by Gavin Smith
(This isn’t a short story, it’s a chase scene with cowboys. Also I think it’s unfair that we never get a chance to see things from the baddies perspective in Mad Max: Roadwarrior.
Buck and Gibby are two of the characters from my first novel Veteran. This takes place just before the events in the book.
Thanks to Toby and Dy Heason for post cinema petrol head advice and to Dan Kendall for casting an eye over the story. As ever the mistakes are mine own (they tried.)
Mile after mile of sun cracked black top highway disappeared beneath the wheels of the speeding muscle car. The smart independent suspension and intelligent armoured wheels adapted to allow for the non-existent maintenance on Route 27.
The noise of the engine seemed to scream through Joe. He felt the flow of fuel through the car’s engine as if it was burning through his own veins. He had to keep it all under control, not unleash the full capabilities of the eight hundred horsepower, four-wheel-drive, supercharged, armoured pursuit car. He had to hold it back, like the rage that tunnelled his vision and only allowed him to see the cracked asphalt and heat haze of the road ahead.
The swamp like, vast, slow moving river that was the Everglades was just a peripheral blur of tall grass and water on his left. Only the odd tree or vehicle wreck broke the uniformity of the swampy landscape. Joe closed his eyes but sensors feeding information through the plugs in the back of his neck that connected his cerebellum to the car, meant that he still saw the road ahead as he sped north up Florida though Seminole land.
* * *
Gibby was pissed off. The trip down to the Keys had been worth it. They had made good money acting as couriers for Papa Neon, delivering pharmaceuticals to the various communities that called the Keys their home. One or two other nefarious acts of road piracy had netted them some extra cash and much needed excitement. The last bit of pursuit had ended when they had made it to Seminole land. They had conducted hurried negotiations with the tribal council whilst travelling at speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour being pursued by Florida Rangers. This was not the reason that Gibby was pissed off.
The council had been paid and had also created some new and grateful customers to avail themselves of the facilities offered on Seminole lands. The facility currently being enjoyed by the small group of Hard Luck Commancheros was a barge floating in the Everglades next to Route 27. The barge was part roadhouse, part casino and most importantly to Gibby, and he suspected his non-sexual life partner Buck, part whorehouse. Needless to say this wasn’t pissing off Gibby either.
Gibby wasn’t pissed off that Buck had disappeared; he assumed that his partner was taking care of business. He wasn’t pissed off that he was most of the way down a bottle of swamp grown sour mash. Quite the contrary he was enjoying that. Nor was he bothered that he was on the stage trying to pole dance with varying degrees of non-success, much to the amusement of the male and female prostitutes whose routines he was disrupting. He could not remember how he had gotten up there but he was pretty sure that he was enjoying himself. Nor was he pissed off because he had just seen a pretty blonde and a dark haired girl, he was pretty sure was Cuban, that he wanted to take to bed. He was sure he had the money for both this evening. Gibby was pissed off because he could here the unmistakeable dull slap of flesh being punched hard. The sound of a girl screaming followed the unpleasant sound of the punch.
“Goddamn it!” Gibby’s East Texas accent was unmistakeable. Both Gibby and Buck were proud of their Austin heritage, even though the city was largely ruins dotted with armed compounds now. The tall rangy cyberbilly got down off the stage. He was still wearing his armoured duster. A braided beard, thick dreadlocks and cheap plastic sunglasses that hid the black plastic lenses of his military grade cybernetic eyes, obscured most of his facial features.
“Where’s my damn hat?” He asked mainly himself. The prostitutes had stopped dancing now and were glancing nervously towards the noise of the beating. The barman was climbing over the bar carrying a heavy metal rod, one end of which was insulated. Gibby presumed it was a homemade taser. Two of the hugely built bouncers were also making a beeline for the sound of the beating. Both the bouncers were unnaturally massive, boosted muscle and habitual steroid abuse.
Gibby found his wide brimmed Confederate replica hat and tried to beat the bouncers to the noise. He drunkenly checked that he was wearing his gun belt. Fortunately the roadhouse had a civilised, if you were from the South, approach to the carrying of guns on their premises. To Gibby’s sour mash addled mind this showed that the owners of this fine establishment understood the principles of personal responsibility.
Gibby followed the sound of the beating and subsequent cries of pain into a corridor lined with the doors to the hookers’ working rooms. Prostitutes and various members of the Commancheros were coming out of the rooms to see what the commotion was about. The barman and bouncers were just behind Gibby.
Gibby nodded to some of his compadres as he pushed through the people and arrived at the door from which the noises that were angering him were emanating. Gibby could not be bothered to fuck around. He just kicked it open and stepped in.
* * *
She was a blonde girl, probably in her early twenties, pretty enough in a girl-next-door kind of way. So much so it did not look like the owners of the Roadhouse had paid to have her face sculpted. She was naked and sat up in the bed her arms tied to the headboard with leather belts. Here head lolled as she drooled blood, she was barely conscious.
Gibby went from pissed off to downright furious very quickly. He had been expecting to have to deal with some redneck road train jockey. He had not wanted to find a Commanchero responsible. On the other hand Gibby was not particularly surprised to see Rattlesnake Jack kneeling over the girl.
Jack was a relatively new member of the Hard Luck Commancheros. He had only recently gone from pledge to full member. He was so new that his beard was little more than a goatee and his dreadlocks were just stubs. Rattlesnake Jack was a small, wiry, weasel of a man. He was always jittery from reflexes that were boosted to high augmented with amphetamine based knock-off combat drugs. The tattoo of a diamondback rattler wrapped around his torso. It was rumoured that his cock was tattooed to look like the rattle. The snake’s mouth was tattooed across both of Jack’s cheeks.
Jack claimed to be a Green Beret, Special Forces. Gibby knew the type well having been a pilot in the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment or the Nightstalkers. He and Buck had run more than their fair share of hairy missions ferrying borderline psychotics in and out of hot LZs. Both Gibby and Buck had fought in the on-going colonial war with Them before the two pilots had deserted.
Jack had Snake’s Tooth out. A laser forged, belt-titanium bladed, bone handled hunting knife that he claimed was a family heirloom. He was holding it in front of the girl. Oblivious to anything that was going on around him because he was so messed up on whatever drug he had chosen today.
“I’m going to make you pretty new red slits, whore, do you hear me? You’re going to live it. You’re going to beg me for more.” Gibby chose to remind Jack about his surroundings by kicking him in the side with all his strength. The kick knocked Jack off the bed and sent him sprawling. Quickly the wiry little cyberbilly was crouched low in a fighting stance, knife at the ready. Gibby had his hands on the twin antique Colt Navy .44’s he had extensively modified.
“Fuck!” Jack screamed, inarticulate with anger and confusion.
“Don’t be stupid son,” Gibby warned him. He glanced at the girl and then quickly back to Jack. “Your pecker not work son or do you just not know what to do in a perfectly respectable whorehouse?” Jack relaxed out of his fighting posture and stood up.
“Why don’t you mind yo
ur own business?” he asked, facial features twitching.
“You know you’re supposed to have sex with the womenfolk who work here don’t you? Not beat on them.” Gibby asked, sounding more reasonable than he felt.
“I paid for her I can do what ever I want.” Behind Gibby the bouncers and the barmen were in heated discussion with Cletus and Kid Buzzsaw. Cletus and the Kid were two of Jack’s toadies who bought the Special Forces veteran’s bullshit.
“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. The girls and boys work hard here, and since by only paying is an ugly son-of-bitch like you going to get a sniff of pussy I’d a thought you’d be a mite kinder.” Gibby was pushing Jack hard, he knew it and he knew it was a bad idea as he had a pretty good idea who would win a fight between the two of them.
“Watch your mouth shitheel, you know who I am and what I’m capable of,” Jack growled and then started hitting the side of his head and muttering to himself. Gibby watched this with mounting concern.
“Only because you keep on telling us,” he said, though he was a little distracted by Jack’s behaviour. It looked like the other Commanchero was trying to sort out bad reception in his head by hitting it.
A very large man pushed his way into the room. Gibby recognised Nokker. The bear like blonde cyberbilly had been a member of the Swedish Marines and liked to keep the more unpleasant traditions of his Viking heritage alive and well. He was another one of Jack’s unpleasant group of toadies.
Nokker looked down at the beaten prostitute and sneered. Gibby did not like the way this was going down.
“What’s up Jack?” Nokker asked and turned round to stare at Gibby. Unlike most vets Nokker did not have lenses of impact-hardened plastic covering his eyes. When he had left the service he had saved up his ill-gotten gains and bought himself some fake eyes. They were piercing blue in colour and staring at Gibby.
“Fucked if I know I was enjoying some R’n’R and Gibby bursts in and kicks me off the bed.”
“The evil little prick was about to go to work on the girl with his knife,” Gibby snapped, exasperated and beginning to get a little worried.
“Fuck’s that got to do with you?” Nokker demanded. Gibby looked between the pair wondering if someone had snuck in and lobotomised them whilst he had been cavorting on stage.
“Listen you pair of dickheads,” both of them bristled at the insult, though Gibby would have characterised it as a description. “I will try and put this in terms that even the terminally fuck-witted will understand. People in a bar fight, they’re for hitting, whores, they’re for making sweet-sweet love to. Or maybe in your case Jack for sobbing onto their breasts because you’ve done so much shit that your pecker’s shrivelled until it’s become inverted,” Gibby said and knew he had gone to far.
“The fuck you say!” Jack snarled and moved towards Gibby as Nokker made to grab him. Gibby had both pistols half way out but he knew that he was not going to be quick enough. Suddenly Nokker was pushed out of the way and Buck was standing in the doorway.
Buck was a bit taller and wider than Gibby and like Gibby his facial features were hidden by a lot of hair. Gibby’s non-sexual life partner was stood with his hands on his hips, wearing his hat, his chaps, his spurred boots, his duster and nothing else. He had his gun belt over his shoulder but everything else was on display, proudly or so it looked to Gibby. He wondered if that was going to upset Jack more.
Behind Gibby was a very pretty young Native American guy with dark eyes and high cheekbones. Gibby raised an eyebrow. Buck was normally a very vocal fan of the female gender. Gibby shrugged it off.
“Gibby amigo did I just hear you insult another Commanchero’s pecker?”
“With good reason,” Gibby said and nodded at the girl. Buck glanced down at the beaten girl, his face immediately hardening.
“What the hell?” Buck demanded. His accent made hell sound like hail.
“Why don’t you go and mind your own business faggot?” Jack growled, undisguised disgust in his voice. Buck looked confused.
“What the fuck’s a faggot?” he asked.
“It’s a derogatory term for homosexuals,” the effeminate Native American told Buck.
“Derogatory?” Buck asked. Gibby sighed. This could take a while.
“It’s a fucking insult,” Gibby explained.
“Oh.” Buck gave this some thought. “Just who exactly do you think is homosexual son?” he asked Jack. Jack and Nokker exchanged a surprised glance.
“I think he means you darling,” the effeminate Native American answered.
“No shit?” Buck asked Jack.
“Well you’re the only guy fucking a feller here,” Jack spat. Nokker nodded.
“Just because I’m going have fun with Timothy here doesn’t make me a homosexual,” Buck said confidently. Even Gibby was not sure if he was going to be able to follow this trail of logic. Timothy was looking at his customer sceptically. “Hell no,” Buck added for emphasis.
“And what’s wrong with being a homosexual?” Timothy enquired pettishly. One perfectly shaped eyebrow rising in enquiry.
“Nothing at all, what a man, woman or chicken wants to do in privacy or even publicly with all folks consenting is completely up to them. I am surprised there’s even an insult for folks who like a little cock-on-cock action, after all this is America god damn it!” Buck said passionately.
Jack seemed to lose his temper. “Are you fucking the little fag in the arse?!” he screamed.
“Well I was about to until I was disturbed.”
“Then that makes you a faggot you fucking queer!” Jack finished screaming. He had gone red and was gasping for breath he was so angry. Buck had no idea why the smaller Commanchero was getting so uptight.
“Queer?”
“Another insult,” Timothy offered helpfully. Now Buck was starting to get pissed.
“Look you’ve got no call to go insulting people just because they’re gay, especially not as you seem to like beating up on the defenceless.”
“That’s none of your business fag,” Jack spat. Nokker on the other hand was looking curious.
“How come you’re not a fag?” the big Swede asked.
“I should’ve thought that was obvious,” Buck answered. “Clearly I am so secure in my sexuality that I can take a break from my normal diet of ladies to corn-hole a feller when I meet someone as pretty as young Timothy here.”
“So you’re bi-sexual then?” Nokker asked and Gibby had to admit that was what it sounded like.
“Nope,” Buck answered. “Besides it’s not gay if you’re doing it to them. The Trojans taught us that.” Everyone stopped and stared at Buck. Buck however seemed perfectly secure in his statement.
“What the fuck’s a Trojan?” Nokker asked. Nobody answered. Timothy recovered first.
“As fascinating as this conversation is, I think we should get Serena some help,” Timothy suggested.
“Everyone fuck off out of my room and let me finish!” Jack screamed.
“What so you can jack over her cut up corpse?” Timothy spat at the weasel-like Commanchero. Jack made a move towards the prostitute but Buck stepped in front of him, a hand on one of his pistols.
Jack went still and calm. “You’re not nearly quick enough. Leave the fag here and fuck off, I’m going to hurt him as well,” he told them.
Nokker reached out and firmly gripped Gibby’s shoulder. Gibby could feel the steel like fingers, augmented with boosted muscle, through the armour of his duster. He did not like the way this was going down.
“Son you’re from Alabama ain’t you?” Buck asked. Gibby was praying that Buck would try and calm things down a bit.
“So?” Jack asked. Buck nodded at the semi-conscious prostitute tied to the bed.
“Are you angry because that girl’s not your own mama or something?” Buck asked him. Gibby felt everything slow down. He knew violence was imminent and he didn’t like the odds.
“What the hell is going on here!?” a
surprisingly bass sounding female voice demanded. The crowd of Commancheros and the staff of the Roadhouse that had gathered outside the door parted to let the enormous figure through. She moved with both a limp and slight clanking sound into the doorway.
Gibby heaved a sigh of relief as Bearded Momma ducked under the doorway and stepped into the room. In the corridor outside she left two bikini-clad girls who presumably had been entertaining her.
Bearded Momma was just shy of six feet six. She was fat but the sort of fat that looked physically powerful as well. The bits of her that were not fat or muscle were scratch built cybernetics parts. Gibby new that she had served in the mechanised cavalry in the war but she had piloted tanks rather than the heavier and better armed mechs. A bad hit in a tank battle with Them had destroyed much of her body. Cashiered out of the army she had managed to rebuild herself through technical skill and sheer force of personality.
Momma had the dreadlocks common with most cyberbillys but unusually for a female cyberbilly she had also chosen to have beard implants. She said that she just liked the look and it made her more of a hit with the ladies.
Bearded Momma had raced and fought her way to the top of the Hard Luck Commancheros. She was their leader in as much as they recognised one, though much of that was just down to Momma’s tough, cheerful common sense.
Momma’s normally cheerful expression evaporated when she saw the beaten girl. She turned to glare at Jack.
“I paid for her…” he began.
“What the fuck!?” Momma demanded.
“It’s nobody’s fucking business…” he started again. Momma took a step towards him.
“What the fuck!?” She was roaring now. Gibby took a step back, as did Nokker. Buck was just watching Jack, waiting to see if he was going to make a move. Momma moved on Jack, towering over him. Gibby had to give him his credit, Jack held his ground.
“You’re going to make this right,” Momma whispered to Jack. Jack just stared at her. He was trying to keep his face expressionless but the seething anger beneath was obvious to Gibby. “Then you and I are going to have a talk when we get back to Crawling Town. You understand me?” Jack said nothing. Momma leaned in even closer. The big woman was practically tickling his face with her beard. “I said did you understand me? Is there any part of what I said you would like me to explain further?” she asked, the threat explicit.