Better Hallway Vision
by: Unicorn Pammy
A/N: Yay, more John! Woot. Just as a little precaution, John and his friend in this story use foul language and call each other names. A lot. It annoyed me a little when I read it over about the twentieth time, but it also is how I would picture these two treating each other. So I left it. I don't really see John treating his friends with any kind of respect.
This is an exciting chapter for me, because it introduces someone who wasn't in the movie, not even mentioned. Someone who came from my own little brain. Yay.
Anywhoo, enjoy. As always, talk to me, people. I need your inputs.
Disclaimer: Blah! I'm poor. Leave me alone.
Chapter 6: Hell On Wheels
John woke up to blinding sunlight and a monster headache. He was disoriented at first, but it didn't take him long to recognize the water-stained ceiling above him, or the yellowed, peeling wallpaper that hung from the walls in strips. He moved his face away from the sun pouring in the one small, dirty window, and sat up. Four mounds of dirty clothing and tangled hair filled up the small floor-space of the living room/kitchenette with him; John was glad he'd shown up early enough to get the couch.
His coat was still wrapped tightly around him from the night before; he looked down at his feet to make sure he still had his boots. People learned early not to leave any of their shit lying around Weasel's place, because it was usually gone by morning. So many vagrants and junkies came and went from the tiny apartment; it was also a haven for many kids who found they'd be better off not going home at night for one reason or another.
He swung his long legs off the couch and stood up, making his way across the room to the kitchenette; he had to step over two snoring piles of clothes to get there. The stove and sink were piled high with food-crusted dishes and pots and pans. He tried not to look at them, his stomach suddenly turning sour. When he opened the ancient refrigerator, all it contained was a jar of watery mustard and Weasel's insulin.
John didn't even open any of the cabinets, not really hungry anymore. Instead he felt claustrophobic, almost nauseous. He turned around suddenly, feeling like he had to leave as fast as he could; he stumbled over someone's leg on the way out. Whoever belonged to it cried out confusedly, but John didn't stop to make sure he or she was all right. He wrenched the door open and slammed it shut behind him, cutting off groggy cursing and shouting from inside. As he descended the rickety stairs to the street, he gulped the outside air in huge breaths, trying to rid his nose and mouth of the stink of rot that had pervaded the apartment. When he reached the sidewalk, he braced one hand against the brick building, feeling as if he was going to be sick. But the feeling subsided, and he straightened, running a shaking hand through his hair.
C'mon, Bender, snap out of it. You've spent the night here a thousand times. What makes you too good for your friends all of a sudden?
Angry at himself for being such a stuck-up pussy, he faced into the wind and started walking, ducking his head and jamming his hands into his pockets. Something sharp pierced the sensitive skin of one of his fingertips, and he yanked his right hand out to look at it. A bead of bright red blood was forming on his ring finger. He sucked on it for a few seconds, then dug around in his pocket to find whatever had stabbed him. Memories rushed through him when his fingers found the diamond earring. He pulled it out and looked at it in the sunlight. Multicolored light flashed back at him, and he felt a half-smile form on his lips. He put the earring back in his left ear. That small bit of pain, and the subsequent flood of memories helped to clear his mind. The last of the claustrophobia slipped away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in a long time.
Whistling some random riff that was floating around in his head, John started off down the street, heading for Shermer's small downtown area. All he passed on the way were ugly brick buildings that offered cheap, run-down apartments, and a convenience store or two. It was pretty quiet in the middle of a Sunday morning, and this day was no exception. Occasional cars crept down the 25 mph street, though he figured their lack of speed had more to do with mornings-after than following the rules.
Shermer's downtown was an oasis of high-end shopping in the middle of the slums. There were boutiques, restaurants, specialty grocery stores, a four-screen theater called the Movie House, and a customization and general repair garage. John made his way to the garage, Hell on Wheels. It was squeezed in between an African gift shop and an Asian grocer. The four huge bay doors were closed, and there was no normal-sized entrance in the front, so he slipped down the alley beside the gift shop. As he neared the rear of the building, he started to hear muffled music. When he got to the chain-link fence enclosing the large back lot behind the garage, he could make it out. Unfortunately.
"Pussy's listening to Def Leppard," he muttered as he hauled himself up and over the fence. When he dropped down on the other side, he noticed there was only one car in the lot, and that was the owner's dark red '69 Mustang. But there was something else back here besides the equipment shed. It was covered in a tarp, and it was very large. It had the general shape of a muscle car, but that didn't mean anything. It could just be the wrecked body of a Maverick, or something else equally wussy. His curiosity was piqued, but he'd have to wait to find out what it was. Dante had probably hidden a rabid dog under there, in case anyone decided to take a peak. John certainly wouldn't put it past him.
He used an old, dead credit card to open the back door and slip inside. Only three of the garage's four bays were taken up; usually the place was full, with five or six cars in the lot out back waiting for attention. But it was Sunday, and the garage was closed, and not too many people wanted to leave their precious vehicles there overnight.
Raucous music blared at him from the open door of the tiny office, and he could see "Hell" himself sitting behind the desk, doing paperwork. Occasionally the guy would belt out lyrics from Def Leppard's "Photograph" as he punched numbers into a calculator, then recorded them into his ledger. The sign on the window of the office said "Hell On Wheels," with flames engulfing the word "Hell." Below it was "R. Dante Heller, Proprietor." Dante was short and wiry, dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit. His ever-present bandana was on his head. John didn't even know what color his hair was. Not that he was ever really curious; the fact just startled him a little.
John snuck up to the office, then reached one hand in and knocked loudly on the open door. Dante jumped, startled, then scowled when he saw Bender in the doorway. He turned the music down. "Motherfucker, you little prick. Trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Only if I'm in your will, Roger."
Dante made a face. "If you keep calling me Roger, you won't be." He turned back to his work. "Why the hell'd I ever tell you my first name, anyway?" he muttered to himself.
"Cause you were stoned off your ass, I think."
"I won't repeat that mistake again."
"So what's under the tarp out back?"
"A 1937 Rolls Royce."
John's eyes got big. "Really?"
"No, not really, shit head. It's just an old junker I bought to fix up."
"Yeah, so what is it?"
Dante looked up from his work, a shit-eating grin on his face. "That's for me to know and you to find out."
"You son of a bitch..."
"Yeah, so go home, I don't have any work for you today. Come back tomorrow."
"Aww, c'mon Hell, I've got school tomorrow."
Dante just looked at him for a few seconds, then busted out laughing. "Yeah, yeah, pull the left one, the right one's bad enough already. Since when do you go to school?"
John looked slightly embarassed, and tried to cover it up by acting nonchalant. "Gotta go sometime; otherwise, I'm never gonna graduate."
Dante cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought that was the point. C'mon, Bender, I'm closed today. I can't pay you on a day when I'm not making any money."
"What about that supposed piece of shit out there? I could work on that."
"That is mine. The last time you got near one of my projects, you put oil in the radiator."
"That was five years ago! I was still a kid!"
"Yeah, and from what I understand, seventeen is the age of wisdom."
Dante's sarcasm made John roll his eyes. "I promise I won't put oil in the radiator this time."
"Where are you gonna put it, with the windshield wiper fluid?"
"I'm gonna dump it over your head if you don't show me what's under that tarp."
Dante laughed. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my friend."
At that point, John's stomach let out a fierce growl. Dante gave a resigned sigh. "Let me finish up this column, then why don't we go out and get an early lunch."
"Hey, I don't-"
"I know, I know, you 'don't take no charity.'" Dante imitated John's tough-guy voice. "We'll call it an advance on your next job, how's that?"
John gave a half-grin. "Yeah, I guess that'll work."
When Dante felt he'd come to a satisfactory stopping point, he stood up from his desk, his movements slow and painful. Rubbing his right leg for a few moments helped to ease some of the aching, but he grabbed his cane anyway.
"You're getting old, Roger."
"Shut up, Johnny, I'm not even thirty." Dante got his jacket from the back of his chair, then followed Bender out of his office. He winced with each step toward the back door. As they walked out into the sunshine, Dante looked up, spotting a single, little unassuming cloud in the sky. "It's gonna rain today."
"Yeah, and my ass is gonna sprout a diamond. You're so full of shit."
"Nope, I can feel it in these old bones. Hey, and it looks like your ear sprouted a diamond. I guess that's close enough to your ass."
John flicked him off as he lit a cigarette. "Fuck you, Roger," he said, the words escaping on a cloud of smoke.
Ignoring him, Dante tossed John a set of keys, then unlocked the driver's side of his Mustang. John went over and unlocked the back gate, swinging it open so Dante could drive through. Then he locked it again and got in the car. Dante stared at him expectantly.
"What?"
"The keys, juvenile delinquent. The keys." He held his hand out.
John smiled and handed them over. "Sorry, didn't think you'd notice."
"My leg is crippled, not my brain, dipshit."
Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in a diner a few miles east of downtown, one that served breakfast all day, as well as burgers and chili. John plowed through a double cheeseburger and fries, while Dante ate his eggs, bacon, and toast a bit more sedately. Dante had the sleeves of his jump suit and underlying work shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the red dragon tattoo that snaked down the inside of his right forearm. Its jaws were parted, and a feather of flame licked at his wrist.
Their waitress walked up with a pot of coffee. "Wanna refill, Dante?"
"Sure, Nita, thanks."
"What about you, kid? Want some more soda?"
All John could do was nod as he stuffed his face. Dante gave a wry laugh. "He says yes, please. Thank you."
Nita chuckled as she walked away with John's glass. She brought it back a minute later. "Let me know if you guys need anything else."
Dante nodded as she went away again, then waited until John had finished his burger and was starting to attack his fries before he attempted conversation.
"So, how did it go with your old man last night? Was he in a good mood about getting paid?"
John shrugged, his features hardening into a mask of anger.
"He was just great. Locked my fucking bedroom window so I couldn't get in. Then he tried to smash my face in with a beer bottle."
"Well, you seem to have escaped intact."
"Don't I always?"
Dante shook his head. "Not always."
There were a few moments of silence while John ate his fries.
Finally, he said, "Yeah, well, it's been a long time since he could get the better of me."
"He's still bigger than you, though."
"And I'm still faster than him."
"Just be careful, John."
"Hey, don't worry bout me, Roger. I've been doing fine on my own for a long time now."
"I know that. I'm just trying to watch out for you is all."
"Don't puss out on me, man." John glared across the table.
"I'm not pussing out on anybody, you little bitch." He jabbed a finger in John's direction. "I'm trying to help your ass, which is more than you can say for yourself."
"I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, noticed. That's why you smell like you slept in an alley last night."
"No, Weasel's."
Dante rolled his eyes. "Close enough. If you needed a place to stay, why didn't you come to the garage? And where'd you get the rock, Bender?"
John ignored the first question, just gave him a little half-grin. "Not telling."
"Bender..."
John cackled, knowing it irked Dante not to know where he'd gotten it. But way down deep, in a place that still cared about other people's opinions, it hurt him to know that his best friend thought he'd stolen it.
"John..."
"Don't call me John."
"Don't call me Roger."
John just snorted.
Dante sighed and leaned back into the booth, propping one arm up along the back of it. "Just finish your fuckin' fries."
When they were done, had paid up and left a tip, they exited the diner and piled back into Dante's 'Stang.
"So what's under the tarp?" John asked.
Dante grinned devilishly. "Not telling."
"Now who's being a bitch?"