by Jordan Krall
The crowd cheered but Samson laughed softly, quiet enough that he didn’t think anyone had heard him.
He was wrong.
A hulking man wearing nothing but a leather mask and a codpiece walked up to Samson’s window and bent over so his head was inside the car. Samson smelled smoke and fish. The man said nothing but he didn’t need to. Samson could see his eyes: milky white marbles with just a speck of black in the middle. They told him everything he needed to know.
“Sorry,” Samson said, trying to transform his fear into machismo and staring down the man but knowing he’d lose in that silent contest. The milk-eyed man pulled his head out of the car and stood up. The word COP was drawn on his chest in blood.
Silver’s voice brought Samson to attention. “Oh, and Cop over there is my number one enforcer. He’ll meet you down in Atlantic City. Let’s give a round of applause for Cop!”
Again the crowd cheered as Cop bowed slowly and waved like a drugged automaton.
“And now for the part everyone has been waiting for…just in case you have forgotten why you are here. The prizes. Oh, the wonderful, wonderful prizes. You may or may not have heard there has been a historical milestone down south off the coast of Atlantic City. Something timeless and quite beautiful has risen from the depths of the ocean. Those who know their history may know about R’lyeh, the beautiful city, an ageless paradise. It is your home if you win the race. You’ll have to share it with me, of course. You will become my business partner in a sense, helping to organize future races and all that. I need the best racer, the one with the most expertise, one willing to risk their life for me. The winner will be crucial in the rebuilding of this, the new age of our civilization. Oh, the fun we’ll have!” Silver laughed and so did the audience. “And in addition to that, you’ll get all the gas, food, and water you’ll ever need.”
Samson heard the other racers cheer but he stayed silent.
“To keep the audience abreast of the race, my man Enzo will be acting as announcer and will be giving a play by play. Enzo, are you ready?” Silver’s face on the video screen made mock movements as if he could really see through the screen.
A short man in a white suit ran out from behind the cars. “Right here, boss!” Enzo said into a microphone. His voice boomed through the arena. “I’m ready.” He waved at the audience. “Are YOU ready?”
The crowd roared.
Silver clapped his hands. “Then let’s introduce the drivers!”
CHAPTER TWO
Now let’s take a look as most of the racers are getting ready, revving their engines, and getting prepared for the race of their lives…..and possibly their deaths!
First up we have the beautiful but dangerous Gabby Peppermint in her equally beautiful Camaro. Yowzah! What a looker! I’m sure it’s well-equipped with all sorts of nasty things for her competitors. And yes, that was her showing up a tad late but you know: beauty takes time!
Next we have Mama Hell who comes to us all the way from the Bible Belt Wasteland. Don’t let her motherly looks fool you…she’s a vicious driver! That also goes for her minivan. Looks can be deceiving. Watch out!
And then we have the mysterious Samson in his custom built Ligotti Turbo Z-23, one of the fastest cars around. And you young ladies out there, doncha think he’s pretty handsome for an older man? Yowzah! But hands off…he doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who lets anyone get too close!
Speaking of ladies….next is Junko, a cute little he/she in a souped-up 1987 Honda Civic Si. What a classic! Now Junko himself (or herself!) is a little firecracker who’ll burn you just as soon as look at you.
Lastly but certainly not least is the legend himself, Drac Dunwich, hailing from the Bronx where for the last year has made a name for himself in the small circuit races. Now, with that glass skull of his, Drac is quite the spectacle. Yowzah! And don’t get too close to him.....he’s a thirsty fella! You’ll see…hehehe…
*
Samson revved his engine and hoped they’d just get on with it. He wasn’t interested in all the pomp and ceremony. His stomach was in knots. He wanted to start the race. He needed to start the race.
While the audience chanted Silver’s name, Samson wondered about that Drac Dunwich guy. He had heard the name before, heard some of the stories, but had no idea he was participating in the race. The nervousness Samson had felt bumped up a notch. Was it true Drac had won a race against Navajo Willie and then slaughtered him after the race much to the pleasure of the bloodthirsty audience? Rumor had it Drac still had Willie’s teeth in the glove compartment of his car. Samson wondered how much of it was true and thought that if he ever had the chance he might ask Drac about it.
He heard Enzo’s voice echo through the arena, giving a short rundown of the general route they were to take. Then Enzo said, “Drivers! On your marks! This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. Yowzah! Get ready!”
The crowd screamed. Samson thought they looked ready to riot, to tear up the whole compound in an orgy of excitement. Were they going to be satisfied with just a race? Sooner or later Silver would have to provide them with something else, something more than fast cars and faster death.
But what else was there?
Dressed in a white tuxedo and wearing a pencil-thin mustache, Enzo stepped onto a stage and danced around in front of the video screen that now displayed a still shot of Silver’s face. Enzo pointed wildly at the drivers.
“Go!”
Then Enzo pulled down his white pants and defecated on the stage amid the cheers of the audience.
CHAPTER THREE
Samson’s car shot out from the starting line like an angry bullet.
In his rearview he kept an eye on the other cars as they followed. Drac was the first one to tail him and then come up along the side.
Samson looked over at the man, this legend he’s heard so much about, and tried to get a look at his car. All cars now were custom-equipped with weaponry and that weaponry was varied. It paid to know what kind of attacks the competition would be bringing with them.
The smell of dust and exhaust made Samson think of his time in the Wastelands but he shook those memories from his head and concentrated on the race. It was a clear road of asphalt and trash in front of him while Drac stayed alongside, not attempting to speed up and pass Samson.
“What are you up to, Dunwich?” Samson said. He sped up and Drac did the same. He looked over again and saw two eyes looking back at him, suspended in gasoline in a translucent skull in front of a brain that looked slightly smaller than normal.
Samson let up on the gas and fell back a few feet. He expected Drac to follow suit but was surprised when he accelerated.
“Son of a bitch,” Samson said, speeding up to tail Drac.
Junko and Mama Hell passed him on the left, veering off to enter Mouthville instead of riding into the Gears. It might be a smart move because despite Mouthville’s unpredictable environment, it wasn’t nearly as dangerous. However, Samson decided not to follow them. In his rearview mirror he saw Gabby on his ass, chatting on her cell phone, looking oblivious to the race.
As he tried to move up front, Drac zigzagged to prevent him from doing so. The sides of the road were blocked with blocks of concrete but Samson could see he’d have a chance to pass him up the road….if he was careful.
CHAPTER FOUR
Yowzah! I don’t know about you folks but I think the race got off to a good start, doncha think? Samson shot out like a rocket and was leading for a little bit until old Drac decided to usurp the position. So we have Drac in first place on his way to the Gears with Samson right behind him and Gabby after that. Cute little Junko and Mama Hell decided to go a different route and go through Mouthville instead of the Gears. Did you see Mama run over that poor little puppy? Wow, she’s really bloodthirsty today.
*
I.
Junko was excited.
This was his first race driving solo and it was as intense as he thought it would be. Being in the ca
r alone, just him and the purring of his machine, well, that was something he had always dreamt about.
He’d had some worries, of course. Driving in high heels wasn’t easy and he wished he’d brought a change of shoes. Maybe he’d find a pair during the race. Weirder things have happened. He couldn’t drive barefoot. It hurt his feet and he didn’t want to mess up his pedicure.
A cough erupted from his throat and a clump of hair and bile oozed onto his tongue. Junko swallowed it all back down. After all, he wanted it to come out the other end.
He followed Mama Hell’s minivan into Mouthville, a place that could accurately be described as a dusty forest. During the war it had been a military training facility but was now overrun with mutated animals and radioactive dust.
“Okay, Mama bitch, here’s where you get off!” Junko said, driving up and tapping the minivan on the left corner of its fender. He sped up to the other side and tapped it again.
Mama Hell stepped on the brakes and Junko took that opportunity to sneak up alongside the left and pass her, giving her the finger as he did so. “Fuck you!”
Junko left the minivan in his dust as he sped down the road, swerving to avoid the road kill. He was going to win that race for sure. He had to. If he won it, he’d get the respect he deserved. He had always had to stand behind someone else, always had to ride on someone’s coattails but not now, no.
As he passed the trees, Junko thought he saw something move between them. It was too big to be an animal or a person. If he didn’t know better he would have thought it was a tornado.
He looked in his rearview and saw Mama Hell thirty-feet behind him. It didn’t even seem like she was trying to get closer to him. What was she up to?
Junko saw the thing in the trees again but this time it rose above them and was approaching. It was a tornado and it was coming closer. Junko started to hug the left side of the road but was worried that he’d be leaving Mama Hell enough room to pass him.
That’s when the twister came straight for him, engulfing his car. It sounded like a million pebbles pelting the outside. It was a tornado, yes, but there was something different about this one.
It was a tornado with teeth.
The small cyclone was twisting around Junko’s car, scraping the paint off with its teeth of all shapes and sizes. Some were white teeth, some were yellow and brown but all were razor sharp. Soon he could hear it scrapping the metal and making holes.
He stepped on the brakes and swerved over to the right, hitting Mama Hell’s car as she tried to pass him and avoid the twister at the same time. As the teeth still rocked his car, Junko saw flashes of light. He looked over and saw that old bitch shooting flares at him.
Junko sped up and swerved to the right to get in front of her and out of the tornado’s way. After his third attempt he was successful but the flares kept coming and he started to smell something burning.
One of the old bitch’s flares caught the top of his car and was burning a hole through it. He lifted himself off the seat, holding the wheel with one hand while trying to find the burn hole with the other. There it was right over the passenger’s seat. He rummaged through his supplies and brought out a small pack of fireproof putty. He slapped some on the hole and brought his hand back to the wheel.
The teeth tornado was behind him now and so was Mama Hell. Junko stepped on the gas and tried to get as far away as possible, not caring about the road kill despite the fact that the bones of those mutant animals could do major damage to the underside of an automobile.
In his rearview mirror he saw Mama Hell try to drive out of the twister which was now engulfing her minivan. “Haha, you old bitch,” Junko said. That woman thought she was going to disrespect him but now she knew who’d get the upper hand.
II.
Six Months Ago
Sabbath bought Junko for ten gallons of gasoline and a motorcycle equipped with a chainsaw.
Junko thought he was worth more but that’s all Sabbath was willing to dish out for a Japanese transvestite who was going to act as sex slave and navigator during long trips through the Wastelands. Such was life after the war. Weak flesh was bought and sold, used as currency among the degenerate or the desperate. Body Stations were set up throughout the wasteland where people could buy, sell, and trade humans weaker than themselves: men, women, and children. Nothing was off limits.
The war had left Junko a twelve-year-old orphan but that had been ten years ago. He wasn’t going to let that loss get in the way of his survival. When he saw that Sabbath was the one who had bartered for him, Junko wasn’t pleased as the man was one of the most grotesque looking things he’d ever seen. But Junko was going to be a winner and if that meant giving blowjobs to a deformed giant who drove around in a truck with radioactive goats, then so be it.
The torture seemed endless. Sabbath was an oversexed brute who was willing to defile his new slave in every way possible. He had practically destroyed Junko’s rectum, so much so that he had to bring in a man named Doctor Solange who did sloppy surgery and widened Junko’s anus until it resembled a vagina. Sabbath was happy with the result. Doctor Solange accepted payment in the form of being able to have first crack at the modified hole.
The torture wasn’t simply sexual. Junko was beaten with fists, pipes, and baseball bats. He was cut with swords, knives, and car parts. Most of the time he had only Sabbath’s urine to drink but it was occasionally mixed with water or fruit juice. His food consisted of whatever meat had spoiled so much that Sabbath wouldn’t eat it himself. Sometimes the meals included feces and shredded leather topped with phlegm. Junko soon learned to eat everything with relish because if there was any hesitation or show of distaste for what Sabbath gave him, a brutal beating was inevitable.
For years, Junko had made peace with his position as Sabbath’s sex slave and map reader. He fulfilled his duties obediently until he heard two words that would change everything.
“Jap cunt!” Sabbath said.
Hearing those two words was an epiphany to Junko. He’d been called each of those words separately but their being combined made him realize just how Sabbath saw him.
“Yes?”
“Wake the fuck up. We gotta go to Columbus and race Drunky Booster. You lean your head over here in case I gotta piss, got it?”
Junko nodded and laid his head down on his master’s lap. He was handcuffed to the steering wheel. “I’m all yours, Sabbath.”
“Nothing but a Jap cunt, you know that? Piece of shit,” Sabbath said, sending a fist down on the side of Junko’s head. He started the car and pulled out onto the road, speeding down the deserted highway.
“Yes, Sabbath.” Junko smirked. He had dreamt about earning his freedom, earning his right to move from the passenger seat to the driver’s. Sabbath had always told him that Japs can’t drive but Junko knew that wasn’t true.
“What the hell you smiling for, bitch?” Another fist landed on Junko’s temple.
“Nothing.”
“You better tell me or I’ll beat your ass,” Sabbath growled. “You don’t want to know what happened to my last slave.”
“Oh, but I do,” Junko said and then bit down on Sabbath’s leg. Not bad for a Jap cunt.
“Fuck!”
It was a good thing Sabbath only wore a codpiece as many marauders did after the war. Junko was biting directly into flesh.
The car swerved into a concrete divider but Junko pulled the steering wheel straight while biting down harder. He ignored the fits as they pummeled his head, neck, and back. Sabbath even pulled at Junko’s hair, tearing several clumps right out of his skull. There was pain, yes, but the pain turned pleasurable because he knew he was enduring it for a reason. It was for freedom.
Sabbath stepped on the brakes and the car spun across the road. Junko’s teeth didn’t budge and soon his mouth was inches deep in leg meat.
Junko’s loose hand flew up to Sabbath’s neck and his glittery fingernails dug into his jugular, opening a fountain of blood all over th
e dashboard. The big man gargled and took his hands off the wheel. Junko pulled his mouth out of the thigh flesh.
“What did you do to your last slave, Sabbath?” Junko asked the bleeding hulk.
“Baaaabaaaaaaapffffffttttttttttt!”
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?”
Sabbath looked him in the eyes and said, “Gave him a lupara enema…”
Junko had heard Sabbath talk about that from time to time, putting a sawed off shotgun to someone’s ass and pulling the trigger. Junko dug his fingers in deeper into the man’s neck. It was all over for Sabbath.
Junko managed to stop the car, dump the body, and find the key to the handcuffs. Instead of taking them completely off, he decided to separate the cuffs and wear them to remind himself of his short-lived slavery. It would remind him he never had to settle for domination. They would be jewelry of freedom.
He drove the car back to Sabbath’s place, a small fortress in a junkyard, and started packing supplies into the Honda Civic he had been working on in the little free time Sabbath had given him. That’s when the armored limousine pulled up and a short man walked up to the gate.
“Hey! You there in the dress! Is Sabbath here?”
Junko put his hand on a small sword and said, “Why? Who are you?”
“I’m a representative of Mr. Silver.”
Junko had heard about Silver: a gangster warlord taking advantage of people after the war. He’s the one who organized some of Sabbath’s races. Silver was also behind most of the Body Stations.