Solar Joint Stories: The Tale of The Duelling Rods
Soldier by Day, Rat-Rod Racer by Night...
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 ale. 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.
Y’know, the bastards who race for blood are some of the toughest. I should know; always takes two shots to do ‘em in.
Name’s Rod. Yeah, that one. But hey, Guys; during the day, I go to school just like the rest of us, Principal Godred making sure we’re all fit to fight and ride. I’m a crack shot, I do as I told, I rock the battlefield as good as anyone. Can’t let the head honcho down after all, not when that digital dyke out west is shipping loads of them pussies she calls “soldiers.” Haven’t cracked the broadside of the barn with them lil’ ol’ peashooters of theirs.
Told a couple of ya cats this one, but hell, for old time’s sake, anyone here remember that one duel? The asshat in the red Corvette?
Anyone? Buncha green sonsofa out ‘ere tonight, huh? Well I—aha! Those folks in the back there get it! Bitchin’.
All starts with my lil’ gal Sue, still going strong after all these years. Baby’s been on this Earth since the year of our good Lord and savior, nineteen-hundred-n-thirty-one. Sue’s gotten me through war, peace, and all sorts of shit Man, God love her enough to keep her running. She’s old enough to be my great-great-great-great granny, but that Ford can still rocket right up to 60 in the blink of an eye. Body looks rustier than it really is. Besides, Teach wouldn’t let me war in her if she wasn’t built like a brick shithouse, right?
Right.
Inside still looks rad as hell though. I collect every one of those killers’ plates when I beat ‘em. Use them to make ‘er cab look nice. I can be shifting in New York, gassing her in Louisiana, and stopping her in Arizona. That scrawny fuck from New York didn’t stand a chance, that Louisiana fella put up a helluva a fight, and the chick from Arizona got off easy. So did I. Only time I ever let ‘em live. Her cherry ‘Stang was too pretty to hurt too. But hey, Duellists like her only come along once in a blue moon, and in your dreams. The real good ones.
I think I was with…what now…oh yeah Bette was riding shotgun that night, weren’t yuh Babe?
Yeah, just got done necking at her watering hole north of School. I let her drive up and whoooooooooWEE does she let her have it. Claws didn’t even scratch that lil’ ol’ stop sign brake I put in the week before. Flat-out, all-r-nothin’, fur tan-as-the-sand, purebred American bite. She picked the fastest track to dropping that ring on my finger, didn’t yuh Darling?
Hey, hey, hey! We save that for the backseat ‘round these parts, Beautiful. We got company.
Ah hell, a kiss never killed me.
Any-who-now, we were coming back, my TLC’d ass back behind the wheel when this bitch of a ‘56 ‘Vette came careening out of nowhere. Just about clips Sue, scares the shit outta me and Bette, and that’s the kinda of gauntlet you wanna throw down in front of Big Rod Garret if you want to learn how to shit your spine out. The three of us aren’t ones to take that kind of bull, so I threw her into gear and put my steel-caped Size 16 down on that Mack throttle.
By the way Babe, still haven’t told me where you got them cowboys from. Want to get me a good pair of suede boots when I can.
Ah hell, we’ll talk about it later. Glad you found ‘em anyhow.
Any-who-see-what-see, Sue ripped away after the ‘Vette, careening like mad y’know. Did a lot of stiff-arming catching up to the a-hole. We did and all I did was bellow at him.
“HEY! If you got the guts Scumnuts, you and me stop here and step on ‘em ‘til that there mile sign.”
Good as my word, I put her oh-shit button on the floor…and this motherfucker keeps going. Dude’s got the cross on the bumper, so I know he duels like me. I got mine as Sue’s tramp-stamp; stuck the cross on the right fenders, and I got my kill count on the lefts. I swear to God this dude ain’t got a clue in his head about the dignity of the thing, the honor at stake. So I put her down again, and she gets right up alongside this guy. Dude looks over and all he says to me is “I don’t run feral bumpkins.”
Feral.
Feral fucking bumpkin says he. I get it, alright? I’m a bit of an Old World guy. I got lead while everyone else got lasers. I got Gene Vincent on my radio and more denim than a rock show at a commune, but if I’m feral, much less a bumpkin, the hell that make the Force? We must be a bunch of po-dunk dipshits without a penny and a brain cell to rub together, let alone two of each.
So that shit’s getting me to the boiling point. I figure Bette’s gonna want me to start pulling back and getting her back to her own digs, but this crazy gal flips the cocksucker the bird and shifts Sue up for me. And she just gives him that beautiful grin and that red-hot little glare. She sure let me knew she was in it for the long haul.
I figure this guy will break principle and take us rubes on at some point, and sure enough that ‘Vette screamed to a stop. Bette let off of me so I could let off Sue, and we got ourselves lined up. I revved Sue up something fierce, man. That V8 was fixin’ to fly.
Our Duellist for the evening, leather jack all zipped up, got his ‘Vette up about as good he could. We did the count-off, 3-2-1 and all that jazz, and then we tore away. Sue had the upper-hand in seconds, and then this bastard gets cheap. I mean real cheap. Cheaper than the fucking beer we’re knocking back here tonight, and God bless you Doc for keeping the price low!
Dude throws it for a beat and slaps Sue’s rear. My gal’s gone fishtailing on me as he pulls ahead. I’m stiff-arming her back to course, soothing her as I shift up. Once I got her together, that hammer was touching the road, and that needle was spinning ‘round like a hopped-up clock. She was past 140 and she was screaming for me good and loud. I was ready to start doing some screaming myself, when I saw it. Bastard made it.
I could see the barrel of his deal-sealer when I pulled up. He looked at me with a hideous smugness that could strip paint off the walls. Only problem: motherfucker crossed a mercenary man.
“Been a fun ride Rube,” he snickered, “See you in hell.”
All I can do is start laughing. I says to him: “Last cat to bleed out gets her.”
My six-shooter was out in seconds, and the pair of us squeezed one off.
I took it in the shoulder. Lord all-fucking-mighty did it hurt. I mean, Brother lemme tell you what. I got broad shoulders, but the dude must’ve been packing a .44 at the time, because that slug got me real good. Bette, God bless her, wrapped her bandanna around it good and tight. Still red as the one on her pretty ol’ head now, so it wasn’t too telling what just went down. We swapped seats and I let her lead foot take the reins. She held it together pretty well too I’d say. Hell, I was surprised I didn’t bleed out on the drive back. She hightailed it to Sickbay, and they dug the bullet out for me as quick as they could and—what happened to the Duellist?
Oh yeah, about him…dude dropped like a sack of potatoes. First time I got one in a single shot, right in the heart too.
Bastard musn’t been racing for blood.