Authors' notes: Drag Strip acquires the perfect clothes and conquers the world. Sort of. The song referenced in this chapter is the Bloodhound Gang's "Bad Touch", which was released in 1999, but was too funny to pass up. We recommend playing it when you first reach the lyrics. You'll see why.
Also, there's another shout-out here… you know who you are, and thanks for reviewing!
– anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera
Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!
Chapter 9 : Full Throttle
"So tell us," Starscream said. "How did you get your real frames back?"
Skywarp pushed his cube of high-grade across the table. "We want to hear all about it!"
Drag Strip smiled slightly as he accepted the proffered cube, noting as he did so the gleam of something more than interest in the Seekers' optics. "It wasn't easy," he said. "And of course Motormaster was utterly ineffective when it came to blending in with the organic vermin and thereby using them for our purposes."
He took a sip of the high-grade and flicked his glossa over his lips to catch an errant drop. Thundercracker's internal fans switched on.
"But I knew from the start what we had to do," he said.
Starscream leaned forward. "And that was…?"
"Hey, buddy, last stop!"
Drag Strip jolted out of his daydream, startled. The Seekers vanished and were replaced by dingy bus seats, litter on the floor and a human in the driver's seat just ahead, half-turned and staring at him.
"This is the last stop before the depot," the human said. "You wanna go back there or get out?"
Drag Strip stalked to the door. He hated buses as a mode of transportation – slow, unmaneuverable slabs of slag! – and hated them even more because he had to put up with humans of all kinds inside. He wasn't as finicky as Dead End, but he liked keeping himself clean, and buses seemed to carry a disgusting amount of mud, used cups, chewing gum and discarded paper.
I can't wait till I can afford a car. Or better yet, be a car.
He climbed down the steps and the bus took off in a deep cough of diesel fumes. Drag Strip buttoned his blazer and headed for the job placement agency.
He was pleased about his clothes. Breakdown had discovered a small library near their apartment and he had found a book about what humans were expected to wear in the workforce (he liked that word; it implied some excitement on the job). Of course, without ID they couldn't check out the book, but Drag Strip had learned what clothes were appropriate – pants, not jeans, plus a jacket or blazer.
Motormaster had divided what little was left of their remaining money by five and doled out a share to each of them, to pay for transportation to possible jobs and any meals on the road. Drag Strip decided he could go without a little food to buy suitable clothes; the most important thing was getting a job fast – and first. So the next day he returned to the thrift store.
He saw it right away. The Perfect Blazer. The one that was made for him. The dazzlingly bright one in a yellow that made him feel warm just to look at it. It fitted him too, and Drag Strip took that as a sign that he was on the right track. He bought a pair of pants as well, but keeping the splendor of his blazer in mind, went for something in a subdued white with just a hint of gold embroidery running down each leg from hip to ankle, like a human version of racing stripes.
Delighted with the new additions to his wardrobe, he wore them when he went job-hunting over the next two days, but he didn't have much luck. Most places with job openings wanted employees with qualifications or experience, and Drag Strip had experience at only two things : racing and fighting. Or they asked for ID, and he didn't have any. And at four offices, the receptionists told him the job openings had already been filled.
"Well, what are they waiting for then?" he said, indicating a row of candidates sitting in chairs nearby and looking drab in their suits of black, grey and navy blue. When the receptionist hesitated, clearly not wanting to break the bad news to them, he addressed the other candidates.
"The position's been filled. You should all go home." And maybe dress a little better too, he thought as he left.
None of the other Stunticons had jobs yet, but that didn't make Drag Strip feel any better. He had to be the first to make money. The thought of being beaten to that by anyone else was galling. He even tried leaving their apartment very early so that he could be first in line at any place which sported a Help Wanted sign, but that didn't seem to work either.
Nor did the job placement agency. Drag Strip waited nearly two hours for the first available consultant, growing more and more impatient, only to have the consultant find fault with everything in his application. "If you didn't go to high school, Mr. Pragt, you'll need a GED," she said. "Also, you cannot have been born in 1985. You need to fill this out correctly." She hesitated. "And do you have any other clothes?"
Drag Strip strode out of the building, wishing he could slam the automatic door behind him. To put the final touch on his frustration, the last bus had gone and he didn't have enough money for a cab.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, wondering what he was going to do. When am I supposed to have been born? What the frag is a GED? Breakdown had talked about fake identification but he didn't know how to make or buy any. For the first time Drag Strip felt disheartened. He had tried his hardest and was getting nowhere.
The sky was growing darker, and Drag Strip knew it would take him at least another two hours to get home. Will there be any dinner left for me? He was used to being hungry by then and had learned to dismiss the sensation, but the thought of starving all night was harder to ignore. He plodded on grimly, hoping his platform boots wouldn't be as vicious on his feet as his high heels had been.
Other humans bustled about the streets like ants but they hardly even registered on Drag Strip's awareness. He did notice the ones who drove, though, noticed and resented them. It isn't fair. We're struggling just to make enough money to contact the base and we don't even have a car, let alone our alt-modes.
And the humans didn't notice him, which made it worse. He wasn't just a Decepticon, he was a Stunticon, a future inheritor and ruler of the planet. The humans should have been unable to take their eyes off him.
Music drifted from the open door of a club just ahead, while a hot dog stand on the corner gave off smells that made Drag Strip's mouth water. He set his teeth and kept walking, trying not to look at the food, and his gaze went to the sign just above the club.
He stopped in his tracks, halting so abruptly that a human walking behind bumped into him. Drag Strip shook himself absently to get rid of any traces of the contact, not even bothering to look. He didn't think he could have glanced away from that sign if Optimus Prime had driven up the road.
It said, "THE DRAG STRIP".
A human place named after me! The music came from within the open club, but when Drag Strip peered inside, it was too dark to make out anything but a large crowd of people. Others shifted and milled about near the entrance. Drag Strip threw his shoulders back, hooked his thumbs into his pockets and walked in.
He pushed his way past the humans, for once too intrigued to be annoyed that they didn't automatically draw aside at his approach. The club was large but crammed with humans, most at tables on the floor, though some stood around a counter at one end of the room. Collecting their rations, Drag Strip realized when he noticed another human behind the counter handing out containers of liquid fuel.
As he took a step in that direction, the music faded. The lights dimmed almost to dark. Surprised and a little nervous – not that he would ever have shown it – Drag Strip stayed still and waited, wondering what was going on. And why is this place named after me? It doesn't seem to have anything to do with racing.
A spotlight came on, illuminating a stage brightly and the music started up again, louder than before. A police officer strode on to the stage.
Drag Strip took a step back in horror. All he could remember was what Breakdown had told them, that if they kept robbing people, human law enforcement would find them. Was the name of the club just a trick, to lure him in there? He glanced at the open door, wondering if he should run immediately or first cause some kind of diversion to keep the police occupied while he fled.
No one seemed to be looking at him, though; the crowd's attention was fixed on the police officer. To Drag Strip's surprise, the man began to peel off his uniform jacket. He whirled it around his head a few times and flung it into the crowd.
A woman caught it and screamed for no reason that Drag Strip could see. Maybe a button hit her in the eye. But other customers were screaming as well, he noticed, or cheering just as loudly. The police officer wiggled his body, turned and repeated the bizarre movement.
None of the cops Drag Strip had engaged on the roads had ever done that, but then again, he couldn't remember any of them taking their clothes off either. Is this what human law enforcement personnel do when they're off duty? he wondered as the police officer whirled around a pole set in the middle of the stage. How weird! I wish the others were here, they'll never believe this.
The police officer was soon down to his pants, which he apparently tore off. Drag Strip sneered. Well, I guess people like that have enough money to buy a different pair of pants every day. He watched in growing disdain as the cop strutted about the stage a little longer and then leaped down on to a step that put him a little closer to the crowd.
People surged forward, hooting and cheering, the spotlight tracking the movement. Curious despite himself, Drag Strip sidled closer to see what they were doing, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
His mouth dropped open. They were stuffing money into the cop's underwear and the tops of his boots, which now sported a fringe of folded banknotes. What the… why are they…
The cop moved along the rows of tables and tipped his cap to a laughing knot of women – he must've forgotten to take that off, Drag Strip thought, still half in shock. Abruptly a new song started up on the huge speakers and another human sauntered out on to the stage. This time it was a cowboy with a huge Stetson hat and high-heeled boots that Drag Strip instantly wanted. The cowboy pivoted on one heel, pulling off his vest as he did so.
So you just have to take off your clothes and dance? I could do that. Slag, I could do that better than—
The cowboy pivoted again, and there was a faint but definite snap that Drag Strip heard even over the music as the heel of one tall boot broke off and skittered across the stage. The cowboy, who had been turning as it happened, crashed down in an ungainly sprawl. His hat fell off.
There were a few startled giggles but the crowd was no longer cheering. When the cowboy struggled to a sitting position, grimacing and gripping one leg tightly, Drag Strip guessed why. In moments the music stopped. A woman appeared from the side of the stage and went to the cowboy, kneeling beside him and looking him over before she rose again.
"We're sorry about that, folks," she called out. "It'll just be a moment." Another man hurried to the stage and began to help the cowboy off of it.
Just a moment. Drag Strip pushed his way past the tables in as much time and sprang up on to the stage. He heard a few exclamations and shouts of "Hey, who's that?" but ignored them as he turned to face the crowd. The spotlight shone on him, dazzling.
"Start the music again!" he shouted.
Nothing happened. The crowd was oddly hushed as they stared at him and in that instant he knew how Breakdown might have felt under such scrutiny. It was one thing to have humans gaze in awe and admiration. It was another to be the subject of the puzzled, confused looks given to something that was unwanted and out of place.
Then, from the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw the woman on stage give a slight nod.
"Haha," a voice said from the speakers.
Is someone laughing at me? But then he realized it was part of the song, which seemed to begin with someone speaking.
"Well now, we call this the act of mating." Oh, so that was what all this was about. Not a problem. He'd been irresistible as a Stunticon and he could be no less so as a human. From the corner of an optic he saw the woman slipping off the stage.
"But there are several other very important differences between human beings and animals that you should know about." And the drumbeat began.
Drag Strip rode it. He remembered the way the police officer had moved and did the same, but kept his hands in the pockets of his blazer as he swiveled his hips and rolled his shoulders. He was no longer tired, not with the spotlight on him, and his feet seemed to move independently of the rest of his body as he slid to the center of the stage. One hand shot out with his usual speed and grabbed the metal pole. He all but flew around it.
"I'd appreciate your input," the song whispered and people in the crowd began to clap. Ah yes. That's more like it.
Drag Strip spun on his heel just as the cowboy had done – only better! – and ended up with his back to the crowd. He turned his head to one side so he could be sure they were still looking at him, now with growing fascination, as he nudged his blazer off in a series of rhythmic little shrugs. His pelvic unit moved in time to them.
When the blazer finally fell he hooked it with one finger and whirled it around his head. His bus fare flew out of the pockets and disappeared into the crowd, but he was enjoying himself too much to care. The people's attention was riveted on him and the music was like a road unrolling before him at delicious speed. For the first time since he had become a human he felt himself smile as he began to unbutton his shirt.
A woman close to the stage cheered, so Drag Strip bent his knees, sinking down as he continued to dance, and turned sideways as he gave her a broad grin. Any human who appreciated his physical perfection and liked his clothes was all right by him. He straightened up with the coiled energy of a spring being released and whipped the shirt off with a laugh.
People hooted and whistled, raising their hands to clap.
He pulled his belt off just as a man sitting at another table raised a glass to him, smiling widely. Drag Strip caught the tip of the belt in one hand and whacked the buckle against the stage so hard that he felt the vibration of the blow travel up his arm. The man looked as though he had choked on his drink, and everyone around him burst into applause.
"Hieroglyphics, let me be Pacific, I want to be down in your South Seas…"
Drag Strip twisted, then kicked high, getting the sole of one boot against the pole at just the right height for him to unzip it in a single smooth motion. It was off in the next moment and he repeated the process for the other boot.
"So if I capsize on your thighs' high tide, B-5, you sunk my battleship…"
He touched the zipper on his pants and people shrieked. "Off!" They nearly drowned out the music. "Off!"
Drag Strip raised his optic ridges as though considering the request; maybe I will and maybe I won't. But he was having far too much fun to stop. Bet you lot don't even remember that stupid police officer now, do you?
Trailing the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, he sank to one knee just so that he could see beyond the spotlight's glare. The eyes fixed on him and faces entranced, people yelling for more from him… it was better than a gulp of high-grade. Rising slowly, as sinuously as he could, he slid the zipper down and gave a sharp hard writhe of his hips.
If his skin had not been sweat-slick from the dancing and the excitement, it might not have worked, but the pants slid down. Screams filled the air.
Drag Strip stepped out of his pants and spun around so the crowd could admire him from the back, then raised his arms to his head, burying his fingers in his hair. Got to do it better than the cop… and more, he thought as he turned again.
His hands dropped to his underpants and slid them off.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the noise nearly deafened him.
"Have a seat," the manager said, closing the door of her office.
Drag Strip sat down. He had barely had enough time to put his pants back on – and he had remembered too late that without underpants or boots, where were the grateful and awestruck customers supposed to stuff money? But they had shoved plenty of banknotes into his hands nevertheless, and then two much larger men had showed up to tell him that the manager wanted to see him.
Drag Strip might have balked, but by then the next act was starting, so he went with them. One of the men carried the rest of his clothes into the manager's office, but he didn't trust anyone else to hold his money.
The manager was the woman who had spoken on stage after the cowboy's serendipitous and amusing accident, and now she sat down on the other side of a desk. "My name is Gaby Ortega."
"I'm Drag—" He stopped just in time. "Sid R. Pragt."
"Good to meet you, Mr. Pragt. Have you performed before?"
"No." Drag Strip grinned. "First time I ever did that." And I beat all the human dancers at it! The crowd certainly hadn't given the police officer a standing ovation.
"Well, we'd be interested in seeing you again." She smiled. "How would that work for you?"
Drag Strip couldn't believe it for a moment. He would get to do that again, to see new crowds cheering for him and begging for more? Well, certainly, why not? I was the hit of the night, the star of the show. And he would do even better next time. He was mentally planning what he would wear when he realized that Gaby Ortega was waiting for a reply.
"That would work fine," he said.
"That's great!" She produced some papers, and Drag Strip groaned inwardly; why did every human job have to involve filling out paperwork? "Oh, and there's just one more thing. You'll need to… tidy up a little before the next show."
Drag Strip frowned. He wasn't as neat as Dead End, but he was by no means a slob. "Tidy up?"
"Yes, you know." She waved a hand at him. "Wax."
"Wax? I don't have plat—" Primus, what was wrong with him? He'd nearly given himself away again.
Gaby looked at him for a long considering moment before fishing in a drawer of her desk. "Here." She handed him a business card. "Go to this salon, tell them I sent you and ask for the full package, okay?"
Drag Strip took it, shrugging his assent. He had no objections to being pampered a little – about time, really, after all the horrible experiences I've had lately – though he was surprised to hear humans used wax too. Must tell Dead End after I get it done, he'll be so jealous.
And after he had bought himself a meal he went home in a cab, the pockets of his yellow blazer stuffed with money. Perhaps being human wasn't so bad after all.
Additional notes : The computer Breakdown needs is the Compaq Portable III, a precursor to the modern laptop - top-of-the-line in 1987 with a 20 MB hard drive.
Some reviewers have asked if Geri will be appearing in this fic; unfortunately the answer is no. "The Girl Who Loved Wildrider" was set in the year 2000, and at 11-going-on-12, Geri was just a gleam in her daddy's eye at the time this fic takes place.
Finally, for everyone who guessed which Stunticon gets involved with a human female, there'll be a hint in Chapter 10. The answer may surprise you.
