Cool Load by Wally Runnels
Cool Load by Wally Runnels
A black air taxi roared over on its way to JahdFo, a penal colony on Mars.
Probably twenty years old and wearing a ragged T-shirt with bushy hair and ripped Levis’ the young man looked up as if reliving the moment. He shaded his eyes with a scorpion-tattooed hand following the flight of the penal cruiser.
Sales guy studied the prospective buyer and wondered if it was an okay memory or something he wanted to forget.
The kid’s attention returned to the ancient 1953 Chrysler Desoto convertible.
Nodding, gripping his chin, the boy questioned the car. “Riddled with bullet holes, man.” He wiped slobbery drool from his mouth. “Big engine?”
“As big as you’re gonna needs,” the sales suit growled through broken teeth. “Plus, it comes with a stellar canopy.” He wore an elastic chrome suit, scratched his crotch causing reflective shimmers, and brushed his hairy sasquatch yucca boots.
“How much?” The kid asked nodding to the red load.
“Fiddy bucks.”
“Take a check?”
“Ha, ha, ha, nots Hardly.” The suit laughed and shoved his hands away at the young buyer.
The boy sighed and counted out bills marked JahdFo banking system, and tossed out a pile of plutonium change.
“It got gas?”
“Just above empty’s, where it always is,” the skeletal face grinned.
“Who owned this thing before me?”
“Guy named Zouave Brooks.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Dead.”
“No surprises there.” The kid put his finger in a bullet hole.
“Car killed him.” The weird chromium creature chuckled creating flashes from his suit.
“This mofo won’t kill me.” The kid slapped his hands together. “Keys?”
“In ignitions.”
The kid slid onto the seat producing a ripping sound. “Upholstery’s all fucked.”
“Yeah, some ones used a 30. cal laser on him.” Sales guy made a gun shape with his hand, his thumb making shooting gestures with sound effects. “Scree. scree, scree.”
The young buyer shrugged, pumped the gas pedal, and turned the key.
Car came alive with a roar.
The kid’s hair trembled and stuck back like speed waves. “This may be twentieth century, but I like it.”
“Where yas going?” Asked the deathly attendant.
“The moon, motherfucker.” The young boy pumped his arm in a victory gesture and pulled over the stellar canopy sealing the cockpit and became a red spec in the atmosphere.
“Yeah, that’s where Zuoave Brooks buried.” The sales guy muttered.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Wally Runnels 2024
