Slow Running

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Sitting on the hood Timothy Elhue one-handed a twist and lit it with a small cantrip. Taking a long drag he watched his diving partner looking over the car after the recent firefight. He would be surprised if those rashers did more then scratch the paint but he wasn't the worrier of the pair. He pulled his fedora lower to cover his eyes and his dark hair.

"What the hell were they thinking? Even without the stuff they couldn't have known about we were so far out of their fighting weight that it was like squishing kittens," said the worrier of the pair.

Exhaling a light green smoke he leans back on the windshield. "Evolution in action I guess"

Walking up the road a disorganized mob of heavily armed and armored auto-duelists levels handweapons and sub-machine guns at the pair. On foot they don't have quite the bravado they did when they were in their vehicles but anger and alcohol fuels them after the last few moments of grindhouse violence.

"You boyos gonna die like sheep for what you did out there! Bastards! Skally bugfucks!!!!!" screamed the self appointed leader as they come over the slight rise in the highway to the turnout the Shelby had stopped in for inspection.

Timothy leans up from the windshield and swings his legs around to sit on the edge of the left fender. laughing he says, "Hey, Hazarda! That guy in the back has a knife!!!! Watch out!!!"

Standing, Hazarda frowns and reaches over to take Timothy's cigarillo. Inhaling deeply, he turns to the group advancing slowing toward them. One hand waving the burning cig, the other moving over the quickdraw side arm on his left side.

"Boyos? We're boyos now? What the hell is wrong with you idiots? You took a dozen slapped together dirt running subcompacts and motorcycles against a clearly heavily armed and armored champion auto-duelist midsize kit. Didn't you see our paint job? Was it a turf thing? We drive through your bit of shithole town road? If so, we apologize, give me a number and I'll have some credits transferred."

The bloody and ragger spokesman yell,"We'll take your whole ride bugfucker! You ain't so tough outside of all that Detroit metal and that faggy Las Vegas paint job!!!"

The fifteen start spacing out left and right, establishing fields of fire. Hazarda noted they must have had some training to try moving to such a position. Sadly, its lessons wasted considering their grim future.

Timothy drops to the ground, running his hand over the Shelby Cobra driver's side door, 'ooooo... Hes mocking our paint job..I'm crushed... I may have to enter a monastery in disgrace. Can we kill them now?"

Two of the group fade back, thinking the two auto-duelists might be tough out of the car as well.

"Its fifteen to two, boyo. You think you can take us? You don't even have guns out!"

Hazarda snapped his hand down, bringing the quick draw balanced .75 recoilless up and drilling the speaker in the knee. Leaving the gun pointed, its massive barrel looking like an antitank gun to the amateur duelists.

"You shitbirds are just asking to die, aren't you?! Look! My partner and I were just driving through your little pisspot cowtown. We stopped at a diner we heard served a good beef meatloaf and got machine compressed rat meat with re-hydrated simulated pepperflesh, so we were already pissed off when we left your lovely burg. Then you local heroes came out of the rocklands like a middle school bicycle dueling club with pea shooters and switchblades and you think you deserve to take OUR RIDE?!!!!!"

Three more started backing away, looking at their leader on the ground bleeding.

"Now we have been very polite! You swarmed us. Went ahead of us, opened up on us with rear-mounted machine guns. Now... That was annoying and it slowed us down. Then you had your bikes shoot our side windows with glassbreakers that clearly didn't break anything. Then you tried sinking grappling hooks to the rear bumpers and throwing ground hooks to stall us and those clearly didn't work. So i blasted your bikes with compressed oil, and blew out the subcompacts wheels with light machine gun fire. By the fucking way, didn't you ever hear of armoring your tires?"

Waving the gun and taking tokes on the cig as he rants, the foe-man start backing away from the madman.

"Now I think you ought to be grateful that Timothy Elhue and I didn't take the time to cut you all into Canadian bacon! We didn't go lethal on you cow farts despite your ridiculous attempts to piss us off more then ratloaf and ketchup did! Do you think i needed to needle your tires with .223 rounds? I could have pumped twin tank guns into your little go-carts and sent them flying off like hotwheel cars tapped to skyrockets!!!!"

The rearmost foe turned and ran, leaving the wounded leader and a few of his most stalwart or most stupid supporters to face the wrath of he who once was king.

Timothy Elhue steps up beside his partner, drawing out a rusty samurai blade from its plastic wrapped scabbard and raising a weapon looking to one of the cowfarts suspiciously like a Star Trek phaser.

"Well, Hazarda, the crowd has thinned a bit. Now can we kill them?"

The last of the crowd backs away dropping weapons and running,

Hazarda walks to the wounded spokesman, kicking his sub-machine gun from his hand.

"Sorry Bruno, there is a price for being a leader of men."

Lowering his hand cannon he places a round in the good knee and one each in the exposed elbows. He idly wonders what kind of medical facilities a town that is proud of its ratloaf might have? Turning and getting into the driver seat of his Shelby Cobra, he starts the motor.

Timothy walks to the man and quickly slices his sword across the man's left cheek. Whistling a little mechanic's song he steps into the passenger side seat. Pulling up their driving mugs he empties the warm liquid, grabs the fill tube from the trunk-mounted beer keg and tops off both with cold dark porter. Setting them in place he reaches into the back seat and pulls out a takeout bag.

"Care for a ratloaf sandwich?"

The car roars down the dusty country road as dusk falls.