Chapter 3 | The Yogi Who Eats Cars
Victor and Charlie are running like they're riding their “choppers,” with Rat and Tat giving chase. Tat nearly plowed into the Reverend picking at his Resonator, cutting a corner quickly to get away. “Hey!” sang the Rev, nearly clipping the boy’s head with a shoe. The boys regroup down Bombay Alley, where the Yogi Who Eats Cars is about to set in on a Buick.
“There are many hungry men in this world,” declares a voice high up in the sky. “But none so hungry as the Yogi Who Eats Cars! He's got a jaw made of steel, teeth that cut through iron! His digestive juices, like battery acid, break down pistons and valves like they were made of butter!”
The wide eyed boys push to the front to witness this never before seen phenomenon. The tent is packed with disbelievers hoping to see the Yogi’s innards spill out. But not Rat and Tat and the twins. They believe, and they will continue to believe, whether it's real or not.
Wrapped in his crimson robe, ageless, sitting atop a stack of tread-worn whitewall tires, the Yogi Who Eats Cars looks like he's floating through the smoke in the tent. He's got one eye, the other sewn shut many years ago in a past life charming snakes.
The Buick is idling in park, the smell of gasoline filling the tent. Red headed Mike stumbles in, wiping blood from his nose, and he finds a spot with the rest of the boys. One of the helpers tosses Mike an oil stained rag as the show is about to begin. Another helper is revving up the V8 motor.
“How does he do it? How does The Yogi Who Eats Cars eat cars… while they're still RUNNING?” The helper guns the engine to put a point on it. “Watch. Listen. Learn.”
Mike’s holding the rag to his head, trying to stop the bleeding while he watches, listens, and learns.
“Chevrolanda has been training for this moment since the days of horse and carriages! Nearly three hundred years in the monasteries of Tibet!” The Yogi has descended from the whitewalls and is slowly gliding towards the front fender. He tears off a chunk of metal and a headlamp, casting them into a cauldron above a roaring wood fire. “Ladies and Gentlemen! It takes a fire of two thousand, seven hundred and ninety-eight degrees to melt glass and steel! The Yogi will ingest this mixture without waiting for it to cool down!”
The twins gasp and turn to each other. “Without waiting for it to cool down!”
A helper wearing welder’s gloves dips a ladle into the cauldron and serves a portion of the molten car parts into a specially constructed bowl precisely 24.7” in diameter. The bowl glows bright red but doesn't melt.
Chevrolanda, without hesitation, reaches for the bowl, both hands, and raises it to his blistered lips. Slowly, he begins to pour its smoking, bubbling contents into his mouth and down his throat. The crowd gasps, all eyes, certain of impending death. The air surrounding Chevrolanda is glowing hot and smoky. But the Yogi continues to drink, until the contents of the bowl are inside him. A faint blue aura emanates from his head as he places the bowl back in its holder on the table. The spectators erupt in a standing ovation, except for red headed Mike, crumpled in a ball on the ground. The applause continues, growing louder and wilder. Spectators are throwing their hats into the air, tossing coins and sentimental objects in the general direction of the spectacle as two helpers wind their way over to Mike, gathering him up while Victor, Charlie, Rat and Tat follow them out to the hospital tent.
TO BE CONTINUED
