Post by mutt on Jan 10, 2010 1:04:08 GMT -5
|A Western Thought|
Rating: I guess PG13, due to inappropriate language.
Type:Stream of Conscious, Western
**Warg Nin***
This random spew of writing has been summoned forth from my hideous mind. See, I'm trying to write and avoid writing a letter, so I decided that I needed to just write something. Anything. So I thought to myself "Self, you haven't really been contributing to the site your friend set up even though you said you would. Your a horrible person." And I thought "Dang nabbit, you are right self, I was just lazy and stupid. I should write something in order to jumpstart mah brain, and then submit it."
So the fallowing is nothing but stream of conscious. To illustrate how haphazard this is, I'm actually writing it in the forum post message thingy. Everything is very green and ocre and cream. Also, the pickle is staring at me. I know it doesn't have eyes, but I can feel its gaze. For those of you that have not found the pickle, I can offer some words: "Don't worry about it, one failure is not a good reason to stop reaching for the stars."
So.. Subject... Huh... Oh, Ive got one!
***End of Warg Nin***
Thunder roared off in the distance, though no flash of light preceded it. The night had sapped all the color from the day, and dark clouds saw to it that no star dare poke through the veil. Down a lonely stretch of highway, whose pavement was beginning to crack and whose lines had faded long ago, the growl of a monstrous V8 echoed through the night. Four white orbs hovered above the ground, racing along leaving entrails behind, as if comets from space. Chasing these comets was two tons of steel and rubber, along with about 175 pounds of carbon, water and calcium. Attached to that mass of elements were two bloodshot eyes that stared into the night as the wold blurred by.
Soon the forlorn highway began to evolve. First, the cracks began to disappear. Gradually the lines became more vibrant, and the faded gray road started to take on a color more akin to obsidian. Then signs sprouted out, the occasional house, a storefront. Outside a bar who's neon sign loudly proclaimed "McCarthy's" a black Trans Am pulled into a dirt lot. The door swung open, and from the beast stepped a man, red bandanna on his head, black leather jacket hanging past a wide leather belt holding up faded blue jeans that rested on brown leather boots. It was these very same brown leather boots that carried him through the door of the bar.
It was his mouth that asked for something to drink, his hands that handed over the petty cash, and his throat that felt the burn only a two dollar shot of bourbon can give you. His eyes fell on the battered faces of the people around him. The waitress in particular walked with a slump that denoted more than just a hard days work.
"You want somethin stranger?" The waitress asked, clearly miffed at being stared at. The stranger turned away after answering with a polite "no thankyou."
The stranger's eyes returned to the bartender, and his mouth once again opened. "Seems like folks are troubled around here." The bartender only stared, however the stranger's implied question didn't go unanswered. A man, clearly impaired and clearly needing to say something, turned from across the bar.
"Ever since that asshole biker and his pals showed up, they been breaking windows, stealin ours money and causin no end of trouble to the ladies. They dresh kinda like you. What's your businesh here anyway?"
"Just a man passing through, needed a place to stop for the night."
It then became the bartenders turn to speak. "There's a Motel 6 a few blocks down. Aint pretty but it's the only place that don't need reservations and aint someones house. You best get yourself a room and move on out in the morning. Jason over there is right, a couple of miscreants from the local biker syndicate decided to go rogue and take up residence round here. They like to pray on newcommers almost as much as they like praying on locals."
The brown shoes carried the man out of the door and towards the only other neon light in the town, a large Six and the letters O EL. His hand touched the silver bell, and a stout woman peered up from the crossword puzzle she had been doing. They exchanged goods, his money for a key to one of her rooms. Night passed, and Sol brought out the palette to once again restore color to the world. The endless desert that surrounded a small city began to radiate and reflect the sunlight, the joshua trees and giggle brush only doing the smallest favor to any animal seeking shade. The loud growl and rattle that can only come from a Harley Davidson shattered the morning's calm.
The stranger's sleep had also been shattered by the sound. He walked by the reception desk, dropping the key in the basket like some sort of penny being tossed in a fountain. It's a meaningless gesture, but you do it anyway. Outside the bright sun glittered off the pipes of a chopped sportster. Seems like the rogue decided to make an appearance after all. The bike came to rest on the street in front of the motel. Beneath a helmet and above a neoprene mask two eyes peered out at the man standing on the sidewalk.
"Hey you ugly sunavabitch, what the fuck are you doin here in our city?"
The ugly son of a bitch was not phased by the vulgarness that the man on the bike felt the need to portray, and thought it best to ignore the man on a bike.
"Hey ugly, I'm fuckin talkin to you, don't you walk away."
Ugly was still unimpressed, even though by this time the man from the bike had stood and begun walking over. The stranger's jacket was grabbed by the biker, and the stranger's pants found the uneven sidewalk. Standing and brushing himself off, the stranger gave a kindly reply to this greeting in the form of a solid fist to a solid jaw. The man with the missing tooth then decided his best bet was to travel back to his motorcycle and leave. The stranger also thought it best to leave, and proceeded to his vehicle. The engine turned over twice before catching and coughing to life, loping until the click of gears changed the sound to a higher pitch.
But the 400 cubic inch V8 was not the only thing vying for attention. A quartet of V Twin motors felt the need to interrupt this solo. 8 on 8. As the black Trans Am pulled out into the road, a formation of bikes advanced upon it.
The two parties stopped in the center of town, facing each other and dismounting in unison. The rogue's leader had been summoned by the man missing a tooth, and he wasn't happy. Or perhaps, he was happy, any excuse to cause violence. Not that he needed an excuse. Perhaps the only emotion he ever felt was rage. Whatever his ego felt, it was clear his Id only wanted one thing: To take out the stranger. From the saddlebag the leader started to draw a sawed off shotgun.
"I better make an example of you. YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH US."
But the barrel has scarcely left the bag when the strange dove behind his steed. Two shots rang out, one hitting the spot where the stranger had been, and one pelting the front fender of the car. The streetsweeper broke in half, and two 12 gauge shells were removed from the smoking barrels. As the gun snapped shut, a shot rang out. Behind an 8 inch silver barrel which still lett out tiny tendrils of smoke, attached to 175 pounds of carbon, water and calcium two clear eyes stared forward. The double barrel shotgun and the man holding it both found the pavement.
Like cutting the head off a snake, the rest of the gang started to flail around. Like the rest of the snake that isn't the head, they were harmless. Once again the 400 cubic inch v8 roared to live, and once again 2 tons of steel and rubber began to progress towards an unknown destination. Watching two red dots disappear in the distance, a bartender and waitress stood motionless outside a dusty sign that silently coughed "McCarthy's"
"For a while," the waitress said, "I thought it never could have been worse. It's good to know that the old west hero is still around."
fin.
Ok, now for some fun things:
The car that was the inspiration is a 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am:
The motorcycles ridden by the gang? 80s HD Sportsters:
The leader had a Mossinberg Over Under, sawed off with a pistol grip.
The stranger had a Smith and Wesson 686+.
There really is a McCarthy's bar that I frequent. It is a biker bar (Myself being a biker as well.)
The quote at the end, "Never could have been worse" is the title of a song from an Old West Style Anime called Trigun. If you havn't seen it, I suggest it.
From start to finish, I wrote this in one sitting lasting 1 hour 30 minutes. During that time I was listening to a variety of 'mood' music, including scores from the Final Fantasy games, scores from the Trigun OST, and old rock (Cream, the Steve Miller Band, The Doors and Tom Petty)
Thank you very much, I hope you enjoyed reading this little mental blarp.
Rating: I guess PG13, due to inappropriate language.
Type:Stream of Conscious, Western
**Warg Nin***
This random spew of writing has been summoned forth from my hideous mind. See, I'm trying to write and avoid writing a letter, so I decided that I needed to just write something. Anything. So I thought to myself "Self, you haven't really been contributing to the site your friend set up even though you said you would. Your a horrible person." And I thought "Dang nabbit, you are right self, I was just lazy and stupid. I should write something in order to jumpstart mah brain, and then submit it."
So the fallowing is nothing but stream of conscious. To illustrate how haphazard this is, I'm actually writing it in the forum post message thingy. Everything is very green and ocre and cream. Also, the pickle is staring at me. I know it doesn't have eyes, but I can feel its gaze. For those of you that have not found the pickle, I can offer some words: "Don't worry about it, one failure is not a good reason to stop reaching for the stars."
So.. Subject... Huh... Oh, Ive got one!
***End of Warg Nin***
Thunder roared off in the distance, though no flash of light preceded it. The night had sapped all the color from the day, and dark clouds saw to it that no star dare poke through the veil. Down a lonely stretch of highway, whose pavement was beginning to crack and whose lines had faded long ago, the growl of a monstrous V8 echoed through the night. Four white orbs hovered above the ground, racing along leaving entrails behind, as if comets from space. Chasing these comets was two tons of steel and rubber, along with about 175 pounds of carbon, water and calcium. Attached to that mass of elements were two bloodshot eyes that stared into the night as the wold blurred by.
Soon the forlorn highway began to evolve. First, the cracks began to disappear. Gradually the lines became more vibrant, and the faded gray road started to take on a color more akin to obsidian. Then signs sprouted out, the occasional house, a storefront. Outside a bar who's neon sign loudly proclaimed "McCarthy's" a black Trans Am pulled into a dirt lot. The door swung open, and from the beast stepped a man, red bandanna on his head, black leather jacket hanging past a wide leather belt holding up faded blue jeans that rested on brown leather boots. It was these very same brown leather boots that carried him through the door of the bar.
It was his mouth that asked for something to drink, his hands that handed over the petty cash, and his throat that felt the burn only a two dollar shot of bourbon can give you. His eyes fell on the battered faces of the people around him. The waitress in particular walked with a slump that denoted more than just a hard days work.
"You want somethin stranger?" The waitress asked, clearly miffed at being stared at. The stranger turned away after answering with a polite "no thankyou."
The stranger's eyes returned to the bartender, and his mouth once again opened. "Seems like folks are troubled around here." The bartender only stared, however the stranger's implied question didn't go unanswered. A man, clearly impaired and clearly needing to say something, turned from across the bar.
"Ever since that asshole biker and his pals showed up, they been breaking windows, stealin ours money and causin no end of trouble to the ladies. They dresh kinda like you. What's your businesh here anyway?"
"Just a man passing through, needed a place to stop for the night."
It then became the bartenders turn to speak. "There's a Motel 6 a few blocks down. Aint pretty but it's the only place that don't need reservations and aint someones house. You best get yourself a room and move on out in the morning. Jason over there is right, a couple of miscreants from the local biker syndicate decided to go rogue and take up residence round here. They like to pray on newcommers almost as much as they like praying on locals."
The brown shoes carried the man out of the door and towards the only other neon light in the town, a large Six and the letters O EL. His hand touched the silver bell, and a stout woman peered up from the crossword puzzle she had been doing. They exchanged goods, his money for a key to one of her rooms. Night passed, and Sol brought out the palette to once again restore color to the world. The endless desert that surrounded a small city began to radiate and reflect the sunlight, the joshua trees and giggle brush only doing the smallest favor to any animal seeking shade. The loud growl and rattle that can only come from a Harley Davidson shattered the morning's calm.
The stranger's sleep had also been shattered by the sound. He walked by the reception desk, dropping the key in the basket like some sort of penny being tossed in a fountain. It's a meaningless gesture, but you do it anyway. Outside the bright sun glittered off the pipes of a chopped sportster. Seems like the rogue decided to make an appearance after all. The bike came to rest on the street in front of the motel. Beneath a helmet and above a neoprene mask two eyes peered out at the man standing on the sidewalk.
"Hey you ugly sunavabitch, what the fuck are you doin here in our city?"
The ugly son of a bitch was not phased by the vulgarness that the man on the bike felt the need to portray, and thought it best to ignore the man on a bike.
"Hey ugly, I'm fuckin talkin to you, don't you walk away."
Ugly was still unimpressed, even though by this time the man from the bike had stood and begun walking over. The stranger's jacket was grabbed by the biker, and the stranger's pants found the uneven sidewalk. Standing and brushing himself off, the stranger gave a kindly reply to this greeting in the form of a solid fist to a solid jaw. The man with the missing tooth then decided his best bet was to travel back to his motorcycle and leave. The stranger also thought it best to leave, and proceeded to his vehicle. The engine turned over twice before catching and coughing to life, loping until the click of gears changed the sound to a higher pitch.
But the 400 cubic inch V8 was not the only thing vying for attention. A quartet of V Twin motors felt the need to interrupt this solo. 8 on 8. As the black Trans Am pulled out into the road, a formation of bikes advanced upon it.
The two parties stopped in the center of town, facing each other and dismounting in unison. The rogue's leader had been summoned by the man missing a tooth, and he wasn't happy. Or perhaps, he was happy, any excuse to cause violence. Not that he needed an excuse. Perhaps the only emotion he ever felt was rage. Whatever his ego felt, it was clear his Id only wanted one thing: To take out the stranger. From the saddlebag the leader started to draw a sawed off shotgun.
"I better make an example of you. YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH US."
But the barrel has scarcely left the bag when the strange dove behind his steed. Two shots rang out, one hitting the spot where the stranger had been, and one pelting the front fender of the car. The streetsweeper broke in half, and two 12 gauge shells were removed from the smoking barrels. As the gun snapped shut, a shot rang out. Behind an 8 inch silver barrel which still lett out tiny tendrils of smoke, attached to 175 pounds of carbon, water and calcium two clear eyes stared forward. The double barrel shotgun and the man holding it both found the pavement.
Like cutting the head off a snake, the rest of the gang started to flail around. Like the rest of the snake that isn't the head, they were harmless. Once again the 400 cubic inch v8 roared to live, and once again 2 tons of steel and rubber began to progress towards an unknown destination. Watching two red dots disappear in the distance, a bartender and waitress stood motionless outside a dusty sign that silently coughed "McCarthy's"
"For a while," the waitress said, "I thought it never could have been worse. It's good to know that the old west hero is still around."
fin.
Ok, now for some fun things:
The car that was the inspiration is a 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am:
The motorcycles ridden by the gang? 80s HD Sportsters:
The leader had a Mossinberg Over Under, sawed off with a pistol grip.
The stranger had a Smith and Wesson 686+.
There really is a McCarthy's bar that I frequent. It is a biker bar (Myself being a biker as well.)
The quote at the end, "Never could have been worse" is the title of a song from an Old West Style Anime called Trigun. If you havn't seen it, I suggest it.
From start to finish, I wrote this in one sitting lasting 1 hour 30 minutes. During that time I was listening to a variety of 'mood' music, including scores from the Final Fantasy games, scores from the Trigun OST, and old rock (Cream, the Steve Miller Band, The Doors and Tom Petty)
Thank you very much, I hope you enjoyed reading this little mental blarp.
That's so cool. Not gunna lie, I had to google a few things to understand what was being referenced, but it was so thoroughly refined for something that you just vomited onto the computer. It was crazy good. (Love the little snipits at the end XD)