The Farmer: XSF Getaway

Chapter 1: Introductions & Bar Regulations

Dear Mom, June 9th, 2003. 7:00 PM

I feel so stupid writing this. I mean, here I am in the middle of Alberta with nothing but a backpack of “the basics” and my robotic arm. I feel completely unplugged from the rest of the province. Hell, unplugged from the rest of the world. I don’t see what the big deal is about The Ranch, anyway. It’s just a big farm handled by one guy. Well, this whole letter to you was his idea, anyway. He told me to start at the beginning, so I might as well do that, at least.

I was what you’d call between jobs, sitting in a bar called Castillo’s in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Castillo’s was not exactly a clean tavern. It had a reputation for having the occasional independent wrestling show and, of course, the wings. Apparently, Tony Castillo had the best wings in town even if they were a heart attack waiting to happen. It was also a great place to lay low since you could hide in plain sight among all these other big muscular men in spandex who faked violence for a living. If there was a suspicious character in a ridiculous outfit, people assumed they were part of the show. And if they didn’t look altogether human? They’d say it was a make-up job or something.

It was a quiet night that night at Castillo’s. I was sipping on a Keith’s and just taking in the atmosphere without choking. There were a couple of fellow SPECs (have I ever told you what a SPEC is, Mom?) that were minding their own business. The bartender and owner, Tony, walked over to me from behind the bar. He scanned the bar while wiping a glass clean with a rag.

“Another beer?” he asked without looking at me. I had my back to him, anyway, with my elbows propped up on the bar.

“Yeah, what the hell. I got nothing to do tonight.” Tony reached into the cooler behind him and grabbed another bottle of Keith’s. I tossed a crisp blue five dollar bill onto the counter and popped the cap with my robotic hand. Now mind you, my state of the art prosthetic arm is more than a bottle opener. I guess I overdid it a bit, though. The cap flew off and pinged off the wall across the other side of the bar. Not exactly an ordinary feat. But Tony, being the cool (if greasy haired) guy that he was, stuck a toothpick in his mouth and leaned closer.

“Quite the arm you’ve got there. Thought about pitching for the major leagues?”

“Piss off.” I wasn’t in the mood for the fifth degree that night. I hastily gulped down about a third of the bottle.

“Hey, gimme attitude all you want. I just don’t want a fight to start in here.”

“Has there ever been one?”

“No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. Now about that arm.”

I whirled around on the stool and faced him nose to nose. I grabbed him by the shirt with my robotic arm. Shame he didn’t feel the cool metal of it when my fist it was pressed up under his chin. Damn leather gloves and damn having to hide this cool arm.

“They send you, huh? Keepin’ tabs on me and hoping to get me somewhere away from other SPECs, is that it?”

SPEC is an acronym for Specially Powered and Extraordinary Characters. It was the government’s “nice” way of labeling us super-powered folk. If anything, I always saw it as the same as being called mentally handicapped; that we had “special needs” in life. What’s made things worse is that the term SPEC is now considered a racial slur among many of the “non-powered”. Among many of my kind, it’s just as bad as a black person being called a “nigger” or an Oriental person being called a “gook”. Oh sure, there are some of my people that call themselves a SPEC, but they’re far and few between. The government labels us by various levels from one to ten. Although, levels nine and ten are only a theory, right now, so really the scale only goes as high as eight. A level eight SPEC is the kind that puts the whole world on alert and large scale cities are evacuated. I’d probably be considered a level one, being a low level thug with the ability to harm non-powers and be trounced by the powered. You call in a SWAT team or something and I’d probably be toast.

“Dunno what your problem is, bud,” he said as calmly as if he were tanning on a beach. “All I know is that you may have nothing to do tonight, but I wonder if you’re looking for a fight.”

“Is that an offer?” I clenched my robotic hand further, ripping part of his shirt’s collar.

“Nope, but you look like you could use some R&R, that’s all. Somewhere away from civilization, maybe?” He asked with a raised eyebrow.

Oh, so now this guy was saying I was a menace to society. He was just asking to be blasted by the laser encased inside my robotic arm. On the other hand, I had a look around the bar at the other patrons. Most of them were just the usual patrons like a group of eight loudmouth college punks or four old drunk guys in the back. But there were a few others that could possibly be fellow SPECs like me. Heroes or no heroes, there was no way I’d make it through that door alive when they could collect my head as bounty for whatever crime (or crimes) I’ve committed.

I released my grip on his shirt and we both relaxed. I sat back down on the stool and took another swig of the beer. The bastard didn’t even break a sweat.

“There’s a place out in Alberta. I can give you the address. A place called The Ranch.”

“Oh, and what? I get to ride horsies all day, paint a fence and chew on a straw under a big oak tree?” My temptation to put a robotic fist through his skull was rising.

“Look,” he sighed, “Did you ever watch a show called Neon Rider?”

I raised an eyebrow of my own this time. Whatever this guy was on, I wanted a double dose. No, I’d never heard of the damn show before.

“It’s an old show that played a few years ago in Canada. This guy would take troubled kids to this farm and…”

I rolled my eyes. “Teach them the values of being a blah, blah, blah.”

“Fine, forget what I said. Do you want a break from being hunted, or not?”

“How’d ya know I was being hunted, jackass?”

“Oh, just the constant looking over your shoulder paranoia. The hiding of whatever that arm is capable of. Sizing people up left and right; looking for a fight. Am I getting warm?”

I took one last swig of the Keith’s and slammed it back down on the counter.

“Yeah, you are, at that. So where is this place?”

I was curious more than anything else. It was probably some kind of a secret retreat that would turn into a mind control project. Damn psychics. I hear there’s a really powerful psychic in Toronto that can make people see whatever he wanted. Freaky, I know.

Tony grabbed a pad of paper from under the cash register and wrote down the address. It wasn’t in any major city, so it really was out in the middle of nowhere. I thought for a second to rip the register off of the counter and take off. Eh, but the last thing I needed was more attention. I jammed the scrap of paper into my jean pocket. If I started hitchhiking now, in the middle of the night, I’d be able to get across at least into Quebec by the next night, I figured.

“So, what do ya go by, anyway?” Castillo suddenly asked out of the blue.

“XSF Forty Four. It’s an acronym,” I scoffed, standing up.

He looked at me with a confused look I was getting pretty used to.

“Forget it. No one ever gets it. I’m working on some other names.”

He chuckled and tossed my bottle of Keith’s into a little box for recycling. “Maybe you should consider ’retired’?”

What a jackass.

*****

So I grabbed the essentials and stuck a metal thumb out onto the highway. I kept my arm concealed the same as I always managed to. Fortunately, it was built to look a little inconspicuous, so slipping on an oversized glove and wearing a jacket over it seemed to do the trick. It took me a couple of days getting from Nova Scotia to Halifax, especially since I was traveling only by thumb. I had to crash at a couple of hotels. Maybe crash isn’t the right word. Breaking into a vacant room for a night and get out before dawn would probably be a better description.

I was dropped off by some hick in a truck early in the afternoon about a week later. He stopped on the highway at the end of a long, dirt road. It led straight through a patch of forest on either side of the road. I watched the hick drive away and looked at the mailbox at the beginning of the dirt road. It only had the address but no name on the box. I fought the urge to kick it over and curse the name of Tony Castillo for suggesting this place. Still, I was there, might as well see what the hullabaloo was about.

I started walking up the dirt road when I saw something running towards me. It was a black and white dog, no higher than the top of my shins. He ran up to me, wagging his bushy tail without a care in the world. Talk about a vicious guard dog to protect the premises. He didn’t jump up at me, bark or anything. He just ran circles around me, excitedly.

I opened my jacket and popped a lung-killer in my mouth. As I’m lighting up, I checked to see if maybe this dog was more than he seemed.

“Hey pup. Take me to your leader.”

The little spaniel cocked his head to the side and darted off up the dirt road. Clever little guy. Looking ahead a bit, I could barely make out a large field and maybe a farmhouse past the trees.

When I walked past the wooded area, I could see a large man plowing a field. No, I don’t mean with some big tractor or something you’d expect most people to use today. The burly man was pulling a huge plow-like device by a chain. Normally, a device like that would not only be on wheels, but also motorized. But here was this barrel-chested guy hauling it across the field, making rows for planting.

“Good afternoon. Where ya from?” The Farmer plainly asked without a pause.

He didn’t even stop plowing to look at me. He wasn’t grunting from pulling such a huge chunk of metal across a field. Hell, I bet I couldn’t do something like that even it was on wheels or something. It’d be like towing a large truck or something.

“I never seem to stay in the same place. I get hired on a lot of jobs,” I replied with a cocky grin on my mug. I don’t think he even glanced in my direction, yet.

“Where are ya really from? Say, where were ya born?”

“Oh, uh…Missouri,” I answered honestly, much to my own surprise.

The Farmer had yet to even stop plowing. It was like I was interrupting his work or something. He kept talking to me, though, without looking up. “Not much of a Missouri accent.”

“Yeah, I only had it in grade school; dropped it as soon as I could.” Again, I answered truthfully. Not that something like that was some kind of deep secret.

He threw the chain off of his shoulder and dug a hand into his pocket, pulling out a dirty handkerchief. He rubbed some sweat off his brow with a wipe of his forearm.

“And what’s your name?” he asked while he wiped his greasy hands.

“Christian; Christian Hargon,” I replied, again, more truth. There was just something about this guy that made me feel like telling the truth. Guess there’s a first time for everything, huh Mom?

“What’s your other name, though?” he asked me with not a bit of judgmental tone in his voice.

“X-S-F Forty Four,” I said proudly.

I slipped a glove off of my right hand to show off part of my metallic arm. I opened my mouth to explain the acronym, but--

“Mm,” he nodded knowingly, “Excessive Force.” He started to walk towards the farm house up the road. “Clever”.

I stood there, totally dumbfounded. No one had been able to figure that out before. Even some of the big time crime bosses I’ve worked for have had to ask me. I’ve had to go on a long tirade about how the “x-s-f” stood for excessive and forty four stood for two fours, hence “force”. Who was this guy?

“There’s a loft in the barn with a bed and a lantern,” he shouted as he kept walking up the road. I was still dumbfounded on my feet in the same spot. “Some books, too, should you feel inclined.” He was raising his voice higher as he kept walking and yet didn’t look back once to notice I hadn’t moved.

“You’ve probably come a long way!” he shouted loudly. “You should take a load off for today! We’ll start bright and early in the morning!” I hurried after him without a single word out of my mouth. I wasn’t even sure if I should be there or not and I still don’t at this point.

The Farmer led me to a large, red barn beside the house. When we walked closer to the house, I realized that the buildings were made of good old fashioned wood. There was no plastic siding of any sort. A sculpted wood design detailed the roof of the house. Around the back of the farmhouse, there was large fenced in area and a little tiny henhouse-sized building attached to the fence. I could barely hear the clucking sound of chickens. I was starting to think that this guy might very well be for real.

When we reached the barn doors, The Farmer lifted a large wooden beam that held the doors shut. He set it aside and pulled open one of the doors. They creaked slightly and he led me in.

“No locks?” I asked.

“Why? Who steals farm stock anymore?”

I couldn’t really argue with that logic as he stepped into the barn while I stood there, dumbfounded. He was out in the middle of nowhere with no other civilization for miles. These weren’t the times for stealing farm animals anymore. Today, it was all about extortion or internet theft or whatever. Hell, even robbing banks isn’t as easy as it used to be. Most banks today are equipped with video cameras, traceable money, DNA testing and all sorts of other fun things to make us low caliber villains suffer for our trade.

The moment I stepped inside the barn to follow The Farmer, the smell was the first thing to hit me. It wasn’t nauseous or anything. I’ve smelled worse. Hell, I’ve farted worse. This was like a mix of a well-used cat litter and a bail of hay.

Inside the barn, there were three stalls along each side. On one side, there was a horse in each stall. They seemed to sleeping quietly. I quickly discovered that it’s true: horses do sleep standing up. In the three stalls on the opposite side were two cows in two of the stalls, one stall was empty. With one of the cows, whom I assumed was the mother, was a small calf, sleeping beside it. Near the back of the barn was a surprisingly basic gym. There was a single bench-press with what looked to be well over five hundred pounds on the bar. A large, dark brown heavy bag hung from a chain attached to a low ceiling area.

“There’s your spot up there,” The Farmer pointed to the loft directly above the gym area.

“Okay,” I shrugged.

“I’ll come around five or so and make sure you earn your breakfast.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Five?! In the morning?!”

“Yep,” he said as he walked back towards the doors. “I’m putting the bolt back on, but there’s another side door just over there.” He pointed at a shadowy part of the wall just past the gym equipment.

“But I always get up at nine!” I shouted, but not loud enough to startle the animals.

“Then you’d best get to sleep earlier than usual,” he said and closed the door. With a “thunk”, I could hear the beam lock back into place.

I climbed up the wooden ladder and into the alcove-like hay loft. Rather than stacks of hay in the area, it looked like The Farmer had turned it into a small, open bedroom. There was a single bed against the wall; a six shelf bookshelf with hundreds of books in all shapes and sizes. I recognized some of them from high school, like Who Has Seen the Wind, acollection of Ray Bradbury, and some books by a guy named Henry David Thoreau. One of the most prominent types of books was on Greek literature, I found. Weird how everything else seemed to fit with the whole isolation idea of The Ranch, but stuff written by old guys in togas like Plato and Homer?

There was also a small desk with a stick of blank papers and a mug full of pens and pencils. Also on the desk was a medium sized kerosene lantern that provided all of the light inside the barn. Did this guy even have electricity?!

I tossed my black trenchcoat on a hook beside the bookshelf and kicked my boots off, tossing them wherever. I sat down on the foot end of the bed and just stared at the titles on the spines of the books.

I sighed and walked over to the desk where I began writing this “diary”. On the desk was a note that The Farmer must have written. It said:

To whoever is staying on The Ranch: While you may consider this a vacation getaway, I do have some expectations of you:
-You’re to carry your own weight around here. Earn you meals.
-No violence. Period.
-Keep a diary while you’re here. There’s plenty of ink and plenty of paper. Start from the beginning. You’d be surprised how therapeutic writing can be.

He didn’t even bother signing the bottom of the letter. Well, why the hell should he? I know he’s called the frigging Farmer. I swear this guy was nuts; or hiding something from the world; or on the run from someone, just like me. There had to be more to this guy than meets the eye. No one in their right mind would seriously live like this without hiding something, would they?

That’s it, I’m going to bed.