Dirty Little Thing by Velvet Revolver
That ghost girl needed me to grab something, and it wasn’t any of her prodigious body parts. It was some ghost stuff. There were some things that could help us in the War that was about to erupt.
Ya wanna see?
First, let’s go see how what Big
was up to doing, and who was talking to him.
Keep your shorts on, would ya?
Dude was gonna steal a ride.
This is how he did it. Remember, he was fresh from prison, and he had no tools, he had no skills, and he had no game.
He had one thing, however.
He had heart, and he had a reason.
He was gonna come save us.
Who had told him about our impending predicament?
How would he know that we would be in dire straights? (No, not talking about Mark Knopfler here, awesome guitarist that he is…)
Well, it was a sibilant whisper speaking in his ears.
It was Katheena. She was dead, and he didn’t recognize.
He just didn’t recognize her voice. He had a bump to the noggin from her the previous evening, and now he was operating on simple, pure trust. His first order of business had been to fortify himself with a solid meal.
That was mightily accomplished.
Now it was time for stealing, and then there would be fighting. He was a big guy. What else are you supposed to do in prison, knit sweaters? Yup, he lifted weights. And he also learned how defend himself. You recall this don’t you? He was a warrior. He would help us out.
So Big Bryan scanned the parking lot, looking for something solid, fast, and big. What do you suppose caught his eye?
What would you do?
Spoiled bitch of a driver.
Of course, when you are looking for a good food, always look for a place that has truckers parked outside. They know the best places to chow down. It’s the law of the road.
You know by now that he was the son of a trucker.
He knew how to drop a trailer, and how to operate the split shift.
This guy, he walked right over to the semi rig. He wound the legs down, and put that haul up high. Then he shut off the air compressor. He disconnected the hoses to the trailer brakes. Pshshshsst, each one. He disengaged the trailer, and climbed into the cab, and then he fucking rode away, skipping gears. When you have no weight to haul, you can squeal tires and you can race, when you know how to drive a semi rig without the trailer.
Katheena was telling
about the burned ranch, and about the flooded mansion.
She left out the part about her dying while she was trying to save us punk bastards.
She didn’t want him to be distracted.
She didn’t tell him that she had some books still held in her car, crashed and drowned in the desert up north, and how those books held some answers.
There they lay, hidden behind a false rear-seat compartment along with empty beer bottles and cans, and there they would remain until the whole car could be found again, if it ever could be found.
You recall, it was a lovely golden car with gold-tinted windows, and it was buried up to its neck in golden desert sand.
Of course we would find it. But how? And what was that Walkin doing all this time?
36 hours, in five different ways.
Hey, keep your shorts on, baby. This shit is three years leading up to this War.
God Help You.
God Help Us All.