Raising Hellions
A QUICK BYTE of Life With The Garret Family...
I don’t normally preface these anymore, but considering the length of this one, I want to reiterate that QUICK BYTE is for stories that I need to get out of my system to focus on other work. Sometimes it’s a five-second flash of action, and other times it’s a slice-of-life aside where I have low-stakes fun with characters I enjoy. In this case, the wholesomely unhinged redneckery of the Garret clan. Enjoy!
Being a family man himself, General Godred had made a point of giving those with newborns parental leave. For Auto Corpman Rodney Garret, that meant his first break since enlisting. Between tending to the Central Region watering hole for his wife Bette and helping care for their firstborn Harrison, the hot-rodder’s hot-rodder soon found himself quite the domestic, a thought that was sure to make most of his Duellist friends blanche in horror at the very notion of him “going square.” Though it became clear to all that neither he nor Bette were being mellowed out by parenthood.
Today was another day of running their rides flat-out, and getting the babe used to Wasteland driving. It was common practice to do these high-speed runs during the formative months, an act of conditioning to keep children calm when defensive driving was called for, as it often was in face of the idle terrorizing brought by the thugs who stalked the land between towns.
Bette and Rod knew the practice’s importance, and wanted to give their kiddo the best start they could. And when the man of the house is a former Duellist, whose death races always tempted fate, and the mother a true-blue gearhead, you wind up with a campaign of donuts, wheelies, Evel Knievel ramps, and anything else they could dream up. Though warned by the local pediatrician that it may be too intense, Rod and Bette trusted their instincts on the matter. After all, their parents had reared them on these kinds of wild rides, and both sets of grandparents couldn’t see anything wrong with the regime, so they must be doing something right.
It was frankly to everyone’s surprise that young Harry Garret didn’t bat an eye. If anything, he cried more often when he wasn’t allowed his daily ride than other children would during the early months when the engine’s roar was terrifying as-is. Whether it was the comfort of his rear-facing, apocalypse-proofed car seat or the warm (if anarchic) atmosphere of two hot-rodders in love, these drives were the greatest thing to happen to the brown pup since he’d been born.
When Big Rod Garret clambered up into his wife’s boxy yellow pickup, Avalon, a flick of his nose caught a peculiar scent. “Smells kinda fruity. Watcha do?”
“Just an air-freshener.” the slender red wolf smiled. “Simple thing I learned from a few friends. Ol’ Ava needs it seeing as I can’t get you outta them big boots of yours and dressed for this endless summer.”
It was a pretty stark contrast; a stocky, denim-clad gray cowboy with roach-stompers and wraparound shades, versus his red wolven woman, dressed in cutoffs, crop-tops and thin-strapped sandals. And after a quick flick of his snout beneath his arms, he knew exactly what she meant. “Deodorant’s in the glovebox” was all he had to hear before spritzing himself furiously and rolling down the shotgun-side window for fumigation. He also made the concession of going shirtless, revealing the Ambiorixian dog-tags hung around his neck.
“There!” he beamed, “Now I got that fuzzy Tarzan chest like a real Wastelander.” He drummed on it too and flexed his arms playfully, hamming it up with all manner of grunts and growls. While it normally got a rise out of Bette, the firm finger-wagging told him something was up.
“First off,” she began with her southern charm, “You goin’ flabby in the triceps—”
“I AIN’T you crazy—”
“Temper, soldier-boy! We gotta keep you fit for when duty calls. Besides, what’d we say about raising voices-n-baby’s ears?”
The big gray wolf took a big deep breath. “I was only messing with you the way you was with me.” he whispered in her ear. “And I ain’t done yet!”
With a swift yank, Bette was dropped onto Rod’s lap, the skinny red wolf met with the playful grin of her towering husband. “Now what’s Number 2?” he quizzed. “We driving to the nearest gym I reckon?”
“No,” she said innocently, turning away. “Check the glove box again.”
When he did, Rod found himself the proud new owner of a yellow Hawaiian shirt. And miracle of miracles, it fit the gray wolf’s frame flawlessly. “You sure know how to put a hound on the spot.” he guffawed, slipping into it and letting out a satisfied sigh. The rayon fabric felt wonderful on his fur.
“Gotta make ya work for it somehow.” Bette chortled. She gave him a quick peck on the snout before clambering back behind the wheel. “Besides, you earned it with all you’ve done for me and the beach.”
It was just as she dropped the clutch and turned the key, that the firstborn’s soft babble started up. The synchronicity with the truck’s engine made the couple beam. Bette feathered Avalon’s tall black gas pedal, gently jockeying the giggle of her boy against the truck’s rev, though she stopped herself when she felt her claws digging into the sandal’s suede.
“Don’t get too turned up.” Rod smiled, patting her shoulder. “That’s how you lose focus. And them loop de loops are gonna need everything you got.”
And that wasn’t the only thing that needed tending to. Before Bette had a chance to rip the truck into gear, she checked the clock on the dashboard and slapped herself upside the head. “Late on the draw again, dammit. Poor guy must be parched.” The red wolf crawled over the gearshift and into the back seat.
“Thank God these tops tie off from the front” she muttered as the garment and the arsenal of car seat buckles were undone and she helped the newborn to her breast. After a quick lunch, a few burps, and a chance to let the babe’s stomach settle, everyone was now ready to roll.
“I’m proud of you.” she said idly, flattening the throttle.
Rod cocked an ear and eyebrow at the remark as the wind whipped at his fur. “Shit, whaddi do this time?”
“You didn’t say one hoot about my hooters when I had to feed him.”
For the next hour, you could hear only three things coming from that boxy yellow Chevy; its engine’s roar, the cackling laughter of two hounds madly in love, and the coo-and-giggle of a hot-rodder in-the-making.