Episode 2 — The Buc-ee’s Weather Cult (Filed under: Dale’s Serial Files — The One with the Poncho People and Buc-ee Beaver Doom) You kno...
Episode 2 — The Buc-ee’s Weather Cult
(Filed under: Dale’s Serial Files — The One with the Poncho People and Buc-ee Beaver Doom)
You know that feeling when you drive past an abandoned gas station and swear something’s watching you from behind the ice machine?
Well, multiply that by a Category 4 squall, and you’ve got the Buc-ee’s off Route 229—though the locals call it “The Beaver Shrine” these days.
I wasn’t planning to stop.
But Aunt Nettie’s voice slithered through the vents of my car like a song you can’t shake:
“Oh, sugar, you need to see what’s inside.”
Next thing I knew, I was pulling into that crumbling parking lot, tires crunching over old hurricane debris and broken Beaver Nuggets.
Inside, it smelled like mildew, fryer grease, and something ancient—like old rainwater soaked into the walls.
That’s where I saw them:
The Weather Cult.
About a dozen of them, draped in makeshift robes made from gas station rain ponchos and barbecue aprons, circling around a flickering TV. They chanted in some half-weather, half-biblical gibberish:
“Spiral in, spiral out, windward bound and earth devout!”
Their leader, a wiry fella with a beard like tangled fishing line and eyes too wide to be trusted, stood at the center, waving a storm map like it was sacred scripture.
And plastered across the wall behind them?
My face.
Okay—not my face exactly, but a Polaroid from my blog’s sidebar, taped to a hurricane tracking chart with “THE STORM WATCHER” scrawled across it.
Before I could slip out, the leader turned, grinning like he’d been expecting me all along.
“Brother Dale,” he crooned, “you’ve been called by the Current.”
Oh, fantastic. Nothing like walking into a storm-obsessed cult where you’re the prophecy.
Aunt Nettie’s voice oozed from a nearby plugged-in Slushie machine, half-static, half-amused:
“See? You’re famous, sugar. They’ve been streaming your destiny.”
The cult leader beckoned me closer, handing me an old VHS tape wrapped in plastic wrap and labeled in Sharpie:
“EYE OF THE HURRICANE — VIEWER COPY.”
He whispered, “Watch this, and the Current will guide you.”
Before I could argue, another voice cut through the tension—dry, calm, precise:
“I suggest you avoid consuming anything labeled by cryptic storm fanatics. Earthly pathogens aside, their theology is—messy.”
I turned to see her—a tall, sharp-eyed woman with shimmering gloves and an aura like a retro sci-fi heroine stepped off a drive-in screen.
Verity Bleu.
She didn’t belong there—and she knew it.
The cult froze when she spoke. She gave me a brief nod and, without even blinking, calmly added:
“You’re spiraling too tightly into this narrative, Dale T. Doll. Some storms shouldn’t be chased.”
Then—poof—she was gone. Like she’d never been there at all.
The cult muttered about “interference from The Watchers” and went back to their chanting, but I was already sweating worse than a tourist in polyester shorts.
I bolted, clutching that cursed VHS tape, Aunt Nettie’s laughter bouncing around inside every neon sign I passed:
“Oh, now it’s really getting interesting.”
Back home, I locked the doors, unplugged everything, and stared at the tape.
I shouldn’t watch it.
Naturally, I popped it into the VCR.
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