Hey, all! Stumpy49er's working right now, and I'm doing the voting thread by request. The theme this time was Rockabilly, Stumpy' drawing inspiration from Rockabilly Batman, Elvis, and that special blend of rock-n-roll and country.
Once again, it's up to you to read the entries, and vote for your favorite so we know who's going to choose the next contest. Let's get to it:
|Voting rules are simple:|
|RichGenX - That Weird Relative|
That Weird Relative
(I think my sources of inspiration are obvious enough.)
It was nighttime, the time of the hunt. He loved the hunt, since the prey had always been so foolish to enter the hunting grounds at that time. While it wasn’t as often as it had been, they still would venture into the hunting grounds, and he was going to enjoy it. At least, he hoped he would.
The fact of the matter was he was unsure if he would enjoy it this time. He wasn’t going to be hunting alone this time. True, he had hunted with a partner before, but it had been a long time, and his mate was gone, thanks to the rarity of a dangerous prey. This time, he was supposed to meet with his cousin. He had, during some hunts, heard the prey speak of weird family members, and he could actually understand that.
His cousin deviated from custom. He would listen to things the prey would listen to, and had taken on a different appearance. Instead of the tradition look, his cousin took on the look of a figure from the prey’s lore; someone they referred to as ‘The King’. Hopefully, that would not come into the hunt.
He stopped thinking about that, because something had caught his attention. He glanced in the direction, and saw prey. They were moving through the woods, carrying one of those devices they had. He couldn’t tell if it was one of those devices that had been used to communicate, or to improve vision. Over the years, the prey had given up on their own night vision. This he, and his brethren, used to their advantage. The prey would have a bad habit of staring at their threat for a moment, always giving the hunter a chance to begin their strike.
He made an instant jump to get closer to the prey. When he did that, the action caused two low booms as the air rushed to fill the displaced space, and then accompany his arrival. He was closer, and the sounds made the prey pause for a moment. This was a calculated move, as he knew the prey would slowly turn to look around, using the device to help them see.
He was ready for the strike for when they looked at him. He, and his brethren, had developed mental abilities to strike their prey. The older prey, unlike the younger, were not so gullible, and might even strike back, not that the prey’s weaponry could hurt him or his brethren. He remained calm, knowing that once the prey saw them, the attack would start. The device in their hands might start to malfunction, but that was all.
Just before the prey would look at him, a loud noise came out of nowhere. It was like the prey’s music, but he knew what it was. His cousin had arrived, and their usual sound of arrival was replaced with that noise. The results were immediate, and the prey turned away from them, not even looking, and ran. He sighed, knowing that one was lost.
He turned to his cousin, and did his best to remain calm, even though he was fuming. “What, in all creation, has possessed you to come in like that?” When he looked at his cousin, he was appalled. His cousin was still in the awful getup that he had come to like. He truly did look like the figure the prey called ‘The King.’
His cousin let out a chuckle, and responded, “You are getting behind in the times, cousin. The prey will be more drawn to this than our usually, as they would say, ‘stuffy’ appearance. You would not believe how many have come running to me thinking I was ‘The King’. It’s amazing how many I can claim than if I wore that stuffy appearance.” With that, his cousin motioned to his look.
He tried to control his temper. He was actually proud of the look, since it worked very well for them for years. It worked well in the dark forests, and even in some structures the prey dwelled in. In fact, he thought that better term for their usual appearance was a different word the prey used, ‘formal’. “That is just a passing phase, cousin. What will you do when they finally realize this ‘The King’ is dead. Our form has worked for centuries.” This was the truth. The prey of the current time seemed to think they were people in black suits, and a tie. That actually helped to keep the prey focused on them, so they could start an attack.
He saw his cousin wave a dismissive tendril from his back. “Times are changing. Look at what the prey has done as of late. Look what they have chosen as leaders in the current years. They are foolish, dumber than they had been in centuries. This is the way to go.”
He was ready to argue more, but he then noticed movement again. More prey had entered the hunting ground. He was about to go after it, when he noticed a brief splotch of pink on what the prey called a face. A nasty thought crossed his mind, and he said to his cousin. “Prove it, cousin. Go claim the prey that just entered the hunting grounds. It is all alone.”
The cousin nodded, and said, “I will.” Then they disappeared from the spot, appearing near the prey that had just arrived. The cousin thought this would be easy. The second he arrived with his rendition of the prey’s music, sounding like a song about a place the prey called a Jailhouse, it locked its gaze on the prey. This prey had a very distinct feature; a pink splotch on its face that he thought the prey referred to as a mustache. He started the attack, but something wasn’t right. Instead of feeling the life energy and what the prey called a soul coming to him, he felt his essence leave him.
He tried to break the gaze and stop the attack, but he kept coming back to that pink mustache. As his life kept leaving him, utter panic hit him. He had heard of this thing. It was ‘THE WARFSTACHE’. His cousin’s mate had fallen to it. He tried again to move away, but he couldn’t. His life was gone as he went limp, and collapsed into darkness.
The first figure watched all this from a safe distance, but moved closer as the prey moved towards his fallen cousin. He listened as the prey knelt over the form, and in a loud voice, exclaimed, “Holy crap. I think I just saw Elvis Slendy, or is it Slendy Presley, collapse.” In a moment, he heard the prey chuckle, and say, “That’s crazy. Who would be deranged enough to come up with a Rockabilly Slenderman.” He then saw the prey look around, ducking out of view as the dreaded Warfstache was aimed in his direction.
He waited for a moment, thankful when he heard the figure start to run away. He then moved over to his cousin. There was no saving him now. The body was already fading from existence. Slenderman shook his head, speaking to no one since his cousin was no more. “I said that look was unwise, cousin. It made you prey for that foul thing.” He then shrugged, and moved away from the hunting grounds. No one would be upset that this happened to his cousin. In fact, he felt that the rest of their kind would be thankful for this.
The prey bearing the Warfstache was right, though. Who would be deranged enough to come up with a Rockabilly Slenderman?
|BlueEcho - Buddy Bailey's Rockabilly Battle with Beelzebub|
"Rock'n'Roll is the devil's music!" It's what my preacher used to say in Ashdown, Arkansas. Some of us took him seriously, others not so much. Nobody would have ever thought that he was actually right. I never had much time for anything else other than the music, my mama said that I was born with a pick in my hands, and people would say that I was the next Elvis, Johnny or Jerry Lee. My path to fame didn't take me quite that way though. I know first hand that some musicians catch all the breaks, and some catch none. So while I have seen some up-and-comers come up from behind me on the path to fame, I never really got there. I opened for Waylon once, when the other band didn't make it, and I thought it was maybe my time, but I was just another flash-in-the-pan.
All that changed one day. I was booked into a small joint in Lawton, but a February blizzard blew in from the north. It doesn't now much in Texas I guess, but when it does it'll shut the whole state down, and so only two people showed up to my concert. One of them sat in the front row, and told me after that the drive in had been hell. The other guy sat in the back and didn't say a thing, but I found out later that he had a Hellish trip there too.
"Buddy Bailey" he said to me as I was packing up my gear.
"Greetings stranger" I said back to him, not paying him too much attention nor wanting to engage in a long conversation with some random guy.
"You're pretty good," he said, "I've been following you all over the Southwest."
"No kiddin'" I said, my attention only slightly more interested than before.
"How about a wager?" he said. I turned to him for the first and had a good look at him. He was an older guy, long white hair pulled into a ponytail in the back. His eyes were piercing, almost as though they could see through me. He wore a dark suit with a crimson tie that somehow didn't seem to fit quite right.
"Listen mister," I said, "it's been a long night, no one showed, and I just want to hit the bed before I hit the road again tomorrow."
"It won't take long," he said, "I am just trying to understand this rock and roll, and I know that your guitar has some kind of abnormal properties. It is enough to take you to the top I think."
"It isn't the guitar," I said, "that is just a tool, it is the musician that makes it come to life."
"If it is just a tool then you wouldn't mind wagering for it then?" he said.
"What are you offering in return?" I asked.
"Infernal power," the man said.
"Excuse me?" I said, "that kind of sounds like a joke."
"Really, I insist," he said.
I thought about it for a second. This guy was clearly off his rocker, but it wasn't much of a night, and I was in the mood for making this stop a little more memorable. Anyway it wasn't even my guitar, I bought it at a pawn shop the last week for about $10 and had decided to try it out this night in front of the nearly empty room. I was looking at about $10 for the gig tonight anyway, so this was a double or nothing for me. I held out my hand to sign the deal.
"My guitar for your power," I said. He planted his firm grip on mine, and the deal was set.
"Excuse me," I called out to the only other person who had come to the concert, who was just about to walk out the door, "we have a bet that needs to be settled. My friend here thinks he can out riff me on my own guitar, and we need a judge." With a bit of cajoling we got him to stay to settle the bet.
The stranger insisted that I play first, and I let into a familiar medley of tunes. Nothing too special, just playing off some of my own riffs. After the stranger seemed very keen to get playing, and so I handed the guitar over to him. Don't get me wrong, this guy was good, but music isn't music unless you pour your soul into it, and in terms of soul this guy was somehow lacking. He could play, but he was just copying the greats, not showing anything of his own. Our judge gave me the unconditional victory.
The stranger didn't seem too pleased, as he seemed certain that not only had victory been his, but that there was no way that he could have lost.
"Time to pay up, friend," I said jokingly, fully not expecting anything in return. He closed his eyes, and whispered something to himself and walked away into the cold night. I didn't think much of it at the time, instead I soon followed him into the cold darkness, soon hitting the pillow in my hotel room.
it wasn't until a couple of weeks later that I noticed that something was wrong. Our car had broken down and I was riding the Greyhound to the next gig. In the bus station I saw a fight about to break out, and I stuck up my hands to try to stop the brawlers. Time seemed to stand still, and pushed the two away from each other far enough that their blows hit only air. The next week I saw a girl about to drown who had fallen off of a bridge, and I don't know how it happened, but it seemed that just by looking at her that I got her out of those waters. It took me a few more such experiences before I found out that this stranger had given me some kind of power. I did what any normal person would do, and I went to Vegas to try my luck there. Yeah it worked, but after three weeks of living large I figure I better do better with whatever gift this is.
I have to make a stop first, back to Ashdown. I got to tell my preacher that rock and roll is not the devil's music, or at least it wasn't that night.
|Batkevin74 - The Zwilight Tone|
You’ve unlocked a door to another dimension, a fifth dimension beyond what is known to man. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind and the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. It is a dimension of imagination and ideas. Welcome to…The Zwilight Tone
Imagine a world without weapons. A world free of guns, tanks, arrows, and swords. But in it’s place, music has become the ways humans wage war and solve conflict with massive choral harmonious armies. We take you now to watch the journey of Joan; a young girl charged with a quest...
“Hey there momma!”
Joan stood in her father’s garden in Memphis, gobsmacked and awestruck as the large man in the white jumpsuit adorned with golden sequins appeared before her, bathing the area in bright light accompanied by a strange but pleasant background music. His ebony hair defied gravity and logic, his eyes covered with oversized jewelled sunglasses.
“It’s alright momma,” the man said he said with a curled lip. “Best you get up off the dirt, stop scuffin them blue suede shoes of yours.”
“Who, who are you?” Joan asked timidly.
“I’m the King baby, here to charge you with a holy mission,” he replied as his arms moved around in dramatic fashion before snapping his fingers and pointing at her. “Whadda ya say?”
“But I’m only thirteen.”
“Stevie Wonder went to number one at thirteen, uh-huh. And he was black and blind.” The King muttered. “Do you want to save Nashville or not?”
It took three years of holy visions before Joan accepted that she was going to save Nashville from the English Invasion. The King outlined her mission; restore The Dauphim to the Gold Record Throne in Grand Ole Oprey Castle, defeat the mop-topped and punk hordes of the English Invasion, and make some sweet new music along the way in a style known as Rockabilly.
“It won’t be to everyone’s likin,” The King warned through his curled lip. “Folks don’t always like what’s different, confuses their suspicious minds.”
“I’ll do my best,” Joan replied, and she strapped her steel string to her back and waved the King goodbye.
Sam Phillips looked at the young girl with her guitar, a red bandana in her hair, striped top and polka dot skirt and wiped his brow. “Sorry little lady, but you don’t just GET to see the Dauphim.”
“But I’m on a holy mission from the King himself.” She responded.
“I don’t doubt YOU believe that, but no.”
Joan looked at him and shook her head. Slowly she took her guitar from her back and placed it in her hands.
“Now just you be careful with that!” Sam warned as he stepped back. “Just you be careful with that.”
“Just listen,” she smiled and started dazzling strum which stunned Sam in his tracks. As Joan played members of Sam’s guard followed her lead and joined in the jam. And within two minutes and thirty-six seconds she’d won them all over.
“I will gladly take you to the Dauphim,” cried Sam overwhelmed by what had happened, applauding like a crazed chimp. Joan bowed slightly and smiled.
As Sam took Joan on tour up towards Nashville they encountered their first band of English; a quintet led by a big lipped musician who pranced like a chicken.
“Awright!” He crowed. “Hand over them guitars!”
Joan’s had slipped back onto the neck. The guitarist, a gnarled wrinkly dwarf man surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, saw what she was doing and raised his Fender towards her. “Oi! Hands where I can see’em!”
“Nice weapon,” Joan commented. “Do you know how to use it?”
He snorted and held up his hand that was smooth as glass, fingerprints erased from years of strumming. Joan saw the opening and slung up her guitar and fired off a riff, Sam seeing where she was headed and laid down some bass fire. The quintet surprised by the sneaky little ditty returned fire with well-rehearsed piece.
“They’re good!” Sam yelled.
“True,” Joan replied as she fired off a familiar tune that silence the gig.
“Don’t think you know wot you’re getting into love,” commented the lead singer.
“I got this Mick,” grunted the guitarist as he stepped up. “Stupid cow wants to go Duelling Banjos, I’ll show her Duelling Banjos.”
And so, the duel began as he replied to her twangy challenge. Joan noted Keef was well skilled and stepped up a notch. Back and forth the chords flew, the groups taking cover as notes flew about thick and fast.
“You’ll never beat me,” Keef said as he puffed away on a cigarette he’d somehow managed to lit mid-duel.
“Really?” Joan raised an eyebrow as she fired over a set. As Keef went to reply, Joan ripped open her shirt and flashed him and jiggled for good measure. Keef was stunned at the nubile body before him and jammed his fingers between the fourth and fifth, tapping his whammy bar and screeching himself out of the duel. Mick looked at him in disbelief and in moments the English were swamped in a wave a rockabilly; beaten and humiliated.
Joan took their drummers sticks and snapped them over her knee, her band cheered and soon they continued off to Nashville.
“I got this Mick,” mimicked Mick sarcastically.
“Oh &^%$ off!”
Joan attracted groupies and followers as her ever-growing sound moved up from Memphis to Jackson. Along the way there were skirmishes with a black English militia on the Sabbath, a band of Judean Priests, and a violent clash with an elite English dark unit known as The Cure. And soon news of her had roared up the charts that the Dauphim had no choice but to take an audience with her and hear what she was laying down.
“Your majesty,” Joan bowed deeply. “I have been charged by the King of Rock N Roll to restore you to your proper and rightful throne.”
“And this style you bring?” The Dauphim gestured. “Rock and Billy?”
“No sire, rockabilly. A fusion of rock and country that takes us in a new direction. Catchy, direct.”
The Dauphim beckoned her to play a spell and Joan laid down a track that soon had the whole house a ‘rocking, the Dauphim even tapping his foot along. But the advisors were dubious of this new sound and set Joan a task.
“If this rockabilly is the way, endorsed by the King, then you should be able to lift the siege Ashland City. The English have their beetles haranguing the city for months. The wooing and tight vocals will soon bring the city down. Do this and the Dauphim will stand with you officially.”
“Seems we got ourselves a contract.”
The Siege of Ashland City was a brutal affair. The beetles, Sir John, Sir George, Sir Paul and Ringo of Starr were mop-topped musical wizards with matching black suits and bowl cuts and they took no prisoners. But the beetles and their legions of fans were expecting a traditional battle; Joan knew that would lead to defeat and so chose to pick on the bands weakest link; the drummer.
Ringo was singled out as the rockabilly horde took on the beetles in a harmonious attack. Rockabilly was no match for their harmonies, but Joan set about confounding the mediocre drummer with a crippling beat that soon put him out of time with the band. Then Joan launched a most insidious attack, a Japanese ronin by the name of Yoko who took the creative trio on with her sonic wailing that somehow entranced Sir John into defecting and the beetles fell. Ashland City was saved.
But it still was not enough to convince the Dauphim and his entourage especially for her complete disregard for the rules of musical warfare. Yes, she had won but at what cost?
Joan prayed for guidance, but the King had seemingly left the building.
Soon Joan marched on Nashville, but it was here that Sam Phillips betrayed her, taking up a contract with the English and allowing Joan to be captured by the Sex Pistols, one of the most vicious and rotten units the English had. Joan had come so close. She was thrown into prison and without her rockabilly faded. The English stormed back up the charts and all seemed lost.
“Why have you forsaken me?” Joan screamed to the air. And then air responded with light and sound as the King reappeared to her.
“Don’t be cruel,” The King said. “You’ve done well. But your time at the top is over.”
“I was doing your work!” She roared. “And this is how I’m repaid? I don’t understand?”
“I’m sorry to break your wooden heart, momma, but this is how your record ends. You had a shot, but it didn’t work. But your finale, whoa, will be talked about for years and will do more for rockabilly than putting that hound dog back on the throne.”
“You used me?”
“I took a chance, it could’ve worked. But I don’t control the people. I just give them my best and hopefully they like it. For a while you were it. But now…”
“I think I understand…” Joan hung her head. “It just sucks.”
And so, Joan was tried by her English inferiors for trumped up musical crimes and founded guilty. She was led out to the square, tied to a stake up on a pile of her recordings and albums and set afire. And as the burning ring of fire got higher and higher she smiled, she caught a glimpse of young English boy clutching a slightly charred album of hers. The King appeared to her as the flame rose. He took her hand and the pair ascended to the kingdom of Graceland.
|Cbishop - Greased Lightning|
The guy on the motorcycles is named Iron Horse. You read that right- motorcycles, plural. He's a Splitter- one of those guys that claims he got his powers from atomic radiation, and now he can split his own atoms, making multiple copies of himself. However he got his powers, Iron Horse is a one-man motorcycle gang.
He likes to steal a bunch of bikes on the East Coast, and ride the whole lot of 'em to the West Coast. Then he spends some of his take from the bikes, has a little fun, and hops a train back across the country to do it all over again. He doesn't get caught very often, because he'll take some bikes one way, and some bikes another way, travelling several different routes simultaneously to get out West. Plus, he only steals fast bikes.
Which is why I'm after him. I've run down eight of his duplicates, which only gets the bikes back, because the duplicates disappear when caught- fading back to energy, and rejoining with Iron Horse. So, he knows I'm coming. I'm catching up to the next guy now. "Engine Injun Number Nine, guess how hard you weren't to find!"
"Aw, why don't you beat feet, greaser!" he yells over the bike's engine. "You're ruinin' my rides!"
"That's Greased Lightning to you," I tell him before throwing a superspeed punch that knocks him off his ride.
He tumbles and skids to a stop along the side of the road. He's mostly okay, because he's wearin' his leathers and dome.
I skid to a stop next to him, and turn to watch his bike slide into a tree on the other side of the road, breaking in half before the pieces go tumbling down a slope into the woods.
I turn back to see that the biker's still here. "Looks like you're the real deal, Iron Horse. Ready for jail?"
"What're you talkin' about, sneaker freak?" he snarls. "You ain't got nothin' on me!"
Pointing a thumb over my shoulder, back the way we came, I say, "Um, nine stolen and damaged motorcycles?"
"Man, that track suit you're wearin's too tight, Greased Pig. Them bikes are legit."
"Yeah, right," I say. "Tell it to the cops."
"Hey, man! It's true! I got a backer!" he shouts indignantly, reaching inside his jacket.
I grab his arm with one hand, and reach for his inside jacket pocket faster than he can blink. Instead of the gun or knife I was expecting, I find, "Papers?"
"Pinks," he says indignantly. "For all forty-seven bikes I've got headin' out West. You owe me for nine, by the way," he adds smugly.
"Who's your backer?" I ask, ignoring him.
"Who do you think?" he spits.
"Chrome Dome?" I ask.
"Of course, Chrome Dome! Who else'd have the bread for all this?"
"Where can I find him?" I demand.
"Screw you, greaser!" he shouts angrily.
I rip up one of the pink slips, and scatter the pieces with the wind from a superfast wiggle of my fingers. "Where is he?"
"Come on, man! You can't do that! These bikes are legal!" he pleads, jumping to his feet.
"Karma's catching up to you, I guess," I say as I rip up another one in the same manner.
"Damn, man! Come on! He ain't gonna pay me back for whatever bikes I don't have the slips for!" Three more of him appear, and the four of them rush me.
I deck them at superspeed, and three of them fade away as they hit the ground. "Stay down this time," I say impatiently, shredding another pink slip. "Where is Chrome Dome?"
"ARGGHHH!" growls Iron Horse. "Alright! He's in Redondo Beach! I'm supposed to be there in a few days! He's got storage nearby for the bikes!"
"He's going to store them?" I ask in surprise. "Shame," I add as I shred another pink.
"Hey, man! I told you what you wanted to know!" he shouted, reaching out without getting up.
"Address?" I ask, holding up the next pink slip.
"Alright, man! Alright!" and he tells me the address. "It's a big beach style house!"
"A 'beach style' house?" I ask.
"You know- looks homey and relaxed, like you might find in the country, but it's too big to be anything but expensive. It's near the water, but has its own pool."
I chuckle. "I get it."
I turn to go, but Iron Horse says, "Hey, man, what about me?"
"What about you?" I say, shredding another pink as I look back his way.
He bangs his fist in the gravel of the roadside. "Dangit, man! I told you I don't get paid for bikes I don't have the slips for!" He breathes hard for a few seconds, then says, "How am I supposed to get there? You wrecked my bikes!"
I shrug, shred the rest of the slips, and throw the pieces in the air. "I don't care. Just make sure the rest of you that have bikes get there. And go back and get those other eight. Don't make me find you again," and with that I run circles around him, landing a few punches and a couple of kicks, and I'm gone, tearing across country towards California.
Back on the side of the road, Iron Horse groans, and grouses, "Stupid greaser and his stupid medallion." He kicks gravel as he gets up. "Jerk." He spits, and starts walking back towards the nearest town.
Chrome Dome's dressed relaxed in a pair of old jeans, a black t-shirt, black leather jacket, well worn brown boots, and wearing that stupid, open-faced chrome helmet. He's sitting at a poolside table, sipping on some kind of mixed drink with a pink umbrella in it when I skid to a halt, standing directly in front of him. "Greased Lightning," he says with disdain. "I was told you were coming. When are you going to get a better suit?"
"When are you going to quit wearing that disco ball you call a helmet, Chrome Dome?" I shoot back as I sit down.
"You wear a tight, black shirt with an open front shaped like a lightning bolt, and it plunges down to your navel- trimmed in orange, no less," he says with disgust. "Black leather pants, and that gold medallion around your neck- and I'm the disco reject?"
We laugh. "Seriously, why do you wear that thing?" I ask.
Holding the umbrella aside, he sips from his drink as he considers my question. Setting down his glass, he reaches up and removes his helmet, giving me the biggest shock of my life as I see his exposed brain under a clear glass dome. "Because a 'brain bucket' is meant to protect your brain," he says matter-of-factly. Putting it back on, he says, "Any other questions?"
I shake my head slowly, just raising my hands in front of me to surrender this argument.
"Did you make sure Iron Horse knows where he's going?"
"Yeah, he knows," I said. "Lost one of the bikes though."
"And the pink slips?" he asks.
I reach into one of my pockets, and come out with the pink slips, pieced back together with clear tape. I'd grabbed the pieces while giving Iron Horse his beatdown.
"What am I supposed to do with those?," he asks seriously. "They're not legal like that."
"Take 'em down to the Department of Motor Vehicles, sign an affidavit that says your crazy ex tore 'em up in anger, and apply for new ones," I say.
"My ex?" Chrome Dome says with an arched eyebrow.
"I've seen your daughter, Chrome. You gotta have an ex somewhere."
"Speaking of which, is she here?"
Before he can answer, a line of motorcycles roar into his driveway. All of them shut off simultaneously, and forty-six Iron Horses walk up the driveway to the pool. "HEY!" they shout in unison. "THAT DANGED TRACK JOCKEY DESTROYED NINE OF MY BIKES!"
I sprang out of my seat in a blur, decking all forty-five of his splits in pretty much one fluid motion. As they were fading away, I kicked the real Horse's legs out from under him from behind, and landed a solid speed punch as he was on his way to landing on his back.
"I think you mean my bikes," Chrome Dome said calmly. Looking at me, he said, "Destroyed nine of them? You told me only one was lost."
"Eight were damaged, but they're fixable," I assure him. "One was wrecked beyond repair."
"The repairs are coming out of your take," Chrome Dome says dryly.
"His take?" shouts Iron Horse. "I brought you the bikes!"
"Yes," says Chrome Dome with some impatience, "but he brought me the pink slips."
"What?!" demands Iron Horse, jumping to his feet. "He tore up the pink slips!" he shouts angrily.
Chrome Dome waves the stack of taped-together pinks at Iron Horse with a dismissive smile.
Iron Horse looks at me, and now completely loses his temper. "What the hell kind of scam is this, greaser? I'll break every bone in your legs! C'MERE!" he shouts as he lunges towards me.
He's caught from behind mid-lunge, and raised up in the air by his neck. "I don't think you want to do that, Horsey," says a voice like an ocean breeze. "I kind of like him."
"Ah, my dear. Good of you to join us," says Chrome Dome, raising his glass towards his daughter.
I smile. "Classy," I say with a smile, "feelin's mutual." I cross my arms and lean against the side of the house.
Classy Chassis- Chrome Dome's daughter. Five foot seven of beautiful woman with probably as much machinery inside of her as any one of the bikes in the driveway. Makes her super strong, among other things.
Iron Horse kicks and struggles weakly, using both hands to try to pry away the one around the back of his neck.
"You can put him down now, honey," says Chrome.
Classy drops him.
Iron Horse lands on his feet, bending over as he rubs his sore neck with his hands. After a few seconds, he says, "What the hell is this, Chrome Dome? You cheatin' me of my take? Is this how you do business?" he growled.
"Careful what tone you take with me, Horse," Chrome said seriously, as Classy handed him a briefcase. Chrome took out some cash, and handed it to me. "Like I said, he brought me the pinks."
"BUT...!" Iron Horse started, and then kicked the ground, fuming mad, but fearful of what Classy might do if he started shouting again.
"Relax, Horsey," I say, winking at Classy, and then walking over to Iron Horse. I split the cash in half, and say, "You're gettin' half." Then I take several bills off of his stack, and add it to mine. "Minus the repairs, of course," I say, winking at him.
He doesn't like it, but he takes the money anyway. "This is bull, Chrome Dome. That was mymoney that paid for those bikes."
"Yes, it was," acknowledges Chrome Dome. "Your stake, to prove that you're worth doing business with in the long run. You're losing part of that, because you let Greased Lightning mess up nine bikes, and get the slips away from you. Next time, mail the pinks."
Iron Horse perked up. "Next time?"
"I'll call you," nods Chrome Dome. "You can go. Take one of the bikes."
Horse doesn't like being dismissed, but the prospect of future business convinces him to walk away. He gives me a hard look, and I smile. He narrows his eyes in anger, but stalks out to the driveway. He takes the bike nearest the road, and roars off down the street.
I turn to Chrome Dome, and say, "What about the other part of our deal?"
"I haven't forgotten," he says, tapping the side of his helmet.
"So?" I say expectantly.
"Go ahead and ask her," he says with resignation.
"Alright!" I say happily. "Classy, would you like to go out with me tonight?"
Classy smiles. "Well, sure," she says. "Daddy, can we take a couple of the bikes?"
He smiles. "Of course you can, sweetheart." Looking at me seriously, he says, "Don't keep her out too late, and if you hurt her, I'll kill you."
I'd have laughed at anyone else, but I knew he was serious. "Don't worry, Chrome. I've been wantin' this date for a long time. Shall we?" I asked Classy.
She smiled. "Bye, daddy. Don't wait up."
"Have fun, dear," he says pleasantly.
"We will!" she calls out as we run for the driveway. We hop on two bikes, and head for the beach.
Yeah, I did all this for a date. I mean, have you seen her?
|Stumpy49er - Rockabilly Batman: The Race|
The enticing smell of greasy burgers from the nearby Big Belly Burger wafts through the air, causing many stadium onlookers bellies to growl. The odor of oil and exhaust fumes quickly cancel out these hankerings as various, colorful roadsters line up along the raceway. The crowd cheers and hold up signs of their favorite racers.
At the center of the raceways attention idles a black and red Hot Rod dubbed the Batmobile. The crowd oohs and aahs as it revs up, sending flames up the exposed front engine. Pulling up next to the Batmobile is a purple and green Gasser.
Sitting in the speaker podium, looking over the spectacle are two unlikely and averse colleague’s. Wearing a green letterman jacket and brown newsboy cap is the loquacious Edward Nygma. Next to him, wearing a white and black striped shirt with her red hair tied up in a black kerchief, is the always unembellished and candid Vicki Vale.
“We’ve got quite the turnout tonight, folks,” Vicki said into her mic. “Looks like the Gotham Raceway King has returned to defend his title from the multiple challengers, most of whom I suspect are coming here from the recent Arkham Jailhouse breakout.”
“Who do you think escaped from Arkham Jailhouse?” Edward asked.
“Let’s focus on the racers, shall we?” Edward replied. “Coming up next to the dreaded do-gooder in black leather is the ever popular and delightfully hilarious rising star of the Gotham Raceway, the Joker. Driving the uncannily fast and ever unpredictable purple and green car, the Gasser. Could he be the next King of the Gotham Raceway?”
Joker jumped out of the Gasser, wearing purple pants, green suspenders and a yellow hawaiian shirt. The crowd began to boo as the Joker bowed and waved merrily to the audience.
A song came on over the speakers, causing the crowd to cheer, mainly the men as their girlfriends sat in a huff.
“You know I can be found, sitting home all alone, if you can’t come around, at least please telephone,” a recorded Elvis sang over the speakers, as the Joker’s girl, the blonde, pigtailed Harley Quinn rolled around the car with her skates, wearing a black and red cheerleader skirt with a leather jacket. She rolled up to Joker and jumped into his arms, who promptly dropped her to the ground with a dark laugh.
“Don’t be cruel,
to a heart that’s true.”
The song came to an abrupt stop. Vicki Vale came on over the speaker again.
“Not sure how that song came on, Edward.”
“I didn’t do it.”
The crowd hushed as a thunderous engine noise boomed out from behind the other race cars. A humongous, black and silver monster truck with an enormous front engine drove up on the left of the Batmobile. The truck’s gargantuan driver, wearing a wrestlers spandex and mask, jumped out onto the raceway and began pointing at the King of the Raceway.
“I shall break you. You will no longer be the King of the Gotham Raceway. I will be the King. I shall be the bane of your existence. My truck, the Back Breaker shall crush your Batmo..”
“And that, folks, is Bane,” Vicki Vale interjected over the loudspeaker. “Apparently he’s a genius and a jock. Who would have thought that combo existed?”
“Who indeed?” Edward asked, shooting Vicki an ‘I ask the questions around here’ look. “Bane has stated that he built his truck the Back Breaker in an underground tunnel under the Arkham Jailhouse, where he grew up. Will his custom truck crush the King’s custom built hot rod?”
“No.” Vicki answered.
“Well, guess who else finally decided to show up?” Edward asked as a light purple slot car rolled up. The men in the crowd cheered even louder, while their girlfriends slapped them.
“Catwoman is representing the ladies in this race,” Vicki said. “You go girl.”
Catwoman waved at the crowd, wearing a black corset and a black mask. She looked over at the King and blew a kiss.
The King looked straight ahead, revving his engine.
“That’s all the racers.” Vicki said. “It looks like the race is about to start.”
Harley Quinn rolled up to the front of the cars, carrying flags. In her high pitched voice Harley yells out.
“Reeady. Set. Go Joker!!”
She began waving the flags.
The race cars screeched in unison as they began their trek towards the finish line.
The Batmobile boomed to an early lead, with Gasser right behind. The Catmobile came up in third. Harley Quinn threw a playing card at Bane’s Back Breaker, causing the monster truck to veer straight to the right, smashing Two-Faces Twin Engine Truck, Mr. Freezes Ice Cream truck and Scarecrow’s Demon Rod.
Penguin’s Iceberg Bugatti narrowly avoided the wreckage and began to gain some steam towards the front runners, even passing the Catmobile. He pointed his umbrella at the Joker’s Gasser, his fingers on a trigger. Joker flipped a button on dash, causing a large gas cloud to spew out of Gasser. Penguin swallowed a large dose as he pulled the trigger to his umbrella, causing a harpoon to catch onto Gasser’s bumper. Penguin coughed and began chortling uncontrollably as Jokers laughing gas caused him to lose control.
The Catmobile roared past Gasser as Joker tried to cut the Penguins line anchoring him to Penguin’s veering Iceberg Bugatti.
The Batmobile flew uninterrupted closer to the finish line as his competition all fought one another. Then the Catmobile grew closer.
The King looked into his rearview mirror as Catwoman blew him a kiss. Driving up next to the Batmobile, she leaned out her window and yelled at the King.
“Hey Batman. If I win will you crown me the Queen?”
With a squeal she jammed her foot onto the pedal, passing by Batman.
The King smiled as he slammed his foot onto the gas.
Meanwhile, Joker hits a button on his dash, causing his bumper, and various heavy parts of Gasser to fall off, he then reaches under his seat and flips a button. A chemical flows into his engine and Gasser begins to fly towards the Batmobile.
Batman sees the Joker approaching in his mirror. With grim determination the King jams his foot down, flips his own switch and begins to gain ground on the Catmobile, briefly gaining the lead. Then Catwoman flips her own switch. All three cars are driving as fast as possible towards their goal.
Finally, all three cars pass the finish line, nearly at the same time.
“And the Batmobile, Catmobile and Gasser all finish at the same time.” Vicki yells. “Could this be a tie? I can’t tell who won. I think it was Catwoman but I’m not sure.”
“I think the Joker won.” Edward said, getting a glare from Vicki. “But I couldn’t tell. Who could have won? Do we have any photos of the finish?”
A knock sounds out over the podium door. Vicki gets up and opens it. A young, handsome photographer, wearing glasses, walks in.
“I have a photograph of the finish.” the photographer says. “Batman won by a nose.”
“Who are you?” Edward asked.
“Captain Photography!" the man declared. "I'm the super hero who takes the photo's that save the day."
“Sounds like a dweeb.” Edward snorted.
Vicki chortled. “Ahem, sorry. Thanks for the photo.”
Over the loudspeaker Vicki declares, “And we have photo evidence..
Batman is still the King of the Gotham Raceway.”
The crowd cheered, mainly the women, while their boyfriends looked perturbed. Batman jumped out of the Batmobile and grabbed the trophy.
Harley Quinn thumbed her nose at Batman as the Joker began kicking Gasser, causing his side door to fall off onto his foot.
Catwoman sauntered up to Batman.
“Close win, King. What’s the prize?”
Batman grabbed Catwoman and planted a passionate kiss on her.
The crowd cheered as another Elvis song came on over the speaker.
“Well, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak, I can't seem to stand on my own two feet.
Who do you think of when you have such luck?
I'm in love,
I'm all shook up
Mm mm mm, mm, yay, yay, yay”
|Remember: Votes due by Sunday, Apr 1st, @11:59PM, US Pacific time.|
I'm glad you're here, and thanks for reading! -cb :^D