The cars on the road had changed much since the heyday of the muscle car. Gone were carburetors and stick shifts being kings of the road. Now multi and single port fuel injection and electronic controlled automatics were taking over. Engines like the big block 396ci Chevrolet, the 440ci Dodge engines, and Ford's 429ci Cobra Jets had given way to six cylinders and small blocks. It wasn't hard to find a Mustang that had sub ten second quarter miles stock now.
Diesel wasn't quite sure how to see the world now. Granted he hadn't been able to drive in those days, but seeing the death of the carburetor was a little distressing. The sound wasn't something that would ever be replicated again. Of course it seemed like the world was wanting to see the high powered modified muscle cars off the road altogether. Fuel efficient four cylinder imports were all the rage, six cylinder sports cars starting to outnumber their V8 counterparts. He himself lived for the power and force one felt behind the wheel of a beast like he drove.
Ever since he had hit Chicago he had not seen many other cars from the same era. Of course he did remember that the Democrats controlled the city, and had been pushing all this clean air and global warming stuff since the eighties, not that he cared much. He doubted that he was going to live long enough for Dallas and Little Rock to have beachfront property. Rather he just wanted to enjoy the ride while he could.
Occasionally he would have someone in a Porsche, a Nissan, or some other car that was supposed to be fast square of with him, only to leave them in the dust in third gear, from a custom six speed transmission. These people weren't drivers anymore it seemed like. At least not in the way he and Bean Bandit were. The ones that tried him seemed like they had something to prove. It just wasn't what he was used to anymore.
More often though he would look over at some expensive European luxury car to a well dressed individual giving the evil eye. Sometimes it was a middle-aged man in a minivan with a look of envy and his wife giving him an earful while the kids watched him in wonder. Young guys in whatever beater or hand me down gave him a look like he was a god. All of it felt good in its own way, but that wasn't what driving was.
The resistance of the throttle cable as his foot tried to dent the floor board. The pop of the clutch pedal as he threw the gear shift up one. The squeal of the tires as he threw the ass end of his car around a corner at high speed. That was driving. Though he couldn't forget the convoy dashes from his time in the marines. The feel of the power those five tons he loved was something he couldn't forget.
Right now though he was just concentrating on getting settled in. The garage Bean had given him was huge. Conservatively he could probably fit ten to fifteen cars if all of them were complete. He figured that he might get around nine if he set up a full shop. The numbers didn't bother him too much, he could get some storage lifts in to raise the number quite a bit. The apartment that was on the second floor still had some furnishings left from Bean's occupancy, but large items like the bed and what the outline said was a wardrobe were gone. It was a really nice place, especially for someone like him that had been living out of motels and the trunk of his car.
"Miss Vincent, I never feel disappointed with your work. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to use this old shotgun again. That would have been a tragedy, I've taken most of my medals with this particular one. Good old Charlene, she was never an expensive piece, but she has always been there," the young woman said.
Rally could only smile, "A good gun is always more than just a tool. I gave her a good cleaning as well. Took her down to the lowest I could and gave her parts a good de-greasing and oiled her up fresh for you. I copied the stock that you brought in, however I gave the new one a little higher comb to center the sights for your smaller head size. How does it feel?"
"Great, the bead just seems to center itself in my vision. All those old stuck up fogies can look down on Charlene, but it is still a side by side out shooting over-unders like nobodies business. You're sending the bill to my father's office right?"
"Just as we discussed with him. He is really proud of your accomplishments on the trap range, if only more parents could be like that nowadays. Also I have a box of some new shells that are being marketed specifically for sport shooting. Its some kind of ceramic shot, I don't know how well it will actually work, and I am not expecting much to come of it, but I want you to try it and let me know how it does."
"Will do Miss Vincent, we'll see you later."
"Bye Miss Downes, be safe," she said as the girl left her shop.
It was a little amusing that the daughter of a high society banker not only was using her shop, but was also shooting competitively with a discount shotgun that was almost a hundred years old. Of course it was a family heirloom, and shotguns held up better than rifles and handguns to constant use since they were smooth bore.
"Well, another satisfied customer. Wish they all looked that pretty when I was running things," a voice said from the back.
"You know Dad, I'm not sure how Mom would have felt... scratch that, that is not even a worthwhile thought. Still, it makes me feel happy to know that there are women that are becoming more interested in sport shooting. We may even see some taking part in the long range during the next Olympics. I've had a chance to watch Lilly there shoot, and she is hell on clays," Rally sighed, "You don't know how glad I am to have you back here nowadays. Even if it is only a couple days a week, it makes it a lot less lonely."
"I can imagine. It feels good to have a gun in my hand for some other reason than to shoot at another human being. That part of my life can just stay buried for the rest of my life. Still, you seem a little down lately, ever since that news story of the bounty hunters busting a big coke ring a couple weeks ago. You miss the excitement some don't you?"
"I don't need it, and it hasn't been that. I just feel a little, unfulfilled. Like something is missing. It doesn't have to do with my old job, or not even seeing Minnie-May and Ken much anymore. It's more like..."
"You want your own Ken? Do I have it right," Larry Vincent, Rally's father asked, as a father.
"Yeah. I never really thought about it much, and when Misty left to go with that drug bitch I thought that maybe guys just didn't interest me. But lately, I kinda let myself slip into thinking about what if I got married, had you a grandchild, and settled down completely. Part of me is afraid that I would lose the last of myself though. I mean, don't children usually mean the end of fast cars and freedom for a minivan and soccer practice?"
"Yeah, your mother refused to be seen in a minivan. Instead she wanted a Mercedes, and she got one, and I kept the Shelby. I still hate to hear that car got destroyed. Still, only you can decide how that life will go. Still, get out there some, It wouldn't bother me to start working here full time again. Especially if it meant you could have the time to find happiness."
"You know to listen to you speak, one wouldn't have thought you had ever been made into a drug zombie. Did that give you some otherworldly wisdom or something?"
"Really would prefer to forget that period of time, but no. While all that was being cleared out of my system I had time to listen to what was going on around me. A lot of Grandma Hao's girls spent time talking about regrets and desires if they could do it all over. It gave me a bit of insight, and is part of the reason I have been able to be a halfway decent father since I came back."
"Even though it was a bad time, I'm glad it brought you back into my life. At least that bitch did one good thing."
As they had their father daughter moment they noticed a sound. It was hard to pick out, yet very distinct and continuously got clearer. It was hard thrumming hum, and as it got clearer they could make it out.
"That sounds like a big block," Larry Vincent said blankly.
"Badly riveted sign on one side of the building. Quite good painting on the front. Gunsmith Cats is the name. Well, this has to be it. What kind of name is that, I mean, if it was the sixties or seventies I could understand Gunsmith Cat. This is definitely where Bean told me to stop in at. I wonder if it would be worth the trouble to get legit enough to actually buy a new piece ever once in a while. It looks like I am going to have the room. Not really anyplace to go hunting though, and I have enough if I ever got into that kind of a fight. Neh, I'll just go deliver this message for him," Diesel said to himself as he got out of the Chevelle.
He found the name funny when Bean had first told him it, but it was what it was. A person had every right to name their business what they wanted. Still he couldn't believe that the owner and operator was a woman. Sure he had seen women in gun shops as a kid with his dad, but never running or working in one. Of course where he had grown up in East Texas there was a little bit different manner of attitude for what kind of work women should do, even in this more enlightened age.
Pushing the door open he was stunned at the selection. Just from where he stood he saw ten grand Beretta trap guns sitting on a shelf next to Winchesters and Remingtons. Savage, Weatherby, and Browning bolt actions took up a section, and there was an entire section of just Remington 700s in various calibers. The only section of the pistol cases he could see held a variety of nine millimeters. Browning HiPowers, Glocks, IWI pistols of all things, and Berettas. It was a shooters wonderland.
"Welcome, how may we help you today," a quite large man, somewhat bigger than Diesel himself asked from behind the counter.
"Uh, I'm looking for a Rally," He replied.
The man looked at him a little confused, "I don't believe I know that manufacturer or mark, but I could look into sourcing one for you. Can you give me anymore information?"
Diesel thought for a second, "I'm sorry, uh I'm looking for an Irene Vincent. A friend of hers wanted me to give her a message, and he always just referred to her as Rally. She is supposed to be the owner of the place, though he did say he hadn't seen her in a couple of years, so that may have changed. If so I am sorry to bother you."
"Wow polite for a young man now days. Sounds like you are from down south, Arkansas or Oklahoma?"
"East Texas, though about five years in the marines dampened the accent some. If this isn't her shop I do apologize and I will be on my way."
"454, or Chevy 427? Heard it coming from a good distance away. You don't hear things like that very often these days."
"Oh, Its a modified LS7. Got lucky to find one. Twin four barrel Edelbrock carbs on it, it is unmistakable when it gets wound up. Got in a 72 Chevelle, beautiful condition. I have to say, not many people would have recognized what that was from just the sound these days. They seem to be occupied with foreign cars. They have no automotive patriotism."
"Dad, this is a gun shop not a garage, who are you talking to," probably the most beautiful woman that Diesel had ever seen said as she walked in from the back room.
"Oh, this gentleman was looking for you. He happens to have been the owner of the noise that we started hearing a few minutes ago."
"A few minutes, she isn't that loud. Well, granted I haven't ever been more that thirty away from her when she was running so she might just be. I mean she puts almost seven fifty on the pavement, thats going to make some noise."
"Whoah, what kind of transmission do you have mated up to that. I don't think a muncie has the balls for it," the man behind the counter asked.
"Its a custom rebuilt corvette six speed. I had a four speed muncie in it at first, but I blew two up, so I managed to get a hold of this one, and had it rebuilt to what it is after the third time I burned it up. That engine will eat a clutch up before I can blink if I ain't careful. Guy tries to race me, I rarely get out of third before I lose them. They just don't think those old cars have it in them."
The woman could only shake her head, "You know your car. You are right though, the kind of drivers that could handle that kind of beast are few and far between these days. I know one who wouldn't have any trouble, honestly he is probably better than you with that Corvette of his. That thing has more power than the body should be able to handle. One day I expect to hear of the Tragedy of the Flying C3."
Diesel perked up, "C3 with an LS7 and a guy driving it that looks like he could carry the damn car on his back? That has to mean your Rally."
"Don't hear that name much anymore. You know Bean Bandit somehow? How is he, I haven't seen him in years. I hope that he hasn't managed to kill himself in a wreck or get put in prison."
"He wanted me to give you a message. Lets see, 'Hey, long time no see. This guy is taking my place, I'm headed for sunshine and less enthusiastic police. He has never been this way before, help him out. You ought a get on like a couple bullets in a clip.' Odd turns of phrase but that was the message. Guessing that stabber didn't know much about guns, or he would have said rounds in a magazine."
"That sounds like him. So, he left the country, well I don't blame him. I started to hear that some of the police departments all over the country were starting anti street racing units and fielding Z28 Camaros and SVT Cobra Mustangs. I doubt that they would have been able to catch him, but still there are probably greener fields that he could go to. Wait, taking his place? Just what the hell does that mean?"
"I guess he is going to be doing what your friend did up here. Not as much competition on that front lately. I heard on the underground that even that Riff-Raff girl was getting close to leaving the scene. Probably good money for anyone with the reckless disregard for the law it takes to do that work."
"It is exciting work. And honestly, after how I experienced how Uncle Sam treated its boots on the ground, I don't give all that much care for what the law thinks. Though I did agree strongly with Bean's no drug running rule. I hate that crap, saw too many other jarheads wreck themselves with the shit they were getting in Somalia. Not really sure what he meant by you helping me, I can't exactly buy a gun up here, and really don't want to get into any shootouts with anyone. I've had enough of that for a lifetime."
"He probably means getting used to the city and finding your way around. It can be a little overwhelming if your not used to it. Especially with how bad the traffic can get on the surface streets."
Diesel smirked, "With my luck the people drive as bad as they do in Texarkana, god help me you have to dodge people who can't seem to keep track of the pedals."
A/N: Don't get too excited. I don't know if I am going to put too much work into this particular story. I just happened to be reading the first chapter again and put words to paper. Hopefully most of my stories will get updates over the coming months. Especially the bigger ones like Mechanic, and start posting the sequel to The Legend of Zelda: The Return of Light. For now enjoy what I am able to produce, and watch the flames, they burn you know.