Fic: Turn Up the Fakes and Lies
Title: Turn Up the Fakes and Lies
Author: iron_fist123 and vinvy
Rating: R (language and adult themes)
Pairings: Frank/Gerard
Summary: So, you two pumpin' off on a regular basis or what?
Warnings: Profanity, (medicinal) Drug Use
Disclaimer: Heat thoroughly before consuming. Wait. No. That one's for chicken. This one is for fanfic: Trust me, if any of this madness actually happened we would not be sitting here writing fanfic about it. The same goes for if we owned anything affiliated with this universe except the plot. That means: it didn't and we don't so don't sue!
CLICK HERE FOR THE REST:
iron-fist123.livejournal.com/4457.html
Ace Three
Frank woke up a day before Poison officially did. He spent most of that day in a fog, wondering why his head hurt. The second day he was more coherent when he opened his eyes. The posters staring down at him were familiar, and so were the sheets covering him.
You’re in the diner, something in the back of his mind said. He accepted this universal truth because he had a feeling wondering about it would make his head hurt. Just like last time.
There was a last time? Oh, yeah, there was that one distracting guy...
He turned his head to the side and frowned at the person sitting in the chair by the bed. “Fuckin’ wrong color hair,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes. He pulled his hand away and stared at the bandage on it. “Who fucked up my hand?”
Show Pony flipped his black hair back. “Yes, we all know you like red hair. The canned kind. As for your hand, flashers bite. No one warned you?”
Frank grunted at him. This whole passing out thing has got to end, man, you are such a girl, he said to himself. Poison was right.
“Poison?”
“No, I’m Show Pony, you neurotic thrill killer. Oh motorbox, don’t tell me your grey matter is rewound? Poison would not skate with that. No, not at all.” He helped Frank sit up, despite the latter’s grumbling protestations.
“I don’t want you. Where’s Poison?” He glared, “I swear to God, if you did anything to me while I was out, I will-”
“Ew, Frankie, I’m not a skeleton lover, please- I have standards. All I did was clean you up, clothes included, and redress you. Sweet cellophane you’re a perv.”
“My name is Fun Ghoul as far as you’re concerned. It’d do you well to remember that.”
“Oh, juicy, he still knows his handle. You’re fluffy as cherry flavored blood smoke in the mornings aren’t you?” Show Pony pulled a few things from the bag at his feet. “Now to make sure the rest of your soggy motherboard is in shape. How many fingers?”
Frank blinked at the wiggling digits then said, “Three plus your thumb.”
“Now?”
“One.”
“Now?”
“Eight and two thumbs. Where’s Poison?”
“You’re such a koala,” he mused and lifted a slender flashlight, shining it right in Frank’s face. Frank pushed his hand down several times. Finally Pony held onto his wrist, returning the wretched light source to its place. “Stop that, Ghoul. I have to make sure your pupils will dilate and contract properly.” He clicked the light on and off a few times.
Frank tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes swimming with the glare of the flashlight.
“Lift your right hand and touch your nose with your index finger.”
Frank did it.
“And the left.”
Frank lifted his middle finger and pressed it to the tip of his nose, glaring at the man in front of him.
“Charming. Now do it properly, with the index finger, so I know you know the difference.”
He rolled his eyes and did as he was told.
Show Pony checked out his ears, did a few rudimentary tests involving snapping his fingers in random places around his head to make sure he could hear. He struck the top of Frank’s knees with a little mallet, causing his legs to jerk and an annoying tickling sensation to shoot up them. He checked Frank’s pulse then held up a rather strange device in front of his head. It was like a data pad but much smaller.
“What is that?”
“Don’t speak.”
“But-”
“SH! It’s a hand held brain scanner, you space case. Jeez you’d think I gave you orange nitros instead of sedatives. Stay still, too. Don’t make me tie you up- I’d have too much fun doing it.”
After a minute of Frank sitting painfully still and wanting to move more than ever, the device dinged. Show Pony poked at the touch screen, slipping through the images it had taken.
“Well, Fun Ghoul, somebody must like you. The brain swelling has all gone down. You should have all pistons operational and be suckin’ down straight diesel before tomorrow’s out.” He stuffed some things back into his bag. “Kobra and Jet took the van into the city for supplies. Poison’s getting’ some serious z’s in the last door down the hall. If you wake him you’re in trouble, got it? He needs his rest, Ghoul.”
“So I can go?”
“What’d I just say?”
Technically, you didn’t say anything about me leaving, he thought as he got up to leave. He was a little unsteady on his feet because of the sedatives in his system. He recognized the slightly numb sensation in his fingertips and the layer of wool over his mind. At least he wasn’t in pain. That was a plus.
The door Show Pony had sent him to opened in on a cramped storage room. It was large enough to house a double bed, a trashcan and an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. There was about enough space for an anxious relative or loved one to pace by the bedside but nothing else. The low yellowish lighting made it look like a genuine sick room.
The ratty green blanket was folded over at Poison’s waist. Another heavier one in a dull shade of brown was flung at the foot of the bed as an after thought, as if someone had thought he might get cold in the heat of the day. Frank doubted that’d happen, even in this surprisingly well-insulated and cool room, but thought it was a nice sentiment. He sat in the dubious chair. It was about as comfortable and welcoming as Kobra Kid was towards new comers. It was the perfect bedside chair- he’d never be able to fall asleep in it, guaranteeing that he’d be awake when Poison woke up.
Behind his closed eyelids Poison’s eyes danced here and there. He must be dreaming. His breathing was steady. One hand hung off the bed and the other rested on his bandaged stomach. Frank gently placed Poison’s hand beside the other. If he hadn’t known any better he’d have assumed that the only problem were a few broken ribs and exhaustion. The memory of Poison’s bloody shirt landing wetly in his lap made him cringe- it had seemed like a lot of blood to lose.
Poison drew in a sudden, sharp breath and his eyes flew open. “Shit,” he groaned and turned his head to the side. It took his eyes time to focus. When they finally did he slurred out, “Hey, look, its Fun Ghoul Frankie. How ya doin’?”
“I’m alright. How do you feel?”
“I am fucked up, Frank. … And you! You look like goddamn Frankenstein with those stitches across your head. Those pills Pony got will start you on a serious cycle, I’m tellin’ ya, but without a hangover,” he blinked lazily, “He thinks I’m gonna get up and try to do stuff and end up hurtin’ myself worse. As if I feel like moving!” Poison laughed.
Frank was at a loss. Seeing the Killjoy this completely lit was not something he’d been expecting.
“Look, Frank,” he pointed a wavering finger, “Jet was pullin’ metal and shit outta my skin earlier... then he put this weird topical paste on it that made it go all numb. It smelled like peppermint, I shit you not... but he said you were good with cars. I think I fucked up the Trans Am, like seriously fucked it up while we were tryin’ to get out here... ran over a few big-ish things. Might’ve lost some metal here and there... You should take a look at it because that thing’s my baby and I need it runnin’ right and I am in no shape to work on it.”
“Uh, sure thing. Is there anything I can get you?”
“You’re too fuckin’ sweet. Nah, there’s nothin’ I need. Just some sleep before the fuckin’ vertigo sets back in. Fuck that shit. I do not wanna puke again.”
Party Poison’s head fell back onto the pillow and his eyes slid shut and Frank took that as his dismissal. He shut the door quietly behind him, hoping to whatever holy things there were in the world that he never had to see him like that again.
The hallway was lined with framed photos of old cars and smiling restaurant patrons. Some of them were probably famous at some point in time. The walls themselves were patchy with scribbles in markers of all colors. Phrases ranging from the sweet (“I’ve got a bulletproof heart but she’s got a hollow point smile- I think I’m in love”) to the dismal (“You’re gonna die here, alone”) to the sarcastic (“Well my gun fires seven different shades of shit, so what’s your favorite color, punk?”) had been written with equally varying hands. Around a photo of a bright green sports car someone had drawn an elaborate Celtic knot and neglected to finish coloring it in.
Frank wandered out into the dining portion of the restaurant. Show Pony was skating around on the tiled floor in circles and figure eights.
“Hey there, Fun Ghoul,” he smiled.
“You got a proper tool box ‘round this place? I might need a jack, too. I don’t know yet .”
He skidded to a halt beside the shorter man. “You’re gonna try to take on the Trans Am? You bet your shiny Frankenstein mask I got one! Who gave that to you anyway?”
“Well, Poison will tell you ‘Santa’ gave it to me but you know…”
“Ooh, he never gives presents. So, you two pumpin' off on a regular basis or what? Hey, don’t lose your milkshake- it’s a valid question, knowing him. If you two got some sort of exclusivity happenin’ then I wanna let people know. Hell even if you don’t the intell is still fun to broadcast.” He glided away, rummaging behind the bar, then returned with a loaded toolbox, as promised.
“I’m just gonna pretend you never asked that and go work on the car, okay? Thanks for gettin’ this stuff for me.”
“You can lift some spare parts from the other cars left outside, too.”
Frank waved a hand over his shoulder and stepped into the hot morning light.
XxXxX
At noon Frank stood in the kitchen with his upper body bent over the industrial-sized sink. He alternated between dousing his head with the cold water running from it and drinking straight from the tap. His hands and jeans were black with oil and dirt. His back and neck were sun burnt. (There’d been no way in hell he’d wear a sweater and leather vest in the middle of the unforgiving sun’s line of sight, not no way, not no how.) Sweat and clean water mixed in the stitches across his right temple, making the wound sting.
Frank turned off the water and threw his head back, effectively splattering everything behind him. He squeezed the water out of his hair, not caring that it got everywhere. The water dripping down his back felt good on the sunburn. He pulled his shirt back on and went back into the dining room, sliding into the nearest booth. He folded his arms on the speckled table top then laid his head on them.
His thoughts turned from the heat to Show Pony. The merciless flirt and messenger who liked to cause uncomfortable situations and spread gossip had thrown a wrench into his state of shock where Poison was concerned. So are you two pumpin’ off on a regular basis or what? … Knowing him it’s a valid question. He’d been content to accept the mercurial man’s affections and unnerving glances and not question it. There weren’t many opportunities to get off out in the Zones- Frank knew that- just the occasional, outdated bot at a Wave Head club or one’s own two hands. If that were the case with Poison, though, wouldn’t they have just fucked already and been done with it? Then again, the Killjoy was unreadable. That could be where he was headed with this whole thing, he just hadn’t felt the need to clue Frank in on that little byte of information.
“Hey you’re lookin’ like you’ve got a joy drip runnin’ up your veins, Fun Ghoul, so calm down.”
Frank didn’t look up at the playful sarcasm and watched Poison’s tattered boots vanish under the table as he sat down.
“Yo, Ghoul,” he tapped Frank’s shoulder, “you mad at me or something?”
“I’m tired,” he lifted his head and sat back.
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying. I just spent hours out there fixing the car you screwed up! The damn thing needed a front end alignment- what the hell did you hit? Oh and have you ever popped the hood on that thing? Once? Do you have any idea how disgusting it was under there? The terminals on the fuckin’ battery! They need to be replaced but I cleaned them up as best I could. I don’t think that damn car has ever had an oil change- I did that, too, thanks for asking! Your breaks are in abysmal shape and need some new pads, like, yesterday! I mean Christ! You treat her like some sort of- of fuckin’-“ he sputtered and fell silent.
Poison smirked at him. “Like some sort of fuckin’ get away car?”
“Yes! She is an amazing vintage machine and you take horrible care of her! Has no one taught you respect?”
He leaned forward and Frank noticed that his eyes were still slightly dilated from the painkillers in his system. “Nope, but that’s why you’re around now.”
“Why? To smack some sense of respect into you?”
“Oh that’s rich. No one who’s tried has managed that one yet. No, you’re here to treat the car with the love and respect it deserves.”
“Trixie.”
“What?”
“Trixie. The car. Her name is Trixie.”
“What kind of pills did Pony give you and why aren’t I getting any?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“That’s right, I don’t. So, where’d Ladyboy skate off to? I need to have a conversation with him and Jet about the pills they’ve been feeding me- I can’t stay high all the time. It isn’t working for me.”
As if on cue the door swung open. Jet Star strode through it carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He other arm was in a sling. “What the fuck are you doing up, Poison?”
“It’s nice to see you, too! Hey, Fun Ghoul says the car’s name is Trixie- can I have some of the drugs he’s on?”
“Poison,” Jet sounded exasperated, “you are a horrible patient.”
“So’s Ghoul! He’s got a head wound and he was up working on the Trans Am!”
Fuckin’ tattle tale.
Jet Star turned to Frank, setting the duffel bag on the table. “Is this true?”
Jeez, he felt like a kid caught staying up too late or something! “Show Pony didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“How does it run?”
“Now? It purrs like a lion on Wolfblood Beach.”
“Cool,” he nodded in approval and pulled something out of his pocket. He placed two large white pill bottles in front of them. Both of them bore Better Living’s cheerful logo. “There’s one for each of you. You need to take them twice a day every day, preferably with meals until they’re gone.”
“Okay,” Frank said.
“No way in hell,” Poison said.
“You’re a good patient Ghoul and Poison, you still suck. They’re not pain killers or mood stabilizers or anything like that. They’re just antibiotics. If there is any shrapnel that I missed in your wounds, your body will push it out, but it could cause a nasty infection in the mean time. It would be the kind of infection that would kill you,” he took the cap off on bottle and shook a couple of pills out of it. “You will take these even if Kobra has to hold you down while I shove a tube down your throat to do it. The first dose is always a double- do you want water?”
“I am not taking this shit, Jet. No. We have rubbing alcohol. I’ll pour that shit on the wounds three times a day if I have to, to keep them clean.”
“What if I could make it worth your while?”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh, I think it is. In fact, I know it is.”
Frank was amused at the persuasive tone Jet had taken on. He watched as the man pulled a paper wrapped rectangle from the bag. Poison was watching the man as well, looking skeptical but something had lit up in his eyes.
“What is that?”
“You know what it is.”
Poison snatched the large pills from Jet Star’s open palm. “You had better not burn it- that’s more valuable than gold.” He than swallowed both of them dry, gagging at the taste.
Jet Star smiled at them both and mocked a toast. “Here’s to hoping that this place has a coffee pot somewhere.”
“You bastard, if you don’t find a way to get me coffee within the hour I’m gonna shove this pill bottle up your-"
“Listen up motor babies!” Show Pony’s voice called from the door, “We got a slick new acquaintance rollin’ in here! Brew up some extra rations of motor oil will ya, Jet Star?”
“It’d be rude if I didn’t,” he called back from the kitchen.
Kobra Kid, still wearing his helmet, followed Show Pony inside, pushing a man in white in front of him. The man’s hands were bound behind his back and a flour sack was over his head. He limped a bit when he walked.
“What the hell?”
“What’s it look like?” Poison looked at Frank like his IQ was 55 and plummeting. He pulled his bandanna over the lower half of his face and gestured for Frank to do the same, since their masks were in the back. “They brought us some company."
XxXxX
PART TWO HERE:
http://vinvy.livejournal.com/4251.html#cutid1
Author: iron_fist123 and vinvy
Rating: R (language and adult themes)
Pairings: Frank/Gerard
Summary: So, you two pumpin' off on a regular basis or what?
Warnings: Profanity, (medicinal) Drug Use
Disclaimer: Heat thoroughly before consuming. Wait. No. That one's for chicken. This one is for fanfic: Trust me, if any of this madness actually happened we would not be sitting here writing fanfic about it. The same goes for if we owned anything affiliated with this universe except the plot. That means: it didn't and we don't so don't sue!
CLICK HERE FOR THE REST:
iron-fist123.livejournal.com/4457.html
Ace Three
Frank woke up a day before Poison officially did. He spent most of that day in a fog, wondering why his head hurt. The second day he was more coherent when he opened his eyes. The posters staring down at him were familiar, and so were the sheets covering him.
You’re in the diner, something in the back of his mind said. He accepted this universal truth because he had a feeling wondering about it would make his head hurt. Just like last time.
There was a last time? Oh, yeah, there was that one distracting guy...
He turned his head to the side and frowned at the person sitting in the chair by the bed. “Fuckin’ wrong color hair,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes. He pulled his hand away and stared at the bandage on it. “Who fucked up my hand?”
Show Pony flipped his black hair back. “Yes, we all know you like red hair. The canned kind. As for your hand, flashers bite. No one warned you?”
Frank grunted at him. This whole passing out thing has got to end, man, you are such a girl, he said to himself. Poison was right.
“Poison?”
“No, I’m Show Pony, you neurotic thrill killer. Oh motorbox, don’t tell me your grey matter is rewound? Poison would not skate with that. No, not at all.” He helped Frank sit up, despite the latter’s grumbling protestations.
“I don’t want you. Where’s Poison?” He glared, “I swear to God, if you did anything to me while I was out, I will-”
“Ew, Frankie, I’m not a skeleton lover, please- I have standards. All I did was clean you up, clothes included, and redress you. Sweet cellophane you’re a perv.”
“My name is Fun Ghoul as far as you’re concerned. It’d do you well to remember that.”
“Oh, juicy, he still knows his handle. You’re fluffy as cherry flavored blood smoke in the mornings aren’t you?” Show Pony pulled a few things from the bag at his feet. “Now to make sure the rest of your soggy motherboard is in shape. How many fingers?”
Frank blinked at the wiggling digits then said, “Three plus your thumb.”
“Now?”
“One.”
“Now?”
“Eight and two thumbs. Where’s Poison?”
“You’re such a koala,” he mused and lifted a slender flashlight, shining it right in Frank’s face. Frank pushed his hand down several times. Finally Pony held onto his wrist, returning the wretched light source to its place. “Stop that, Ghoul. I have to make sure your pupils will dilate and contract properly.” He clicked the light on and off a few times.
Frank tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes swimming with the glare of the flashlight.
“Lift your right hand and touch your nose with your index finger.”
Frank did it.
“And the left.”
Frank lifted his middle finger and pressed it to the tip of his nose, glaring at the man in front of him.
“Charming. Now do it properly, with the index finger, so I know you know the difference.”
He rolled his eyes and did as he was told.
Show Pony checked out his ears, did a few rudimentary tests involving snapping his fingers in random places around his head to make sure he could hear. He struck the top of Frank’s knees with a little mallet, causing his legs to jerk and an annoying tickling sensation to shoot up them. He checked Frank’s pulse then held up a rather strange device in front of his head. It was like a data pad but much smaller.
“What is that?”
“Don’t speak.”
“But-”
“SH! It’s a hand held brain scanner, you space case. Jeez you’d think I gave you orange nitros instead of sedatives. Stay still, too. Don’t make me tie you up- I’d have too much fun doing it.”
After a minute of Frank sitting painfully still and wanting to move more than ever, the device dinged. Show Pony poked at the touch screen, slipping through the images it had taken.
“Well, Fun Ghoul, somebody must like you. The brain swelling has all gone down. You should have all pistons operational and be suckin’ down straight diesel before tomorrow’s out.” He stuffed some things back into his bag. “Kobra and Jet took the van into the city for supplies. Poison’s getting’ some serious z’s in the last door down the hall. If you wake him you’re in trouble, got it? He needs his rest, Ghoul.”
“So I can go?”
“What’d I just say?”
Technically, you didn’t say anything about me leaving, he thought as he got up to leave. He was a little unsteady on his feet because of the sedatives in his system. He recognized the slightly numb sensation in his fingertips and the layer of wool over his mind. At least he wasn’t in pain. That was a plus.
The door Show Pony had sent him to opened in on a cramped storage room. It was large enough to house a double bed, a trashcan and an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. There was about enough space for an anxious relative or loved one to pace by the bedside but nothing else. The low yellowish lighting made it look like a genuine sick room.
The ratty green blanket was folded over at Poison’s waist. Another heavier one in a dull shade of brown was flung at the foot of the bed as an after thought, as if someone had thought he might get cold in the heat of the day. Frank doubted that’d happen, even in this surprisingly well-insulated and cool room, but thought it was a nice sentiment. He sat in the dubious chair. It was about as comfortable and welcoming as Kobra Kid was towards new comers. It was the perfect bedside chair- he’d never be able to fall asleep in it, guaranteeing that he’d be awake when Poison woke up.
Behind his closed eyelids Poison’s eyes danced here and there. He must be dreaming. His breathing was steady. One hand hung off the bed and the other rested on his bandaged stomach. Frank gently placed Poison’s hand beside the other. If he hadn’t known any better he’d have assumed that the only problem were a few broken ribs and exhaustion. The memory of Poison’s bloody shirt landing wetly in his lap made him cringe- it had seemed like a lot of blood to lose.
Poison drew in a sudden, sharp breath and his eyes flew open. “Shit,” he groaned and turned his head to the side. It took his eyes time to focus. When they finally did he slurred out, “Hey, look, its Fun Ghoul Frankie. How ya doin’?”
“I’m alright. How do you feel?”
“I am fucked up, Frank. … And you! You look like goddamn Frankenstein with those stitches across your head. Those pills Pony got will start you on a serious cycle, I’m tellin’ ya, but without a hangover,” he blinked lazily, “He thinks I’m gonna get up and try to do stuff and end up hurtin’ myself worse. As if I feel like moving!” Poison laughed.
Frank was at a loss. Seeing the Killjoy this completely lit was not something he’d been expecting.
“Look, Frank,” he pointed a wavering finger, “Jet was pullin’ metal and shit outta my skin earlier... then he put this weird topical paste on it that made it go all numb. It smelled like peppermint, I shit you not... but he said you were good with cars. I think I fucked up the Trans Am, like seriously fucked it up while we were tryin’ to get out here... ran over a few big-ish things. Might’ve lost some metal here and there... You should take a look at it because that thing’s my baby and I need it runnin’ right and I am in no shape to work on it.”
“Uh, sure thing. Is there anything I can get you?”
“You’re too fuckin’ sweet. Nah, there’s nothin’ I need. Just some sleep before the fuckin’ vertigo sets back in. Fuck that shit. I do not wanna puke again.”
Party Poison’s head fell back onto the pillow and his eyes slid shut and Frank took that as his dismissal. He shut the door quietly behind him, hoping to whatever holy things there were in the world that he never had to see him like that again.
The hallway was lined with framed photos of old cars and smiling restaurant patrons. Some of them were probably famous at some point in time. The walls themselves were patchy with scribbles in markers of all colors. Phrases ranging from the sweet (“I’ve got a bulletproof heart but she’s got a hollow point smile- I think I’m in love”) to the dismal (“You’re gonna die here, alone”) to the sarcastic (“Well my gun fires seven different shades of shit, so what’s your favorite color, punk?”) had been written with equally varying hands. Around a photo of a bright green sports car someone had drawn an elaborate Celtic knot and neglected to finish coloring it in.
Frank wandered out into the dining portion of the restaurant. Show Pony was skating around on the tiled floor in circles and figure eights.
“Hey there, Fun Ghoul,” he smiled.
“You got a proper tool box ‘round this place? I might need a jack, too. I don’t know yet .”
He skidded to a halt beside the shorter man. “You’re gonna try to take on the Trans Am? You bet your shiny Frankenstein mask I got one! Who gave that to you anyway?”
“Well, Poison will tell you ‘Santa’ gave it to me but you know…”
“Ooh, he never gives presents. So, you two pumpin' off on a regular basis or what? Hey, don’t lose your milkshake- it’s a valid question, knowing him. If you two got some sort of exclusivity happenin’ then I wanna let people know. Hell even if you don’t the intell is still fun to broadcast.” He glided away, rummaging behind the bar, then returned with a loaded toolbox, as promised.
“I’m just gonna pretend you never asked that and go work on the car, okay? Thanks for gettin’ this stuff for me.”
“You can lift some spare parts from the other cars left outside, too.”
Frank waved a hand over his shoulder and stepped into the hot morning light.
XxXxX
At noon Frank stood in the kitchen with his upper body bent over the industrial-sized sink. He alternated between dousing his head with the cold water running from it and drinking straight from the tap. His hands and jeans were black with oil and dirt. His back and neck were sun burnt. (There’d been no way in hell he’d wear a sweater and leather vest in the middle of the unforgiving sun’s line of sight, not no way, not no how.) Sweat and clean water mixed in the stitches across his right temple, making the wound sting.
Frank turned off the water and threw his head back, effectively splattering everything behind him. He squeezed the water out of his hair, not caring that it got everywhere. The water dripping down his back felt good on the sunburn. He pulled his shirt back on and went back into the dining room, sliding into the nearest booth. He folded his arms on the speckled table top then laid his head on them.
His thoughts turned from the heat to Show Pony. The merciless flirt and messenger who liked to cause uncomfortable situations and spread gossip had thrown a wrench into his state of shock where Poison was concerned. So are you two pumpin’ off on a regular basis or what? … Knowing him it’s a valid question. He’d been content to accept the mercurial man’s affections and unnerving glances and not question it. There weren’t many opportunities to get off out in the Zones- Frank knew that- just the occasional, outdated bot at a Wave Head club or one’s own two hands. If that were the case with Poison, though, wouldn’t they have just fucked already and been done with it? Then again, the Killjoy was unreadable. That could be where he was headed with this whole thing, he just hadn’t felt the need to clue Frank in on that little byte of information.
“Hey you’re lookin’ like you’ve got a joy drip runnin’ up your veins, Fun Ghoul, so calm down.”
Frank didn’t look up at the playful sarcasm and watched Poison’s tattered boots vanish under the table as he sat down.
“Yo, Ghoul,” he tapped Frank’s shoulder, “you mad at me or something?”
“I’m tired,” he lifted his head and sat back.
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying. I just spent hours out there fixing the car you screwed up! The damn thing needed a front end alignment- what the hell did you hit? Oh and have you ever popped the hood on that thing? Once? Do you have any idea how disgusting it was under there? The terminals on the fuckin’ battery! They need to be replaced but I cleaned them up as best I could. I don’t think that damn car has ever had an oil change- I did that, too, thanks for asking! Your breaks are in abysmal shape and need some new pads, like, yesterday! I mean Christ! You treat her like some sort of- of fuckin’-“ he sputtered and fell silent.
Poison smirked at him. “Like some sort of fuckin’ get away car?”
“Yes! She is an amazing vintage machine and you take horrible care of her! Has no one taught you respect?”
He leaned forward and Frank noticed that his eyes were still slightly dilated from the painkillers in his system. “Nope, but that’s why you’re around now.”
“Why? To smack some sense of respect into you?”
“Oh that’s rich. No one who’s tried has managed that one yet. No, you’re here to treat the car with the love and respect it deserves.”
“Trixie.”
“What?”
“Trixie. The car. Her name is Trixie.”
“What kind of pills did Pony give you and why aren’t I getting any?”
Frank rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“That’s right, I don’t. So, where’d Ladyboy skate off to? I need to have a conversation with him and Jet about the pills they’ve been feeding me- I can’t stay high all the time. It isn’t working for me.”
As if on cue the door swung open. Jet Star strode through it carrying a duffel bag over his shoulder. He other arm was in a sling. “What the fuck are you doing up, Poison?”
“It’s nice to see you, too! Hey, Fun Ghoul says the car’s name is Trixie- can I have some of the drugs he’s on?”
“Poison,” Jet sounded exasperated, “you are a horrible patient.”
“So’s Ghoul! He’s got a head wound and he was up working on the Trans Am!”
Fuckin’ tattle tale.
Jet Star turned to Frank, setting the duffel bag on the table. “Is this true?”
Jeez, he felt like a kid caught staying up too late or something! “Show Pony didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“How does it run?”
“Now? It purrs like a lion on Wolfblood Beach.”
“Cool,” he nodded in approval and pulled something out of his pocket. He placed two large white pill bottles in front of them. Both of them bore Better Living’s cheerful logo. “There’s one for each of you. You need to take them twice a day every day, preferably with meals until they’re gone.”
“Okay,” Frank said.
“No way in hell,” Poison said.
“You’re a good patient Ghoul and Poison, you still suck. They’re not pain killers or mood stabilizers or anything like that. They’re just antibiotics. If there is any shrapnel that I missed in your wounds, your body will push it out, but it could cause a nasty infection in the mean time. It would be the kind of infection that would kill you,” he took the cap off on bottle and shook a couple of pills out of it. “You will take these even if Kobra has to hold you down while I shove a tube down your throat to do it. The first dose is always a double- do you want water?”
“I am not taking this shit, Jet. No. We have rubbing alcohol. I’ll pour that shit on the wounds three times a day if I have to, to keep them clean.”
“What if I could make it worth your while?”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh, I think it is. In fact, I know it is.”
Frank was amused at the persuasive tone Jet had taken on. He watched as the man pulled a paper wrapped rectangle from the bag. Poison was watching the man as well, looking skeptical but something had lit up in his eyes.
“What is that?”
“You know what it is.”
Poison snatched the large pills from Jet Star’s open palm. “You had better not burn it- that’s more valuable than gold.” He than swallowed both of them dry, gagging at the taste.
Jet Star smiled at them both and mocked a toast. “Here’s to hoping that this place has a coffee pot somewhere.”
“You bastard, if you don’t find a way to get me coffee within the hour I’m gonna shove this pill bottle up your-"
“Listen up motor babies!” Show Pony’s voice called from the door, “We got a slick new acquaintance rollin’ in here! Brew up some extra rations of motor oil will ya, Jet Star?”
“It’d be rude if I didn’t,” he called back from the kitchen.
Kobra Kid, still wearing his helmet, followed Show Pony inside, pushing a man in white in front of him. The man’s hands were bound behind his back and a flour sack was over his head. He limped a bit when he walked.
“What the hell?”
“What’s it look like?” Poison looked at Frank like his IQ was 55 and plummeting. He pulled his bandanna over the lower half of his face and gestured for Frank to do the same, since their masks were in the back. “They brought us some company."
XxXxX
PART TWO HERE:
http://vinvy.livejournal.com/4251.html#cutid1