4th in the 25th
Windows in the Many States of Independence...
The following collection is a short anthology of tales for a most special day: the 4th of July. Independence Day. Tales of amusement, tales of heart, and tales of what it all truly means; independence.
The United States of America is a nation pushing 250. And though times are tough, and we all face tumult and the rough seas of history in eternal motion, I hope these stories are, if for but a moment, a reprieve from the madness, and a reminder of what we were, who we are, and what we can be again. Read on and enjoy. - Jacob Calta
P.S. - No I don’t think we’re wolves for God’s sake, I’m not that crazy.
Woulda been neat though, not gonna lie.
The Force’s First 4th
“This day on which we are gathered, gathered for some damn good food, and some mighty fine R&R, is a day to rekindle. To steel ourselves for the many long months and years ahead of us. A day to remind ourselves about what we’re fighting for. Fighting for the dignity of all who ride with us across the barren plains, those fighting for peace against rogue agents of chaos, fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves, be they here or trapped in that contemptible prison of glass out West. And yes, in the memory of those taken from us in the Marshalls, may God rest their souls.
“It is about fighting for the brilliant and courageous hounds who escaped the tyranny under which they lived, planted their seeds here in the soil of this grand continent, and when faced with prospect of unjust rule, cast off their shackles and stabbed at the heart of it all with a flag of red, white, and blue. A flag that stood for a nation ruled by the people, for the people. A nation free to speak, to think, to worship, to protect, to dream. A nation free.
“And though it was taken from us centuries ago, the truth is that those ideas have remained evergreen. And the key to sustaining them is to understand them, and to ensure all others understand them. Honor the memory of those from the centuries of yore, and those now departed, and see to it that ourselves, our children, and our children’s children, can look up to that flag, that 600-year-old beacon of independence, and see in it the centuries of promise, of beauty, and of freedom yet to come. May God bless you, this nation, and this Force.”
General Leonard Ford Godred, July 4th, 2401
Obligatory BBQ: The 4th in Haven
“Joseph Cyrenius Gordon, this is madness! Are we really sure we can do this!?”
He wouldn’t budge. The gray-furred couple had been going back and forth about it all damn morning, the voluminous arguments ricocheting off the silver walls of the apartment. But for all her fretting, dear Mrs. Margret Gordon couldn’t get her man’s mind off the promise of it all.
“Marge, babe, it’s the 4th of July.” he retorted, “Don’t ya realize the amount of damn fine barbecues taking place all over the city? I can’t say no to having one here! Not when we got enough space on the courtyard and the whole apartment willing to pitch in.”
“But to cook!” she barked, “To do it all yourself, it’s insane. What if it’s overcooked, undercooked? Dear God, we could give the whole apartment salmonella, food poisoning, we could—”
She was cut off by the grip of her man’s paws on both arms. He pulled her close and squeezed her good and tight until all the paranoia oozed onto the floor, leaving only the gray wolf Margret Gordon in the arms of her dear Joey, summer dress light as a feather now, and her husband’s shirt softer still. He pulled back to look her in the eyes. Those sweet, velvet blue eyes.
“Honey,” Joey said, gentle as a lamb, “You forget just how much we can do on our own. We can’t miss an opportunity like this, not when the Board’s given us the chance to try.”
Having come to her senses, she nodded. “What they leave us on the itinerary?”
Joey smiled. “That’s the fun; they didn’t. Here’s the list. I sent the rest of the sous-chefs theirs. We’re about to blow the whole city out of the water with the cookout we got planned.”
Margret took the tablet out of her husband’s hand before walking over to the module on the wall. Her thin digits trembled as she went to the food synthesis app, looking back to her man one last time.
“Baby,” he said. “Don’t sweat it. Just follow the instructions and we’ll be a-okay.”
With a deep breath, she began to do just that. Freedom had never been so nerve-wracking.
Festival Prelude: The 4th in The Wastelands
In a fearsome crack of thunderous cheers and a howling wail of delight, the next 15 hours were to be, if only for a blissful, blistering summer’s day, a time to lay it all to rest. Races against cars, trucks, bikes. Rock concerts around the clock. A line of barbecues that could’ve fed a standing army, let alone the thousands in attendance. And it all came circling around Doc’s Oasis.
In his same old boots, jeans, and street-racing garb, the scruffy gray got up on the parking lot stage, just as he had a thousand times before and would again. He tapped the mic and let the feedback shred some eardrums.
It got everyone’s attention.
Once the shriek died down, he said aloud: “I don’t think I need to tell y’all what I keep doing this for.”
The old chestnut still got the belly laughs and applause it conjured up last year.
“I keep doing it, because, in spite of all the nonsense and insanity, you happen to like it and you happen to like each other when you’re enjoying it. East, West, North, South, or Central. Whether you come with families, with friends, with lovers, or hell, if you come by yourself, you leave here with more folks than you can fit in your cars, sidecars, trunks, and rolodexes.”
The crowd chortled once more.
“We got a wild one planned for you. Some big ticket items include our favorite 15-foot monster Charlie back in the races with his crew, making this year’s truck derby one for the books. Fun for the whole family from our dear friends over at WHOL who are performing a special live episode of ‘Alan Firedale: Desert Delinquent,’ with creator and narrator Stan Winshaw himself and that tremendous little machine Golden Cloud in tow. And all day long you will be serenaded by some of the heaviest rock on the plains, including Maelstrom and the Rockets, Jet-Set Celine, The Rangers, and our very own Metröpolis.”
“Love ya Doc!” the heavy metal trio hollered from the crowd. He shot a wink their way as the audience lit up in a roar of laughter and applause.
“By the way, the boys’ day-job reminds me,” he chuckled. “I want the biggest thank you and heftiest round of applause for Hell Patrol and the Force for helping keep us all safe here today, and everyday.”
If there was a roof to be raised, the crowd’s electric blend of hooting and cheering would’ve blown it into space.
“Fellow old geezer Godred’s enjoying a mighty fine day with his family out here, and he and Commissioner Thompson have been instrumental in keeping this here festival peaceable and free of any scuffles.”
Doc took a moment to sheath his sunglasses before speaking.
“Lastly. I want you, once the whole shebang winds down, and you’re all getting on home, to think about the good times and memories made here. Some of ya will have kiddies crying at some point, some of ya will get a little worn out by the heat, but you’ll also see things and enjoy things you don’t everyday, be with folks you don’t see everyday. I’m sure a few future rockers and racers are yet to be born after seeing some of the whizzbang stuff we got. Appreciate all them bonds made. Communities is awful hard to come by when y’all are spread out.
“Remember that we’re all in this together if we want to make it happen. If you want to stay free and build that better world. We ain’t writing legislation today or passing laws, but we are taking time for each other, time just to be. And that’s mighty important too. Enjoy the day.”
With his old gray fist he threw horns, and as the crowd’s rapture echoed into the hills, the day had only just begun.
Street Race: The 4th Underground
The Bug and the Maverick revved and rocked to the delight of the whole crowd. Every leather rebel, street fighter, hellion, and delinquent were gathered ‘round to check in on the race of the ages, fit to shred the roads of Haven where they lay.
In one lane, Ash Damier, the white wolf caressing her black stallion’s wheel as she kept him running good and hot. The leather-clad dame was all ready to roll, both black-and-white Chucks down on the floor working their magic as she kissed the wheel. Her boy-toy prize fighter was there, hooting and hollering for his baby to take it all. She was rocking his bomber jacket too.
In the other, a certain sandal-pawed punk was working her Red Devil up to a roar, kicking at the throttle like a jack rabbit. The claws were out and the music blared from her radio. Surf rock on speed; pistol-whipping riffs and Gatling-gun drums. Lita could feel it all building and building in her. She threw her denim jacket shotgun side as the engine revved. A sweet, static sensation coursed through her body, her dark fur standing on end and her mohawk as demented as ever. The tension, the suspense, the revving, all building up to a raging
“AAAAAWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Howling mad, she swung the throttle down, the red beast and the black beauty screaming as the crowd vanished into a white cloud. The chicks couldn’t help but dig the rush of it all, Ash joining in her friend’s feral delight with a howl of her own. The scrappy Bug and the sleek muscle car drifted round corners, tires shrieking at every turn. They ripped up the back streets, jockeying for space in the narrowing lanes as the curves came at ‘em fast.
The rides weren’t the only things shrieking.
A silver hovercraft careened out of an alley, rushing towards the speed demonesses, spewing its canned jargon about “driving excessively” and other such bullshit. With a careful wink to one another, Lita drew her Wildey, put her foot to the floor, and lit into the autocop. Sparks shot out in all directions as she swung herself out just enough to nail the hover engines. When she did, the heap dropped to the asphalt, and with a gleam in her eyes, shifted up.
Ash matched her, the gas kicked the ground and the black Maverick held steady as the drag went neck and neck. Their rides pulled closer as the wreck drew nearer. The gals gunned it once more, and in a clash of metallic might, hit the hovercraft’s nose and leapt into the air.
For five whole seconds, the world was theirs. That sweet firecracker feeling of everything cut loose. Power in your hands, your life thrown to the wind because you can’t say no to the thrill of living at all. Five sweet seconds of freedom.
The tires hit the road with a thud and the cars rushed forward. In a sweeping drift ‘round the final bend, they could see the finish line. All bets were off. Lita cackling with hellish glee, Ash having the time of her life, the Red Devil screaming, and the Black Maverick roaring in reply. Devil. Maverick. Devil. Maverick. Devil. Maverick
Devil.
Maverick.
Devil.
A real photo finish too.
Back to Base: The End of the 4th
As the thin wisps of white smoke danced from the fire pit and into the air, tenderly he strummed in the threshold of that small white house. Strummed for his own peace of mind, for the beautiful black wolf at his side, and for that beautiful baby girl nestled between them.
Tomás Herrera had been writing the song for days, a little something stuck in his head. And with his first Independence Day off, he couldn’t have picked a better day nor a better audience to try it out. Soledad rested on his shoulder, their daughter Rosita slowly drifting away to the melodious tune.
Before she could totally nod off, she felt the nuzzle of her Padre’s big black snout as he whispered “sé buena chica,” the tike managing a “Sí, Papá,” before fading out all together. Soledad chuckled as she got up, taking Rosita with her upstairs.
When she came back down, she found Tomás taking the guitar off and getting himself dressed. The clink of conchos against one another stung something fierce this time, especially now that all the friends and family had gone.
“Can’t you stay the night?” Soledad pleaded, doe eyes aglow.
Tomás chuckled. “Not when I have big game like Los Cincuenta to work on with Ridgefield.” His kiss couldn’t soften the blow like it used to, but his touch could. He held her for as long as he could in that doorway, and for that sweet, singular moment, time stood still in the Herrera home. It began again once the grim Captain, clad in black, pulled the brim of his hat down low and loaded his truck.
“Cuídate,” she smiled bravely from the doorway.
As the sun came to rest in the earth, and the orange glow filled the house, the Captain came back to his wife and pulled her close, the black wolves locked together again.
“Por la libertad, querida.” he said in a final kiss.
“Por la libertad.” she replied.
And just like that, gone to the horizon. Off on another chance to make it home for good lay, to see that innocent babe grow up to be a beautiful woman, just like her madre. The chance to know that they too will be there to see the better world he was fighting for.
Gone to the horizon, once again.