A One-Shot Bubblegum Crisis Story by SurfingSpider
Revving the throttle,
Pressing the pedal,
This road is mine
To do with as I wish
On this night of endless stars,
I ride the darkness
Like the Red man
At one with his totem
Apache
Priss mouthed the words silently as they came into her head, tumbling into her conscious with each rotation of the black wheels beneath her. As fast as she rode, fast the lyrics formed and flashed by – not forgotten – awaiting completion and the time for revolution. In the background of her mind at the base of her skull where her frayed hair cushioned the weight of the helmet against her neck, the aperture of instruments played.
Priss:
Singer-songwriter.
Road warrior.
Knight Sabre.
Where she was, that lonely place surrounded by the phantasmagoria of living; flitting images of steel and plastic and flesh. Ahead, behind, passing, passed. Where her mind was relaxed and free. Where there was nothing but her. A singularity amongst the myriad; Lone comet tracing its parabolic course through the universe with determination. Priss was on her motorcycle riding through the traffic.
No other place where she was rather be when the energy was infused in her limbs and the words came into her mind.
I'm not a two-dollar whore,
Salaryman bore,
Look at me
And the last you'll see -
The attendant multitude crowd shouting out with her in the cavern of noise, accolades to heaven, frothy glasses raised to the Gutter Queen of hardrock. There, she was the many. A leech on the neck of each of the throng sucking out their energy with every beat and chord, connected by her voice alone. Drawing on them, drinking from them as they guzzled amber, until they were spent husks unable to think of move, and she sated, would let them loose. A raggered breathless creature upon the stage.
Fist in your face!
My fist in your face!
Priss would run lights, not noticing. Lost in song and memory. The piece of street she traveled was hers for her alone. Her liberty, fought for. Her pride, deserved. She gave to the city even if it did not know, if knew, would not care. Her, or the city? And the city. The city that pressed down on the masses.
Pressed shirt
Polished shoes
Pleated dress
What the fuck am I your doll?
Who am I is up to me
Counter that at your peril. Beneath her gloves Priss' knuckles were bruised. Beneath her helmet's visor a thin cut ran under one eye. Her third place a combination of the other two. Solitude in her action, an audience to her violence. Where all the rage and pain filled her with primal intent and the avatar claimed her. Her fists encased in metal, knuckled with bombs, rained debris on the pavement, laid detritus in her wake. She loved being a Knight Sabre. It was the columniation of psyche. The true her unleashed if for just a short while.
Fuck you mother fucking machines!
And existence would be over for the boomer. Man's best friend. Unrequited replacement.
Priss rode. Effortlessly she weaved through the oncoming traffic, lights and horns nothing more than blur and whisper when there was the symphony vibrating through her mind.
Shout the war cry,
I am here
To make a stand
For the Free
Shout the war cry,
Apache.
/\/\ss/\/\
One-Hour-Bake-a-Story
Been a long time, out of practice.