Solar Joint Stories: The Tale of the Bad, Beautiful & Free

Blood and Chicks: That's What This Bitch Lives For...

There’s a time-honored tradition in the solar joint “Doc’s Oasis,” the toast. Only it isn’t your normal well-wishing over a tall class of amber-colored alcohol. The toast is a time to tell stories. To rant, to rave, to regale. Talk of grand triumphs and complete failures. All unfiltered, and all in the company of friends. This is one of those stories.

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G’d’evening Doc, thanks for the brew! Now you guys and gals better believe when I say that she seemed like my kind of case alright.

Between that flaming truck, her gray, fuzzy body huddled on the ground, and the scavenger rifling through the wreck, that right there was a score that needed settling if ever there was one. That’s where lil’ Miss Feral Fay comes in.

I didn’t even stop when I caught wind of the smoke. I just pulled my Stetson’s brim down, pushed my shades up, got her in gear, and dug my claws good and deep into that throttle of hers. Whoever it was, it’d be all of them against all 18 feet of my Caddy, all six feet of me, and all three feet of Mr. Winchester himself. My Series 62 handled herself well, so I let go of the wheel long enough to bust out the ‘92 and rustle up some ammo from my bullet belt. Off the rack he came, and in went a coupla slugs off my left thigh.

I propped myself up on the door and eyed up the sonofabitch, his white fur bristling in the desert wind. He’d bristle alright after I went through him. The biggest thing was having my left knee holding her to course. Driving with your knees is a toughie, not gonna lie. But it worked. Speaking of working, I was slamming that lever like there was no tomorrow, the ol’ goat of a gun sounding off with the fury of a whip. I kept firing off until—BANG!