Your nightmare comes to life....
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The afternoon was quiet and still, the nearly deserted streets of Cascade seeming deep in slumber in the golden afternoon sunlight. The place was quiet these days, there was no denying it, and Sunday had a way of making it seem like a ghost town with most of the inhabitants enjoying a meal with their families and preparing for the beginning of the workweek. Those of the inhuman variety tended to come out with the cloak of night, which would not yet be for another several hours.
However, if one were to walk the sidewalks near Club Alien on this afternoon, they may notice that the quiet of the day was being rippled by the very distant gong of....bells? An odd sound, for no bells had been heard over the town since the Church had finally closed its doors. But the sound was there, vaguely, nonetheless. If that same body was to continue to listen, they would notice that the ominous ringing was slowly being overpowered by the sound of an engine. A throaty engine...even at a large distance, it was easy to tell there were lots of horses firing in whatever machine was on the approach. The drone of smaller, answering engines scream in a struggle to keep pace with whatever monster was in the distance.
To listen further would reveal yet another sound to combine with the nearing crescendo, this one so unmistakeable it would likely chill the onlooker's blood--rapid gunfire, followed by the deafening rapport of answering slugs. As these warning draw nearer, the sick riff of For Whom The Bell Tolls can be heard, quite ridiculously, in the background of it all as it pumped from the impressive system of one of the oncoming machines.Very close now, the engines battled around street corners. Gunfire continued to rain, making the once-peaceful street sound as if it was in the midst of a war zone. As still the music raged, audible even amongst the mayhem.
A sleek machine, black as the dead of night, suddenly drifted around the corner at a speed that was entirely insane to take such angle at, tires squealing in protest. Its driver skillfully corrected the trajectory, however, righting the automobile to avoid the flip. The vehicle's model would be familiar yet shocking to anyone with a history in cars--It was a Edsel Mustang Boss--produced in 1969...two years before the mass production of the marketed Boss, quite literally making the machine alone in it's species and utterly priceless. The two black SUVs that rounded the corner in pursuit did not seem to care of that fact, however, as they rounded the corner in pursuit of the old muscle, gunshots exploding and peppering the bumper of the relic.
In the driver's seat of the Mustang was a young man, clad in a black tank and equally as dark denim, aviator shades on the bridge of his nose hiding his dark eyes. A cigarette burned, clamped between his teeth. His arms were thickly corded with muscle, and sleeved with colorful ink, each and every one holding a significant importance. His dark hair was trimmed short, and there was sweat on his brow--one would think from the stress of his current situation, but that was not the truth. In fact, he was smiling like a madman--laughing, even...the sweat simply from the exertion of shooting while driving.
The man in the driver's seat was Kip Raines...the little brother of one of the former ringleaders of the old boost op. Not that it would be obvious or anything--once a lanky, slightly shy and awkward kid, he'd filled into a muscled young man with a new sense of attitude that could only be learned with a criminal lifestyle. And currently, he was having the time of his goddamn life.
It had been a busy month for him. Spring meant the onset of auto shows, and auto shows meant easy pickings, if a guy did his homework right. Owners of the rare and exotic would proudly (and foolishly) display all of the vehicles specifications, right down to the damn location, so others could oooh and ahhh over the investment they'd made. For a thief, this was like a trip to the grocery store--all you had to do was pick your target, and the stalking phase of the hunt began. It had been publicized that the old Boss would be showcased in Chicago, and Kip had thought the timing to be absolutely perfect. His brother was a die-hard Ford man, and was being released from ten years in the pen very soon. What better welcome home present than a single production Edsel Ford? Kip sure couldn't think of one--not that he ever logically thought about much of anything before he did it-so he'd gone to the show, and selected his target.
It hadn't taken him long to pinpoint the owner's location, after the show was over and the prize trailered back to wait to be seen at the next show. He had meticulously watched the habits of the man-when he went to work, when he was home, the activities of the wife and her expected leaving and returning times. The alarm the garage was outfitted with was a complicated one--but Kip had even researched the model, learning to disarm it without ever needing to pop the box. And when he finally made his move...he was prepared. The thieving had gone without a hitch, and he'd managed to get the one-of-a-kind car stowed to his own garage without anyone being the wiser.
It had been on the news that the car had been taken that very night. Kip had thought that pretty hilarious, laughing like a loon at the t.v set as the reporter told the tale. He had not been able to wait to get the enclosed hauler loaded with his prize and on the road the next day. No one would ever see the car and he would deliver it to Cascade to his brother with pride. Who knew? He might even decide to take up a temporary residence in the old pint-sized city, if the mood struck him...just for ol' times sake.
Everything went fine until he got pulled over. One too many beers on the way, he supposed, because the officer had asked him to step out of the vehicle for a sobriety test. Now, he was not a man who believed in 'mistakes'...to Kip, they were 'artful fuck ups' that could often be twisted for benefit if a guy was smart. So he'd not been nervous, even though his face was well-known to the law. He'd done two years time recently for another auto theft that he'd gotten goddamn lucky on--someone had fucked up the paperwork, hallelujah and all that jazz. So when the officer turned just slightly to inquire about what he was hauling in the back, letting his guard down only momentarily, Kip saw one of these golden opportunities and took it. He used the synthetic stock of his very much illegally owned AA12 to knock the shit out of him. The man had crumpled, knocked out but still alive. The idea of cop-killin' left a bad taste in his mouth, so when he'd checked the guy's pulse to find it slow but steady, Kip had been pleased
The officer's requested (but late) backup was visible on the horizon when Kip decided that the truck he was hauling the trailer with was going to lack the necessary speed and agility to get him the hell out of dodge. He'd squeezed into the Mustang and backed it right off the trailer, without ever putting the ramp down--giving the relic it's first wound of many to come as it hit the pavement, followed by the front end of the squad.
The initial chase hadn't lasted long--Kip had honestly been a little disappointed by the lack of the challenge--but he wasn't so foolish as to believe he was in the clear. The law were like fuckin' rats--once you had one, you were likely to have a bunch. And he'd been right--but the rats had shown in the form of Fed agents in black SUVs and sedans, right about the time he'd reached the edge of the mountain yesterday. He hadn't hesitated though--if they wanted to tango through these windy, elevated roads...he was gonna dance.
In the end, he'd lost them somewhere, and cloaked with the blanket of the night, had made it off the mountain unscathed, buzzed from frequent pulls off his flask and feeling pretty smug. He hadn't bothered to sleep, however, knowing it wouldn't be long til the assholes decided to get a chopper in the air. Then things would really get interesting. He managed to make it til eleven that morning without incident before the heat turned back on, and full force.
The firefight on wheels had begun about ten miles out of the Cascade city limits, and he'd begun to doubt if he'd be able to make it even to the club, let alone the Complex--the Mustang was taking a serious amount of lead and was protesting the issue. Even with the odds stacking against him quickly, the younger Raines brother had still not felt alarmed--whether he did or didn't make it without getting caught didn't seem to phase him. It was that lack of caring that made him so good (and sometimes, bad) at what he did. When you eliminated nerves from the situation, you were a helluva lot more calculated. He wasn't an overly proud guy, though, and knew when to yell when he needed a hand. Now was one of those times--he set the huge automatic shotgun on the seat and hit the speeddial for his brother. "Yo Mem! Uhh yeah about that...guess the Feds don't appreciate badass presents. Yeah I fuckin' said the Feds! I ain't got time for this shit...ah, hold on." He threw the phone on his lap, having noted one of the SUVs looming closer in the review. The back window of the Mustang had been blown out ages ago, so when he raised the AA12, the spray of released bullets were slowed by no barrier. The SUV slowed dramatically, and he picked the phone up again. "Look, I'm 'bout 9, 10 miles outta Cascade and puishin' 90. Don't think I can make it to the Complex...well, fuck you too! Can ya just get to the club? I think I can hold 'em that long. Fuck."He dropped the phone, and it bounced to the floor. He had a sedan at the back wheel now, and it's driver had swerved, hitting the Mustang hard enough that if anyone less experienced was driving, the car would have surely been out of control. Kip's responding shots must have hit home, because the sedan swerved out of control and spun to the ditch.
By the time the Mustang made that final screech around the curve, the car was suffering badly...a light plume of smoke had begun to billow from under the hood, and the ass end had dropped a little...likely the driveshaft was screwed. And the Feds were gettin' balsy, pulling up closer than they'd dared on the highway. They were rewarded with the explosive report from the AA12, and dropped back again. He could see one of the SUV's in the rearview, toppled to its side. Looked like someone had taken the curve with a little too much gas--the idea had him laughing and he leaned out the open window, letting a triumphant whoop out in exuberance. "How'd that feel, asshole?!"
The club was just ahead, and he gave a preventative spray of 12 gauge shells behind him, knowing he'd need to buy precious seconds to be able to get out of the vehicle and put the metal between himself and the ends of the government guns. Punching the accelerator, he went for gold, still laughing crazily at the sight of the toppled SUV.
Right as he neared the club, he jacked the wheel, the ass end of the car swinging around, tires screaming and metal protesting, so the car was sideways on the sidewalk in front of the club. The car had barely stopped and he was out, the AA12 strapped to his side and the barrel of the handgun shoved in his pants. Cigarette burning, he pulled a Dukes style hoodslide across the the edge of the Mustang's hood, just as the next rain of bullets began to fall, punching holes into the metal of the relic along the side.
Kip landed with a grunt on the other side, a bullet whizzing past his head and shattering the window of the club. Oh shit.now he was gonna have Angelina gunnin' for him too...a prospect that was less appealing than the Fed's after him, truthfully. He didn't have time to further contemplate the fact though--he had some shootin' to do! The massive shotgun was heavy as hell, enough to make even Sphinx's arms ache after awhile, but Kip was running on adrenaline and a good time, so he barely noticed. The reports from the massive weapon were absolutely deafening, and boy, did those slugs every blow a satisfying hole in taxpayer supplied Federal equipment! It looked and sounded like some kind of apocalypse out here...as if the red horseman was makin' his rounds--a prospect Kip thought was cool as hell. He ducked at the return shots, a wide grin on his face. He wanted to see just what damage that bad boy automatic could unleash and was getting pretty inpatient for his 'turn'. Memphis forgotten for the moment, he rose again, looking every bit the part of a crazy individual with the amusement on his face, and took his next round of shots. Shit, if he'd known he was going to be having this much fun on this vacation...he'd have invited friends!
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