With Apologies to Joe

34 Pages·2016·0.16 MB·English

by  Smith Gavin

(This isn’t a short story, it’s a chase scene with cowboys. Also I think it’s unfair that we never get a chance
to see things from the baddies perspective in Mad Max: Roadwarrior.
Buck and Gibby are two of the characters from my first novel Veteran. This takes place just before the
events in the book.
Thanks to Toby and Dy Heason for post cinema petrol head advice and to Dan Kendall for casting an eye
over the story. As ever the mistakes are mine own (they tried.)
Mile after mile of sun cracked black top highway disappeared beneath the
wheels of the speeding muscle car. The smart independent suspension and
intelligent armoured wheels adapted to allow for the non-existent maintenance
on Route 27.
The noise of the engine seemed to scream through Joe. He felt the flow of fuel
through the car’s engine as if it was burning through his own veins. He had to
keep it all under control, not unleash the full capabilities of the eight hundred
horsepower, four-wheel-drive, supercharged, armoured pursuit car. He had to
hold it back, like the rage that tunnelled his vision and only allowed him to see
the cracked asphalt and heat haze of the road ahead.
The swamp like, vast, slow moving river that was the Everglades was just a
peripheral blur of tall grass and water on his left. Only the odd tree or vehicle
wreck broke the uniformity of the swampy landscape. Joe closed his eyes but
sensors feeding information through the plugs in the back of his neck that
connected his cerebellum to the car, meant that he still saw the road ahead as he
sped north up Florida though Seminole land.
*
Gibby was pissed off. The trip down to the Keys had been worth it. They had
made good money acting as couriers for Papa Neon, delivering pharmaceuticals
to the various communities that called the Keys their home. One or two other
nefarious acts of road piracy had netted them some extra cash and much needed
excitement. The last bit of pursuit had ended when they had made it to Seminole
land. They had conducted hurried negotiations with the tribal council whilst
travelling at speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour being pursued by
Florida Rangers. This was not the reason that Gibby was pissed off.
The council had been paid and had also created some new and grateful
customers to avail themselves of the facilities offered on Seminole lands. The
facility currently being enjoyed by the small group of Hard Luck Commancheros
was a barge floating in the Everglades next to Route 27. The barge was part
roadhouse, part casino and most importantly to Gibby, and he suspected his non-
sexual life partner Buck, part whorehouse. Needless to say this wasn’t pissing
off Gibby either.
Gibby wasn’t pissed off that Buck had disappeared; he assumed that his partner
was taking care of business. He wasn’t pissed off that he was most of the way
down a bottle of swamp grown sour mash. Quite the contrary he was enjoying
that. Nor was he bothered that he was on the stage trying to pole dance with
varying degrees of non-success, much to the amusement of the male and female
prostitutes whose routines he was disrupting. He could not remember how he
had gotten up there but he was pretty sure that he was enjoying himself. Nor was
he pissed off because he had just seen a pretty blonde and a dark haired girl, he
was pretty sure was Cuban, that he wanted to take to bed. He was sure he had the
money for both this evening. Gibby was pissed off because he could here the
unmistakeable dull slap of flesh being punched hard. The sound of a girl
screaming followed the unpleasant sound of the punch.
“Goddamn it!” Gibby’s East Texas accent was unmistakeable. Both Gibby and
Buck were proud of their Austin heritage, even though the city was largely ruins
dotted with armed compounds now. The tall rangy cyberbilly got down off the
stage. He was still wearing his armoured duster. A braided beard, thick
dreadlocks and cheap plastic sunglasses that hid the black plastic lenses of his
military grade cybernetic eyes, obscured most of his facial features.
“Where’s my damn hat?” He asked mainly himself. The prostitutes had stopped
dancing now and were glancing nervously towards the noise of the beating. The
barman was climbing over the bar carrying a heavy metal rod, one end of which
was insulated. Gibby presumed it was a homemade taser. Two of the hugely
built bouncers were also making a beeline for the sound of the beating. Both the
bouncers were unnaturally massive, boosted muscle and habitual steroid abuse.
Gibby found his wide brimmed Confederate replica hat and tried to beat the
bouncers to the noise. He drunkenly checked that he was wearing his gun belt.
Fortunately the roadhouse had a civilised, if you were from the South, approach
to the carrying of guns on their premises. To Gibby’s sour mash addled mind
this showed that the owners of this fine establishment understood the principles
of personal responsibility.
Gibby followed the sound of the beating and subsequent cries of pain into a
corridor lined with the doors to the hookers’ working rooms. Prostitutes and
various members of the Commancheros were coming out of the rooms to see
what the commotion was about. The barman and bouncers were just behind
Gibby.
Gibby nodded to some of his compadres as he pushed through the people and
arrived at the door from which the noises that were angering him were
emanating. Gibby could not be bothered to fuck around. He just kicked it open
and stepped in.
*
She was a blonde girl, probably in her early twenties, pretty enough in a girl-
next-door kind of way. So much so it did not look like the owners of the
Roadhouse had paid to have her face sculpted. She was naked and sat up in the
bed her arms tied to the headboard with leather belts. Here head lolled as she
drooled blood, she was barely conscious.
Gibby went from pissed off to downright furious very quickly. He had been
expecting to have to deal with some redneck road train jockey. He had not
wanted to find a Commanchero responsible. On the other hand Gibby was not
particularly surprised to see Rattlesnake Jack kneeling over the girl.
Jack was a relatively new member of the Hard Luck Commancheros. He had
only recently gone from pledge to full member. He was so new that his beard
was little more than a goatee and his dreadlocks were just stubs. Rattlesnake
Jack was a small, wiry, weasel of a man. He was always jittery from reflexes that
were boosted to high augmented with amphetamine based knock-off combat
drugs. The tattoo of a diamondback rattler wrapped around his torso. It was
rumoured that his cock was tattooed to look like the rattle. The snake’s mouth
was tattooed across both of Jack’s cheeks.
Jack claimed to be a Green Beret, Special Forces. Gibby knew the type well
having been a pilot in the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment or the
Nightstalkers. He and Buck had run more than their fair share of hairy missions
ferrying borderline psychotics in and out of hot LZs. Both Gibby and Buck had
fought in the on-going colonial war with Them before the two pilots had
deserted.
Jack had Snake’s Tooth out. A laser forged, belt-titanium bladed, bone handled
hunting knife that he claimed was a family heirloom. He was holding it in front
of the girl. Oblivious to anything that was going on around him because he was
so messed up on whatever drug he had chosen today.
“I’m going to make you pretty new red slits, whore, do you hear me? You’re
going to live it. You’re going to beg me for more.” Gibby chose to remind Jack
about his surroundings by kicking him in the side with all his strength. The kick
knocked Jack off the bed and sent him sprawling. Quickly the wiry little
cyberbilly was crouched low in a fighting stance, knife at the ready. Gibby had
his hands on the twin antique Colt Navy .44’s he had extensively modified.
“Fuck!” Jack screamed, inarticulate with anger and confusion.
“Don’t be stupid son,” Gibby warned him. He glanced at the girl and then
quickly back to Jack. “Your pecker not work son or do you just not know what
to do in a perfectly respectable whorehouse?” Jack relaxed out of his fighting
posture and stood up.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” he asked, facial features twitching.
“You know you’re supposed to have sex with the womenfolk who work here
don’t you? Not beat on them.” Gibby asked, sounding more reasonable than he
felt.
“I paid for her I can do what ever I want.” Behind Gibby the bouncers and the
barmen were in heated discussion with Cletus and Kid Buzzsaw. Cletus and the
Kid were two of Jack’s toadies who bought the Special Forces veteran’s bullshit.
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. The girls and boys work hard here, and
since by only paying is an ugly son-of-bitch like you going to get a sniff of pussy
I’d a thought you’d be a mite kinder.” Gibby was pushing Jack hard, he knew it
and he knew it was a bad idea as he had a pretty good idea who would win a
fight between the two of them.
“Watch your mouth shitheel, you know who I am and what I’m capable of,” Jack
growled and then started hitting the side of his head and muttering to himself.
Gibby watched this with mounting concern.
“Only because you keep on telling us,” he said, though he was a little distracted
by Jack’s behaviour. It looked like the other Commanchero was trying to sort out
bad reception in his head by hitting it.
A very large man pushed his way into the room. Gibby recognised Nokker. The
bear like blonde cyberbilly had been a member of the Swedish Marines and liked
to keep the more unpleasant traditions of his Viking heritage alive and well. He
was another one of Jack’s unpleasant group of toadies.
Nokker looked down at the beaten prostitute and sneered. Gibby did not like the
way this was going down.
“What’s up Jack?” Nokker asked and turned round to stare at Gibby. Unlike
most vets Nokker did not have lenses of impact-hardened plastic covering his
eyes. When he had left the service he had saved up his ill-gotten gains and
bought himself some fake eyes. They were piercing blue in colour and staring at
Gibby.
“Fucked if I know I was enjoying some R’n’R and Gibby bursts in and kicks me
off the bed.”
“The evil little prick was about to go to work on the girl with his knife,” Gibby
snapped, exasperated and beginning to get a little worried.
“Fuck’s that got to do with you?” Nokker demanded. Gibby looked between the
pair wondering if someone had snuck in and lobotomised them whilst he had
been cavorting on stage.
“Listen you pair of dickheads,” both of them bristled at the insult, though Gibby
would have characterised it as a description. “I will try and put this in terms that
even the terminally fuck-witted will understand. People in a bar fight, they’re for
hitting, whores, they’re for making sweet-sweet love to. Or maybe in your case
Jack for sobbing onto their breasts because you’ve done so much shit that your
pecker’s shrivelled until it’s become inverted,” Gibby said and knew he had
gone to far.
“The fuck you say!” Jack snarled and moved towards Gibby as Nokker made to
grab him. Gibby had both pistols half way out but he knew that he was not going
to be quick enough. Suddenly Nokker was pushed out of the way and Buck was
standing in the doorway.
Buck was a bit taller and wider than Gibby and like Gibby his facial features
were hidden by a lot of hair. Gibby’s non-sexual life partner was stood with his
hands on his hips, wearing his hat, his chaps, his spurred boots, his duster and
nothing else. He had his gun belt over his shoulder but everything else was on
display, proudly or so it looked to Gibby. He wondered if that was going to upset
Jack more.
Behind Gibby was a very pretty young Native American guy with dark eyes and
high cheekbones. Gibby raised an eyebrow. Buck was normally a very vocal fan
of the female gender. Gibby shrugged it off.
“Gibby amigo did I just hear you insult another Commanchero’s pecker?”
“With good reason,” Gibby said and nodded at the girl. Buck glanced down at
the beaten girl, his face immediately hardening.
“What the hell?” Buck demanded. His accent made hell sound like hail.
“Why don’t you go and mind your own business faggot?” Jack growled,
undisguised disgust in his voice. Buck looked confused.
“What the fuck’s a faggot?” he asked.
“It’s a derogatory term for homosexuals,” the effeminate Native American told
Buck.
“Derogatory?” Buck asked. Gibby sighed. This could take a while.
“It’s a fucking insult,” Gibby explained.
“Oh.” Buck gave this some thought. “Just who exactly do you think is
homosexual son?” he asked Jack. Jack and Nokker exchanged a surprised
glance.
“I think he means you darling,” the effeminate Native American answered.
“No shit?” Buck asked Jack.
“Well you’re the only guy fucking a feller here,” Jack spat. Nokker nodded.
“Just because I’m going have fun with Timothy here doesn’t make me a
homosexual,” Buck said confidently. Even Gibby was not sure if he was going
to be able to follow this trail of logic. Timothy was looking at his customer
sceptically. “Hell no,” Buck added for emphasis.
“And what’s wrong with being a homosexual?” Timothy enquired pettishly. One
perfectly shaped eyebrow rising in enquiry.
“Nothing at all, what a man, woman or chicken wants to do in privacy or even
publicly with all folks consenting is completely up to them. I am surprised
there’s even an insult for folks who like a little cock-on-cock action, after all this
is America god damn it!” Buck said passionately.
Jack seemed to lose his temper. “Are you fucking the little fag in the arse?!” he
screamed.
“Well I was about to until I was disturbed.”
“Then that makes you a faggot you fucking queer!” Jack finished screaming. He
had gone red and was gasping for breath he was so angry. Buck had no idea why
the smaller Commanchero was getting so uptight.
“Queer?”
“Another insult,” Timothy offered helpfully. Now Buck was starting to get
pissed.
“Look you’ve got no call to go insulting people just because they’re gay,
especially not as you seem to like beating up on the defenceless.”
“That’s none of your business fag,” Jack spat. Nokker on the other hand was
looking curious.
“How come you’re not a fag?” the big Swede asked.
“I should’ve thought that was obvious,” Buck answered. “Clearly I am so secure
in my sexuality that I can take a break from my normal diet of ladies to corn-
hole a feller when I meet someone as pretty as young Timothy here.”
“So you’re bi-sexual then?” Nokker asked and Gibby had to admit that was what
it sounded like.
“Nope,” Buck answered. “Besides it’s not gay if you’re doing it to them. The
Trojans taught us that.” Everyone stopped and stared at Buck. Buck however
seemed perfectly secure in his statement.
“What the fuck’s a Trojan?” Nokker asked. Nobody answered. Timothy
recovered first.
“As fascinating as this conversation is, I think we should get Serena some help,”
Timothy suggested.
“Everyone fuck off out of my room and let me finish!” Jack screamed.
“What so you can jack over her cut up corpse?” Timothy spat at the weasel-like
Commanchero. Jack made a move towards the prostitute but Buck stepped in
front of him, a hand on one of his pistols.
Jack went still and calm. “You’re not nearly quick enough. Leave the fag here
and fuck off, I’m going to hurt him as well,” he told them.
Nokker reached out and firmly gripped Gibby’s shoulder. Gibby could feel the
steel like fingers, augmented with boosted muscle, through the armour of his
duster. He did not like the way this was going down.
“Son you’re from Alabama ain’t you?” Buck asked. Gibby was praying that
Buck would try and calm things down a bit.
“So?” Jack asked. Buck nodded at the semi-conscious prostitute tied to the bed.
“Are you angry because that girl’s not your own mama or something?” Buck
asked him. Gibby felt everything slow down. He knew violence was imminent
and he didn’t like the odds.
“What the hell is going on here!?” a surprisingly bass sounding female voice
demanded. The crowd of Commancheros and the staff of the Roadhouse that had
gathered outside the door parted to let the enormous figure through. She moved
with both a limp and slight clanking sound into the doorway.
Gibby heaved a sigh of relief as Bearded Momma ducked under the doorway
and stepped into the room. In the corridor outside she left two bikini-clad girls
who presumably had been entertaining her.
Bearded Momma was just shy of six feet six. She was fat but the sort of fat that
looked physically powerful as well. The bits of her that were not fat or muscle
were scratch built cybernetics parts. Gibby new that she had served in the
mechanised cavalry in the war but she had piloted tanks rather than the heavier
and better armed mechs. A bad hit in a tank battle with Them had destroyed
much of her body. Cashiered out of the army she had managed to rebuild herself
through technical skill and sheer force of personality.
Momma had the dreadlocks common with most cyberbillys but unusually for a
female cyberbilly she had also chosen to have beard implants. She said that she
just liked the look and it made her more of a hit with the ladies.
Bearded Momma had raced and fought her way to the top of the Hard Luck
Commancheros. She was their leader in as much as they recognised one, though
much of that was just down to Momma’s tough, cheerful common sense.
Momma’s normally cheerful expression evaporated when she saw the beaten
girl. She turned to glare at Jack.
“I paid for her…” he began.
“What the fuck!?” Momma demanded.
“It’s nobody’s fucking business…” he started again. Momma took a step
towards him.
“What the fuck!?” She was roaring now. Gibby took a step back, as did Nokker.
Buck was just watching Jack, waiting to see if he was going to make a move.
Momma moved on Jack, towering over him. Gibby had to give him his credit,
Jack held his ground.
“You’re going to make this right,” Momma whispered to Jack. Jack just stared at
her. He was trying to keep his face expressionless but the seething anger beneath
was obvious to Gibby. “Then you and I are going to have a talk when we get
back to Crawling Town. You understand me?” Jack said nothing. Momma
leaned in even closer. The big woman was practically tickling his face with her
beard. “I said did you understand me? Is there any part of what I said you would
like me to explain further?” she asked, the threat explicit.
*
The muscle car skidded to a halt, brakes screaming. Long after the sound of the
brakes had echoed into nothingness over the sea of grass Joe was still screaming,
striking out at the inside of the car and pounding on the dash. Somewhere in the
back of his red mind, overtaken by rage and instinct, the sentient part of what
was left of Joe was trying to suppress the noise in his head. The screaming. Just
a little longer it promised.
Joe gripped the dash fighting for breath and control. Seeing the aces and eights
of the stylised playing cards painted on the vehicles parked outside the barge did
nothing to help control the rage. It was their logo, the Dead Man’s Hand, the
symbol of the Hard Luck Commancheros. Road pirates and nomadic gang trash
from Crawling Town, the vast city sized convoy made of various tribal gang
nations. Crawling Town plied the Dead Roads, the strip of polluted land that ran
from the rust belt in the North East down into Texas. Some of it was still
irradiated from the Final Human Conflict some three hundred years ago.
Calmness returned, though the rage seethed just under the surface allowing him
to make sentient actions and decisions. He could pretend he was human just a
little longer and not just rage’s hollow vessel. Soon he could allow himself to
fall into the workings of the car. Possess it in spirit form like his ancestors had
once done with animals. Become an animal, a four-wheeled predator, leave
nothing left of Joe.
He had to force the hatred down as he could see them now. Members of the
Commancheros stood looking out of the window. They had heard the car scream
to a halt and they knew and appreciated the sound of a well tuned, performance
engine under duress.
Time to hit them where it hurt what was left of Joe decided. He used the link to
feed alcohol to the engine, gunning the car and then slipping it into gear with a
thought. The car leapt forward across the dirt of the barge/roadhouse’s car park.
Joe turned the wheels with a thought, the car slewed around into a hundred and
eighty degree skid. The car slid, hard into the end line of the Commancheros’
parked bikes.