Posted by Fiss on August 14, 2006
Strike Fiss’ Manifesto
January 2004
Strike Fiss Goes On A Jolt Run…
Part 2.
They call him Old Joe Coke.
He’s not that old, and sometimes, during the wee hours of the morning, his drinking buddies call him ‘Ol Joke’, but this lad aren’t nothing of the sort. He’s a big man, arms as thick as trees and a neck to match. Keen, steely eyes that are hidden by his old New York Yankees ball-cap, but you can feel watchin ya across the bar if you’ve made him mad.
He hails from the old States. Back in the day, they were proud and mighty…now all vying for their place in the world. Nobody’s sure where he’s from exactly, but he’s known around these parts as the boy from the Valley. The Valley is still like this tiny bit of the Old World…shiny and bright like the future should be, but hidden and protected by those who would keep the plunder for their own. Maps are all but destroyed in these days, and ledged has it they have these men with rifles so accurate they can pick ya off even if you’re three mountains away.
Ain’t nuthin around that seems to scare this man, and I think that’s why we all remember that night at the Broken Kettle. Nothin scares ol’ Joke, but you could tell his hands wouldn’t be so steady on the wheel that night. You see, he may be a legend in his own right…but we have legends too, up here in the North, and I think ol’ Joke knew it just might be more than a legend when the old fool came bustin in through the door, gasping and shakin from his boots to his duster.
The Broken Kettle sits on the great intersections of the Western World. Far North of the Valley, but close enough you can see some of it’s treasure up here and can get it for a fair price if you know the right hands to shake and boots to knock. Fruits from the old Okanogan and some rare ones from California. Metals from the Rocky Mountains, mined at the great dangers of things far too true and terrible to be legends. Animals from all over the great world, and technology from sources new and ancient. All the faces sitting in the Kettle are hardened, often happy with wealth, but the eyes around show the true wealth they’ve earned is in their experiences over the years. The tricks they’ve known to be survived by. Where the tales told are all real…mostly… and yet sound like tall ones to outsiders who don’t know any better. So when an old-timer…if he’s survived this far…comes in looking white as a ghost, even the hardest assholes in the joint turn a quiet ear to the man’s plight.
“Just…just seen it!” he stammers, rainwater still sloshing out of his boots as the wenches take his coat and hat. “Just seen it…the…the Rodger…”
You know that sound…in the old movies…where everyone in a place drops their spoons, or spits out their drinks in surprise? Yeah. That sound is real. You see…It happens when people hear something they don’t wanna hear. Or get into their little heads that one of their demons is out to haunt them that night.
And when someone goes around spoutin crazy talk about the Rodger, even the most hardened folk start to shake, even if just for a second, when they aren’t sure if it’s lies or codswallop…or Lord have Mercy…
truth.
Slowly, as the man is offered up a pint to soothe his rattled spine at the bar, everyone but ol’ Joke kinda get close in, knowing a story’s about to be told. Tall or not, one can’t afford, even with all the treasure out there, to ignore a sighting of the ol’ Rodger.
“I never believed the stories…” Rickety, the old dodger’s name, starts. I recognize him now he’s nuzzled between a bar-wench’s bosom and a pint of Keith’s Ale. “But I swear on me muther’s eyes I saw what I saw.”
Rickety’s never one for tall tales, so now, everyone’s interested, and I can see that Joe Coke is peekin out at him just out from under that ball cap of his.
“I was speeding down the North leg of Long Highway…bones getting tired so I put on the gas to make it here before the tiredness took hold. Then, there’s this storm that seems to roll in from nowhere…” he says, voice getting quiet like all good ghost stories demand, but the fear is in his voice alone. “I see this flash of yellow on black. Lightning…but it’s gone a moment later and I know something about it wasn’t right. Like it was just a flash against my window, not an actual bolt.”
“The Jolty Rodger…” someone next to him whispers. “The skull…the skull and bolts…black with red and white. I’ve seen it once before in an old picture disk…never thought it still existed outside of the story books, though.”
“Story my ass…it’s truth. Back when the Calgary Underdogs still sailed the plains underneath a Coder’s flag, it was the Jolty Rodger.”
“Aye, but it was only a Coder’s flag back then…” Rickety says, taking over the tale once again. “Not…not meaning what it does today. Back then, it was the North’s kin to the Valley. Nearly wiped out, even in the days gone past, but they survived until the Virus War, when nearly everyone was wiped out. Some used to say they survived…but not as Coders. Now I know the truth.” He says. “For the flag still sails the plains…and it is not their own Code they covet…”
I smile at this, for I know why the man’s not shakin as much as some of his audience is. And why he’s not dead or truckless on this dark and stormy night.
“Fate…protects women, children, and old Fools like Rickety here!” laughs the bartender. “You caught sight of the Rodger while hauling a shipment of USB Five controllers and Heat-Sinks? And you lived to tell us sorry ol’ dogs the tale!”
That caught a rowdy round of laughter and beer splashing as goblets were raised to Rickety’s health. The old man blushin’ slightly, but obviously much more at ease now that it was announced. “Aye, but I think I know why I be safe this night…there be much larger, succulent fish in the sea to catch than I.”
The bar gets kinda quiet now. A few of the old boys here are haulin likely targets. The boy from AOL starts to shake, knowing Pirates kill boys like him on sight these days.
“Aahh, I pity the man who sails under a Microsoft flag tonight.” Rickety laughs, thinking nothing of it. “Ol’ Rick is safe with such tempting booty parked out front.”
The bar looks around for the face that just went white, owning up to the barge sailing under the MS logo. Nobody notices the way Ole Joke smirks under his hat.
“That’s Joe’s truck.” I finally pipe up, looking right at the man. “Ole Joe Coke’s got a shipment right from the heart of the Valley tonight, I’d wager.”
Now, like I said, had this been any other man, they would have been sayin last rights for the poor sunovabitch. But this…this was legend versus legend.
Old Joke just stands up at that point. “So what if I am?”
“The rarest, most expensive Warez this side of the lower Rockies.” The bartender whispers. “Tell me you didn’t sail with a Microsoft Trailer!”
“I sail with what the Valley gives me.” Joe grumbles, obviously not impressed with the shaking, surprised old men. “I’ve worked hard to be the North Highway driver, and I’ll proudly display my flag to any Pirate Scum that comes my way!”
Haha! Oh yes, that gets the reaction I seek.
“Pirate Scum…” the bartender whispered. “You speak ill of legend, young sailor.”
“You speak bravely of thieves.” Joke tells the barkeep outright. “Far too bravely for men who scrap a living up off the leftovers they can steal!”
“Thieves…maybe.” Rickety sighs, but then looks up at the boy. “But still legend. They’ve saved many a small town from disaster with a spare PC or two…many a times offering broadband when others offered dial-up. Why…I once heard they got a hold of some of the old OCT-124s that Telus had in spare!”
“Pirates are still pirates.” Joe shouts out. “And you are fools to think otherwise! Just now you were frightened to death of a glimpse of a flag!” he coughs out a laugh. “What happened to such wisdom?”
“Strong words.” I chuckle. “For someone safe within these walls. These old ‘fools’ show more wisdom in keeping their spirits here than on the great pirate highways of the North.”
The entire bar is looking at old Joke now, thinking much about his name. It’s time to ante up.
“I bet anyone here ol’ Joke won’t sail till dawn.” I shout, holding up a crisp new hundred.
A bit of silence and Joke smirks right at me. His legend is strong and he knows it.
“Another hundred…with your bet!” the barkeep smirks.
Suddenly, everyone’s whipping out money, all on my side…betting against Ol’ Joke. Joke turns red as he sees just how much money is now in the air, pitched against him.
“I’ll match whatever you bums pitch against me.” Joke growls, standing up and adjusting his cap. “You’ll all make me richer with your stupidity!”
“Proof…” Rickety, who has produced a fifty short of a grand in his hand, hisses. “We want to see your delivery receipt once you get back, or we’re not giving you one dollar!”
“Fine! I’ll make sure to get a few copies for you silly bastards!” Old Joke says, looking around then back to me. “You best not jip me on the prize when I get back. I got a real good eye for money, and right here, I see over six thousand.”
“We’ll be waiting, Ol’ Joke.” I walk over and pat the man on the back. “And if I were you, I’d cover up that big Microsoft sign on the side of your trailer…just to be safe.”
“I’ll do no such thing and laugh at you when I come back with me pay!”
And with that, Old Joe Coke storms out into the storm. A thunderclap echoes out to announce his departure, and slowly, the bar begins to sing the song always sung for doomed souls.
“Yo…ho…yo…ho…and a bottle O Jolt…”
“Seven silver shillings on the Fated’s Chest…” came the Bartender, who suddenly has a gleam in his eye.
“He broke with the tide and Rum on his breath…” Rickety continued the song as more joined in.
“Lazy with booze he did not see that the night would bring his last and final fight!”
As we dress in our dusters, long, thick and oil-skinned to stop the rain, some of the regulars smile knowingly to the surprised newcomers, who wonder out loud at the song.
“Aye! For Whiskey will slay ya and Beer makes you fat! Tis no
drink better than t’one approved by the Cap!”
On cue, me drogues all produce their hats. Thick, curved felt and leather. Some wear skull-caps and others old Cowboy felts. Every single one of them black, however, and when the newbies see the Jolty Roger on the side of my hat, some of them spit out their drinks! Ha!
“Coffee will Kill Ya and Tea is to weak! But the Jolt in your
veins will drive out the meek! No better drink than the Bubbly
Black! We’re all wired on Jolt and there’s no turning back! So
ready your Swords and your USB, Jack! ‘Cause tonight is the night
Software Pirates…
ATTTAAAAAAAACK!”
The rousing cheer nearly wakes the heavens as all those under my helm jump to their feet and run out for the storm. I, as Captain, am of course, the last to leave, and with a flourish of my pitch black duster, I grin past the rim of my hat to the surprised newcomers in the bar.
“…drink up me hearties Yo Ho!”
Old Joke got quite a lead out there on the North Highway during the song he never knew was being sung. His pride was stung, but recovering with great speed now that he was back on the road. “Crotchety old bastards…” he chuckled to himself, passing a Ford on the highway that had been going a bit too slow for his tastes.
The lights of the Ford disappeared into Joke’s rear-view mirrors and he relaxed, seeing that he was nearly alone on the road. Only the rain splattered across his windshield and smeared the dark, grey road and sky into streaks that made the slivers of moonlight still poking through the stormy sky seem as bright as lightning when it struck some distant tree or hill.
Suddenly, he sees a glimpse of something coming up behind him. Fast.
It’s not on the road, though, and Joke starts to twist and turn his head, trying to figure out what the gleam is out there in the storm and the rain.
“What the devil?” he shouts over the roar of his engine and the roar of the rain.
Sure enough…the moon catches the flag.
The Jolty Rodger.
The beast has wheels as big as tractors. Has a body shaped like an old war-ship of old with half a tank welded onto the front. It’s all painted black…black as Jolt and black as Night! It looks alive when it’s headlights explode into life, nearly blinding ol’ Joke, like a hungry elemental here to claim his soul and his cargo. It needs not the highway to keep speed with his rig, as the wheels propel it over rocks, wheat and trees like they were nothing.
It’s flag whips angrily in the night as Joke realizes finally that they’re gaining on him.
“NO!” he shouts, hitting the gas and daring to go faster than he ever has on rain-slicked pavement at night.
And, sure enough, he starts to gain speed on the Jolty Rodger haunting his rear-views. He starts laughing. It’s a worried, scared laugh, but he knows he can win now. He has hope!
Until the Nachos drop out from the side of the massive tank-boat thing.
They’re painted black and have armour…old relics from the Old World, but their engines have all been cared for by a loving mechanical hand. Three of them launch onto the highway from a long ramp lowered, and Ol’ Joke has to keep telling himself that it’s an optical illusion how quickly they catch up to his suicidal speed.
Joke finally realizes that he can’t out-run these cars, and hits a few quick buttons and levers on his dashboard. The truck slows slightly, but suddenly, it’s driving on it’s own. Another gift from the Valley for it’s lone truckers who please them with prompt deliveries.
He unbuckles his seat-belt and quickly scrambles to the back of the truck’s cab, finding the ladder leading to the guns. He hasn’t needed to fire the guns in a long time, but he knows they’re well oiled and as deadly as the first day they were installed.
“Okay, Old Jolty…time to see what you’re made of!” Joe Coke said as he sat into the half-moon turret. Rain splattered over his shoulders, but his head and eyes were clear. He caught sight of one of the Nachos…one trailing behind him next to the giant Jolty Roger. “DIE!”
A hail of bullets streamed out from the three long barrels, over the ass-end of his trailer and towards the boat-thing. He laughed as the Nacho swerved to protect it’s mother-ship, spinning slightly to deflect the bullets off harmlessly instead of into the huge tank’s wheels. No matter where he tried to aim, though, the Nacho’s armour was there a second later and he never got a penetrating shot into his main target. The weapons fire, however, was enough to slow the two vehicles down and he was soon grinning. “Is that all you got, assholes? Huh?”
“RRRRRUNNNNNMMMMMMMMM!!!” The second Nacho bashed into the side of the truck, angered that Joe picked on it’s brethren. Joe howled in surprise as the truck nearly ran into the ditch, but was saved at the last second by the truck’s auto-pilot.
“AAARRG!” he yelled, spinning the turret to meet the new threat, not noticing the third Nacho pass on the shoulder of the highway. “DIE PIRATE SCUM!”
Bullets pelted the road in front of the Eagle Vision and soon, a lucky strike made a huge pot-hole in the road, forcing the car to swerve and back off out of range.
“Hahahaha!” Joe Coke yelled. “Is that all you got?” he stood up out of his gun-seat, rain splattering over his back. “IS THAT ALL??? BAH!” he sat back down in the seat…
Then gasped as he saw a lone figure standing at the end of his trailer.
He growled, hating the fact he actually got boarded, and turned the guns to the trespasser.
The guns clicked and issued a loud warning klaxon.
He gasped, looking past the aiming sights to see that a slash had bent all three of the barrels. He could see the glow of fire where the barrels were damaged, and realized the explosive rounds were about to go off!
He rolled free of the turret just before it exploded, and stopped himself just barely from flying off the edge of the rain-slicked top of the trailer.
The figure began walking up to him with a grin, hand on something at his hip. “Old Joe Coke!” he shouted over the howling rain. “Time to pay your dues to the Jolty Rodger!”
Joe shook his head, standing up. “NEVER! I’ll fight you tooth and nail before I give into a punk like you!” And to illustrate his point, he pulled a thick metal pipe off the top of his truck’s cabin. Attached to it was a long chain that he began to spin.
“Is that all?” the man shouted back, pulling out something long and thin from his side.
Lightning showed that it was actually a sword.
Joe swallowed hard.
“Last chance!” laughed the man. “All we want are your Warez. Give in and you keep driving in one piece!”
“NO! NEVER! FILTHY BANDITS!” Joe shouted, then yelled and ran at the man. “DIEEEE!”
The man side-stepped Joe and caught the chain with his sword’s scabbard at the last moment before the trucker slid over the edge. Surprised, Joe was lifted back up to the top of the trailer.
“You…” he gasped as he was thrown onto his butt and allowed to regroup.
Sure enough, it was the man who first placed the bet against him at the bar. With a sly grin, he bowed. “Strike Fiss the Third, at your service.” He said, taking off his Jolty Rodger hat with a bow.
Joe backed away quickly, realizing he was in grave danger. “No…I must…I must win!”
“You cannot.” Fiss said, wiping his glasses off with the edge of his duster, only to have rain speckle them once more. Finally, he sighed and put them away. “You have been trained by my mortal foes.”
Joe Coke frowned. “How did you know about…THAT?”
“I can smell it on you.” Fiss glared at him. “You stink like shrimp.” He paused. “And I can see pink feathers in your coat lining.”
Joe gasped and hid the protruding feathers.
“Microsoft always did like to hire you Flamingo bastards…” Strike Fiss III said with a smirk.
Joe stood up, calling upon his Flamingo powers to aid his nerves. A pink aura enveloped him, staining the beautiful night with a glow of tackiness. “Very well. Then I shall fight you as your mortal enemy.” He grinned widely, with wild eyes. “We destroyed Strike Fiss II, and we will destroy YOU!”
Fiss sighed. “Fiss the Second died raiding a Jolt factory. Your kind had no such pleasure.”
Joe frowned, then let a wicked grin slip across his lips. “Who do you think guarded the Jolt from him?”
The lightning showed the anger in Fiss III’s eyes.
“Filthy Flamingo bastards…” he whispered. With that, he pulled out something round and colourful from his long, black duster.
Both warriors stood at the ends of the trailer as they sped down the highway. The three Nachos and the Jolty Rodger slipped back into the night, enough to give their leader privacy of the duel.
Then, lightning struck somewhere nearby, and the thunder signalled the start of the battle with a roar of anger.
The lead pipe was nearly shredded by Fiss’ sword in one strike, but the evil pink aura kept the weapon whole no matter how damaged it became. Fiss blocked the retaliatory strike of the pipe and chain with his sword and the monster-cookie he had pulled from his coat.
“Still using the old weapons…?” hissed Joke.
“Whatever works.” Fiss grunted back, head-butting the man in the face.
They both stumbled back and re-grouped. Joe Coke lunged with a howl of insanity, but Fiss leapt into the air and glided to the opposite side of the truck with his coat flaring out like a parachute. He then opened his coat and used the rushing air to throw him back against the Flamingo-Fu trained man. It was just enough that he scored a solid, surprise hit on Joke with the sword.
Pink and red blood splattered to the trailer’s top.
“You’ll…never…win…” Joke hissed, his voice more demonic than human.
Fiss frowned, standing up and taking a bite out of his cookie. “Hey…what’s that on your face?”
He threw the cookie right at Joke’s head.
“Huh?” Joke gasped, then was enveloped by a fireball that threw him free of the truck and into the trees that lined the side of the road. A satisfying CRUNCH! indicated he hit a nice, big evergreen.
As he stands by the truck, now parked on the side of the road, Strike Fiss III grins as his companions pull up in the three Nachos and the Jolty Rodger.
“ALL HAIL!” he shouts out as his minions explode out of the vehicles and run over to ransack the Microsoft trailer.
As they crack open the trailer, however, Fiss smiles a new smile. “Ahh, there be Jolt in them thar pallets.”
They grab what they can before the highway patrol shows up far too late, and in the very back of the truck, they see a small shipment of foodstuff.
A pallet of Coke. Two of Pepsi. And three, glorious cases of Jolt Cola.
“Leave the swill.” Fiss orders as some of the newer members run for the Coke and Pepsi.
They all bow, and grin, knowing they will each get their reward.
“Now…back to the Leaky Kettle.” Fiss said as he raises a bottle of Jolt and cracks it open slowly. “Ahh…a fine vintage. It would be a shame to let the rain water it down.”
Of course, legends are only legends on dark and stormy nights. The cops list it as an abandoned truck and move on with their rounds…a load richer in Coke and Pepsi.
Two days later, Ol’ Rickety and the Barkeep are laughing, telling dirty jokes and making the bar-wenches all blush and giggle. I’m in the corner, nursing a fine Jolt. Rare to have them ship from the Valley, but they always have a good vintage when they do.
Not as good as locally, though…but fine Jolt, nonetheless.
All around me are my men and women. All enjoying long sleeps in and lazy nights of crazy caffien.
And sure enough, as I did not expect a Flamingo to die so easily, in walks Ole’ Joke with a haunted look on his face.
He sees me outright, then glares at everyone in the bar.
“I’ll get you all for this.” He hisses, walking over to me. “YOU had better watch your back from now on. Now that I know where you are.”
He’s still battered and bruised from the fight, but his powers have already repaired most of the burnt skin on his face. Most of it. He won’t fight when he’s so weak, and I just smile up at him as he shoves six grand in my lap.
“Come back anytime you’re hauling such lovely Warez and we’ll have a re-match.” I offer.
He hisses at me. The Bartender puts his hand on his shot-gun, but Joke is already heading for the door.
“Oh…and bring more Jolt next time.” I grin.
Joke turns and growls. “Damn you.”
And with that, Rickety walks over and kicks him out through the doors.
Everyone laughs…and we teach the newbies the song.
“Yo ho, yo ho…”
And a bottle of Jolt.
Strike Fiss, Studio Shinnyo 2004. Khattam-Shud, EOF.
Posted under
Manifestoes,
Short Stories
“Great Tesla’s Ghost!!” my father screamed as he nearly ripped the front door off it’s hinges.
