Getting back to Maine was annoying for Randy he went to a empty bathroom and had to repeatedly open and close the stall door until he was back. ~hmmm 15 tries new record.~Randy thought
Randy was able to meet up with Kaz and Zaki just in time to order lunch and talk dumb things about life.
The aroma of fried clams and salty sea air hung heavy over the "Crusty Crab," usually a sanctuary of simple culinary joy. But for Zaki Long, Randy and Kaz, the calm was about to be shattered. Zaki, meticulous even in his leisure, had finished his lobster roll with surgical precision, while Kaz was still strategically navigating a mountain of greasy onion rings, eyeing each one with a mixture of reverence and suspicion. Randy who had joined in late was enjoying a shrimp bowl.
Zaki's phone buzzed. It was a text from Vance's aunt, a brief message confirming his flight and asking Zaki to let Vance know she was thinking of him.
"Hey, you two still stuffing your faces?" Zaki's voice, calm and measured as always, cut through the ambient seaside chatter.
Kaz, mid-onion ring, grunted. "Depends. Is this a 'come rescue me from a food coma' call, or a 'your dojo needs mopping' call?"
"Neither," Zaki replied, a hint of something uncharacteristic—excitement, perhaps?—in his tone. "That was Vance's aunt. His flight just will be landing in like 2 hours."
Kaz froze, the onion ring halfway to his mouth. "Vance? Already? Man, I thought we had more time."
A gleeful whoop erupted from Randy's end of the table. He had been meticulously building a tiny shrimp fort around his plate. "Vance! Dibs! I call dibs on the airport pick up!" He slammed a tiny shrimp onto the table like a gavel. "A best friend shouldn't get off a plane and be welcomed by the emptiness of a boring life! He's got me! A best friend! The best friend!"
Zaki chuckled, a rare sound. "Randy, it's not a race. Just coordinate and go get him."
But Randy wasn't listening. He was already a blur of white tuxedo and rainbow buttons, scrambling out of his seat. "Later, suckers! Vance awaits his valiant steed!"
Kaz watched him go, a slow shake of his head accompanying a half-eaten onion ring. "And there he goes, also you paying his tab dibs."
"Was hoping you didn't notice... He dipped them in honey mustard?"Zaki said as he looked at Randy's plate
"Alright, guess I'll swing by your place, you still have my set of spare clothes? I need a shower after most of my runs."
Randy, meanwhile, was already a streak of white down Route 1, the Triumph Bonneville T120 humming beneath him like a contented beast. His fedora was cinched tight, the white feather fluttering like a tiny banner of whimsy. For Randy, a simple drive was an epic quest. He'd estimated the trip to be an hour and a half, a glorious ninety minutes of unfettered freedom and chaos.
The journey from the coastal tranquility of the "Crusty Crab" to Portland International Jetport was usually a straightforward forty-five minutes. But for Randy, it was a grand tour of Maine's quirky soul. He took the **long scenic route**, veering off the main highway onto winding coastal roads, the briny tang of the Atlantic giving way to the earthy scent of pine and moss as he cut inland. The road twisted and turned, a serpentine path through thick forests where sunlight filtered through the canopy in dappled gold.
He zoomed past sleepy fishing villages, their lobster boats bobbing gently in picturesque harbors, each painted buoy a bright splash of color against the deep blue. He saluted an elderly couple tending a roadside blueberry stand with a flamboyant wave, honked (politely, for Randy) at a slow-moving tractor that looked like it had seen better centuries, and probably, almost certainly, startled a family of deer contemplating a leisurely stroll across the asphalt.
To Randy, every bend in the road was an uncharted territory, every sun-dappled stretch a moment of profound introspection—usually about what kind of sandwich he wanted next. His mind, a chaotic tapestry of half-remembered facts, elaborate fantasies, and genuine kindness, rarely stayed still. There were whispers, even among his closest friends, that Randy's relentless cheerfulness, his almost childlike wonder at the mundane, was a coping mechanism. That beneath the rubber ducky antics lay the echoes of something deeper, something that perhaps only his friends truly understood. A form of **PTSD**, perhaps, manifesting not as darkness, but as an almost desperate pursuit of light. He *believed* in the dragon. He *believed* in the inflatable duck. He *believed* in the magic because, perhaps, reality was just too… *real*. He never talked about it, and they never pressed. It was just Randy. He was just Randy, and that was all they needed.
As the miles ticked by, the scenery began to shift. The quaint coastal towns gave way to more suburban sprawl, the forests thinning out to reveal strip malls and industrial parks. The air, once so clean and full of the scents of nature, now carried the faint, metallic tang of an approaching city. Randy, however, didn't seem to notice the change. To him, it was all part of the adventure. The towering billboards were just friendly giants offering him deals on cars and fast food. The stoplights were just colorful, winking beacons guiding him on his way. His mind was a universe of its own creation, and in it, everything had a purpose and a story.
He finally approached the airport, the sprawling complex of concrete and glass feeling like a return to civilization after a grand expedition. Planes roared overhead, a symphony of arrival and departure. Randy threaded his Bonneville through the traffic with practiced ease, his white tuxedo a beacon of delightful absurdity amidst the grey sedans and SUVs.
He pulled up to the curb just as **Vance**, a silhouette of weary resilience, emerged from the main terminal. At 29, Vance carried himself with the heavy, grounded presence of someone who had seen too much. His dark blue Marine military jacket was a familiar sight, the unexpected pink scarf a small splash of personal rebellion. He moved with a practiced economy of motion, one hand hauling a well-worn suitcase, the other effortlessly managing a heavy military duffle bag. His gaze, accustomed to scanning horizons for threats, now simply sought the nearest taxi.
"Vaaance! My dearest Vandal!" Randy's voice, booming with mock agony, cut through the airport chatter. "You wound me, sir! You truly, deeply wound me! Are you telling me, after all we've been through, that you'd rather hitch a ride with a nameless, faceless taxi driver than be reunited with your best friend in the entire universe? The man who braved dragons for you, no less!"
Vance stopped dead, his broad shoulders slumping just a fraction of an inch, then rising again with a heavy sigh. He turned, his eyes, usually sharp and guarded, softening almost imperceptibly as they landed on the sight of Randy in his immaculate, ridiculous white tuxedo, astride his gleaming motorcycle. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his mouth. It was a genuine smile, a rare bloom on the hardened landscape of his face.
"Randy," Vance said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual curtness. "Still the same, huh?" He didn't say it with exasperation, but with a quiet, almost profound relief. He'd seen so much change, so much decay, so many people broken beyond repair. Randy, in his chaotic, unchanging splendor, was a strange sort of comfort. "Yeah, I'd rather take the free ride with the guy who doesn't know how to fill out a tax form but probably knows how to teleport." He even managed a faint chuckle at the last part, a private joke based on Randy's infamous "party tricks."
Vance hitched his bags higher and started walking towards the Bonneville, his military boots thudding softly on the asphalt. He slung his duffle bag onto Randy's lap, then settled in behind him, the familiar weight of his friend a welcome presence.
"Woohoo! Knew you wouldn't let me down, V-Man!" Randy cheered, already pulling away from the curb. "Alright, listen up, because I've got important news! I, Randall B. Styles, the man, the myth, the legend, have officially finished high school!" He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Or... at least I think I did. The details are a little fuzzy. There was a clown college application mix-up, and then a squirrel uprising, it's a long story." He waved a dismissive hand, narrowly missing a road sign. "But the *important* thing is, **Zaki** and **Kaz** are waiting for us! At the Chinese buffet! All-you-can-eat! Prepare your stomach for glory!"
Vance leaned back against Randy, the roar of the motorcycle engine a familiar drone. The drive from the airport to the Chinese buffet was a journey of contrast. Randy, ever the chaotic tour guide, pointed out every oddity: a cow standing in a field looking particularly thoughtful ("Must be contemplating the meaning of udder existence, Vandal!"), a giant inflatable gorilla on the roof of a tire shop ("He's just trying his best, give him a break!"), and a truck full of hay that seemed to be actively shedding its load ("Free decor for our next party!").
Vance listened, occasionally grunting in response, but his mind was elsewhere. The rush of the wind past his ears was a different kind of noise than the sounds of war, a welcome one. He thought about the faces, the names, the fleeting friendships forged in the crucible of fear and desperation. He remembered Private Miller, who had a laugh that could crack concrete but disappeared in a dust storm. Sergeant Chen, who could fix anything with a paperclip and a prayer, but whose last transmission was a static-laced scream. The raw, guttural fear, the stench of cordite and dust, the chilling silence after the explosions.
He didn't tell Randy the details, not the ugly, visceral truth. Randy, with his bright eyes and boundless optimism, existed in a world Vance couldn't fully inhabit anymore. Vance saw the world for what it was: brutal, unfair, uncaring. Justice was a fantasy for those who hadn't seen enough of humanity's true colors. Proper protocol? A joke written by armchair strategists who'd never felt the impact of an IED. He didn't give a damn about people's feelings, not generally. But for Randy, for Zaki, for Kaz—his friends, his chosen family—for them, he cared. Deeply. Fiercely.
He thought about the night terrors, the phantom limbs of dead comrades, the hollow ache in his chest that no amount of leave, no amount of civilian life, seemed able to fill. He'd signed up for college, for a way out, and instead found himself in a nightmare. He'd lost potential friends, and he'd lost real ones. The world owed them, but the world didn't pay up. It just kept turning, cold and indifferent.
Yet, as Randy rattled on about the best way to approach the buffet's crab rangoon station, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spread through Vance. Randy was ridiculous, yes. Possibly unhinged. But he was also real, and he was here. He was still Randy. And that, in itself, was a small, defiant victory in a world that had tried its damnedest to take everything.
The motorcycle passed billboards for local businesses, a faded sign for a bait shop, and then, finally, the neon glow of the "Dragon's Feast" Chinese Buffet. Randy pulled into the parking lot with a flourish, nearly clipping a minivan.
"Behold, Vandal!" Randy announced, throwing his arms wide. "The gates to culinary heaven! Prepare yourself for egg rolls and destiny!"
Vance merely sighed, a happier sigh this time. "Let's just get some food, Randy." He dismounted the motorcycle, his duffle bag and suitcase thudding to the ground. He looked up at the garish neon sign, then at Randy's impossibly white tuxedo, and felt a strange sense of something akin to peace. The chaos of Randy was, oddly enough, the only thing that felt truly normal anymore.