From pyramid!voder!apple!rutgers!att!ihlpa!fish Fri Feb 17 09:44:06 PST 1989 Lord of the Rednecks (Conclusion) [In the year 1998, one man fights the tyrrany of the automobile... Synopsis: Spike Bike has come to Texas in search of one man: E. J. Ross, a millionaire redneck who has murdered at least 20 bicyclists. On his way, he has an encounter with one of the locals in an old Cadillac, and after dispatching him, he visits the Yellow Rose Cantina, a sleazy, isolated roadhouse frequented by E. J. himself. Inside, he learns that E. J. will arrive within the hour, but he has to fight his way out, killing a shotgun-brandishing cook and injuring the bartender and several of the patrons. On his way out, he advises the remaining patrons to tell E. J. he's looking for him...] --- Two plumes of smoke intertwined in the air above the Yellow Rose Cantina. Before leaving the parking lot, I'd fetched my .44 magnum from the mountain bike's panniers and fired a round through the radiator of each of the cars and trucks parked around the dump. Two of them caught fire as the heavy slugs ripped through the engine compartments. I'd taken care to cut the phone lines, but I didn't want any of the survivors going for help. The ones I'd left breathing would recover. The one I'd left with his brains splattered all over the kitchen door wouldn't be needing help. Now, I watched the Cantina through powerful binoculars from a mesa half a mile up the road. My friends in Lubbock told me that every day, E. J. Ross stopped at this dive for a bowl of Texas chili and a few beers on his way back from his Lubbock office. The bartender had told me he'd arrive at half past noon. Sure enough, at 12:30 sharp, a cloud of dust near the horizon portended his arrival. I took some time to study his vehicle as it pulled into the Yellow Rose's parking lot. I'd heard about the E. J. Special, but I had to see it to believe it. It had begun as an enormous Chevy pickup, but thousands of E. J.'s dollars had transformed it into a rolling monument to bad taste. It was mostly a glossy black, with elaborate desert scenes airbrushed onto the side panels. The windows were tinted very dark. The grille was from a Rolls-Royce, or a good imitation. Headers protruded from beneath the running boards, to come together and elbow into stacks that rose three feet above either side of the cab. The license plate read ---------- |KICK ASS| ---------- All the brightwork was plated in 14K gold. The antlers of an authentic Texas Longhorn steer embellished the hood. Under that hood, I knew, was a finely-tuned, 454 cubic inch V8 that didn't bother with emission controls. E. J. himself was as outrageous as his truck. He was big, at least 6'4", and 350 pounds if he was an ounce. He wore a white suit and matching Stetson, with mirrored sunglasses, a string tie, a hand-tooled Navaho belt with an enormous gold monogrammed buckle. His correspondingly enormous belly hung over it. On his feet were ornate Texas boots with gold caps on the toes. Gaudy, expensive rings embellished each of his pudgy fingers. A huge stogie jutted out from his mouth. I regarded him through the binoculars, wishing for a moment that I was peering through the telescopic sights of a .30-06 Winchester; one squeeze of the trigger and I'd make happy ladies of each of his ex- wives. No, that would be too easy, too quick. I wanted him to know it was coming, and who it was who brought it. A small crowd had formed in the lot beside E. J.'s truck: the bartender, the frumpy waitress, and a couple of the men I'd dealt with earlier. I could not hear their conversation, but I surmised they weren't talking about the weather. One of the men gestured up the road, in my general direction, so I thought it was time I announced my presence. I fired the magnum at the side of the building, not expecting to hit anything in particular at this distance, but I was pleased when a window shattered. The report echoed several times from the sides of the nearby hills. All but E. J. hit the ground or scattered. He merely looked up, trying to pinpoint my location. I hoped my red jersey made it easy for him. E. J. got into his truck and started up the road. I stuck the magnum back in a pannier and hurried down the slope to meet him. I waited behind a rock for the E. J. Special to round the bend, and took off up the road, certain I'd been spotted. Timing would have to be perfect. That monster could go from 0 to 60 in less than 9 seconds, despite its size, and it had already killed at least 20. Surprisingly, he gained on me very slowly. So that's how he did it; let them sweat a little before the kill. I let him close to within 50 feet before I made my first evasive move, cutting accross the center line and darting through some rocks. I abruptly spun the back wheel around in a controlled skid as E. J. brought the truck to a halt, and I took off in the opposite direction. The truck did not turn around, but screeched after me in reverse, much faster this time. As it closed to within a few yards, I sliced off to the left and rode up the steep slope of the embankment. At the summit, I paused to make certain E. J. knew what direction I took. The road wound through a canyon cut into the low mesas that dotted the countryside. I had scouted it carefully earlier, but it was going to be tight. I sprinted over the uneven, rocky surfaces towards the bend in the road where I'd hoped to intercept him. I arrived barely in time. planting myself in the middle of the road, I just had time to draw the MAC-10 and cock the receiving bolt. The E. J. Special roared around the curve, 200 feet up the road. I took aim for the driver's side of the cab and looked for his face, found it, met his eyes. The huge pickup bore down on me like a hellhound, but I waited for his expression to change, his jaw to slacken, his eyes to widen in fear with the shock of realization: that's right, you son of a bitch, this is a machine gun, and you're going to die! He got an arm half-raised before his face and cut the wheel sharply to the left as I opened fire. I held the trigger and fanned the barrel in a narrow arc, exhausting the full magazine. The windshield disintegrated and both the side mirrors shattered before the truck ran aground against the embankment and turned over on its side. Five miles down the road, I could clearly see the column of smoke rising from the remains of the E. J. Special. A well-placed satchel charge had taken care of it, the road, and part of the adjoining hillside. E. J. Ross was no more; 20 lost souls were avenged, and Texas was just a little safer for bikes now. Perhaps E. J. had been the worst of the men I'd faced, perhaps not. At least I'd known his name, unlike most of them. And I'd had time to hate him. The satisfaction was fleeting. E. J. and his ilk had always been there, murderous intentions just below the surface, hatred and intolerance barely held in check. The real evil was the system that allowed the E. J.s to emerge, and I and all my guns, grenades, and bombs had no more effect on that than spitting on a forest fire. All that would change some day. I had to believe it would. I'd killed two men today, and I'd seen their eyes. You don't forget the eyes. You feel them watching you when you wake up shivering, pillow soaking wet, with the sound of your own hearbeat shattering the night. How long? -- __ / \ Bob Fishell \__/ att!ihlpa!fish