06-09-2018, 02:15 PM
***
Two Westside Knife Ear Warriors are speeding down Asimov Avenue in a beaten white Toyota, sharing an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.
The driver, a red-haired elf boy named Radish, lets the smoke waft from his mouth into his nostrils, then out again. His elven eyes dilate.
He passes the cigarette to his passenger, a particularly lithe platinum-blonde elf with particularly long and almost floppy ears known as Breeze. Breeze accepts the cigarette gratefully, with shaking hands. The new recruit is already starting to develop the thousand-yard-stare of the gangwar veterans.
“Chill, man,” Radish says, noticing his companion’s distress. His freckled face forces an easy grin. “We got another hour on patrol, and we can head back to the clubhouse.”
Breeze also forces a tight lipped grin. “Yeah, no, I’m not worried,” he lies, taking another drag form the cigarette. He drums his fingers nervously on the shotgun on his lap. “I don’t think we’ll see any action tonight.”
The pair sit in silence for a while.
“So,” Radish says, his voice cracking slightly. “Where’s Pomegranate been lately?”
Breeze snorts derisively, his long ears twitching. “Fuck Pom. He’s probably fucking that stump-eared kid from the Hufflepunks. I don’t need that kind of drama right now.”
Inside his chest, Radish’s heart is pounding.
“So-” Radish begins to say.
His sentence is cut off as a black Jeep barrels through a red light, almost t-boning the elves Toyota.
Radish curses and swerves as Breeze’s head swivels to follow the Jeep. His head snaps forward, and he does not speak. Radish flips the Toyota in the middle of the intersection and starts speeding off after the Jeep.
The two elves are silent, but their faces are cold. They do not need to communicate what they saw. The glowing yellow eyes and dark hairy faces of the ork driver and passenger.
The human woman screaming in the backseat, being held by another ork.
The Toyota starts to close in on the Jeep. Breeze smacks the glass behind him four times. In the bed of the truck, two elves jump up, their bows loaded with arrows. Breeze grabs his shotgun and leans out the window.
Radish revs the engine, and the Toyota lurches forward.
“LIGHT EM UP!” Radish cries.
The Jeep swerves, narrowly avoiding one of the arrows and the shotgun blasts of the Knife Ears. One of the arrows finds it's mark and lodges in the rear tire of the Jeep. After a moment, the arrowhead explodes and the wheel is blown off. The Jeep quickly cuts left down an alley and out of sight.
The Toyota rumbles up to the alleyway. It is pitch black, but the elves know that there is no exit at the back.
The Knife Ears hesitate only a moment. Then Radish cuts the engine, and the elves hope out of the truck. They walk cautiously forward, weapons drawn, into what they are certain is a trap.
They do not get far.
Blue flashes of light explode from the back of the alley, briefly illuminating the grinning faces of the orks. Radish screams as bolts of blue fire rip through Breeze. His other companions likewise fall to the hail of phaser-fire; only Radish is quick enough to hit the ground prone.
With fury in his eyes and a warcry on his lips, Radish rises with Breeze’s shotgun in hand. Before he can’t point it, a pair of huge hairy hands wrap around his throat. Another pair of huge orcish hands rip his shotgun away from him. Radish struggles in vain to free himself, feeling his oxygen running low.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes appears in front of his face.
Radish spits into the ork’s face. “Kill me then, tusk-fucker,” Radish hisses through the chokehold.
Deep, guttural orcish laughter responds.
“No.”
***
Two Westside Knife Ear Warriors are speeding down Asimov Avenue in a beaten white Toyota, sharing an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.
The driver, a red-haired elf boy named Radish, lets the smoke waft from his mouth into his nostrils, then out again. His elven eyes dilate.
He passes the cigarette to his passenger, a particularly lithe platinum-blonde elf with particularly long and almost floppy ears known as Breeze. Breeze accepts the cigarette gratefully, with shaking hands. The new recruit is already starting to develop the thousand-yard-stare of the gangwar veterans.
“Chill, man,” Radish says, noticing his companion’s distress. His freckled face forces an easy grin. “We got another hour on patrol, and we can head back to the clubhouse.”
Breeze also forces a tight lipped grin. “Yeah, no, I’m not worried,” he lies, taking another drag form the cigarette. He drums his fingers nervously on the shotgun on his lap. “I don’t think we’ll see any action tonight.”
The pair sit in silence for a while.
“So,” Radish says, his voice cracking slightly. “Where’s Pomegranate been lately?”
Breeze snorts derisively, his long ears twitching. “Fuck Pom. He’s probably fucking that stump-eared kid from the Hufflepunks. I don’t need that kind of drama right now.”
Inside his chest, Radish’s heart is pounding.
“So-” Radish begins to say.
His sentence is cut off as a black Jeep barrels through a red light, almost t-boning the elves Toyota.
Radish curses and swerves as Breeze’s head swivels to follow the Jeep. His head snaps forward, and he does not speak. Radish flips the Toyota in the middle of the intersection and starts speeding off after the Jeep.
The two elves are silent, but their faces are cold. They do not need to communicate what they saw. The glowing yellow eyes and dark hairy faces of the ork driver and passenger.
The human woman screaming in the backseat, being held by another ork.
The Toyota starts to close in on the Jeep. Breeze smacks the glass behind him four times. In the bed of the truck, two elves jump up, their bows loaded with arrows. Breeze grabs his shotgun and leans out the window.
Radish revs the engine, and the Toyota lurches forward.
“LIGHT EM UP!” Radish cries.
The Jeep swerves, narrowly avoiding one of the arrows and the shotgun blasts of the Knife Ears. One of the arrows finds it's mark and lodges in the rear tire of the Jeep. After a moment, the arrowhead explodes and the wheel is blown off. The Jeep quickly cuts left down an alley and out of sight.
The Toyota rumbles up to the alleyway. It is pitch black, but the elves know that there is no exit at the back.
The Knife Ears hesitate only a moment. Then Radish cuts the engine, and the elves hope out of the truck. They walk cautiously forward, weapons drawn, into what they are certain is a trap.
They do not get far.
Blue flashes of light explode from the back of the alley, briefly illuminating the grinning faces of the orks. Radish screams as bolts of blue fire rip through Breeze. His other companions likewise fall to the hail of phaser-fire; only Radish is quick enough to hit the ground prone.
With fury in his eyes and a warcry on his lips, Radish rises with Breeze’s shotgun in hand. Before he can’t point it, a pair of huge hairy hands wrap around his throat. Another pair of huge orcish hands rip his shotgun away from him. Radish struggles in vain to free himself, feeling his oxygen running low.
A pair of glowing yellow eyes appears in front of his face.
Radish spits into the ork’s face. “Kill me then, tusk-fucker,” Radish hisses through the chokehold.
Deep, guttural orcish laughter responds.
“No.”
***