October 1st marks the 30th anniversary of one of America’s greatest paranormal events, The Hippy Haunting of Highway 27 in Polk County, Florida.
The story begins in 1974. Three hippies were driving their lime green, VW bus from Columbus, Georgia to Miami, Florida to attend a concert by Jefferson Airplane, which unbeknownst to them was already sold out. At approximately, 9pm, Bull Dog, Spider, and Gecko, pulled off of I-4 seeking a quick burger and a "pit stop." They inadvertently sped past the Burger Queen in nearby Davenport and drove off into history. Their California Kombi was never seen again. It likely rests at the bottom of one of the muck filled drainage ditches.
Soon after their respectable, yet frustrated, parents ended their search Polk County became the core of bizarre occurrences. A late night stroll in the orange grove turned into a night of terror for adolescents Kevie McNeal and Angela Snodgrass. A green glow seemed to rise from the fertile sand. Terrified, they dropped their half empty bottles of Tab. An ethereal voice wistfully asked, "Dude, where's the Burger Queen?" Before the spirit could get a helpful response Kevie ran off screaming like an acne marked banshee.
His heart pounding through his now sweat drenched Led Zeppelin IV t-shirt, Kevie soon made a u-turn by the Banyan tree and desperately searched for his lost puppy love. Angela sat listening to the wayfaring spirit regale tales of his pre-death wanderings around the American Southwest. Baffled, Kevie approached his girl reminding her that her mom, being president of the local Republican Women’s counsel, would not approve of her chatting with haggard looking, liberal minded denizens of the great beyond. This made Angela want to stay all the more. However, when the invisible presence of Bull Dog found out that she was only 15 he quickly advised his tomb mates "dude, that's illegal in this state" and they vanished. Shaken but not stirred, she walked back home, turned on "Good Times" and confessed that Kevie was responsible for the mysteriously glowing hickey on her neck. Few believed her.
Three years later, right around midnight, FHP Officer Malcolm Dunlap pulled over a luminescent vehicle for having a broken tale light. Reeking of wacky tabbacky, he approached with caution. According to sworn testimony he heard an unseen slacker yell, “It’s the Fuzz! Cheese it!” He stood perplexed as it evaporated before his eyes. The official account of his saga earned him a pink slip. Malcolm spent the remainder of the "Me Decade" eking out a living as a parking lot attendant for the local Circus World Theme Park. Every few weeks he’d be seen loaded on Billy Beer racing his Chevy Nova through the hills and dales seeking the lost trio, hoping to make a citizen’s arrest for having a truly expired license. Unable to find judicial satisfaction from the peacenik poltergeists, he quit the parking lot gig and opened an iron-on-decal T-shirt shop in Clay, West Virginia.
Since then there have been rumors and sporadic tales of baffling encounters with hitch hikers and early morning juicers on their way to the local Minute Made plant. Most of these encounters were written off as mistaken identity with the swamp gas, irradiated love bugs, or migratory skunk apes. As condos replaced farms, the story was mostly forgotten being remembered only on poorly built websites and acoustic guitar campfire songs.
As mysteriously as they had disappeared, they re-appeared on a cold winter’s night in 1997. A grainy security camera video recorded a nearly transparent beetle, from the age of 8-tracks, driving up to a local insurance office which was famous for being opened 24 hours. Three curious figures with unkempt hair and wearing sandals glide across the sidewalk and pass through the front door. "We're finally here! I'm starvin'." Agent Douglas Squirrel attempted to convince them that the Burger Queen closed over 20 years ago and Prudential would not cover incidents that take place after the policy holder has flat lined. A few minutes pass until the essence of Spider barks in frustration, "Ah, forget man, let's go to Judy's." They have not been seen since.
Perhaps one day a group of itinerant citrus pickers will come across the well preserved remains of the permanently transcendental trio. Their imported pill box will be dragged from the drink and their remains will be buried in the red clay of Georgia. And on a higher plane they will obtain the greasy sandwiches for which they longed in their mortal state. Their stomach's filled maybe they'll get their groove on and find Somebody to Love.