Searching for the Loch Ness Monster

IV - Viking Moron

IV - Viking Moron

The redheaded driver stays frozen in his seat while I stare at the buff man who is cracking his knuckles loudly.

You can literally hear every step he takes. My back makes a loud snapping sound as I lean forward towards the driver’s seat. The driver flinches at the sound and turns around to look at me.

“We should get away from here,” I suggest in a whisper to the driver.

He looks really scared. “Yes,” he agrees in a shaky voice.

“Open up!” The man yells, knocking on the driver’s window with the hand that is not occupied by the dangerous weapon.

The driver starts to shake in fear. “It was an accident, I swear,” he says softly.

“I’m going to warn you once again, open the door or you’ll never live to see another day!” The man threatens as he lifts his clenched fist.

I have to do something to distract the angry Scot with the rifle, so that the driver and me can escape towards the woods. I look around to see the odd-looking object again.

Now I can see it clearly; it is a musical instrument.

To be precise, it’s a bagpipe.               

An idiotic idea pops in my head which makes me smile goofily.

I grab the bagpipe and silently scoot over to the other side of the door while the Scotsman keeps yelling at the driver to unlock the door. My sweaty hands nearly drop the bagpipe when I attempt to get out of the car without getting noticed.

Once I’m out, I crawl my way to the back of the car.

Hopefully, the driver won’t do something stupid to ruin our plans to escape. I breathe in to calm myself down. A part of me asks me to just leave the guy behind. The other, kinder side of me thinks that I should do this to repay his debt for getting me away from the three wrestler men from town.

“Hey! You! Yes, you, the moron with the Viking look,” I scream, jumping to my feet.

The man looks confused for a second. I probably look like a maniac yelling at a person in the middle of the deserted road. Nevertheless, it gives me an advantage to put my plans in motion. I put the bagpipe on the boot of the car so I wouldn’t lose my balance. My bag is still strapped to my back so it is very difficult to carry a bagpipe and a heavy knapsack at the same time.

I blow into the bagpipe with all the breath I have. I can feel my face turning blue because of lack oxygen.

Instead of making the loud annoying sound, there is silence.

The red-head driver looks at me like I’m the stupidest human on the planet. The Scot who I called moron looks angrier than before. To my relief, the driver picks the right time to open his car door, which smacks into the moron’s nose. Viking moron stumbles a few steps back, crying out loud. I can see his bleeding nose is now crooked.

I cringe at how painful Viking moron’s cry sounds.

“I’m sorry,” the driver whimpers, still in his seat. He looks like he has never done this in his life.

What am I saying? I have never done this before either!

I realize that he’s wearing a skirt thing that the Scots are famous for. I look at his face, making sure that he’s male before looking down at his skirt again. Is he aware that he’s wearing a skirt?

“Come on,” I say, grabbing his arms. The driver has no choice but to follow my lead, not wanting Viking moron to capture us. We walk briskly to the back of the car where the driver grabs his precious bagpipe.

“Get back here, cowards!” Viking moron yells.

Instantly, the driver and I bolt into the woods, abandoning the car. That’s when I realize that I made a stranger abandon his car. What kind of person does that?

Oh wait, that person is me.

“How are we going to find our way back?” I ask the driver between my gasps of breath.

“I don’t know!” he wails in a shrill voice. The poor fellow looks like he’s been caught stealing a cookie by a very ferocious mother.

I notice that he can’t run as fast as me because of that skirt of his. Ten minutes later, we stop by a shady tree. I slip the bag off my shoulders, which makes me sigh in relief. My back is leaned against the trunk. I try to balance my body so I wouldn’t fall, due to my shaking legs.

The driver puts his bagpipes down on the forest floor.

The need to satisfy my thirst is now stronger than ever.

I drop down to my knees and take out a bottle of water from my knapsack.

“Water?” I offer, waving an extra bottle towards the driver.

He snatches the bottle out of my grip and drinks it as if he’s stuck in the Sahara desert. Once he finishes the water, he hands the empty bottle back to me.

I give him a glare which he doesn’t see. Do I look like a slave to him?

“I can’t believe I just crashed into someone’s car and left my car out there. That’ll surely be in my record,” he says. His Scottish accent is getting stronger as he keeps rambling on. “I saved all my money just to buy that car.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble guiltily, looking down at my feet.

He ignores me. “Now I’m stuck with the person who caused all this trouble!”

“It’s not my fault that you crashed your car into his!” I defend.

“I get panic attacks easily, okay! I can’t help it! You appeared out of nowhere which freaked me out!” the driver argues back.

I sigh out loud. “I’m going to call for help.”

Mr. Driver does not speak. He just watches me as I take out my phone.

Guess what? The battery’s dead after hours of playing Flappy Bird. What a rotten luck.

“Why is your face like that?” Mr. Driver asks.

I show him my phone. His face is blank before it turns to horror.

“We should head back to the road. It’s going to be dark soon,” I suggest softly.

The driver whimpers. “Yes, we should. I heard this forest is haunted when it’s dark.”

“Scottish people are strange,” I mumble quietly to myself, putting the useless phone and water bottle back into my bag.

“No, we’re not!” He stands taller in pride as he disagrees. How patriotic. You would never have known that he was timid moments ago.

“Tell me something, Mr. Driver, why are you wearing a skirt?” I ask out of curiosity.

“Number one, I have a name. Number two, it’s called a kilt! Not a skirt!” he explains. I notice his voice getting higher in pitch, close to soprano.

Reminder to myself in the future: never panic or criticize him.

“It still looks like a skirt to me,” I grumble under my breath, eyeing his ‘kilt’. Fortunately for me, he didn’t hear my low grumblings.

“Where were you heading anyway?” Mr. Driver asks when he carries his bagpipe without breaking sweat.

I look up to see that we have about two hours if not three before the sun sets. I curse myself for not buying a watch.

“Loch Ness Clansman Hotel,” I answer him.

Mr. Driver nods. “I know where it is. Now, we’ll retrace our steps to the road. Hopefully my car will still be there, and we’re far away from the man who I crashed into.”

I nod. “Sounds like a plan.”