"christ this clutch is heavy.' he thought as he manuvered the '65 mustang through the heavy traffic of santa monica's surface streets.
Why did he rent this heap in the first place? God knows the expense account would have just as easily have covered a nice new grand prix or monte carlo, but no, he had to try to save a few bucks and called a place called 'rent a wreck' from a phone booth at the airport....and the two plus two coupe was his punishment for cutting corners. Trying to keep up with the girl on the motorcycle that he'd been hired to follow driving this bucking and snorting heap was getting to be a real drugdge now as she moved effortlessly between the lanes, her face in the breeze locked in a smile that was nothing like the grimace on his own fiz.
the mustang smelled of both raw gas and unburned exhaust fumes and he felt light headed and worried about lighting a cigarette in this potential fireball.
finding the girl had been easy enough--she came to work at Ladd and Yackey, mobbed up attorneys-at-law just as his client had said she would, all perky in her little short skirt/long jacket office attire, but when she left at 1:30 for lunch she had surprised him when she emerged from the building and headed for the parking garage down the street wearing jeans and a tight fitting leather jacket with that black half helmet in her hand. Minutes later she pulled out of the garage on a red harley....no, not a harley but one of those japanese bikes that tried hard to look like a harley....what did they call it? A vulcan, he thought. As she pulled away from the first stoplight he thought to himself that the bike was oddly quiet for a bike like this.....pooty patooty sounds instead of the potato potato thumping that the bike's looks promised.
perhaps she sensed that she was being followed, or maybe the circus wagon he was driving tipped her, but suddenly she came about and made a right turn on wilshire from the left lane, her footpegs dragging and thowing sparks even though she wasn't leaning the bike over all that far. even though the bike wasn't as fast as one of those plastic wrapped ass- in- the- air sportbikes, it was nonetheless a motorcycle and easily bobbed and weaved through the stop and go car bus and truck traffic---she was leaving him farther and further behind.
finally after a few kamikaze moves through some very very yellow lights and ass puckering passes in the parking lane, he caught up with her at a long red. he picked up the digital from the passengers seat and over his left shoulder clicked a quick snapshot of her as she sat waiting for the green. at the very least he'd have something to show his client if this thing all went south.
Several blocks later she pulled the bike to a stop in front of a run down warehouse that looked like it was being converted to condos and jumped off the black leather seat. She stood there and rubbed her ass with both hands for a moment as if trying to bring some life back into it and then limped hesitantly toward the construction entrance as though her back might be sore....the detective wondered if she knew about mike corbin and the wonders that his band of merry men could work on her butt? maybe when this was all over he'd make sure she got word about mike.
as quickly as she had disappeared into the building a sudden explosion changed his perception from normal speed to shudder/jump mtv quick cut----his world had changed in a millisecond as the warehouse slowly trembled and then collapsed in on itself, dust rolling out in a shape that somehow seemed almost liquid.
it all happened so quickly that all he had time to do was to raise his arm in front of his eyes and to roll to the right into the passengers seat. when the noise finally stopped and he sat up, he found himself covered with pieces of the windsheild and sheetrock debris from the warehouse. the mustang was covered in schmutz, but aside from the glass, pretty much whole. the warehouse was a different story....no living thing could have survived that explosion and the collapse. clearly his job was done and as he pulled himself out of the 'stang and put the digital camera in his pocket his eye caught the red glimmer of the vulcan. he tugged on the brim of his fedora and straightened his trenchcoat, and threw his leg over the saddle. he felt the weight of the bike as he tilted it from side to side. 'not too heavy...' he thought. he sat down and put his left leg up on the peg and toed the shifter tentatively. 'legroom's not to bad, either.' he mused. he thumbed the starter button and revved the peaky little v-twin just a bit and thought to himself
'this thing might make a nice rat bike if i spray a bit of primer on the tank, ditch them fugly decals and get some decently noisy pipes on.'
he kicked the bike into gear and as he let out the surprisingly light clutch he wondered if flanders made some apehangers that would fit his new bike.......
Or maybe you like the name boobybigot. He He He LOL LOL
