Strips
Tall Tank Tales
Tattoo’d
"Listen you old fool".
*** Struggling sounds erupt***
"Yelling and squirming are not going to help. And if you don’t cooperate I’m going to crack your skull with this mallet."
She actually had no mallet, no intention of cracking anyone’s skull and no real issue with the woman who was pinned to the filthy ground, beneath her own equally filthy self, straddled atop her. Meet Tank Girl.
"Booga, I need my mallet," Tanky called out. "Booga!!!! Where are you?"
"I need the mallet to fix the tank. Can’t you threaten her with something else? Perhaps a rock?" he replied.
It was obvious that he was worn out and not in the mood for another of Tanky’s violent games of excess indulgence. The bottom line was smoking could not really be prohibited in a post-apocalyptic setting. Most things if not fully burned out were smoldering in some fashion or other. So to tell someone not to smoke was like telling a sea turtle to stay dry or telling a bird to stay put. Old Ms. Hofflegrabben was neither versed in this notion nor accepting of it. And she continued to struggle.
The battle torn girl, who had pinned her down and was sputtering both cigarette ash and saliva onto the poor woman, was not letting up either.
"See, this is where you nod with great understanding that smoking is not only permitted here, but encouraged," Tank Girl yelled.
"OK," agreed the terrified woman.
"Ahh!! See! We’ve reached an agreement," Tanky fumed. "You shut the fuck up and I go about my business perhaps even tipping my hat to you as a friendly gesture of good will."
"PleaseÉ" the old woman began.
"Shut it, you COW!!"
Booga came from behind the tank, reached for the woman’s hand and shook it as she lay on the ground. He introduced himself to her and handed the mallet to his girlfriend.
"Nice meeting you miss," he said walking back toward the tank. "Ready when you are, Honey!"
Climbing aboard, Tank Girl mused, "Can you believe the nerve of that old vulture? How can anyone have the energy to be all hoity-toity in this fuckin’ heat? And over smoking of all fucking things!"
"The mallet was overkill," Booga said, "She got the message. A lump on the head would have been impolite."
"Impolite!?! Did you say impolite!?!" she squawked, "I’ll fucking get impolite all over you, you fuzzy good-for-nothing mallet-withholding lug!!!!!"
Some journeys begin with packing up your bags, others with mapping out travel routes, but these two make anarchy a way of life Ð hence this was the beginning of most ventures they set out on. And Ms. Hofflegrabben was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and was perhaps a bit overzealous about nicotine abuse and her perceived rights to a smoke-free environment. Those who knew the old woman would acknowledge that "overzealous" would be a kind reference. Her determination toward causes she deemed worthy, caused her adorable niece Abigail refer to her as a Nazi Bag. In point of fact, referring to Abigail as adorable would be a misnomer. She was savvy, sexy and big trouble.
At seventeen Abbi, as her friends called her, was independent, bold and far from taking any shit from a Nazi Bag. Abbi would have loved to have seen her aunt pinned to the ground for trying to enforce a smoking ordinance. In fact, she would have sat down and had a chuckle if a mallet-wielding crazy person Ð whom we affectionately know as Tank Girl - was pummeling her Auntie about the head and shoulders. But Abbi was otherwise engaged at the time.
Don’t you think Abbi and Tanky would get along just swell?
Just you wait...
Abbi and her friends piled into her truck and they blasted off toward the big city for a night of which Ms. Hofflegrabben would hardly approve. Smoking, drinking and youthful lustÉ and a gun or two.
"Big lights up ahead, Honey," Booga called out, "Check the map. What’s ahead?"
"The only large city for thirty miles. That must be it," Tank Girl guessed.
"Ahh, a town laden with cigarettes and beer. I suggest a pit stop. And how about a tattoo?" He asked.
"A tattoo? What are you babbling about?"
"On that sign. Its says tattoo tonight," He directed.
"It says Tatu, you idiot!"
"That’s what I said, Dear. What’s yer issue?"
"A tattoo is a piece of artwork etched in your skin. Tatu are a couple of spoiled twats who think success is everlasting despite their pissy attitudes." she explained, "And they think they can sing."
"So, should we stop in and get a tattoo?" Booga inquired.
"Sure. Let’s get us some Tatu," Tanky smiled, "I could use some international flavor on my boot-tread!"
Being a "woman of the world" and a novice music aficionado, Tank Girl had read about this alleged lesbian duo that seek the limelight to promote their feigned lust for one another in the name of increased record sales. The songs were catchy, but these twats were an irksome bunch that needs a dose of global awareness Ð in the form of a beating. And our two heroes were just the ones to dole out a slap or two.
Traveling into the big city was always a dicey affair. Abbi and her pals were bounced around in her truck, but the destination always made the trip worthwhile. Booze and revelry along with the freedom to do as they pleased was all the inspiration they needed. Her crew made the trek every few months just to check in with their preferred version of normalcy.
Abbi never made the journey without her best friend, an old 9mm pistol she found at the aftermath of an argument gone awry. It cleaned up nicely and had never let her down. Its only downfall was it sometimes poked below the hem of the short skirts she liked to wear. But as long as her Aunt didn’t see it, who cared? Right? That was her motto.
"Abbi, are we gonna get this party started or what ?" Jimmy yelled.
"It’s already begun," she replied pulling the truck into a filling station.
"Fill’er up. I’m gonna get some snacks," she repliedÉ which meant cigarettes and beer - at gunpoint - for free.
Without so much as a single shot being fired, Abbi emerged from the store with a carton of cigarettes poking from the top of a brown bag full of beer cans. Her 9mm was now roughly tucked into the back of her skirt. This was unusual after a snack-heist since the barrel was usually too hot at this point to rest against her skin. But tonight’s boost went off in a most amicable manner without bloodshed. Almost a first for Abigail Ð a seasoned pro in armed negotiation.
With smokes abounding and beers spilling as the truck navigated the rough road, Abbi’s crew needed something to do. Something fun. Something different.
Something...
SMASH!!!!!!!!!!!
A car careened through the intersection and struck the back end of her truck. Kids piled out of both vehicles. The small car that caused the accident was loaded with happy-go-lucky teens with dopey grins. Abbi’s truck released a hell storm of angry youth. With gun in hand, Abbi stepped up to negotiate the other vehicle’s demise.
"OK," Abbi yelled, "Everyone willing to die peacefully stand to the left. Those who wish to debate the issue and give me a headache, stand to the right!"
Confused looks abounded.
"Listen tossers," she began, "Which of you blind mother fuckers hit my truck?"
"Was it you?" She mused pointing the 9mm at a pretty girl in a blue dress. Abbi knew who the driver was. She needed to have a bit of fun first.
"I’ll bet it was you. Wasn’t it?"
A boy of seventeen shifted in his dead stance as sweat ran down his forehead. He may have been a bit shaken by the accident, but the blonde with the gun presented a more pressing concern. A concern that apparently could alter his evening and quite likely his life.
"Seems obvious that your car is the prime offender," Abbi chortled as she fired a shot into the hood of the car.
"All that remains, is to see who else may have been at fault. Perhaps the driver."
The boy shifted nervously unsure how to bring this fender bender to a pleasant close.
"I’m really sorry, Miss," he began.
"Sorry is sorely beneath what you’ve done here, dumbfuck!" Abbi noted aloud.
"In fact Ôsorry’ is for spilling a drink, missing your mark in the toilet or breaking a plate because you’re a clumsy bastard! You should be on your knees serving me finger sandwiches and cleaning my crotch with your tongue instead of flapping it in the breeze with moronic spouts of Ôsorry’." Abbi explained.
She pressed the gun barrel to his head and asked him to wave goodbye to his buddies. Abbi’s friends were smirking knowing she wasn’t likely to kill him as much as just scare the shit out of him. As she could feel his fear passing into oblivion, her gag was brought to an end with a loud crash.
CRASH!!!!
The large tank came to a halt. The remnants of Abbi’s truck lay in its wake. The hatch opened and two figures appeared.
"Oh, fuck all!!" yelled Tank Girl.
Abbi raised her gun with a great deal more interest in Tanky and Booga than the jerky kid who dented her truck.
"Oh my," exclaimed Booga, "Is that a real gun?"
"Let’s get a closer look," Tanky retorted with enthusiastic sarcasm.
"Hey little girl," she said looking at Abbi, "Are you rilly rilly thinking of shooting that at me?"
"Damn strait!" Abbi said matter-of-factly.
"Well then, Let me show you a real gun"
"And this is a real RPG," Booga added hoisting the cylindrical rocket launcher to his shoulder.
Abbi was having serious doubts about a lot of things, but she’d never let it show. Certainly not in front of her friends, who were now as confused as anyone involved.
"Sorry about your car," Tanky offered not realizing (or caring) about the general disposition towards the word Ôsorry’.
Tank Girl quickly smacked the pistol from Abbi’s grasp and flung her to the ground. Sitting atop Abbi, as she had earlier done with her Aunt the Nazi Bag, Tanky doled out her own brand of reasoning. Abbi lay helpless listening to Tank Girl rave about the down side to little girls who played with guns. Her reasoning being that often bigger girls come along who have bigger guns, worse attitudes and greater indifference to the human condition.
Abbi had never met anyone who would or could stand up to her. Tank Girl was something of an anomaly. A puzzle. A mystery. Abbi had met her match and she wasn’t happy about it. It was just another day in the life of Tank Girl, but Abbi was upset, pissed off and couldn’t do a thing about it. Damn!
"Honey," Booga interrupted, "Were never going to get tattoos if you keep finding people to sit on top of and yell at."
"Hold your horses. Those little Tatu twats will have to wait until I’ve set this girl straight on the ways of MY WORLD!"
Booga leaned back against the tank, lit a cigarette and wondered why his beloved Tanky wanted a tattoo of a twat. Strange he thought, but that was her way Ð strange!
Continued...