Service With A Smile
Service With A Smile
One of the M.A.D. Dog's Greatest Hits!
He screamed through the smoke and flame, the deep red motorcycle bolting through the wrecked surplus depot. Commander “M.A.D. Dog” Douglas lit into anyone who moved that wasn’t behind him and his gang. The wild-eyed gray had his shoot-to-kill orders from Knox, and chose to savor them for once.
His Garand rocked on the crimson bike’s handlebars as it dumped heaps of electric lead into the raiders’ assault. The turf being fought over was a small resource station, a black cabin being hit with all the raiders had. What weapons and munitions hadn’t detonated were being loaded into trucks and trunks as fast as the leather-clad wolves could manage.
“PUT THE FIRE OUT!” Commander Douglas barked to the two soldiers riding behind him. “REST OF YOU, LIGHT ‘EM UP!”
The duo of white-furred bikers did what they could for the fire while the rest followed the M.A.D. Dog’s orders. The mangy mutts who weren’t blown up by the gas in their tanks were given a 21-gun salute straight thru the gut. All except one who managed peel off in ratty old Ford Granada, the rust-yellow metal box lurching with each turn.
One twist of the handlebars and the M.A.D. Dog was right on its 6. He could hear the black driver swearing up a storm when he caught the gray’s muzzle-splitting smile in the rearview.
“Guess you don’t like losing,” he chuckled to himself. While it would’ve been fun to play cat-and-mouse with the beige beast, the Commander’s idea of “savoring” didn’t involve toying with food. The lean gray biker pulled up to the driver’s side and kept his cocksure smile. The last thing the enraged black wolf saw was the business end of his Garand.
“Lights out, Pal.” he winked and blasted a hole clear through the thief’s head.
Unfortunately, the dead man hung a left. Commander Douglas clung to his crimson bike as it slammed against a rock wall, the Granada pinning him against it as they drove. He felt the scrape of the stone against his leather jacket, grating the skin beneath his fur through sheer force. When he saw the base of a sandy butte, the towering flat-top formation growing in the distance, he knew he’d have to risk braking his bike or breaking his bones. He shut his eyes, prayed to God, and snapped down hard on his handlebars.
The Indian’s wheels locked, grated the rock wall, and ground to a stop. He felt the relief of 3000 pounds at 90 miles an hour peeling away, all of 30 seconds before it smashed into the hill and erupted into a blistering ball of fire. The M.A.D. Dog Commander was bloodied and bruised, but alive. Alive to see a twisted smile rise from the smoke and flame of the wrecked car. At first, he met the strange sight with a puzzled glower. It wasn’t until he saw a bit of his own twisted smirk in the black plumes that he let out a sigh of relief.
“Least you took it in stride.” the Commander scoffed before returning to the station’s scorched earth, his remarked answered by the last of the stolen munitions and their deafening blast.