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 Down on the bayou, things don’t change much for us folk. Them city folks can gat around the you-nee-verse usin’ their eff-tee-ell matter-porters, but we don’t hold with that sorta crazy shit. A flat-belly boat with a Lenkormian Forever drive rigged to the ‘peller an’ we’re good. 'Cept fer them Joban’s, but they always been a lil’ touched…

 “Saul. Git yer fat ass up here an’ help me with this.”
 “Ah’m busy, mama. He done tore his hide takin’ a gator last night.”
 “Oh, fer pity’s sake. What’s he doin’ that for? He’s goin’ home t’nite.”
 “Said he wanted one more hunt so he’d have some purdy teeth to show his folks, him bein’ gone so long an’ all.”
 “Makes sense. Now where’s your brother?”
 “Silas’ at the stills, mama. We’re gonna need every drop fer t’nite.”
 “Good ‘nuff. Lord but this is a heavy piece o’ fancy ironwork.”
 Mama Joban resorted to letting the subspace synchroniser slide down the steps with her barely slowing it down. At the bottom it thankfully landed on the trolley. She wheeled it on down the mossy tunnel to emerge at a moonpool, one of the spooky round stillwater hollows that sometimes people just disappeared into.
 This one was concealed by a dome of trees and woven vines. The trees were festooned with little doohickeys that he said kept the place out of the sight of the government types.
 She dragged the synchroniser over to the gap in the loaded scaffolding. She was standing there, hands on hips, wondering how she was going to lift it when he arrived.
 “Let me lift that for yuh, lil’ lady.”
 She just wilted at his voice. The real king: Elvyssolan, Son of Morrys, stranded on Earth since his ship came down in the bayous after losing a dogfight with those damn greys over Roswell. He’d used his emotelepathy to reach out to the few who could feel his moxy, and they had responded with gifts of money and contacts for Great-Gramps Joban, His Chosen One. When GG died trying to lift a drive chamber shield, Grampaw stepped up, and so it went. Today, the holy one could return to his bayou homeland on the moon of a gas giant where the Dworn lizardmen lived and rocked under the purple planet.
 “Uh-HUH! There it is. Can’t thank y’nuff, mama.”
 He made the connections and the completed composite device hummed like a swarm of angry bees.
 “Huh. Gonna sing me the co-ordinates, mama. Yuh jus’ take yer ease.”
 She sat for hours as his voice rumbled and slid through her mind, his tones attuning the acoustic vector unit to translate his memorised co-ordinates to modern positions.
 Finally, Saul and Silas came in, hefting the final drums of fuel, double-refined moonshine with a couple of kickers provided by him. They prepped the tanks and aligned the injectors.
 “Time for me to blow this joint, chillun. May the moxy bless ya, coz without ya, I’d be a dead lizard king, frozen down on fifty-one.”
 Mama blushed and the boys cried.
 He stepped onto the palladium platform and raised his lordly claws, tail whipping to a beat only he could hear. “Ridin’ the storm to the green mass of home. Thank yuh.”
 With an ear-splitting whine and blinding flash, the drives fired and the coils spun, converting gallons of fuel into a single terapulse of energy. There was a ‘whumpf!’ and the platform was bare. Mists of abused air reeled away into the darkness.
 “He’s gorn, mama!”
 “Don’t you cry, boys. He ain’t gone. He just went home.”
We're having a hoot over on 365 Tomorrows forum, chucking titles about for others to write a story for. This title arrived and it has allowed me to make a piece that has immediately become one of my favourites. Laughed and cried my way through typing and revising.

The truth behind Marc, Elvis and Jim. And quite possibly a few others. LOL

Enjoy, y'all. :D

This story will appear in my May 2015 science fantasy anthology, Infinity.

For further details, the Infinity page on my website is…
SimonJM Featured By Owner May 3, 2013
Don't you step on my blue suede gluons ... ;)
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