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THE FINAL CHAPTER OF A FIVE PART SERIES

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In the most unexpected twist of the whole absurd ordeal, the three main characters—Ben C. Padilla, John M. Mutantu, and the bartender, Amahle Melokuh-le—became the first bi-racial throuple in Fort Stockton’s history. Their unconventional relationship raised eyebrows at first, with whispers and sideways glances following them around town. But in time, even Brother Bob got used to it. As they strolled through the Piggly Wiggly together, he’d give them a nod of approval, and rumor had it they had donated enough to retile the baptistry, which was enough to earn them a special level of acceptance in the community.

Amahle, or Melokuh-le as it was later revealed (a name that, for reasons no one could really figure out, didn’t get shortened), worked at the Lucky Lady Lounge for a while after they settled in. But after they completed the construction of their geodesic dome home out on the land not far from where they’d landed the stolen plane, she took up gardening instead. It was a slow, unassuming life—until their accidental rise to local infamy.

In a deal that surprised exactly no one, Fort Stockton’s notoriously corrupt Mayor Goodman made arrangements to confiscate the plane and scrap it for parts. In exchange, the trio was granted squatter’s rights to the plot of land where they had landed the plane. To sweeten the deal, Goodman also arranged an open account at Rusty Hammer’s for any supplies they might need to build their dome. Naturally, the mayor got a cut from every hammer and nail purchased, along with some bonus points from the local school board for “modernizing” the town.

The aluminum salvaged from the 727-233 wound up in some of the most unexpected places around town. The back of the screens at the Prairie View Twin Drive-In were sheathed in aluminum panels that blinded traffic heading into Fort Stockton. The sunglass store Goodman opened on the highway did more business with truckers than the Scuttlebutt Gentleman’s Club in a genius attempt at cross-marketing. The seats from the aircraft, still in remarkably good shape after all the years of wear and tear, were sold to the Bijou Theater. There, they replaced the original seats that had been installed for the theater’s original showing of Gone With the Wind. A deal had been struck to rewire the call buttons on the seats to function as snack ordering systems. Now, theatergoers could place an order for popcorn, soft drinks, or even a slice of pizza without ever leaving their seats. The Dairy Twin, Fort Stockton’s original fast-food establishment, also got in on the action, providing snacks for the movie theater in exchange for a cut of every sip and sandwich.

Ben and John, somehow managing to keep their heads above water, went into business together. It was a bit of a far-fetched, ridiculous venture, and, honestly, no one in Fort Stockton was ever quite sure what they did. They called it “Jetstream Innovations”—a business that provided, according to their ads, “cutting-edge solutions in aerospace logistics and rural supply chain optimization.” In layman’s terms, they sold surplus airplane parts and old farm tools out of a rickety building off Highway 285. They did well for themselves, much to everyone’s confusion, but they remained aloof and mysterious despite their success.

No one knew exactly what they sold, but people kept buying it. Maybe it was the fact that the men walked around with a sense of quiet, calculated absurdity that no one else could match. Maybe it was the way they spoke in vague, lofty terms when asked about their product. But whatever it was, it worked. The business was successful, and the town grudgingly accepted their strange new role as local entrepreneurs.

Amahle Melokuh-le eventually gave birth to twins—an event that caused quite the stir in Fort Stockton. Word spread quickly that one of the babies looked just like Ben Padilla, and the other just like John Mutantu. Doc Brown, the local doctor, explained the possibility that each could have fathered one of the embryos, but even he admitted that it was a long shot.

“A longer shot than stealing a 737, flying it halfway around the world, and landing it outside Fort Stockton?” Lucinda asked at the time, raising an eyebrow. Everyone in the room laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that made you wonder if anything in this town wasn’t strange.

As for the babies themselves, they were perfect. And if you ever asked the trio about their parenthood, they’d give you the same answer: “We’ve got two sons, two fathers, and one hell of a journey.”

Before the twins arrived, Ben, John, and Amahle would take long drives around town in their 1936 Brough Superior SS80 motorcycle with the petrol-tube sidecar. It was a stunning machine, its sleek black frame contrasting with the dust of the Texas roads. The sidecar, with its matching black leather interior, was the perfect place for a passenger—until the twins came along.

“Just us for now,” Ben would say, as the wind whipped through their hair, the sidecar bouncing along the dirt roads. Sometimes it was just John in the sidecar, other times Amahle. But once the babies arrived, the whole dynamic changed. Rusty, ever the problem-solver, took scraps from the airplane and fabricated custom infant seats for the sidecar. The seats were made of thick, durable leather, and they fit perfectly in the vintage sidecar, providing both safety and comfort for the twins.

It became a bizarre but beloved spectacle in Fort Stockton: the three of them cruising through town, Ben riding the bike, John or Amahle in the sidecar, and the babies secured snugly in their custom seats. Earl over at Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formal Wear even said that it was one of the finest uses of scrap aluminum he’d ever seen. Even Trixie was impressed with the sight, and she was never one to be easily bowled over by first impressions or empty promises.

In an intimate ceremony, Sister Thelma, who could be put in a room of horse manure and look for the pony, baptized the twins behind the Rusty Hammer Hardware, next to the old corrugated fence that separated the hardware store from the Piggly Wiggly. Angus Hopper and Captain Nemo stood as godparents. The ceremony was private, but it was a moment that made people pause. Some said it was a miracle, while others just shrugged and said it was a sign of the times. Motcat picked up the tab at the K-Bob’s reception following the service.

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But when it came time to bless the sidecar and the custom seats, Sister Thelma refused. “It just didn’t feel right,” she said. “I’ve got my limits, you know?” And with that, the custom seats went unblessed, much to the trio’s amusement. No one in Fort Stockton was sure if it was good or bad luck, but the sight of the motorcycle and sidecar rolling through town with the twins in tow became a symbol of their unique, and uniquely accepted, family.

“Is this the strangest thing to ever happen in Fort Stockton?” someone once asked.

“Probably not, but it’s definitely Top Ten,” Chad, on break from the Piggly Wiggly, would say with a knowing smile. “That’s just how we roll.”

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