This fucking digital asshole had No Good by Lynch Mob absolutely screaming through the 6.5” door speakers—full volume. I was too drunk to drive. But anyways, there I was on the outskirts of New Orleans driving drunk as hell, sorta. HICK and I had been bickering because he kept reprogramming the goddamn radio to, “Only play shit that’s BADASS.” Okay, maybe I programmed him that way, but still. I just wanted some George Jones, man. But he wanted George Lynch (I mean he does kick ass on guitar). We had run out of Beam and only had beer.
The can of Lonestar sweating between my legs felt good at least. Cold beer feels real fucking good when it’s 102 degrees and 100% humidity with no goddamn AC in my ‘95 K2500—Big Red. Why Big Red? Cause the fucker is lifted 6” and painted GM Victory Red, duh. No AC since 2003.
You know what was actually cool though? In 2036 they made open container laws obsolete because of the new self-driving bullshit.
Fine, I wasn’t actually driving.
HICK was piloting Big Red from the bed of the truck, making the supercharger whine by flooring the shit out of the gas in every gear.
Fuckin’ AI bastard loved all my pre-‘96 Detroit trash. HICK was really my nickname for his model: H.K.1-C—my 7’ tall AI-powered, lithium-ion fueled, ethanol charged (his main converters run on alcohol, yes he is a digital alcoholic) mechanized, weaponized, Harbor Freight engine crane buddy that I built to fuck shit up while I was drunk in the garage. I even let the sumbitch pick out his own hat (I was scared to tell him what to wear) he chose a mesh trucker with #3 Dale Earnhardt. Fucker then slapped a “Forklift Certified” bumper sticker on his frame.
He’s basically a transformer—but if they could be rednecks. He’s fucking huge and weighs like 458.6lbs, so of course he rides in Big Red’s 8 foot bed that never has to be made. He managed to figure out how to plug into the OBD-1 port and run the whole goddamn rig. Show-off.
“Goddaaamit wee gonna run outtaaa gass HICK.”
“Shut the FUCK up Harry, I’M MAKING THAT WHIPPLE WHINE BITCH!!”
Oh—and yeah I set him up with no filter.
What can I say, I programmed him well. Couldn’t afford that self-driving shit.
He floored it again, lit up the tires, and screamed
“OOOOH YEEEAH” just like Macho Man.
Granted, with an 8-71 blower and Big Red’s 502 this fucking truck could break the mud grips loose at 60mph like it wasn’t shit.
We sang the chorus of No Good together, I finished the last beer, and threw it through the back window into the bed. He extended his monitor face into the cab, it started to flash red:
BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30 BEER:30
Fuck yeah, I could get drunker.
He pulled us into some gas station bar combo thing, seemed aight.
“Get your bitch ass in there and see if they have Lonestar I’m gonna fill up Big Red from this old ass pump.”
“O—okay.”
Lots of Harleys and shit out front.
Hell yeah.
I walked in.
They were playing Pantera or some shit.
Hell yeah dude, this place is fucking cool.
Then I saw the flags.
Swastikas.
14/88 signs.
SS ruins.
Death heads.
The works.
Wow.
Shit.
Goddamnit.
Some big ass dude in a leather vest and no shirt turned to me and said, “Who the fuck is this asshole?”
I drunkenly answered.
“You’ree worst fuuckin’ nightmare, biitch.”
The pool cue came fast.
He missed. Kinda.
Tip had sliced my arm a bit.
Still standing I saw the next swing.
Ducked.
Grabbed the cue on the follow-through.
Then the others grabbed me.
Punched in the gut.
One got behind.
I could feel arms coming around.
Fuck.
I went dead weight.
Then pulled my elbow as hard as I could.
CRACK.
Right in the nose.
Fucker started bleeding good.
The others kept grappling.
But I couldn’t feel pain.
Just anger.
A hand came to grab my face.
I bit as hard as possible.
“AAHHHH FUCKER!”
“KILL HIM!”
Grown men yelling.
Screaming.
Beer bottles flying.
Breaking.
Tables overturned.
The punches kept landing.
I was done.
Suddenly a gunshot from outside. Screaming. A loud thunk.
We all heard it on the wall.
The jukebox skipped.
Everyone paused.
Then it laid down a new record.
A real 45.
In almost slow motion I could see the needle drop.
A didgeridoo noise went off.
What the fuck?
Some asshole said, “Oh shit.”
Sledgehammer—Peter Gabriel.
Then the wall exploded.
HICK.
The humidity mixed with the cold A/C. Fog crawled across the floor. He rolled in slow. Wheels crunching bricks. Mortar flying in all directions.
HICK’s monitor displayed The Undertaker with his eyes rolled back into his head. He picked up a pool cue in one hand. A whole table with his other arm—hydraulic jaws-of-life sharpened like razors.
He swung the table like a riot shield.
Cleared half the room.
Bodies flew. One guy crashed through a window.
Glass rained like Mardi Gras beads made of shame.
Somebody fired a gun.
HICK caught the bullet in his shoulder housing.
Didn’t flinch.
Just turned, gripped the man’s arm, and—
SSSCHUCK.
Clean cut.
Then he used the guy’s own pistol—still attached to his tattooed arm—to knock him out with the grip.
No wasted bullets. Just hate and torque.
Gabriel kept going.
Didgeridoo and saxophone cut over the screams.
Steel sumbitch was unstoppable.
Seven feet of ethanol charged rage.
ONE.
BAD.
MOTHERFUCKER.
Another biker came at him with a barstool.
HICK swung his boom, cracked him right in the head.
He pulled down the SS flag.
Torched it with the oxy rig on his hip.
Set it on the bar.
Let it burn while someone screamed, “NOT THE COLORS—”
HICK screamed, “FUCK YOUR COLORS—BITCH!”
HICK grabbed me with one hand.
Threw me over his shoulder like a sack of gears.
As he rolled out, the song hit the final chorus.
He paused at the doorframe.
Monitor displaying a very displeased image of Tommy Lee Jones.
“You dumb fucks picked the wrong broken mechanic. MY MECHANIC.”
He cut a load bearing beam with his jaws and headed towards Big Red.
“Goddamn HICK you just—”
“Yeah yeah, whatever man, FUCK these losers. Let’s go JAM more Lynch Mob. Too much goddamn Peter Gabriel. Fuckin’ George Lynch is BADASS at guitar. Oh and yeah, I stole their gas and some fuckin’ beer. Good import shit—Heineken”
He got me in Big Red, popped two stolen Heinekens, lit me a Camel, and fired Red’s 502 up. He threw on Hell Child by Lynch Mob. This motherfucker.
We skidded onto the two-lane black top in a full-throttle 650 horsepower Big Block Chevy powerslide that threatened god and anyone in a 40’ radius.
I took a sip and a drag as he stuck his monitor into the cab—displaying an evil grinning taxidermy raccoon. He floored the 502 again, broke loose the 33” mud tires, and screamed—
“RAISE HELL, PRAISE DALE MOTHERFUCKER!!!!”