2004-03-01 - 2:42 p.m.

One trip to the emergency room later….

Filthy saw bones. How dare they tell the prophet of the Tao of Bruce what to do? Just because you collapse in the middle of a biker bar declaring yourself the resurrected ghost of Jesse James and demanding the Spear of Longinus they think you need to take it easy. Bunch of insurance grubbing fuckers.

Well, I suppose.

The Actionhero has FINALLY convalesced enough to return on his pilgrimage, as Action’s angels came to my sickbed and responded in tight white nurses uniforms and white stockings and garters, did much to bathe my body in honey, wine and antibiotics. Much as I hate this lack of self-reliance, of rugged individualism, the Tao does teach that when wounded, Angels of Mercy may visit him.

And lo, as Bruce of the Bat lay wounded in the dessert from the scorpion sting, did Talia of the Demon come to him and repair his spirit and body.

And thus when Bruce of the Ash was preparing for his quest did a women most beautiful give him some sugar, baby.

And so the Actionhero continues on his quest, the last prophet in this doomed world. Back to the Caddy, back to the road. Driving from hot humid days through hot humid nights and then finally coming to another road house bar. He remembers that he needs to take his medication and with a filthy snarl he pulls over and enters. Instantly he knows this is the place to be. It’s a wretched hive of scum and villainy. There’s guys and women with guns and weapons of all types, drinking and swearing. They shoot him a look and instantly they chill. The Tao of Bruce freezes them in place and chills them out. Because the Tao can give a man Zen and not just any pussy ass enlightenment religious Zen but the kind of proactive, applied Zen. Zen for motorcycle maintenance. Zen for ass whupping. That Psycho Bruce Lee Shit isn’t just a skill; it’s a fucking religion.

The Hero sits at the bar and orders booze to wash down his pills and charbroiled animal of some sort. The bar girl shoots him a look, a kind of sultry pouty he’s sure that, in conjunction with her big-breasted-going-to-chubby-fat-at-thirty-but-ever-so-fuckable-now body, knocks all the boys at Wal-Mart dead. He scowls back until she leaves. The Tao of Bruce doesn’t really preach asceticism, but it does teach taste. And right now, he’s got the taste of pork rinds, lite beer and trailer park in his mouth.

He knows when the other woman approaches—the Tao isn’t just a religion for punk ass bitches—and while he makes no move for the six gun riding on his hip, he knows that he can skin it and put a slug of lead in her eye if he has to. She’s dangerous, tight leather chaps, and black leather duster. She’s got a kind of half-wife beater, half sports bra shirt just hugging her body, and she looks like a Russ Meyers fantasy walking. He also knows that the wakazashi and twin 9s in the folds of her duster are more than just for show.

“Hey there stranger. I haven’t seen you in here.”

“Just passing through.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re a lot more dangerous than you appear?”

”It’s a Zen thing. What do you want?”

”I was wondering if you wanted to go out on a date.”

“That’s odd.”

“What? You don’t get asked out on dates before?”

”No, I don’t get asked out on dates by Vampire hunters before.”

“Well, you wanna go out on a vampire hunt date?”

What would Bruce do?

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