|
Plucking
dying flower heads from the shaggy mums his mother planted, Spike groaned,
forlorn, and shredded the flowers. Man, but would it be great if someday he
could get Benny to take him for a ride. Maybe even Two Mile Hill into the town
of Weatherly.
Feeling
better, Spike leaped down from the flower boxes, carefully sidling past his
father’s new OutReach 2025X. Man, all that jerk fuss over one little, tiny
scratch. And it wasn’t even his fault. That dumb jerk Hamilton was trying to
catch a stupid jerk bird, is all.
Spike
winced at a ghosting of pain over his buttocks and up his back where his
father lashed him with a belt. He smiled at his mother’s rusted station
wagon. Patting the battered war-horse, he skipped to the back of the four bay
garage to where Hamilton the Second, an orange, longhaired monster in
Spike’s mind, did his business.
One
little scoop of kitty litter should cover the oil spots left by the Night Sun.
No use giving Dad even a hint as to just who Angie’s date was.
Moving
with caution between the cars, he scowled. A small shadow leered from the low
retainer wall along the drive. Chilled by more than cooling night air, Spike
whimpered. He gasp and the scoop of pellets scattered over the floor.
It
was one of them. One like the kind
that tried to bite him late at night when he had to go so bad it hurt.
Rubbing
goose pimples from his arms, Spike backed into the solid bulk of his
mother’s station wagon. The car’s spirit greeted him, tried to comfort
him.
“B-
Beat it,” he whispered at the nenepi
spirit, his voice a raw quiver of terror. “Beat it. Before I beat you.” Despite what Carl Ivanovitch taught the boy on impromptu
visits to bath in the DA’s heated pool, the last word still came out in a
high squeak.
The
imp sneered. Revving an invisible motorcycle, it giggled, torn between feeding
on the kid’s terror or spying on its master’s prey, the Grey-Wolf
Woman’s bastard of a son.
Benny?
“Yikes!”
It
hissed at Spike and ripped out of the drive in pursuit of Benny leaving a
trail of green, decaying pus.
“Geedamnfool!”
And
slammed into a pillar of tan granite. A massive rider stared down at the thing
spattered on his leg.
In
need of his father, Spike whimpered and didn’t dare cry out because the man
would scorn him. O’Brian said so.
The
rider was without helmet. Bare feet stuck out of ragged, faded cut-off jeans.
A worn black jacket, the sleeves ripped away to accommodate arms bigger and
more muscular than even Carl’s strained across the back. Feathered earrings
and thin chains drifted in the left ear. The right one was devoid of ornament.
A long, pale gold Mohawk topped it all.
Warrior:Guardian
Two Swords scowled a thundercloud out of a face only a Mack truck, or God,
could be at ease with.
Clapping
his hands together, in a high, very insincere falsetto, he cried, “Oo, geez.
I’m so dern sorry, mister. Was you usin’ this lane? Hmm?” Next to him,
Curly and the rest of the Stooges had the face of Adonis.
Then
in a low, growling voice, “I just wanna he’p you.”
With
a grimace of disgust, he reached down to peel the flattened horror from his
ankle. Two Swords flicked it away.
Two
Swords’ voice deepened into a bellow of thunder.
“And
lay off my kid.”
He glared after the imp. “Or I’ll do worse than squash your mangy hide. Got
it?” Throwing a grin at Spike, he said, “Think it heard me?” Bearish
laughter rumbled into the evening sky.
Half
deafened and awed speechless, Spike watched the massive rider tap his classic
Uohali-Gold Sun into first. The deep sapphire blue headlamp glowed and
brightened and they picked up speed.
The
Warrior-Guardian flashed a mouthful of ivory at the boy. Raising a clenched
fist, he roared, “Yo. Stay cool, bro-Spike. Your day’s a-comin’.”
A
bass chuckle rumbled behind him. Spike wheeled and gasp. Another one?
“Wow.”
The
second Guardian was dressed in the same casual way as the first, this one in
torn jeans and a ragged tee shirt. He nodded and gave Spike a slow,
conspiratorial wink. His glowing sword whispered a trill. Flames cracked out
to surround Spike in a protective blue/gold wall. Battle scarred hands raised,
the head nodded.
In
a slow pivot Spike moved back to the one riding away. His fist balled and shot
up in answer to the first warrior.
Two
Swords’ Gold Sun roared a challenge to anyone, any thing
stupid enough to offer battle. Defiant and angry, the boom echoed off
Sugarloaf Mountain in the distance, beyond Sybertsville.
A
scowl on his face, O’Brian snapped off the wall-sized screen. At the price
he paid, it was more toy than asset to his trade.
“Spike?”
Frustrated
with a son that seemed absolutely worthless, he sighed. His voice raised to a
demanding shout. “Spike? Dammit,
kid. Are the windows closed? I hear thunder.”
The
boy smiled. A new confidence flowed through him from heart to soul. Feeling as
if he were walking two feet off the ground, Spike moved into the house and
passed a knowing, smiling Mara with a serene look on his face.
Deep
in Cunnyngham Valley, not far from Sugarloaf Mountain, a community of ana:d:n:V:tli,
brethren, paused in their prayer-songs. Thunder sounded. They smiled, nodding
to one another and with lighter hearts resumed their songs with lighter
hearts.
The
a:doda:kopf of their community
leaned back in his chair. The grandfatherly face stretched in a broad,
delighted grin. He mentally ticked off:
God one,
devil zip.
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
|
