162 Damage and Collateral

No More Links.


Chust Story.



Ya Know.




Pack your bowl and pour your mug.




Let's go.




We in for a loooooong ride, baby.






Touch, Peel and Stand. ---by Days Of The New







I reached in my pocket for my ID card, and there, upon the gleaming hood of Katheena’s beautiful bitch, I brushed off the desert dust and lined us up.



The black bird spread its wings wide.






Crows record our human condition, lest you have forgotten.



We took a lesson from Katheena’s Mettle Book.




I looked about the surface of the moon.



I made an assessment of the shituation, looking across the road.



Joey joined me. “We going after those fuckers?”



Nope.


I looked down at his face, and then I turned and looked at Katheena, back inside the car.


“Not we. One of us will stay and one of us will go. Katheena been chugging mud, and she ain’t awake.”



Joey looked over at those fuckers whom we thought had caused this. “They need to be paid back for this.”



I thought about that. “Joseph. This shit is mine. Someone needs to take Katheena to the nearest hostibal.”



Joey looked at her. “In this here car? She looks pretty fast. Why you handing her over to me?”


I think he was talking about two things, when he said, "her."





I shrugged. “She is a fast bitch. Now get her south.”




Joey looked up at me and shook his head.


I felt hot under my leather. Katheena needed to be taken away. “Joseph, she has mud in her lungs. You need to get her to safety.”


Joey wasn't having it. “Weeeeee-ill! We both bail on this shit! That other car over there is like a cast iron stove. It won’t go fast! Come back with us NOW!”



I turned around and grabbed him by his leather. Always mind your leather. “Joseph, this shit is chust starting. I will end it.”




Joey looked over at those bastards in the mangled heap with their headlights shining all about. It looked like they had been dancing a tango and then fallen down to take a nice desert dust nap on top of a soft pillow, legs all intertwined.



He looked back up at me. “OK.”



Led Zepplin. The Rover.







After he shot off in the Maserati Bora, heading to a side street that would lead to south, and then to help and a hostibal, something occurred.


Headlamps appeared in the other direction from Joey. Some cars were coming back for us.



To us.


Who were they?



This was not going to be a good thing.


Sean and Tellesco had their own shit to deal with, which will be the description next time.



I did not need to deal with the mangled heap of broken bodies.



Fresh ones were coming.


For me.




Oh.



- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


I creaked open the heavy door to the old car. She smiled at me from inside. I think she liked me.


I would not treat her well.



But, I think she understood.


You see,


When you have spent your life gathering dust in a garage, instead of maximizing your potential, well, you will welcome a chance to show what it is that you can do.


When you are made out of solid iron, instead of plastic or aluminum, or thin-pressed sheet-metal, you can cause quite a bit of damage to those other cars,


...the younger ones.





Iron Horse.




Do not stand in the way of the Iron Horse.


It’s like a train.



She was an excellent 1957 Chevy.




To you, my friend, that means she was a:




Heavy,


Beautiful,


Unstoppable


Rocket.







a Rocket Ship.




They were built like rocket back then.



And now, she would finally get her chance to fly to the moon.





We would do it together.






We would die together.




We would get revenge.



That was the intention.






God Help You.


God Help Us All.




---willies out.