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A crosswind hit, waft gently over the dirty black
patch that covered the ruins of his right eye. His nose twitched, wrinkled
against the scent of something long dead and way overdue for the buzzards. Fact
is, it smelled so bad even they'd probably puke. Probably something the rich old
fart in the Lamborghini next to him ran over.
Adjusting the eye patch to cover a grin, Benny patted
the battered tank of the war-torn Uohali-Red Sun motorcycle. “Flying free,
man,” he said. “Like riding a horse.” He glanced at the car. Def'netly
cherry, but yo.
Admiration for the sleek lines of the car lit his
face. Then a sneer for the pampered old goomba who was driving.
Memories better off left dormant flashed through
Benny's mind. Memories of the rich and the evil that destroyed so many in his
life. Grandfather Greylov, millionaire and rotten to the core. Leda Melancowski,
wealthy beyond her wildest dreams, a rich peasant who lived for sex, money, and
their god, the Mohawk-Buu. Memories of his personal battles with the rich, like
Cindy VanTur. Cindy and her precious Janissary Project.
“Slaving bitch,” he muttered and glared up at the
light.
‘Idiot.’ Grampa Waya muttered in his head.
‘Should of gone west, then north past Washington. Got all a these
politico-slugs out looking for boys-toys to boff.’
And Cindy. Benny cast an involuntary glance around.
His skin started to crawl, something whispered, and he
noticed the rich scuds in the car was staring.
Every time, him or one of his had come out on the
dirty end of the stick when they warred with one of them. Benny smiled, impolite
and showing almost to his molars. The man’s eyes widened. He jerked his gaze
from Benny.
The senator scowled at the dash. Something about the
boy, but what? The man's eyes grew cold. The gaze followed the battered lines of
the ancient war-horse Benny rode and they sneered. He looked from the corner of
his eye at the kid himself. A black leather eye-patch parted a red-hot scar that
ran diagonally across the face, over a high cheekbone. From the color of the
skin and the facial features, this was one of those unwashed mongrel 'breeds
that were so commonplace in his own home state. The patch was nice, if somewhat
ludicrous. It gave the little fairy the look of a real hard case, a jailbird,
rather than what he was. Jailbait. Fifteen will get you twenty, if you don’t
have connections.
The window slithered down. Griffin's wispy dyed hair
lifted. There was a slight and humid breeze. He spat on the street between them.
He was bored. The light was too long, the day too hot. Hell, politics had made
him rich. What did he care about some 'breed Indian? Those kind never voted
anyway. Besides, the little prick didn't look old enough to hold a real driver's
license, let alone vote. With a lazy sneer of a grin, the politician's middle
finger shot up.
“Butt punk. How much you charge, ‘toy?”
Benny stiffened. His head dropped. Did he know this
creep? Was his old lady one of the women he met at the Manse? God damn the
Project and Leda Melancowski. Benny's face stained in humiliation to a dark
brick red, as hot and sweaty as the day. Fear tightened his scrotum and brought
an ache to the scars down there, mementos of his time at the Manse.
Seeing pain on the kid's face, in the stiff slump of
the leather jacket clad shoulders, the politico laughed. His smile turned down,
the autocratic nose pinched slightly. What was that smell?
“Little faggot.” The kid needed to be dipped. As
dipped in something that would sterilize him. “Red-nigger boy.”
Head bent downwards, Benny tipped it to face the man.
He smiled.
A sudden breeze whipped shaggy black hair from his
face. The politico stopped mid-sentence and stared into a hard, lean face,
deep-set and angry blue eye. A twinge of fear crawled through his guts
The kid looked like something out of a Frankenstein
flick-
“Oh, shit.” He worked his mouth and managed to
come up with enough saliva to spit out the taste of fear. He made a face at the
bitterness in its taste and suppressed a shudder.
The breeze drifted a fine spray over the front of the
‘Sun and the right leg of Benny's jeans.
It was like the old fart was spitting on Carl ‘Papa
Bear’ Ivanovitch’s grave. Benny stared in disbelief. What was he, suicidal?
Benny roared in anger. He snatched a short length of heavy dog chain from his
pocket and swung his leg over the saddle. The leg didn't collapse on him this
time, thank the Wolf. The last thing he needed was a look of pity.
The washed blue of the man's eyes bulged. The
sun-fried wrinkles on his face sagged in a look of sheer terror at the horror
not three feet from his window. His open window. The dirty eye patch
loomed ominous in the heavy air. Griffin saw death coming. Fear screamed along
his nerves, demanded he defend himself. A gun, he had a gun. He fumbled in the
glove box.
“Where is it?” he screamed. “Not here, God.
Please, not now. Money? I'll give you money.” He reached for his wallet. He
could pay-
Bared teeth and the hideous scars slammed Griffin's
boa-skin Alberto Cattleman's boot hard on the accelerator, with Griffin's eyes
locked onto that awful face.
Benny was forced to leap back. He looked on in awe.
Tires squealed and smoked, ripped a double line of pure black down the road,
through the intersection and a flashing red light and seemed to gain altitude.
He blinked. “Man, but I wasn't gonna do squat.”
Just give the old wiseass a piece of mind. “Like I can afford to lose
anymore,” Benny said with a wry laugh and rubbed at the scar where the
microchip had been inserted. “ Maybe a few choice words of caution, y'know?”
he said to the man in a battered gray pickup across the lane from him. “The
chain was only there to get his attention. Gospel, but yo.”
The man nodded. “Did a fine job of it, too, young
man.”
There was a loud grating sound of hard bodies grinding
into each other with undue violence. A gentle tinkle of loosened parts and the
inevitable wobble of a hubcap topped the event. Badly injured by the Lamb’s
flight, a police cruiser screamed to life and limped after the dream-car. Benny
winced. The man in the truck grinned.
“Your balls is dog meat. Man, m-hm. You better get
on out a here, 'fore the cops see what fish they done caught.”
“Ee-ya.” Benny nodded and slid back onto the
‘Sun. The man in the truck straightened and appeared nonchalant. Easy for him.
He wasn't the one the cops would be accusing of attempted assassination. Benny
put the helmet back on and tried to follow the man's lead. Not easy when you
have a bunch of rednecks glaring at you like it was all your fault.
‘Be chill,’ Grandfather Wya’s voice
snarled in the back of his head. ‘Ol’ Cindy lives just over the hill, so
to say, and kid, her people own DC cops. What an ass you were to come this way.
Shortest route, ya, sure. Purentee hormones, you ask me, you pimple brain yap
head. Dope.’
Under his breath, Benny said, “OK, Grampa, shut
it.”
There was a low snicker, then silence.
Benny gave the cops an innocent blink. They arrest him
and he was a goner. Cindy would be on him like stink on skunk. One glared his
way and spat on the road. Cindy worked real close to here. An aching cramp
ground through his stomach. Still, he couldn't suppress a broad grin when the
man turned away. So he hid it by opening his last pack of RedasCinn gum and put
a stick in his mouth.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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