“Wutchoo on about, boy?” “Doug” unfroze from defenseless wimp stance.
“I’m on about how I’m not going down on some chump for nine hours to get dumped with all those granola chomping cidheads under Cascadia. No, thank you.”
“Oh, I woul’n’t thro’way a nice lil’ ole hunk-o-chocolate like you.” A jack-o-lantern smile from Benny.
“Ey! Back da fuggoff, Benny. I won dat goose fairs an’ squares,” “Doug” pushed Benny in the chest and got a fist in the nose for his trouble.
“Being Mexican, I’d consider myself cinnamon.”
“SooooooooWIE, oneuhdem lil’ Latin Lupe Lou’s. C’mon Cal, lemme ha’e dat goose. I likes ‘em spicy,” said Road Cone Meshback.
Cal (not Doug) said, “Wut Chet, you gonna hit me too if I sez no?” Not Doug puffed out his chest.
“If he don’t, I will,” Axle grunted through his bad facial hair.
Cal dove for Decker’s bag, trying to scoop as many of the piles of content into the main pouch. Before Cal could figure he screwed up his power play, Decker made a run for it. His HUD glitched out for a sec after a sucker punch to the head sent him back to the tile.
The five Confeds erupted into a knock-down drag-out brawl since the straw pulling incident was a wash. They first ganged up on Cal, rescattering Decker’s belongings across the restroom floor. Axle snagged Cal by his front teeth. He then palmed Cal’s face, thrusting backward into the mirror above the sinks. A bloody crack spider-webbed behind Cal’s head. With the previous winner out of commission, it became the gang fight from A Clockwork Orange.
Meshback Chet threw a full trashcan at Benny’s face. A couple of his remaining teeth knocked loose upon impact. The quiet one with the crazy eyes (that had otherwise been ignored to this point) and Chet pounced onto Axle’s back. Each of them struggled to find purchase on a neck that never existed.
Axle flipped The Quiet One, all redfaced and square-jawed, flat on his back with a wet slap and snap. Atop a pale horse, the Grim Reaper rocked out on a Confed flag guitar/scythe as Chet’s arm flexed around Axle’s “neck”. Chet grabbed a flick knife from his camo shorts with his free hand. Axle responded by running backwards at the utility closet door full force. Hinges buckled and Meshback slid down its length, gasping like a fish outta water. Axle brought down both fists with a barbaric “YAWP!” on top of that road cone orange hat. The body beneath crumpled. The Quiet One kept trying to move from the waist down with no success.
Massively Effected - Thuthập/Giữ/Tànphá
Axle gathered up Decker’s goods and collected them into his bag. He slung it over his back and pulled Decker off the floor, placing him over the other shoulder. He kicked Benny one last time as he unlocked the door.
A line of pissed off tourists doing a dance studded the wall outside the rest area. Decker didn’t see anyone from the WolfPack™ bus in line. Nor was there any sign of the bus in the parking lot. For all the funny looks a mountain of a man received while carrying a scrawny dark guy off to his truck like Tarzan, no one had the chutzpah to say anything about it.
Someone A Lot Like You (Please, Say Goodbye) - Glued By Milk
“Sure hope Ne’er’leans is t’yer fancy, Hollywood,” Axle dumped Decker into the sleeping cabin of his semi. “Cuz dat’s where we’re headed. Ya don’ like it? Tough titty sez da kitty,” Axle snorted the full contents of his sinuses and hacked. “But that milk’s still good.” He spit into the sea of colloquial fast food wrappers, spoiled bits clinging to their paper. They surrounded a soiled mattress where Axle slapped cuffs on Decker. Axle sniffed him like prey. Decker attempted to inhale as well. His nose was assaulted with a reek of every human excretion and a few others.
Axle climbed into the driver’s seat, began his pre-drive checks, and started up the roaring engine with a rebel yell. Decker remained quiet. He was heading east, and that was good enough. Though anxiety over covering the next few hundred klicks tightened Decker’s dry throat. “The Blushing Rose’s” whole cabin vibrated as Axle tooted “Rosie’s” Zip-a-dee Doo-dah air horn, pulling out onto the highway.
Get Down Make Love - Queen
It was a day later. Decker hadn’t been unchained, fed or called upon by Axle. No food or drink made Decked grateful he excreted before he was assaulted. It lacked drama or action, except for a tense moment at the Texan border where Axle slipped the patrol guard paper money and offered a pass at Deckers ass. It was only saved by the growing line of honking truckers waiting for inspection.
Decker’s graybox was on the fritz ever since the side of his head reconnected with Earth. Without his palmtop available to sync for a hotspot, Decker’s neuronet access was strictly AR. To make matters worse, his mental commands only worked half the time, leaving gesture and vocal control the only option.
Decker did manage to spend time learning the basics of the big rig’s VI code with only nodding at his disposal. While all cars had some form of onboard computer since last century, most modern ones sported Knight Rider class adaptive VI’s. This confed made DixiCo. semi-truck was not equipped with one of those models. Decker was more than disappointed the VI’s rudimentary personality construct didn’t sound like they were from The Confederacy.
They were somewhere outside Amarillo when the drugs lost their hold.
Decker was exhausted from a freak mix of sensory overload and sleep deprivation. One that comes from driving through The Sovereign Nation of Texas in Rosie’s sleeper cabin.
Axle engaged selfdrive, maneuvered himself out of the driver seat, and stood over Decker, leering gap-toothed. He unlocked Decker and dragged him by the long bleached part of his hair to the front. Axle dropped his pants. Decker wished he could dive into The Raw and escape the sharp tang wafting into his nose. He didn’t know if even that was deep enough to run from Axle’s acrid scrotal sweat. Pencil shavings and assisted living were the first things in Decker’s scent memory.
Axle’s seat auto-swiveled towards his bare ass, one hand on Decker’s head, the other on the slab of meat poking from a black forest. Settling back, Axle jerked himself erect. Decker took that time to interface with the sem(v)i. It took its security far more serious in selfdrive.
Surprise Thick ICE coated a kiosk manned by the humanoid asexual personality. It floated just to the right of a massive thigh with a tattoo of a poker hand full of nothing and, “Born to Lose” written below. The stinking, way more than a mouthful, dong crept ever closer as Decker’s head was pushed forward by Axle’s hold. Under normal, consensual, situations, Decker would be down for being bottom. As if Axle sensed Decker’s mind screaming a long sustained, ‘NO’, he grunted, “Hurry up. T’aint gonna suck itself.”
With that Decker’s mouth was pushed to the limits. To his pride, Decker still avoided teeth. His graybox felt it was a good time to misread his mental activity and pull up an AR overlay of his lockpicking GUI. While Decker’s skill with this app was excellent in The Raw, the gesture mechanics required the use of both hands. Seizing the opportunity, Decker stroked his hands in opposite light maneuvers around Axle’s meat. In a simulation of a videogame lockpicking system, Decker’s hands worked the redneck’s gag inducer. He zoned out trying to find the sweet spot. Axle bucked, forcing a retch from Decker’s throat muscles that made Axle’s legs stick out. Misreading his retch as a vocal command broke the pick, forcing a reset of the lock.
Decker gripped with both hands in a flurry, attempting to crack ICE way out the of league for an on the fritz free Pharrel public works graybox. Decker felt Axle pulsing in his throat, ready to burst. He tickled, just a little, on the underside, clicking the final lock section into place and gaining access to selfdrive. Decker activated Remote Access and jerked the wheel into the center divider.
Axle tried to spin towards the freed steering column. When the first car smashed into them is when Axle came. Decker covered his head and crawled to his bag in the back. The big rig jackknifed and rolled onto its side. Metal scraped along all four lanes, cars thudding into the car
go trailer and top of the cabin, flattening the sign that read, “Welcome to Amarillo”.
No Control - DeathBoy
Decker shook himself free of a pile of paper wrappers. His pocket studded bag mostly protected his head from flying debris while gravity defied itself. Axle wasn’t so lucky. A trail of red was finding its way down the sideways windshield. In a limp pile over the passenger seat Axle moaned. His colon’s oily remnants leaked from an exposed crack.
Using Axle’s bulk for bracing, Decker creaked open the driver door. Axle made a groan as Decker pushed off of his back, pulling himself into the desert midday. A backup of crashed and stopped cars spread beyond the jackknifed big rig. Decker touched boots to the pavement seconds after his pocket bag.
A cacophony of horns, from long sustained notes to short angry bursts, played as Decker staggered between twisted metal under a Texan sun. Heads turned towards the squinty brown guy shuffling past their cars down the highway gutter. What little fluids were still in Decker’s system escaped down his back and forehead. A drag of his arm across his face showed traces of red inside the dark sweat mark. Somewhere, his scalp stung.
“Hey, pard. You doing alright?” Drawled out an open window to the right. Decker refused to incriminate himself, unsure of the penalties of malicious slicing to cause grievous harm in The Sovereign Nation of Texas. The drawl called out again. Decker shuffled in a daze down the gutter between highway lanes, Amarillo hazy on the horizon. A car door opening sounded behind him. A hand caught his shoulder. Decker dropped into defense mode, dukes up, pugilist style.
The folk that belonged to the voice put his palms out, “Woah, woah, take’r easy there, feller. No need for any of that now.” Above a weak chin coated in rough stubble was a disarming smile. Decker relaxed his stance and the stranger switched his right paw into shake mode. “Name’s Rusty.”
Decker eyed Rusty’s hand as if it held a snake. Slicing thick ICE while choking on thick icicle was his graybox’s last task before blue screening. Lacking a biosigns reader to help Decker judge Rusty’s intentions, he opted to shake hands and hope.
Sunset - CiRCLE no.5
Rusty was kind enough to let Decker play DJ through the car’s cloud support. They were peeling off down The 40 (which Rusty kept calling I-40) with Sol sinking behind them.
“I understand if you don’t wanna chat an’ all that. But where you headed?” Rusty said.
“East.”
“Not real talkative where yer from?” Decker shrugged. Rusty chuckled. A synthetic orchestra swelled over a bossanova beat. “I like the song.”
Decker cleared his throat, “Thanks. It’s my great grandpa’s band.”
“No shit?”
“You guys still say that?”
“Any ‘ticular place East you heading?”
“As far as you’re heading.”
Rusty chuckled again. Decker liked his laugh. “I’m headed back to Tulsa.”
“That’s not really far enough.”
Rusty scratched his stubble that failed to hide his boyish good looks. He made an, “Ehn,” and shrugged a shoulder. He sat relaxed in the seat, weaving in and out of traffic, “Mind if I smoke?”
Decker fished in his pocket and popped two sticks from his pack, “Here.”
“Thankee kindly,” Rusty fished in his pocket for a lighter. Decker leaned over and lent him a light then lit his own smoke. “Much obliged.”
“You picked me up from a car wreck. It’s the least I can do.” Decker powered down his window, ashing through the crack. Rusty ashed into the open tray stuffed with butts.
“Do unto others and all that good book shit.”
“Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but is that the only reason you picked me up?”
Rusty looked genuinely puzzled.
“Sorry. Last guy I got a ride from was more into horse brutality than hospitality.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that,” Rusty took another drag.
The Memory Remains (Metallica Cover) - Perestroika
Music blared from the ranch style house windows. Rusty pushed open the barely there wooden gate and a Rottweiler with cropped ears and a full sack barked at the end of his tether. “Shut up Skillet,” Rusty said as they walked up to the door. Decker recoiled from Skillet's gnashing jaws, took a look at the milky way showing through Tulsa’s idea of light pollution, and followed up the steps.
“Jake? You home?” Rusty’s voice and storm door pneumatics drowned out by guitars.
On the couch one guy was rocking back and forth faster than the beat, wringing his hands. The other was splayed out in a bean bag, trodes in place on their forehead, zonked out on the neuronet.
Rusty kicked the beanbag guy’s leg with his boot. “‘Hey, Jake. Get up, fucker. C’mon.”
Jake shot straight up, dilated eyes glazed in nethaze. His dopey face contorted from a sneer to the smile of recognition. “Awe sheeyit Rust, you can’t sneak up on a feller like that,” Jake went from rubbing his face to shaking his head into a brain martini. “Why ya back so late? We’re outta beer.”
“Was held up. Screw beer, got enough Up? Yer bones’re ‘bout to jump outta yer skin,” Rusty’s face was less pleasant than his tone.
A wild eyed blonde walked out wearing undergarments and a stetson. She splayed next to the rocking guy and grabbed a lit smoke from a crystal ashtray. Decker couldn’t think of a lie good enough to get out of this place so he kept his mouth shut. Instead he looked about trying to find the least awkward place to rest his eyes.
“Who’s the beaner?” Jake pointed a finger at Decker.
Dumbfounded, Decker said, “Did you seriously just call me a beaner?”
“What’s it to ya?” Jake cracked his neck.
Rusty pushed Jake into the beanbag, “Yer being a real boner. He was in a wreck and needed a ride. Was gonna let him crash for the night, but I see we have company.”
Jake struggled to get upright again, “It’s like consortin’ wit’ tha enemy. We’re still in open conflict.”
“Oh, shut the frag up, dude,” Decker drug his hand through his hair in exasperation. “I’m from fragging Hollywood and I haven’t even been to TJA664.”
Rusty spread his arms, “Woah, woah, what ever happened to folk just being folk, huh?”
The half-nude girl pushed about the coffee table contents up and joined the conversation, “Who’s the beaner?”
“Dude, frag this,” Decker turned to leave.
Headlights in the driveway blinded Decker through the storm door. Skillet's barks came in savage salvos followed by a yelp as footsteps approached. The wannabe gate closed on a rusty spring as the storm door darkened with three silhouettes. Rough looking youths pushed past Decker into the house. Decker scanned a bulge behind the back of the guy in the metal band t-shirt. A red faced kid with greasy blonde curls open carried a revolver.
The rocking guy sprang to his feet, “Dylan. Howdy. So glad you showed. Vibes are tense. You got the Up? I’m not that Up. I don’t think Jake is up. Jake are you up? No Jake’s not up. You got Up Dylan? Like what the fuck man?”
“Who tha fuck is that guy? And why the FUCK is he lookin’ at me like that?” Dylan prodded a shaking finger towards Decker, face growing redder, veins pulsing at the temples.
Rusty facepalmed, “Ah, shucks.”
Race For The Prize (The Flaming Lips cover) - Ngunnawal
Decker was driving with the windows down and the volume up. Feeling as good as possible, trying to shove the last couple days events to the back of his mind. Sol peeked into view on the former flat farmlands horizon.
Dylan did not like being told to calm down by Rusty. So he jammed a JumpUp inhaler into his lips and full loaded him. Jake tried to pry Dylan off and got pistol whipped by the guy in the black metal t-shirt for the effort. The Blonde on the couch went into warrior mode. She grabbed the ashtray and flung it into the face of the lady of the trio. She jumped on Dylan’s back screaming, “You wasted it, you wasted it,” whil
e The Rocking Guy started shrieking at the top of his lungs. In his manic state the coffee table got flipped over. A bowl of cereal milk and a stack of dumbpaper magazines hit the floor.
Unable to think of anything logical to do, Decker shouted, “What the frag is going on?”
Dylan remembered who was looking at him so damn funny. He pushed the clawing Jumper off him and onto his buddy. The lady who took an ashtray to the face stared blank eyed at the ceiling. Decker shouted and ran full force into the group, knocking Dylan off his feet. Decker slapped Dylan’s revolver from his grip with a couple magazines. A round discharged through a window as Decker slipped on the milk spill while making his escape. Decker landed next to a stray set of keys, swooped them up, and scrambled out the door, chased by racial slurs and a stray bullet.
Now, Decker was cruising along The 70 in a sweet muscle car with a rubber scrotum dangling from the mirror. His ride was unfortunately an old school combustion engine. With difficulty, Decker had filled the tank at the station advertising itself as, “Seriously, the REAL last gas station in Texas.” But at dawn, in The Wastes, with no maps for these territories, the FUEL gauge clicked on a gas pump symbol.