Inspired by an idea my friend, StuteriRose, had. Smear belongs to her. Check out her StEx fanart on DA! :)
The dry Texas sun glared down upon the young diesel engine's helmet as he approached the yard, causing his internal mechanisms to burn from more than just exertion. The young man was glad he had had his air conditioning checked before he had made the long trek to this new freight yard. A breakdown in this heat would be a nightmare from the infernal engine himself.
The yard was small, barely a dot on any of the Union Pacific maps; the young man could see a few buildings which human administration used and a single shed with several doors, which was no doubt a communal home for the resident rolling stock. Few would think anyone worthwhile could have lived here, but one such train inhabited this podunk, and Smear the diesel was determined not to leave until he had spoken to him.
A long train of freight trucks in work mode stretched down the track parallel to the one Smear rode. Most of the cars were painted the Union Pacific yellow or brown, but here and there was a truck bearing the colors of another railroad: temporary travelers on this mixed train before they reached their final destination. Five switch engines in Union Pacific helmets rolled in racing mode up and down the consist, uncoupling the trucks, rearranging them into new rows or directing the ones who had switched to their bipedal forms to a nearby tent where a freezer truck swerved cups of cold water.
Well, technically, there were four switchers and one tall former passenger locomotive in their ranks, towering a full head above the little engines.
Smear removed his yellow helmet, revealing a head of brown hair and tan skin, and he made a beeline for the larger locomotive, who had bent between two tank cars to unhitched the wagons. The muscular man wore a dented yellow helmet with the signature bulldog nose of the legendary EMD E series, but Smear would be hard pressed to find a single vehicle who did not know the face beneath the protective covering.
"Hey, Uncle Grease," Smear said, braking on the brittle grass behind the diesel.
The older engine straightened and turned, and through the pilot opening of the helmet Greaseball frowned at the younger locomotive. Smear had often thought his uncle looked like a masculine, engine version of his coach mother. They both had jet black hair, gray eyes, and cleft chins, but Greaseball's appearance had altered since last summer when he had crashed during the final race of Wilton Yard's railroad championship. Whereas before Greaseball had lived a comfortable life of an excursion train who had plenty of free time for bodybuilding and athletic training, now he worked long hours as a switch engine in the hot Texas sun. He still had incredible strength, but the muscular bulk that had resulted from his careful regime and diet had noticeably diminished. The only thing that seemed untouched (from what Smear could see of it) was the carefully greased wig of hair which his uncle had always tended to as if it were a prize-winning flower. Smear's mother had said that after her brother had crashed, his first impulse had been to pull out his comb and fix his hair before seeking medical help.
Uncle Grease glanced at his switcher coworkers before he returned his attention to Smear. He narrowed his gray eyes. "What are you doing here, kid?"
Smear tucked his helmet under one arm and looped his free thumb on his black belt, trying to look casual. "Oh, I was in the neighborhood," he said nonchalantly. "Thought I'd say hi."
"Mmm-hmm," answered the older engine, unconvinced. "Well, you said hi, so bye." He turned back to the trucks and offered a hand to a pretty female tank car who rose to her feet. The tanker gave him a wink before joining the queue for water.
Smear cleared his throat as Uncle Grease moved to the next car. "I just pulled my train into Davidson Yard this morning, and since you were only an hour away, I came to see you. I don't have to head home until tomorrow," he said encouragingly. "I'll take you and Miss Dinah to dinner. My treat."
"Dinah ain't here," answered Uncle Grease gruffly, shoving a boxcar down the track to the waiting switcher who was hitching wagons to a new train. "I sent her back to Wilton Yard. There's no room for a coach around these parts."
"Oh," was all Smear could think to say for several moments. He ran a hand along his yellow headband while his uncle ignore him, focused on the task at hand. The switchers and the trucks who had changed to racing mode gave him a few odd looks, but none said a word to the newcomer.
The young man finally tried again, this time deciding to use the direct approach. "You didn't reply to Ma's last letter. She wanted me to - "
" - Stick your nose in my business?" sneered Uncle Grease.
"She's worried about you, Unk," Smear insisted. "She says the invitation is always there for ya."
His uncle rose and turned, but this time he grabbed Smear by the shoulder plate and hauled him to the side, nearly causing his nephew to lose hold of his helmet. "You listen to me, kid," the older engine growled. "If I don't want to move in with your folks, there's probably a good reason, doncha think?"
Smear tensed, but he looked firmly at his uncle's annoyed glare. "We're your kin. We don't care what you did."
"The Union Pacific ain't so forgiving," Uncle Grease leered, but Smear thought he detected bitterness in his voice. "Just tell your ma to forget it, boy. I'm finished anyway."
Smear almost gave him a sympathetic look, but he knew the former champion would hate to receive pity. "It'll blow over soon enough, Unk."
Greaseball's eyes flashed before he turned away. "Don't be stupid. No newspaper is ever gonna let me forget what I did."
Smear did not know the full extent of what had happened to his tight-lipped uncle in last year's trial, but he knew what the media had seen. In the first heat Greaseball had raced with his long-time girlfriend, Dinah, but in the next race he had partnered with a pink-haired observation car named Pearl. However, during the re-run of the final - on live television no less - Greaseball had purposefully uncoupled Pearl on the downhill slope and had tried to steal a caboose from one of his rival racers, who had been some electric engine. Fortunately, Pearl had been rescued by the steam-powered competitor, Rusty, who had gone on to win the final. Greaseball, however, had crashed along with the caboose and electric engine.
In the aftermath, Pearl had revealed an unflattering story of Greaseball cheating Rusty and threatening the observation car if she told anyone. Soon after that the Union Pacific had quietly moved Greaseball from his reporter-ridden home yard and had deposited him on this quiet line, essentially exiling their former golden goose.
Smear did not excuse Greaseball's actions in the slightest, but he still had affection for the second father figure who been a strong presence in the five short years of his life.
"All ya gotta do is something nice like give to a charity," Smear tried to reason. "After a while nobody's gonna - "
"Just drop it," Greaseball snapped, spinning away. "You ain't gonna change my mind, Smear. Now, beat it. I got work to do."
Smear frowned. "I'll leave you alone, but I ain't givin' up, Uncle Grease." He gave the once bulging arm a light pat - Greaseball was not the type to want a departing hug - and he turned away. He strapped his helmet on, starting the long trek back to Davidson Yard.
Greaseball only looked over his shoulder once he was certain his nephew had gone too far down the track to turn around. Smear was a good kid, but both he and his mother were naive if they thought his reputation could be recovered from the scrap pile.
He adjusted his helmet, aware of the heat trapped around his hair, and his fingers brushed along the dents in his headgear. What he wouldn't give for a full refurbishment, including a working air conditioner, but the UP wasn't too keen on helping their fallen poster boy these days.
"The mighty diesel engine is a work of art," he said dryly, looking down at his once magnificent limbs.
From down the track Yard Goat, one of the switchers, suddenly shouted, "Hey, Grease Stain! You're not getting paid to preen!"
Greaseball turned back toward the waiting trucks and tucked his hand behind his back to hide the gesture he made for his coworker. The ex-champion moved to the nearest end of the train and continued his switcher work as best as his slightly dented limbs would allow.
He could remember the days he had mocked Rusty for being a loco boy doing switcher work. He had taken wicked delight in sending the steamer on ridiculous errands and roughing up his saintly face when he failed a task. If Greaseball had known then what he did now...
Coulda, woulda, didn't, he thought as he knelt to uncouple two yellow boxcars.
Poppa, Rusty's father, had approached him before his exile, suggesting again that the diesel convert to steam. "You'd be under your own control," the old man had said. "You'd be able to go where other diesels can't, maybe escape the reporters."
It had been tempting - honestly tempting - but it was a callow fool who thought any mechanic would touch him now to do the conversion, especially on his diminished salary.
He had made his bed, and the only thing he could do now was lie in it.
THE END
Xxx
StuteriRose had said, "What if poor GB truly lost everything when he lost the races and now he is a nobody living in some small shed and working as a shunter with no friends... Poor GB..." Thus this fic came to be.
My step-father had been in a Bronx street gang in his youth, and he still has a head of black hair despite being in his 60s. When he was younger, he was hit by a car, and his first response was to fix his hair. Since Greaseball resembles him quite a lot, I find it particularly funny that in at least one version of "One Rock'n'Roll Too Many", Electra's wig is messed up, but Greaseball doesn't have a hair out of place. Maybe he was like my step-dad and had already fixed his hair before seeking help.