Ionshaker (Part I), Felix Timothy [fox in socks read aloud TXT] 📗

when the time came, they’d be shaken to the core.


25


Trey was crisscrossing in Bakersfield, looking for something around. After ten minutes of exploring, he stopped outside a small weird bar dedicated to hardcore Goth freaks.
The bar had an artificial skull hinged on the door with vivid skeletons, bones, graves and ghosts paintings forming the interior decor. The bar had been fittingly titled “Phantom District.”

Parked outside the bar, were two gleaming souped up black motorcycles. Their ignition keys had been left unplugged, as the owners, two baldheaded - one skinny and the other a huge, heavily tattooed, with bushy beard, wearing black leather jeans, bandannas around their necks and sleeveless jackets stenciled with scary stuff, sat on the front porch drinking as they watched over their treasured machines.

On the door plate was a warning sticker: “Civilian Advisory: Strictly civilians only.” Still in full police uniform, Trey snobbishly walked past the two gawking punks and entered the bar. They looked at him with hate in their eyes.

He walked straight to the counter, sat on one of the tall stools and arrogantly banged his car keys on the counter. It was more like he was challenging everyone in the bar.
“Didn’t you read the sign?” the bartender asked.
He turned around and yelled out, to nobody in particular, “I’m gonna get wasted in your little freak bar and you can’t do nothing to stop me!”
Everyone in the bar wondered which kind of an officer is this?
“Sir…” The bar tender said.
“What?” he retorted then added, “Give me a double vodka, straight up,” he replied coolly.
He was pushing it, really pushing it and he didn’t care if he was rattling a snake.
Perhaps he had a death wish, the bartender thought. But he processed the order and shoved the glasses down the counter. Without hesitation, Trey picked up the first glass, knocked it back then banged it on the counter with a frown on his face, clenching his teeth as if he’d just swallowed pee. Then he grabbed the second glass and quaffed it the same manner as the first one, his audience watching him in amazement.

Then he pushed the two empty glasses back to the bartender, inadvertently knocking his car keys further away. The bartender noticed, but Trey apparently didn’t.
“Is that all the poison you got? Where’s your round two?”

The bartender studied him for a while then took his sweet time to fill up round two and when he was just about to hand Trey the drinks, the overconfident officer clunked his head on the counter.

The bartender whistled. It was a cue.

The bigger one immediately entered the bar and walked to the counter. The bartender gestured to the car keys and the punk grinned as he grabbed the keys.

He headed to the officer’s truck pick-up truck by his buddy. It was time to teach the ignorant officer – even freaks need their respect. In the next couple of seconds, the white Ford F250 double cab came to life and roared away.

About a minute after the freaks drove off, Trey looked up from the counter and stared straight into the bar tender’s eyes. The bartender seemed guilty of something, and didn’t ask him to pay for the Vodkas. Trey gathered his energies and staggered out of the bar, but to everyone’s surprise, as soon as the officer stepped out of the bar, he lost the drunken gait and rushed to one of the motorcycles. Quickly, he put on the helmet, straddled the two-wheeled motor-powered vehicle, turned the ignition key, and impelled the shiny black death machine to thunder away.

The sudden drunkenness had all been a pretense. Nonetheless, even the two glasses had the ability to mess him up. He needed to rid himself of the liquor before it took over his mental faculties.

After winding two bends, he pulled over by the roadside, took out the egg from his shirt pocket and gently cracked its shell against the handle. The sight of the raw egg yolk nauseated him; he hadn’t eaten an egg since when he was five. He thought they were slimy and repulsive.

He closed his eyes and poured the fresh egg yolk into his mouth.
Arghhh yuck!

The sudden repulsion, the sickening urge erupting from the base of his abdomen, could not permit the viscous yolk to roll down his alimentary canal. Immediately, he vomited the egg and the rest of his stomach content as well.

After it was done, he wiped his chin with the handkerchief, threw a couple of mints into his mouth, put his helmet back on and started rolling again with a killer speed.
Destination: Fresno.

* * *

The two bikers were cruising on 4101 Truxtun Avenue in Bakersfield and the thrill of driving the stolen pick-up was exhilarating.
“Woohoo!” shouted the skinny one.
“Yeah baby!” shouted the other, throwing empty beer cans at other motorists, recklessly overtaking and cutting right in front of other vehicles.
Then, out of the blue, a thundering black FBI helicopter descended on them.
“FBI. Pull over immediately. I repeat, pull over immediately.”
But looking ahead in front of them, was a dirt road branching from the tarmac. They knew the terrain well enough and thought that if they got to the junction, there was no way the FBI could stop them. So, they accelerated.

Don’t these idiots know that aircraft are generally faster than vehicles? Brett thought from the helicopter. The helicopter flew over the truck to hover at the junction they were aiming for.
“Pull over immediately or else we’ll light you up.”
The helicopter was directly in front of them, blocking all vehicles, waiting for them at the junction. It was game over.
The driver hit the brakes and turned the steering wheel, but the momentum was too high to let up on such short notice.
The two hoodlums closed their eyes and waited for the bang, but the chopper lifted up in time to dodge the truck.
“Put your hands where I can see them. Do it now!” Brett ordered, hopping off the chopper with his gun aimed at the pick-up.
The two bikers placed their hands on the dashboard.
“Where is the owner of this truck?”
“At the bar!”
They shouted unanimously.
“Bar?”
“Yeah, Phantom District. He came in for a drink and passed out on the counter.”
“And how did you get the key?”
“He stole it when the officer got knocked out,” admitted the skinny one sheepishly.
“Where’s the bar?”
“Bakersfield.”
“Get in the chopper, you’re coming with us! And he better be there...”
Brett then raised his wrist to speak into a transmitter.
“All units proceed to Bakersfield. The suspect is in a bar called Phantom District. I repeat, the bar is called Phantom District.”


26


Welcome to Joey’s Car Dealership, read the big billboard in Fresno. Trey branched from the highway to enter the car lot.

It was crammed with a range of vehicles from monster trucks to three-wheelers. He took off the helmet and walked to the manager’s office. The manager and his office assistant were going over something on a computer at the small reception counter.
“Hello officer?” the manager greeted, looking up.
“Hello.”
“You’re interested in our merchandise?”
“No, I’ve come to see you.”
“Let’s step into my office.”
“Actually, I prefer talking outside. There’s something I want you to see.”
“Oh?” the manager sounded unsure.
Trey led the manager to the motorcycle.
“Yours?”
“You like it?”
“Well yeah. It’s very new, worth a pretty penny,” the manager chuckled.
“I’d like to sell it – I’m thinking three grand,” Trey said.
“Three grand?” Then after a while he added, “You know, if you weren’t a cop...” He paused then continued, “Its not like I’m suspecting it’s not yours or anything, I’m just curious, why are you selling such a beautiful piece?”
“My son. You know teenagers.”
“But you’re the one who bought it?” The manager challenged him.
“I know how it sounds. You must be wondering why I bought it for him in the first place.”
“You read my mind.”
“Well, I don’t know how else to put it, I was trying to buy his affection. When I got his mother pregnant in high school, my folks transferred me and she was forced to raise the boy alone with her parents. But this year I made peace with them and we started living together though my son was against it. So here I am. He used to be a quiet kid but all over sudden he’s become popular, hangs out with the wrong crowd, underground racing tournaments and I know if I don’t do something drastic right now, he’ll get in a lot of trouble.”
“I totally get you. You know what my thirteen year old wants? Implants. Just imagine! When her mother and I asked her why, you know what she told us? It’s cool and we’re old.”
“Kids…” Trey said, shaking his head.
“Anyways back to business, how do you want us to do this?”
“Cash,” Trey replied a little too quickly, making the manager uneasy.
“Okay let’s go fill some paperwork.”
Trey followed him but after a few steps, began patting his pockets.
“Oh, man!”
“Something wrong?”
“You’re not gonna believe it. I left in such a hurry that I forgot my wallet with everything in it.”
“That’s going to complicate things,” the manager said, raising an eyebrow.
“But it’s okay. You don’t have to give me the three grand right away. I’ll take two for now, then pick up the balance when I come back with my ID.”
The manager wasn’t thrilled, but hey, if the cop disappeared, business-wise it was a great deal; he’d have bought it for two grand instead of three. They entered the manager’s office, and soon afterwards, Trey left the dealership on foot but loaded with cash.
He strolled for about ten minutes, then entered a men’s outfit store where he bought a new pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a cap. When he left the store, he was a new man.
He entered a telephone booth right across the store, opened the directory and skimmed through searching for an address. He got it, ripped the whole page and stopped a passing lady to ask directions.
It was 3:28pm on the city clock when he entered Teresa Funeral Services and walked to the morgue’s reception lobby.
“Good afternoon sir,” the lady greeted him.
“Good afternoon. How much is a hearse to San Francisco?”


27


Brett had called off the search, flown back and found Nicole waiting. He knew chasing Trey on a motorcycle would be like looking for a needle in