Monk Kennedy had been an impulsive child, then an impulsive teenager, and an impulsive adult ever since. He never thought anything out. Every choice he made was slapstick. He went with the flow, although he couldn’t have said what the flow was. He was unable to control his thoughts and so was unable to control his actions. He was always looking for something that wasn’t there and doing what didn’t have to be done. It was why he needed all the excuses he could make. 

   The funny money he had been living on since last year made him even more impulsive. Whenever he wanted to, he could stuff his pockets with it and have fun, except there was hardly any fun to be had on Prince Edward Island. He hated the place. Most people were hard-working while he wasn’t. The rest were tourists. He hated them, too. He had to be careful in Charlottetown and anywhere else there might be a cop nearby. What was the point of having two million in one-hundred-dollar bills if it was always a pain in the ass spending it?

   Even most of the girls were a pain in the ass. He shouldn’t have killed the one who was free and easy with herself, and her money, too. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and even though he hated second guessing himself, it might have been a bad idea. He would never know so he dropped the dismals. Never look back is how he looked at it.

   He decided at the drop of a hat that he was leaving, the sooner the better, before it started getting windy cold snowy again, for sure. Bad weather wasn’t far off. He could pack and be gone in an hour. The island was a great place to ride his Kawasaki so long as he didn’t mind parking it for eight months. But he did mind. His motorcycle was the only friend he had. When he had it between his legs he felt like a man.

   The Kawasaki and he had to find a new home. Atlantic Canada was out. What the hell would he do in Moncton or Saint John? Quebec was out for sure. There was no future for him there unless he was looking for an early grave. As it stood, he was sure somebody was either on his way from Montreal to the island or already here looking for somebody like him, or him personally. He knew there would be no complaining or explaining. Contract killers never listened to reason or reasons. 

   Out west was out, too, flat, endless, and pointless. Toronto would fit the bill for the winter. It was big enough to get lost in and he could spread his hundreds around, collect and save all the legitimate money he got as change, change it into greenbacks in the spring, and go to the United States. What was left over he would squirrel away somewhere, maybe even in a bank. At the border all he needed was his driver’s license. He would say he was going on a road tour for the summer, pointing to his saddlebags.  He would flash his Easy Rider smile. He would have to remember to throw his dope away beforehand. The border guards had dogs who could sniff out anything. Once he was safely across, he would head to the deep south. The farther away the better.

   He thought New Orleans was his kind of place. The Confederacy was the place for him. That’s where he would go, he decided. The Big Easy was his style, babes and bourbon, all day and all night, zydeco when he wanted to relax. Why wait, he thought. I’ll get the rest of the money tonight and catch the ferry in the morning. He would have to circle around Montreal and stay overnight somewhere near Ottawa. There was no sense in tempting fate. He could be in Toronto the next day. He could stay in a motel for a week-or-so and later find a room in a boarding house. He would have to behave himself. It would be hard, but he thought he might be able to do it for six months. He had trouble thinking that far ahead, but he could try. After that he would be home free.

   He got his bags, laid them out on the bed, and started packing. He was a slapdash man, but neat when it came to packing and traveling. There was only so much he could carry, and he parceled it together. When he was done, he changed into leather pants and a leather jacket. He had a Candee Red Outlaw Bandit helmet. It matched his motorcycle, although he rarely wore it. He tucked it under his arm and walked out to his Kawasaki. He secured his bags, secured his helmet on the back with a bungee cord, and straddled the motorcycle. He felt good. He felt like going. He got going. 

   I may have my faults, he thought, but changing my mind when I’ve made it up isn’t one of them. It was too early to go up to North Rustico, so he headed for Chubby’s instead. He would grab a double burger and a pint, hang around, and shoot the shit until night fell. He would go when it got good and dark. They rolled the sidewalks up early in North Rustico, but he would wait until they were all sweet dreaming. He would have his money in five minutes and be on his way. He could sleep rough somewhere outside Borden until the first ferry left in the morning.

   Port Borden was a small village that got bigger after World War One when Prime Minister Robert Borden located a ferry terminal there at Carleton Point. In the 1920s, after the use of automobiles was legalized on the island, the roads leading to the terminal were improved. Still, most of the ferry traffic was still rail cars. That changed in the early 1960s when the Trans-Canada Highway was built. A new automobile-only ferry was built in 1962. All through the decade automobile traffic saw record growth. The Abegweit, a new ferry put into service in 1982, was the biggest vessel to ever operate out of Port Borden. It was the boat Monk planned on taking on his way to new life.

   Chubby’s was full to the gills. Monk took his burger and pint outside and found a spot at a picnic table. The parking lot was full of motorcycles. The island was a great place to ride a bike in summer, chock full of rolling country roads. American Motorcyclist magazine was even advertising six-day tours of PEI and Newfoundland. Monk couldn’t stomach riding in a group. He always rode alone.

   “Look at this piece of Jap trash,” he heard a thick-set man wearing colors say, looking down his nose at his Kawasaki. Monk’s good eye got shiny and sharp as an icepick when he heard the comment. He didn’t like it and said so.

   “Who are you, anyway?”

   “I’m the man who rides that,” Monk said.

   “That’s too bad, sonny boy,” the man said. “You should try riding something real.” He nodded at a nearby Harley Davidson. “Something like that.”

   Monk saw red, jumped to his feet, and reached for the switchblade in his back pocket, flicking it open.

   “Whoa there, son, whoa,” the man said, backing up. 

   “Take it back.”

   “Are you serious?”

   “I’m serious as hell, which is where you’re going. Take it back.”

   “I’m not taking anything back. Put that knife away.”

   “Give it up, man,” another biker said. “Only crazy people take themselves seriously.”

   “All right, all right, I’m sorry about what I said. Does that make you happy?”

   Monk slid back into his picnic table seat without saying anything, put his switchblade away, and took a swig of beer. His mouth was dry. He kept his head down finishing his burger that had gone tasteless. He kept his sense of smell on the big man. He fired up his Harley and roared away, but not before spitting on Monk’s Kawasacki as he went past it.   

   “Son of a bitch,” Monk muttered to himself, wiping the slobber off the gas tank. Nobody who had seen what happened said anything. Monk got himself together and sped off. He took Route 6 to Grand Tracadie to Oyster Bed Bridge to North Rustico. The ride took him a half-hour. He zipped past Conor Murphy’s house and barn, surprised to see the barn doors wide open and the barn lit up like a jamboree. He parked at Cape Turner and walked down to the Murphy homestead. There was a party going on inside the barn. It was packed full of people dancing to a record player. There was food and drink. There was a banner. It said, “Congratulations Prince Edward Island Teachers.”

   “What the hell?” Monk asked himself. “Fucking teachers?”

   He had barely spent a minute in any school room. He wasn’t home schooled. He was self-taught. He prided himself on being like Thomas Edison, even though he knew next to nothing about the inventor. Most of the lessons he had learned were learned the hard way. He had the bumps and bruises to prove it. He backed away from the barn a few feet into the trees and the darkness and waited. He could be patient as a snake when he absolutely had to be.

   Snaps wasn’t far away. He watched Monk. “What does that skunk want?” he asked himself, keeping his distance. He knew a bad smell when he saw one. He adopted his Corgi pose, relaxed and watchful. The party went on long and loud. There were no neighbors to disturb so there was no need to be quiet. The teachers were busting loose. Monk yawned, yawned again, propped himself up against a tree trunk, and fell asleep. When he woke up the party was over. It was near dawn.

   He waited while the morning wore on. He saw Conor come out of the house, get into his car, and drive away. He didn’t notice the black Maine Coon watching him. Snaps could be stealthy as the devil when he had to be. Monk waited ten minutes, walked to the barn, dug up his money, and walked back to Cape Turner. Snaps watched him go, flopped over to the side, licking his butt clean, and sauntered to the oceanside. He was going to stretch his legs, go for a long walk, and do some exploring. He might mess with the odd mouse to keep life interesting.

   Monk stuffed the trash bag full of cash into one of his saddle bags and rode away towards Cavendish. He kept strictly to the speed limit, which is what he was going to do all the way to Toronto. He could outrun any police car, but he wasn’t about to invite trouble, not with millions of dollars of counterfeit money on his hands. When he got to New London, he was going to take Route 8 to North Bedeque and from there to Port Borden. When the ferry arrived, he would take it to New Brunswick and head for Ottawa. He would be in Toronto soon enough, safe and sound.

   It was all going to go wrong at Stanley Bridge, but he didn’t know that, yet. He was going to find out all the things that could go wrong in about ten minutes. It was Murphy’s Law. In the meantime, he was like a gay blade who has gone off a high cliff. He was halfway down, and there was no problem, so far. It was a great view and the farther down he went the better he could see out of his one good eye. What he didn’t see was the transponder the RCMP had put in the trash bag full of bad cash.