The Toys

Sunlight streaks through the holes in the walls and ceiling, it glints off the beautiful works of art that are the cabs. The massive boat-like cruse vehicles with winged tail lights sit at the front of the pack. Behind them are the locomotive styled, low slung old-man cabs that make you want to sit low behind the wheel with a bandana wrapped around your head and a pair of dark shades over your eyes. After those are the small and speedy bullets of burnt-rubber dragon dreams, and right behind them are the lone ranger John-fucking-Wayne ride into the sunset two-wheeled machines.

“I fink I just came,” Bart whispers, grabbing at himself.

“You have to give it to the Angles, they know how to ride,” one of the Mutts calls out.

“Yes, these are the beauties our great clan has collected form dozens of northern raids.” even Fester’s voice softens in their presence, “any and all of these glorious specimens will serve you well in the destruction of the depraved swine that is Arthur.”

Following his brother Grisly whispers, “yes our great and wonderful leader-”

“We get it teddy bear, Kurtis is sterling, now what cab can get us there in one piece,” Bart barks.

“Dearest Bartholomew, you may try to abash us with your words and we may have the visage of vintage and virtuous gentlemen.” fester smiles, “But fuck with us and you will be wearing your asshole like a baby’s bonnet and crying for the whore you call a mother in the same manner.”

“Do you think we would be on our own if we could not keep the likes of you at bay?” Grisly walks next to his brother and in unison, and from thin air, they each pull out two Katanas. “You are the shit underfoot, the weeds in an otherwise perfect garden.”

“Well fuck, that was kind of cool,” Marty says with a half-hearted chuckle, “I’m going to go look at the gangster sedan now.”

“I should go wif yeh Marty… yeh know in-case yeh don’t know what yer looking at.” Bart walks coolly toward him but not taking his eyes off the now statue still brothers.

“You alright Deflect, you’re looking a little pale.”

“Them bastards scare the shite out of me, mate.”

“They can be creepy, especially when they don’t blink.”

“They’re looking at me ain’t they?” he goes to hide behind Marty but catches himself, “I ain’t no puff, mind.”

“I’m not saying that, shit they get to me, too.” they open the hood of a cherry red low slung gangster and examine its innards. “This looks like it has enough power, we might need two for all of us though.”

“Well tha’s it then in’it, come on boys lets look at some toys,” Bart yells to his crew. They all walk toward a pair of heavy doors, the brothers open them to reveal a cavern of weaponry.

The lights flicker as the men run to their favorite gun, Marty tries to contain his excitement. The angles may have their shiny cabs but there isn’t anything like a gun to make you feel like the mayor of kick-assville, and every Black Bullet is mayor. The Mutts go straight for the assault rifles and start putting together their ideal tool for massacre.

Bart walks past them all and straight to the back of the cavern, after a bit of box moving and some grunting he walks out into the light. Strapped to his back is a gleaming tank and in his hand he holds the business end of a flamethrower. “Can I have this one?”

He precedes  to shoot imaginary flames at the Mutts and they oblige him by feigning pain and ultimately death. While the children play Marty sorts though a box of ammunition, forgoing the speed clips and dumping a couple of hands full into his coat pockets.

A gun catches his eye, a revolver somewhere between his cannon and a snub-nose. The grip feels good and it’s not to heavy, looking in the same box he finds the holster. Strapping it on he can’t help himself, he turns to the Mutts and draws. “Pow! Pow!”

They all double over in laughter, Bart’s new toy runs the risk of getting scratch as he’s dangerously close to falling over. “Mate, I pissed me self!”

“I will kill you all.” Marty can see the brothers whispering to each other and looking at him like he’s gone crazy, the Mutts don’t help any by pointing and laughing.

Feeling embarrassed and with thoughts of taking the flame thrower and giving them a good fry, he turns to look for more equipment. None of the other weapons seem appealing to him, the blades seem useless, and the rifles are not his style. A large covered vat tickles his curiosity, opening it he finds assorted lengths of rope. He reaches in and wraps his fingers around a thick loop, pulling it out he and ties a noose.

Falling back into the Mutts with his arms out stretched like an invisible force is pushing him off-balance Bart says to the room, “look boys, the Hangman is ready for a fight.”

Answer for the last FP is, you guessed it ‘shit eating motherfucker‘, now for two bits of news. 1) if you are a fan of Star Wars prepare for a nerdgasm, the phrase in this post is from… nope if you guess which episode(s) its from you get extra points and a character in my novel. 2) the next and final instalment of this story will not be part of FP but have its own place in Short Stories.