I'd appreciate any feedback...it's all rough right now and this is all I have so far (no title yet...the rest is in my head). Thanks, ~javier.
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Click Click
“Okay, you can turn now.”
Click Click. The blinkers on the old Subaru XT Turbo shuttered loudly in the quiet, empty, night.
“Quit wasting time and turn! It’s two blocks down that way,” said Mendall, an old, thin figure, topped with gray hair, thick glasses, and lanky arms.
“Yeah, but don’t you just get a kick out of it?”
“…Finally…a kick out of what?”
“The peace, the quiet, the emptiness,” answered Wilhelm, obviously the younger of the two. Lean yet imposing. Strong yet vulnerable.
“I never bothered to take note. Though’ve I’ve seen much better,” answered Mendall.
“Just like all the Oldies…you’re cynical…too nostalgic,” complained Wilhelm
Mendall hated being labeled an Oldie. It made him seem, well, old. It came with the territory, he guessed. After all he had been through, a simple name couldn’t hurt him.
“Oldies only…they know the best. I’ve been running tracks and parts for the last 22 years,” replied Mendall.
“Hah, what else? Ramblin’ is the only way to make a living honestly. That or mercing, and to be frank…you don’t look like the type,” said Wilhelm.
Mercing and Ramblin’, two of the most common trades available, maybe the only two left, that could earn you some Zar, the only currency accepted. Ofcourse, Mendall never understood the implications that connected leasing one’s body out for contractual service (which almost always meant service in the military) to Ramblin’, browsing old, outdated machines and equipment for salvageable parts, to be used and reused, killed and killed again.
“Actually no, I tried Mercing…I didn’t pass the regs...something about being born before The Change,” explained Mendall.
”Now that’s a tale. I would’ve loved to have seen you in the lines. Hell, one of my stocks didn’t last a week. Got killed by a flyer. They didn’t find much, except maybe a few bones,” detailed Wilhelm.
“Watch the stripes…the turn’s coming up. This block,” directed Mendall.
“Blocks? There you go with your old archaic terms again…,” hissed Wilhelm.
“Yes, BLOCKS. When these square patches actually had structures on them…you could probably tell from the sky,” taught Mendall.
“Yea, just like the time you told me that hilarious story of those two rival measurements…what were they? MYYYLES and KEEELOmeters? Hah! Good stuff. You could be a writer with that ****…well, if the Guard wouldn’t torture you and eat your fingers,” joked Wilhelm.
“Enough…the turn’s here. Lets just get this order done with. Some ass wants a valve and a burned out sensor. Probably building himself another collection,” fussed Mendall.
The car stopped, the putter of the small, turbo charged engine ceased, giving way to complete silence. There were almost no lights to illuminate the area, save for a few flying Points above. The two stepped out and managed their way through the filth, garbage, and ruins and walked up the crumbled ramp towards the ceilingless container.
“There it is, Mod 5, Series 2007-A. Best of the best, seeing as it was made at the last moment…,” said Mendall.
“I could’ve sweared the order list stated, “Mod 5, Series 2006-A – The almost best of the best,” joked Wilhelm.
“Just get the plugs out…besides, you should be honored. So maybe I get a little enthusiastic with my parts detailing, but it comes with my level of experience,” argued Mendall.
“No argument here..I’m just saying…it sounds like you take pride in this filth we do,” explained Wilhelm, “Surely, you’re the best Rambler out there, THE Rambler, but come on, have some eyes, take a look around. We live in a hell.”
Wilhelm was right on all counts. Mendall started the ‘art’ of Ramblin some 2 decades plus back. It was named after him and his cowboy boots and western hat. Ofcourse, the hat was gone, the boots worn through, but his legacy had been solidified so many years ago. Yes, maybe they did live in a squalor, but Mendall was out to do his best at his trade, and take his mind off of the obvious, for now atleast.
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If you read that, thanks again. I'd appreciate any comments or questions.
-----------
Click Click
“Okay, you can turn now.”
Click Click. The blinkers on the old Subaru XT Turbo shuttered loudly in the quiet, empty, night.
“Quit wasting time and turn! It’s two blocks down that way,” said Mendall, an old, thin figure, topped with gray hair, thick glasses, and lanky arms.
“Yeah, but don’t you just get a kick out of it?”
“…Finally…a kick out of what?”
“The peace, the quiet, the emptiness,” answered Wilhelm, obviously the younger of the two. Lean yet imposing. Strong yet vulnerable.
“I never bothered to take note. Though’ve I’ve seen much better,” answered Mendall.
“Just like all the Oldies…you’re cynical…too nostalgic,” complained Wilhelm
Mendall hated being labeled an Oldie. It made him seem, well, old. It came with the territory, he guessed. After all he had been through, a simple name couldn’t hurt him.
“Oldies only…they know the best. I’ve been running tracks and parts for the last 22 years,” replied Mendall.
“Hah, what else? Ramblin’ is the only way to make a living honestly. That or mercing, and to be frank…you don’t look like the type,” said Wilhelm.
Mercing and Ramblin’, two of the most common trades available, maybe the only two left, that could earn you some Zar, the only currency accepted. Ofcourse, Mendall never understood the implications that connected leasing one’s body out for contractual service (which almost always meant service in the military) to Ramblin’, browsing old, outdated machines and equipment for salvageable parts, to be used and reused, killed and killed again.
“Actually no, I tried Mercing…I didn’t pass the regs...something about being born before The Change,” explained Mendall.
”Now that’s a tale. I would’ve loved to have seen you in the lines. Hell, one of my stocks didn’t last a week. Got killed by a flyer. They didn’t find much, except maybe a few bones,” detailed Wilhelm.
“Watch the stripes…the turn’s coming up. This block,” directed Mendall.
“Blocks? There you go with your old archaic terms again…,” hissed Wilhelm.
“Yes, BLOCKS. When these square patches actually had structures on them…you could probably tell from the sky,” taught Mendall.
“Yea, just like the time you told me that hilarious story of those two rival measurements…what were they? MYYYLES and KEEELOmeters? Hah! Good stuff. You could be a writer with that ****…well, if the Guard wouldn’t torture you and eat your fingers,” joked Wilhelm.
“Enough…the turn’s here. Lets just get this order done with. Some ass wants a valve and a burned out sensor. Probably building himself another collection,” fussed Mendall.
The car stopped, the putter of the small, turbo charged engine ceased, giving way to complete silence. There were almost no lights to illuminate the area, save for a few flying Points above. The two stepped out and managed their way through the filth, garbage, and ruins and walked up the crumbled ramp towards the ceilingless container.
“There it is, Mod 5, Series 2007-A. Best of the best, seeing as it was made at the last moment…,” said Mendall.
“I could’ve sweared the order list stated, “Mod 5, Series 2006-A – The almost best of the best,” joked Wilhelm.
“Just get the plugs out…besides, you should be honored. So maybe I get a little enthusiastic with my parts detailing, but it comes with my level of experience,” argued Mendall.
“No argument here..I’m just saying…it sounds like you take pride in this filth we do,” explained Wilhelm, “Surely, you’re the best Rambler out there, THE Rambler, but come on, have some eyes, take a look around. We live in a hell.”
Wilhelm was right on all counts. Mendall started the ‘art’ of Ramblin some 2 decades plus back. It was named after him and his cowboy boots and western hat. Ofcourse, the hat was gone, the boots worn through, but his legacy had been solidified so many years ago. Yes, maybe they did live in a squalor, but Mendall was out to do his best at his trade, and take his mind off of the obvious, for now atleast.
----
If you read that, thanks again. I'd appreciate any comments or questions.
Comment