21.
Grod yelled something in Spanish that I couldn't understand, and on that cue the drunken children stumbled in and started grabbing, kicking, and biting the legs of the thugs. With a startlingly human force, Grod struggled to push me over the counter, then jumped over after me. Guns were firing now, mostly randomly and in desperation, and people and kids were yelling. Over the top of it all was the leader yelling, "Ignore the kids! Get them. Them!"
"Bitch," whined Grod to Sophia, "Why didn't you fucking remind me of that?"
She glared at him and then tossed him a set of keys. "Come on, Paul," he said and dragged me to my feet again and out the bar's back door. My vision was blurred already by pain and tequila, and the bright sunlight outside made me nearly blind. I stumbled along, Grod's arm guiding me through the sand and rocks as blood trickled onto the ground behind me. Suddenly Grod's hand released mine, and I fell to the ground again. "Come on man, we don't have time to lose," Grod said, and pulled me to my feet for the third time. My sight cleared for a second and I saw a large dark green machine in front of me. It was a motorcycle, and I could tell it was a really old one. The tires were covered with studs, like snow tires, and to my horror I realized a sidecar was attached to it. On the side of a sidecar was a black stylized cross shape outlined in white that looked familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. Grod pointed to the sidecar.
"Get in," he said, and jumped on the bike. I hesitated, but a barrage of gunshots erupted from the bar, and I jumped into the tiny capsule. More pain erupted from my leg when I realized I had sat down on a helmet, and I gave out a little cry.
"Look," said Grod as he started the engine, "You gotta' stop being such a pussy." He put on a pair of driving goggles and looked at me again, "Cut that whining shit out and put on that helmet."
Two goons burst from the back door and started firing on us, but we were already in motion. I was still trying to put the helmet on as Grod wheeled around the building so fast I was nearly thrown out of my seat. We came around the front of the building and I saw a large, white van, and then an old Cadillac. The Cadillac was parked with the front end apparently smashed into the front of the bar, and the windshield spidered.
As we roared past more goons poured out of the bar and into the two vehicles, which began to give chase, spinning their tires in the sandy ground. I pushed the helmet down onto my head, tightened the strap under my chin and sunk down in the seat, trying not to lose consciousness. Now, sitting in the sidecar of a motorcycle flying across the Mexican desert, with a dozen guys with guns chasing me and a crazy man I had known for less than a month driving, the reality of my situation seemed to crash into me like a Cadillac into a bar. I had been so overcome with relief that Grod wasn't planning on killing or robbing me that I'd let myself be lulled into a sense of security around him. Now I saw that just being around Grod was clearly enough to get me killed, and I began to whimper with despair.
The words Grod started screaming to me over the roaring engine of the bike seemed surreal. "Man!" he yelled, "I am So. Fucking. Trashed." The whole thing became surreal when I finally noticed the dark wall of black clouds in the distance ahead of us.
PREVIOUS | NEXT
"Bitch," whined Grod to Sophia, "Why didn't you fucking remind me of that?"
She glared at him and then tossed him a set of keys. "Come on, Paul," he said and dragged me to my feet again and out the bar's back door. My vision was blurred already by pain and tequila, and the bright sunlight outside made me nearly blind. I stumbled along, Grod's arm guiding me through the sand and rocks as blood trickled onto the ground behind me. Suddenly Grod's hand released mine, and I fell to the ground again. "Come on man, we don't have time to lose," Grod said, and pulled me to my feet for the third time. My sight cleared for a second and I saw a large dark green machine in front of me. It was a motorcycle, and I could tell it was a really old one. The tires were covered with studs, like snow tires, and to my horror I realized a sidecar was attached to it. On the side of a sidecar was a black stylized cross shape outlined in white that looked familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. Grod pointed to the sidecar.
"Get in," he said, and jumped on the bike. I hesitated, but a barrage of gunshots erupted from the bar, and I jumped into the tiny capsule. More pain erupted from my leg when I realized I had sat down on a helmet, and I gave out a little cry.
"Look," said Grod as he started the engine, "You gotta' stop being such a pussy." He put on a pair of driving goggles and looked at me again, "Cut that whining shit out and put on that helmet."
Two goons burst from the back door and started firing on us, but we were already in motion. I was still trying to put the helmet on as Grod wheeled around the building so fast I was nearly thrown out of my seat. We came around the front of the building and I saw a large, white van, and then an old Cadillac. The Cadillac was parked with the front end apparently smashed into the front of the bar, and the windshield spidered.
As we roared past more goons poured out of the bar and into the two vehicles, which began to give chase, spinning their tires in the sandy ground. I pushed the helmet down onto my head, tightened the strap under my chin and sunk down in the seat, trying not to lose consciousness. Now, sitting in the sidecar of a motorcycle flying across the Mexican desert, with a dozen guys with guns chasing me and a crazy man I had known for less than a month driving, the reality of my situation seemed to crash into me like a Cadillac into a bar. I had been so overcome with relief that Grod wasn't planning on killing or robbing me that I'd let myself be lulled into a sense of security around him. Now I saw that just being around Grod was clearly enough to get me killed, and I began to whimper with despair.
The words Grod started screaming to me over the roaring engine of the bike seemed surreal. "Man!" he yelled, "I am So. Fucking. Trashed." The whole thing became surreal when I finally noticed the dark wall of black clouds in the distance ahead of us.
PREVIOUS | NEXT
© 2006 Ian Blake & Marshall Scott
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home