Chapter IX
Oil Changes and the Indecencies Thereof
By: The Feesh
Speed.
They ran from him. The highway concrete thrummed beneath him as the slick black prow sliced through the air, rubber hot, sirens screaming as Barricade tore after his prey. The car ahead of him drove recklessly; zigzagging through traffic with their headlights off, as if they thought that would make it harder for him to see them. It didn't. The four teenagers in the cab of the Camry didn't know what was following them; they fled as though they were running from the law when the reality of it was so much harsher. They took flight from something unnatural by this planet's standards, a hunter, an alien with a mind that ran faster than the fastest computer on Earth. A creature that lived by the phrase 'to punish and enslave'.
Barricade gunned it and swerved between a compact and an SUV, earning himself a horn and a middle finger from the driver of the Ford Explorer that he'd cut off. People in New York City oftentimes kept their tongues in check around the cops, but roadrage was still fair game, as the Mustang had discovered. The man's words rolled off of his ebony hide like water off of a ducks back; he had his mind elsewhere. The Camry was driving in an increasingly dangerous pattern, weaving, bobbing, tearing around cars and stopping just this side of running people off of the road but still those lights followed, perched atop the police highway interceptor labeled with the unit number of 643. The boys had been speeding and Barricade had been bored with hiding beneath an overpass, and so he'd given chase.
The worst thing the young males could have done was run. Any human may compare his single-minded zeal to that of an Earthen canine; never run from a dog unless you want to entice it to chase. Barricade was much the same. His thrills were captured in the heat of the hunt, the pursuit, and finally the blissful conclusion that always featured a capture. The Ford Mustang Saleen's alternate form was also appropriate for another activity that was the end of many human beings and the drug of others: speed. It was his meth, his drink, his fun, his reason to attend any Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
The Camry got caught behind an eighteen-wheeler and Barricade made his move. Charging around the aft of a sports car he couldn't identify and didn't care to, the interceptor floored it and shot like a missile towards the back end of the offending car. The human males tried to swerve, but it was too late and before they could maneuver evasively the Mustang had rumbled up beside them and come over. A guarded bow came into contact with the Camry's left back wheel well almost softly, carefully, with just enough jarring force to send the Toyota sliding sideways on the highway.
The result was utter chaos. Barricade braked and veered off to the side and into the shoulder as drivers behind him locked their cars up in an attempt at avoiding the dead-stopped vehicle on the interstate. A fenderbender here. A shredded tire there. Several cars sat in the shoulder nearby and still, ten minutes later, no one could say where the cop had gone. Pandemonium had created enough cover in addition to the 7 'o' clock darkness for Barricade to merely get back onto the road and effectively disappear.
By nine, the Saleen was back in the heart of New York City and sitting outside of Greasemonkey's. He revved impatiently as cars whizzed past him, coming unbearably close to taking his mirror off on an occasion or two, and so it was a relief when the last slot of the garage opened and he pulled in.
Mike eyed the hood after Barricade parked, putting a hand on the metal. "…Yer hot."
"Thank you, fleshling, but I'm afraid I am not interested in interspecies dating."
The mechanic gave the Mustang the hairy eyeball. "Haha, very funny. Yer engine's hot, ya dickhead, now we gotta wait for the oil to drain down into th' pan!"
"Oh, like you have anything else to do," groused Barricade sharply, headlights blinking once.
"'N what if I do?"
"You don't."
"But what if I did?"
"I'd have to check to see if Hell had frozen over yet."
Romano crossed his arms and huffed, ruffled at the interceptor's cheeky wit yet again. Still, it wasn't something that he was altogether unfamiliar with, as that sort of sarcastic, mean humor was as common as rats and taxicabs in the Big Apple.
"Yeah, well, sit here an' wait then, ya asshat. I'mma head home and grab something to eat while we wait fer ya engine ta cool off."
Barricade's peripheral vision watched as the human stalked off with his hat on backwards and his hands in his pockets. He listened to the sound of the door closing and sneakered footsteps as they extended down the sidewalk until even his advanced hearing could no longer detect it. No one should have been able to speak to him like that. No one but a military superior should have gotten away with such disrespect and yet Barricade took it in stride and was not bothered. A lowly little proton pack had gotten away with smarting off to him and the Saleen could not find it within himself to care. It wasn't that big of a deal anyway. Michael was still inferior.
It was a good two hours before Romano showed up again. Barricade perked up and straight away he became suspicious. The human was nervous, perhaps even afraid. His heart rate had spiked and there was perspiration on his forehead; his hands were behind his back; his posture was slumped and suggested feeble meekness. The police impersonator did not like the feeling he got.
"…What did you get into, you meddlesome Slim Jim?"
The mechanic winced. "Now, Barricade, ya gotta listen ta me real close an' please don't kill me or anyone else. My ex was at my apartment when I got there."
The Mustang sat in silence, waiting through the pregnant pause.
"She'd, uh, she'd been waitin'. I didn't know she was comin' 'n shit and I hadn't gotten her message."
Another damn pause.Today, fleshbag, anytime today would be sufficient.
"She sorta left me with something that I couldn't leave by 'imself at my place this late at night. He gets freaked out at night by himself."
The room felt like it had suddenly plummeted in temperature. Despite being a car and immobile as it was, Michael could almost sense the tense stillness as Barricade surely registered what he was implying. I'mma get killed. Again. Third time's a charm? Or is it the fourth now?
Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned his head, waving at something out of Barricade's line of vision, something that was in the office. "C'mere," Romano prompted before turning back to the car. He was a curious shade of sickly pallid.
A small boy, perhaps eight years old and clad in a jacket and denim pants, wandered from the garage office and stood by the mechanic. He yawned and rubbed at one eye.
Barricade was very still. He thought he'd made himself utterly clear and without possibility of being misunderstood. No one else could know. Michael knew that, and still he brings this bratling right infront of my face. Still! The child did not threaten him in itself but the possibility of the youngling shooting off his mouth at school the next day or telling a friend about the cool talking car his dad was working on. This will not do. This will not do.
To all outward appearances, he was a car; a soulless machine, created by man, operated by man. He would stay that way.
Mike Romano could not honestly say that he didn't expect the all-encompassing silence that enveloped the shop after Nicholas walked in. The brown-haired boy stared boredly at the car as it did what cars did best and sat there doing nothing.
"'Cade, this is Nicky. He's my son 'n he's promised not ta say a word ta anyone."
Not going to bait me, you untrustworthy little creep. Oh no. And after I get a hold of you and spread your entrails all over the garage while you're still awake you will wish you –
"Can I play with the sirens?"
The question caught both car and adult off guard. Nicholas looked expectantly up at his father, waiting for the answer in silence.
"N-naw, kiddo, maybe just sit in the office while I finish working, okay?" Mike offered nervously, ushering the disappointed youngster back into the side room where the register was.
The police interceptor was eerily silent as he allowed himself to be lifted a few feet above the ground on a car hoist, his engine mostly cooled and safe to work with. The mechanic slid a catch pan beneath him and weasled his way underneath the car on his back, finding the plug to the oil reservoir at the bottom of Barricade's engine easy to remove. Pausing after loosening it, Mike prepared himself and quickly scooted his upper body out of the way after yanking the plug free, skillfully avoiding getting a bath in the expected rush of oil.
The rush that didn't come.
Barricade grunted.
Romano was puzzled. Gravity dictated that the thick, slick liquid should have drained out into the catch pan without a problem, but nothing was happening. Not even so much as a dejected drip escaped the motor above his head.What in Sam's hell? Izze all blocked up or somethin'? Brushing aside the cackle brought on by the inkling of a thought that had something to do with vehicular constipation, the New Yorker banged on the plastic bottom of the oil pan. The Saleen growled threateningly. Mike squeaked a feeble apology. Moving closer, he peered at the tube that was supposed to lead to the used reservoir and wished he had a flashlight.
Barricade sighed.
Mike received a mouthful of burnt motor oil.
The strangled gurgle that erupted from the fleshwad almost amused him, and probably would have had the Mustang not been sorely unhappy with the mechanic at the time. Romano scrambled out from underneath the Ford and made like a track star for the washroom, choking and spitting and cursing amidst it all.
Barricade only sat in smug satisfaction as his oil pan drained out. Serves the puny meatstick right.
"I'll kill ya!" the New Yorker hollered from the bathroom.
And the Saleen slipped up. "You can tr—"
By that point, it was too late. Nicholas had already gotten up from playing with his toy cars on the floor to watch his dad make a mad dash for the sink. The boy stared uncomprehendingly at the car that, for all intents and purposes, sounded like it had just said something and Barricade knew he was done for. The kid would blab to someone and someone might believe him and the military Primus alive the military would be sent after him and he'd have to assume another alternate form and hide and –
Nicholas was right there. Standing by his passenger door, looking up at his slightly elevated form.
"You just talked," the child said. It was not a question. It was a statement.
Statements insinuate factual knowledge.
Nicky reached up and ran his hand along the middle of a white door panel, as if fascinated by the otherwise ordinary looking metal. "Did'ntcha?"
"…Yes," Barricade ventured hesitantly. Younglings. He never did well with them, no matter the species.
"Wow!" came the enthusiastic exclamation of the suddenly very awake Romano child. "Hi! My name's Nicky, like daddy said."
The Saleen couldn't recall the last time he'd felt this discomfited. "Hello, Nicky."
"What's your name?"
"…Uh…Barricade."
"Wow!"
Then the child plopped on the cement floor to stare up with a smile at his undercarriage. Romano was watching with a certain stomach-knotting fear as his only son conversed with the lifted but still dangerous police interceptor, not sure what he'd do if Barricade attacked. He still remembered those strange metal claws but could not recollect exactly where they had come from with any clarity. Still, the Mustang seemed to be leaning away from Nicky on the hoist, bringing just a little peace to Michael's nervous mind.
Chancing it, Mike walked back over and checked the catch pan, keeping a close eye on the Saleen and his son. Both were silent as the mechanic continued, replacing the oil filter with a bit of difficulty and tossing in a little less than eight quarts of new oil. Nicholas stood up and watched, and Romano found himself explaining the oil change as he went, pointing parts out and even picking the boy up and letting him pour in a quart. Barricade did not think he'd signed up to be an educational model and grumbled somewhere in his internals. He was still displeased. This would have to be addressed with the most extreme of measures if he was to survive.
"Daddy said you was a secret."
The bratling spoke again, which jarred him from his thoughts. The hoist was lowered and Barricade's shocks hissed as his weight was once more pressed firmly on the cold, unforgiving concrete. The Romano child was staring at him from the side, at his door, at his fender, at his mirror, seemingly looking for a point of focus and settling on his passenger window.
"I keep really good secrets, yannow," chirped the boy. He looked tired. "'N I promise I won't say nothin'."
Barricade registered that the garage door behind him had lifted. But the kid seemed to be waiting on him.
"Do you?" he asked dubiously, not really caring about the brats answer, as he knew what needed to be done at this point. His engine came to life and rumbled contentedly.
"Uh huh. Yer safe with us. With my dad."
The pause was infinitesimal, but still it existed. The throaty growl of the eight-cylinder engine hitched as though in hiccup from fuel restriction but continued on without a hindrance after that. Nicky, in all of his innocence, smiled and reach out, patting the white door right over the 'I', as if to reassure the Saleen Mustang of his security within the garage.
Barricade backed out into the mostly empty street and turned his tires, launching down the road and disappearing into the distance.
Freedom. Escape. Fear. Synonymous words in Barricade's biggest lie yet.
The lie he was telling to himself.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! ;)
Love, Feesh