Tent Flap
How many times had Gordon driven by that automotive wasteland? The hulking shrine to speed stood desolate for the majority of its days. Those few times when RVs painted the landscape and the reek of sweat and septic baptized thousands were nightmarish. For any who worshipped this particular god it was a time of celebration and revelry. The rest forsook the area as plague ridden.
The commute was ninety minutes each way, and Gordon was starting to wonder if a life change wasn’t overdue. The wasteland sprawled ahead of him, the stone golem guardian looming. The banners and flags flapped in the wind as life poured by on the thoroughfare. Gordon’s mouth turned down at the corners, his psyche all too aware of his namesake shared with one of this religion’s paragons.
A lone tent of blaze white tarp nestled against the base of the autodrome, razor wire garland shining along its peak. It was the flapping of one angled corner which caught Gordon’s eye. It was the ghost of a figure standing just beyond which caught his mind.
His thoughts were addled. His sleep restless. Dreams of shadowfolk shredding in the wind touched him with hooked fingers, never letting the restorative energies pool. Gordon woke surly and in a bubble-headed fugue. The astronomical pollen count didn’t help, and he partook of his medicinal regiment before piling into the car.
The tent flap was out of sight on the trip north, but he caught sight of it in the rearview mirror and his mind saw it with every ripple of fabric throughout the day.
Gordon wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but here he was taking the exit just prior to the raceway. Some part of him needed to see the tent, to ferret out what was there for his peace of mind to return. He was angry at the need, but he was scared as well, and both emotions escalated as he navigated the turns to reach the oily promised land. When the golem finally loomed into view, he was in a rage and his testicles were huddled against his pelvis with the fervor of B-movie slasher chicks.