Prologue
The engine of my 1968 customized hog roared beefily as I left my modest apartment complex in the rear-view.
Los Angeles was always humid-hot in the summer, even at night. The town was covered in an oily layer of moisture.
Before we go any further, I guess I should introduce myself, and what this is all about. This, you might say, is a look back on the little adventure that propelled me to stardom. My fifteen years of fame. Still going strong, by the way.
They call me Nukem. Duke Nukem. You might have heard of me. I'm the ultimate ass-kicker of anything that fuck's with the status-quo. Sometimes that's for the government. Most of the time it's for me.
I found myself rolling down the familiar, ever-so damp streets of Los Angeles. I tend not to show much in the way of subtlety, but this time of night, knowing my destination, and enjoying the ride, leaves me feeling good. Damn good. Not a big insight, you might say? We're just getting started.
I turned off the main road into a seedy, ever so narrow, street. The sign at the turn read "St John St." Funny. Up ahead, The throbbing neon sign. "Bikini Atoll - Hot Babes. Cold Drinks." Throbbing, because of the techno beat inside, like a steady heart. I could see the girls in my head already. Each one of them an emulation of the city itself. Dirty, covered in a film of sweat from dancing. Mana from Heaven.
I pulled into the parking-lot, killed the engine, and dropped the kick stand in one smooth move. My leg cleared the seat as I spun to face the brick building's front door. A sleezy palace with neon lights around the wooden doors, and a crimson carpet on the floor, covered in grease. The bassy beat that I predicted was already running up my legs and kicking my chest. I'm more of a metal fan myself, but whatever gets the asses shaking.
The atmosphere of the club impacts all the senses as I push the door open. The smell of cigar smoke, the thickness of the air, the vibration of the music. Two steps in, and a pretty blonde in a cocktail dress is on me with a smile and a grin. I return the expression. "Would you like a table or are you heading for the bar this evening?" Her voluptuous voice sweet and smooth. "Hmm... A table sounds good tonight."
I can't help but smile. As she leads me to a table I see all the men have their eyes glued to the stage and their mouths hanging like some twisted Gothic painting. My gaze follows their's and I nearly trip over my own two feet.
On the stage is one hell of a knock-out show. Go-go boots, long legs, curves that kill, an unbelievable rack. A face with a pair of penetrating eyes, luscious lips, and a bit of a grin. That's good, last thing we need is a crying stripper. A red-head to boot. She's beautiful for all the right reasons, not over stated, just beautiful. I hate "Barbie Doll" women.
"Damn." I audibly exhale as I find myself being ushered into my seat, the expression on my face undoubtedly a replication of all the other dumb asses in the bar.
The waitress, politely, nudges my arm. "What's your poison tonight, Duke?" I change my focus as she says my name. "I'll have a Jack and Coke on the rocks, babe." I fumble for my lighter and a Cuban as she jots down my order. A flick of the wrist, and I too am adding to that "smoking" atmosphere.
"Anything else?" She holds the order to her chest nervously, like a school girl. "That'll do me just fine." I hand her a twenty up front, and she's a leaf on the wind. My eyes lock right back onto the red head.
"She's just too good to work in this place." I find myself thinking. She has the elegance of your top Vegas performer. A body Hollywood would make a career out of. I'm not picky when it comes to women, but she fits the definition of ideal.
A dip leads to a grind, and then a spin. She runs her back along the pole with an exhale filled with head bobs at the low side of the ride down, and gracefully her head shifts. She looks right at me. Sends a shiver up and down my spine. It clearly effects her too. She pauses her dance for just a beat as she is drawn to the flame. Come on over, baby! Come on over...
...And, that's when the annoying prick walked in. The music cut and a short, twig of a man in a hilariously dated white suit with lavender shirt pointed an accusing finger at the dancer on stage. "JANE! I warned you." Now I know her name. Too bad for this guy, its all down hill for him already.
The prick, who I'm assuming is her distraught boyfriend at this point, makes great time across the bar, through the sea of tables, and up to the stage. He reaches impishly and grabs her by the legs. He continues to scold her, and tears her from the stage with a jealous fury. "You stay out all night, hang out in these trashy bars with all these losers. What's the matter with you! You make me look bad!" He gets the first swing on her free, a sharp back hand that cracks across her soft face.
He doesn't get the second swing.
I make it across the bar and grabs his wrist, spining him around before he can make the second strike. His burning eyes lock with mine. "Who the fuck are you!" He exclaims, tripping over his words as realises the size of the man bearing down on him.
"The name's Duke." I looked over his shoulder at the whimpering Jane, rubbing her stinging cheek. I took a long drag on my cigar at this point, and blew the smoke into his face as hard and coolly as I could. He began to cough and sputter. I continued with the smooth act. Underneath I was raging. Nobody ever hits a woman in front of me!
"Let me clue you in, Jerk off. Jane likes real men. The kind that don't make her life a living Hell. That doesn't include you, pencil neck." I was hoping for the response he gave me. His hand cocked back as he sputtered a "Why you son of a-!" And I caught the swing with my own hand. I could hear the cartilage and bone snapping like a collapsing tree under the pressure I exerted on his puny fist.
Bear in mind, I wasn't trying to show off. I may not be a lot of things, but the one thing I most certainly am is chivalrous. Unless the bitch starts in with the feminist crap. I hate that.
Anyway, I've got the guy by the fist, he's dancing like he's on fire, trying to get himself loose from the bear-trap he finds himself in. I take the opportunity to swing him around into the table section of the bar. Letting him go, I give him the hardest punch, right across the face. POW! He goes spinning, crashing over one table and taking the contents with him as he manages to tumble over himself and destroy another one behind him. If this were a cartoon, he'd be seeing stars.
Without missing a beat, I turned to face the stunned and stunning damsel, Jane. Her hand had shifted from cheek to mouth. Her expression, a combination of self-aware embarrassment, and utter shock. Her eyes shifted to mine as I spoke.
"So Jane... Care for a drink?" I figured I might as well go all the way. Her hands motion towards her body as she tries to find the words. "Um... Mind if I, uh, get dressed first?" She smiled just a little. I gave her a big one in return. "Why waste the time?" She realized I wasn't joking, I know this, because her little smile turned into an intensely serious expression. Not one of distaste, but of desire.
I have that effect on women.
The waitress handed me my drink as Jane and I made our way to the bar. "Beer." Jane made her request curtly, giving me a nervous, shifty-eyed glance. I took a sip of my own drink as I planted down on one of the cozy leather stools.
"Hey, asshole!" That familiar, Mexican-accented voice tore through my ear drums on my six O clock. I looked over my shoulder, and saw the pricky boyfriend standing with three of his posse. His taunting continued. "We're gonna bust you up!" His compadre's seemed to agree.
Punks.
I gave Jane a glance, smiled again, took a mighty drag on my cigar, and spun around in my seat. I threw my leather jacket to the side for effect.
Morons didn't know who they were messing with. They couldnt come up with a pair of balls between the four of em.
I had just one thing left to say to them before the blood started to run.
"Come get some!"