Tales of the Crimson Motorbus - Part One

Disclaimer: Though the characters in this story have been maintained so that the readers cannot help but know who they are, we fear that the events have been woefully distorted due to the unbalanced imagination of the blogger...

Swoosh. The red getaway van courses onto the interstate leaving Indianapolis, bound for Kentucky. Who are those outlaws inside the stealthy 15 passenger ride? A tall man, commandingly whiskered, unravels the coded maps. Beside him the lovely pilot, custodian of the ice box and the educational tapes. In the chamber behind them is a valiant crew of travelers: El Giusante - ever wondering weather she should study her map or liberate more calizonies from the cooler; L'italiano - a cool damsel changing between portly Victor Hugo and British pop opera; The Mushroom - a youth of many skills: guitar skills, lawn skills, Uru skills; and the newest Indiana Jones - tall, dark, and handsome, intriguingly whiskered as well. To complete the crew is Nameless Jamie - a pirate of many skills as well, exemplified in the ability to sleep under any amount of noise and baggage. Whither, oh ye braves, shall again such a crew assemble into such a van?!

Many bumps and bathroom breaks later the ride is complete, and the travelers disembark. What is it that they have come so far to see? The beautiful fields and horses of Kentucky? No, they came to see a baby spray spit bubbles over a camera, to hear Christ proclaimed in worship, to watch high school guys tell a skit in dance, to throw their hearts into singing the poetry of God. They came for the summer family conference of the RPCNA. They came for Covfamikoi.

Thump. The sound of heavy travel bags hitting the lobby floor. As the voyagers adjust from the midday brightness, they see in Glide-Crawford Hall an average dorm house lobby. Red carpet and dark wood pillars, tranquil counselors behind registration tables, the very bricks that had seen 80 years of residents, all conspire to assure them that RPers would not be lost in the bluegrass, registration was under control.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Grunt. Thump. Thump… Another sound, that of El Giusante ascending too her room. Little did she know that six days of practice would lend wings to her puny legs. The college-age girls had the privilege of rooming the third floor, and in a place with few elevators this meant 25 fine cardio workouts a day. She finds her room, plunks down the bag, and thumps off to find her way, wondering what the week has in store.