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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Death Guts
“Put the motor in the red,” she said, grinning, “I want to see this hot rod go.”
He grunted as boot stamped and crushed pedal to time worn metal. “I’ve been working too hard to get a clutch of that long green to lose it now on some slide flake gone for the wipeout.” His eyes never left the road as he fished smokes from his front pocket. “Play it cool, pussycat, no need to go for the straight kill.”
She laughed at that, musical notes played on a broken 8-track. “You already pushed it max. We’re riding high on the empty stretch now!” She was still laughing as she lit his cigarette, fire dancing from silvered Zippo gone grim under oily fingers.
He smiled, a rare enough thing. It didn’t touch his eyes, reflected in that cracked rearview mirror, fixed on the twenty feet of asphalt he could make out under the light of his halogen bulbs.
The motor roared, the wind whistled past, forcing it’s way into the cabin past poorly fitted rubber cracked under sun and age. It whisked away sweat and smoke and perfume left on too long.
“We’re on a zoom now.”
I couldn’t make out who said it, weighed down by this bag of blood slicked bills and dose of quaaludes. They’ve blended together—he in a leather jacket with the slickbacked hair and she with the runny mascara and crimson mouth—and I don’t remember what we were.
“We are on that slide zoom now, kids.”
My mouth parted and ejected fluids and noise in equal measure. Gravity seemed to be an excessive thing and I was adamant I see someone about getting it turned off.
She looked back. It seemed necessary to differentiate her from all the other shes that may have existed. “Look who’s back from his sweat in the desert! You feeling Tarzan, baby? Ready to swing?”
I must have said something because she laughed uproariously. I noticed that she held a silvered revolver in her left hand. Zippo and a Colt. Somehow it felt appropriate.
His eyes flicked over me. Cold and sharp. Lake Superior looking right in you. “Don’t have a rag, son, it’s about at end. You want to die?”
What? Did I say that or just think that? In any case, he seemed to know.
“Come on now, use your noodle. You want to die?”
No.
“Mmm-mm!” She eyed me with lascivious intent. “I like a bit of home grown. Puts feathers on your ass.”
“Don’t worry boy, it’s all at an end.”
I looked out the window at a skyline of metal twists and fire sticks as we ran off an edge of a cliff and the windshield filled with rapid approaching corpse dirt.
Someone was laughing. I think it was me.
He grunted as boot stamped and crushed pedal to time worn metal. “I’ve been working too hard to get a clutch of that long green to lose it now on some slide flake gone for the wipeout.” His eyes never left the road as he fished smokes from his front pocket. “Play it cool, pussycat, no need to go for the straight kill.”
She laughed at that, musical notes played on a broken 8-track. “You already pushed it max. We’re riding high on the empty stretch now!” She was still laughing as she lit his cigarette, fire dancing from silvered Zippo gone grim under oily fingers.
He smiled, a rare enough thing. It didn’t touch his eyes, reflected in that cracked rearview mirror, fixed on the twenty feet of asphalt he could make out under the light of his halogen bulbs.
The motor roared, the wind whistled past, forcing it’s way into the cabin past poorly fitted rubber cracked under sun and age. It whisked away sweat and smoke and perfume left on too long.
“We’re on a zoom now.”
I couldn’t make out who said it, weighed down by this bag of blood slicked bills and dose of quaaludes. They’ve blended together—he in a leather jacket with the slickbacked hair and she with the runny mascara and crimson mouth—and I don’t remember what we were.
“We are on that slide zoom now, kids.”
My mouth parted and ejected fluids and noise in equal measure. Gravity seemed to be an excessive thing and I was adamant I see someone about getting it turned off.
She looked back. It seemed necessary to differentiate her from all the other shes that may have existed. “Look who’s back from his sweat in the desert! You feeling Tarzan, baby? Ready to swing?”
I must have said something because she laughed uproariously. I noticed that she held a silvered revolver in her left hand. Zippo and a Colt. Somehow it felt appropriate.
His eyes flicked over me. Cold and sharp. Lake Superior looking right in you. “Don’t have a rag, son, it’s about at end. You want to die?”
What? Did I say that or just think that? In any case, he seemed to know.
“Come on now, use your noodle. You want to die?”
No.
“Mmm-mm!” She eyed me with lascivious intent. “I like a bit of home grown. Puts feathers on your ass.”
“Don’t worry boy, it’s all at an end.”
I looked out the window at a skyline of metal twists and fire sticks as we ran off an edge of a cliff and the windshield filled with rapid approaching corpse dirt.
Someone was laughing. I think it was me.