’re the one who has to imagine this shit! Read it however you want!

Scanlon's Overpass

William Higgs III

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Planet Bizarro Press

1

The Bureau

They taught me this trick at clown college—when a joke doesn’t land right or you fuck up a magic trick, all you have to do is laugh like an idiot. It worked. Laughing like your last brain cell killed itself in a dimly lit condo forces the audience to laugh, too.

I thought it was all pretty damn funny, but no one else was laughing. They just drove by. I perched on the edge of the abutment. I looked down on the passing cars. Their passengers registered cold tinges of panic before locking their doors.

It was a real riot beneath Scanlon’s Overpass. I’d slept in better places, but the road overhead did a good enough job keeping me dry when it rained and the angle of the slope kept the worst of the night’s wind off me. With my back against the concrete, I was able to get comfortable enough to sleep. I was dozing off when I heard footsteps shuffle toward me.

Sir? What’re you doing here?

A cop stood over me. His nose was upturned. He wore shades the color of shoe polish and his thin lips, twitching like cockroach mandibles, pursed together when he talked. What an ugly son of a bitch, I thought. Or did I say it? Either way, I laughed

That wasn’t the best thing to do. He looked each way like a kid about to play in traffic, before producing a nightstick. A single blow knocked the wind from my lungs like a punctured balloon. He got in another two licks before traffic rounded the corner. Then, without so much as a word, the bastard sheathed his night stick and scampered off to a squad car.

I grabbed my ribs. He must have cracked something with the night stick. Every breath felt like my sides were splitting open.

It was dark before I could stagger to my feet. The streetlights on the sidewalk came on one by one. I scuttled down the abutment and ran ahead of them. I wanted to run in the shadows for as long as possible. At least there I couldn’t be seen. I thought I was alone when I heard a voice from the darkness behind me.

Jesus, Eugene, is that you?

Who was that? I was straining to make out the face of the person talking in the murky shadows when the streetlamp flashed on over my head. When my eyes adjusted to the blinding light, I found myself face to face with someone I never thought I’d see again.

Is that you? Roth Chapman?

In the flesh.

Roth was my comedy partner from back in the day. We were clown car drivers with Wrigley Brothers. Our routine had an Abbott and Costello thing going. I was tall and lanky. He was short and squat, with a round head always shaved to the scalp. On top of being balder than the tires of the passing cars, he didn’t have eyebrows or so much as a hint of stubble on his broad face. The only trace of hair on him, as far as I could tell, were short, porcine eyelashes, which gave him the appearance of a humanoid pig. He had a face made for the circus.

Roth was the most talented clown car driver in the industry. That’s why I was shocked when he got let go. Little did I know that he was only the first victim of the same round of layoffs that sent me packing. Granted, I had been shooting up three times a day, especially before shows. There was little mystery as to which of us deserved the sack.

You don’t look so good, Eugene.

Yeah? I tried to laugh, but found myself coughing.

You laughed it off then, too, Roth said. You should stop. Blood comes up when you do that.

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We went to a diner. I had no appetite, but ordered toast and hashbrowns. Dusty ordered a platter of bacon, eggs, and bean fritters, washing it down with cup after cup of unlimited coffee.

I appreciate the breakfast, Roth. But I really should get going.

Bullshit. The only place you’re going is a hotel. You need to sleep off whatever you're on.

Oh, naive Roth. I couldn’t sleep this off. If anything, I couldn’t sleep without it. Can’t sleep off something you need to sleep, can you? Can you, Roth?

Can you, Roth?

Excuse me?

Well, can you?

Can I what? You didn’t ask me anything.

I must have thought it.

I can’t read your mind, Eugene.

The fuck you can’t, you filthy spider.

He grinned. He did that when he was in on something that I wasn’t. What do you know that’s so damn funny? Was I the butt of some kind of prank? Was a camera crew about to come rushing from the kitchen informing me that I was on the latest episode of Cops and that my old friend had sold me out to the producers? If he wanted thirty pieces of silver so goddamn bad, there were better ways to get it than setting up a junkie at a diner. But the moment passed, the camera crew never came, and Roth finished his eighth cup of coffee. The waitress did say unlimited refills, but even I thought Roth was being excessive. It was not a good thing when I, of all people, recommended moderation. He laid a fifty dollar bill on the table, nodding with the selfsame, self-assured expression on his face.

We’d better get going, he said.

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The hotel was right beside Scanlon’s. It was a nice spot. I remembered walking by it