Sunday morning in Cortez, Colorado is usually a very pleasant place and time. Everyone dresses, and gathers at the church to pass gossip, talk about the weather, the crops, and of course, to make their peace with God.

This Sunday, however, differed a bit.

As the first cars started to pull into the parking lot just after sun-up (why do country folk have to get up so early anyways?) The gathering throngs couldn’t help but notice a large black bus parked right up against the church front steps, with the slogan “Virgins Converted” on the bumper!

It seems Treb, in his altered state, had mistaken the steps for a parking place, and put his front wheels right up against the step, making it all but impossible for anyone to get passed the bus.

The parishioners, being God-fearing folk, stayed back from this “Devil’s Vehicle” knowing full well it had to be the work of the devil himself. After all, it had 666 emblazoned on it’s side!

Father James was soon rousted from his pulpit, where he’d been rehearsing his sermon for the day, and when he opened the door he splashed holy water all over the front of the bus to protect himself and those who were there from entering Damnation.

All of the hubbub didn’t wake the two sleeping inside. After all, they’d just been a sleep a few hours and had a lot of chemical help to stay that way.

But Father James was not one to be trifled with. He slammed his open hand on the hood of DORF yelling “Be gone, oh ye damned vehicle of Satan!”

Nothing.

Once again, he slammed his hand upon the hood of this vehicle of the damned, shouting once more “Be gone. This is God’s House!”

This time Treb heard the nose. He just wanted to sleep. But something was making noise. Maybe it was a wild animal? It could happen, he thought.

So he pulled out his Ruger .44 Super-Blackhawk, with it’s 10.5” barrel.

In the middle of the night he had taken off his cut-off and T-shirt to be more comfortable. In fact, he was just wearing his tighty whities, only they were anything but tight, and had not been white in years.

Now, perhaps at this point we should describe Treb. This will help you get a better vision of what was about to happen.

Treb is bigger than the average bear. He stands about 6’4”, weighs in at a little under 300 pounds, and had been pumping iron for years. He was also a fan of tattoo’s. He had full sleeves on both arms, with a variation of dragon’s, tigers, skulls and Harley-Davidson wings, and on his chest was a very large piece showing Poseidon slaying a huge shark.

At the time of his awakening he had slept about three hours, and his eye’s were as red as a stop-light. He hadn’t had a haircut in months, and his hair was as wild as it could be. He sported a full beard and mustache, and at that very moment looked a lot like everyman’s idea of what the Devil would look like.

Now, Degenerate Jim, on the other-hand, was a little smaller, but none-the-less frightening. Standing about 5’ 10”, he was slender and had a beard ZZ Top would envy. His hair hung down past his shoulders, and he to was covered with various works of tattoo art. To top it off, he always wore sunglasses.

Yes, always, even when he slept. He, as well, had doffed his clothing during the evening, and was less than happy to be rustled awake by a 300 pound Treb screaming that they were being attacked by wild Indians.

And so it was, the door to the bus opened, and to this very day, the townsfolk of Cortez Colorado talk of the day they were visited by the Devil and Beelzebub, his right hand daemon.

Both came forth from the vehicle from hell with glaring red eye’s and guns in both hands.

The parking lot emptied in a matter of mere seconds, and the preacher was last seen heading across a neighboring corn-field, making a zig-zag path, as he had learned to do in Viet Nam a few years earlier.

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