Strips
Tall Tank Tales
Rock & Roll
There are few things worse than waking up to the feeling of having a big pointy stick poked into your eye. I would know - I’m usually the one doing the poking - and most folks don’t react so well. Screaming in terror at the top of their lungs is the usual reaction.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I woke up one morning on the wrong side of the stick. Luckily, I’m FAR from usual, so when my reaction turned out to be a swift kick in the kneecap of my new friend holding the stick, it wasn’t expected.
"Oh, fuck." He grunted, grabbing his knee and crumpling to the ground.
I grabbed the stick out of his hands as he fell on his face, and turned it the right way - away from yours truly.
"Who the hell are ya, and who sent ya?’ I demanded, poking the top of his head sharply for emphasis.
"Mmmpufh..." he answered, his face still shoved roughly against the dirt of the ground.
As I waited impatiently for him to regain his speaking voice, I looked around to remind myself where the hell I happened to be. When you’re wandering around as much as I am, things start to become a bit blurry after a while. It’s got its pros and cons. You don’t make too many friends, but it’s harder for your enemies to find you.
I had parked the tank last night before dozing off to sleep in the cool night air at the edge of what looked like a small town. Well, it probably used to be a town. Now it was a whole bunch of empty and abandoned buildings in the middle of a huge wasteland of rubble and sand. There was nothing to see for miles around. I was probably a good 50 miles from the nearest source of food, water, or life in general.
There was a stink in the air that smelled familiar. It was me. I inhaled a huge whiff of myself and tried to remember the last time I showered. I couldn’t.
"Bleech," I remarked, grinned, and lit up a smoke. Thank god I had plenty of cigarettes in the tank. Personal hygiene was optional - tobacco, mandatory.
I glanced down at my new friend, who was still trying to wipe the last of the dust from his tongue. Luckily for me, he wasn’t too talented as a predator, otherwise, things could have gotten a little hairy. These were the times that I missed having Booga by my side. Good for fucking, good for cooking, good for protection - I like those qualities in a male. Good for conversation, too. When I feel like talking. Most of the time I don’t.
Unfortunately, Booga was two days travel away - I left him to organize a small, underground warren of post-apocalyptic nomads. In plain terms - a bunch of dumb asses that were starving to death in the middle of the desert. Ordinarily, we probably would have left them to starve - more food and water on the planet for us, after all. But, there were a few kids in the group and goddamn it if I don’t have a soft spot for juveniles. Sort of my Achilles’ heel when it comes to being a tough as nails hard-ass.
So, I left Booga to show them how to ration their food better and find underground water springs - basic survival shit like that. Frankly, I have a lot of respect for folks that can get along around here without looting and killing. Fuck knows, I can’t.
Booga’s better at explaining and teaching than I am. I have about the patience of a death row inmate when it comes to shit like that. I lose it after a couple of seconds - god knows what I would do to one of them innocent idiots if they riled my temper. It was safer for all concerned to leave Booga there. I told him to catch up when he could. I figured I’d seen him in less than a week somewhere, probably at a bar in one of the settlements we frequented. He knew where to find me.
My new friend took a final spit of dirt and looked up into my grinning face. I had no idea what kind of shape I must have been in at this point - fuck knows how long without a shower, etc. - but I figured I could increase any level of anxiety he might be experiencing with a pronounced leer.
"Dddon’t hurrrt me, ppppppplease!" He had the worst stutter I’d heard. Didn’t add much to his appeal.
"I’ll think about it," I decided, running the sharp end of the stick over his ear. "What are you doing out here in the desert?"
"I’mmm on a mmmmission."
"I like missions. What kind?"
"I’mmm lllooking fffffor a rrrrock."
"Sounds like a dumb ass mission to me." I spread my arm out and gestured to the shit hole we were standing in. "Plenty of rocks. Take your pick."
He shook his head fervently. Man, everything this clown did seemed to have a stutter to it.
"Nnnnoo! I’mmmmm llllooking ffffor a sssspecific rock."
That stuttering shit was getting old fast.
While deciding whether or not to rid the planet of this highly annoying character, I decided to do a quick check for any other weapons he might have on him. He was wearing a loose fitting robe over some dusty makeshift pants and shirt. Not exactly a fashion plate, this one.
"Now, don’t feel special, cowboy," I warned, as I quickly patted him down the length of his body. "I do this to all the boys."
He was clean. Well, he didn’t have any guns or anything. In one of his robe pockets, I found a compass, a big crust of week old bread, and what looked like an old map.
"A pirate map!? ARGH! Are you bein’ a pirate, matey?" I growled in my best Captain Hook voice. I love pirates. Shoot first, ask questions later, pillage and rape, blood and guts - pirates are my kind of people. This guy looked more like an escaped mental patient than a pirate. Just as violent, but a little less organized.
"I’m nnnnnot a ppppirate," he explained as his spittle flew dangerously close to my face. (dangerous for HIM) "I’mmm a ssssoldier."
"Not much of one, are ya, sport?"