Speed Racer Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction / Crossover Fan Fiction ❯ Dangerous Curves ❯ Messy Mayhem! ( Chapter 5 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Raven Dhancer 
Anime/Manga: Speed Racer Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction / Crossover Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Mystery / Horror / Comedy / Action | Type: Crossover | Uploaded On: 05.15.2006 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 303 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Speed Racer Fan Fiction / Fan Fiction / Crossover Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Mystery / Horror / Comedy / Action | Type: Crossover | Uploaded On: 05.15.2006 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 303 | Status: Work In Progress
Disclaimer: Speed Racerand Angelare the property of their respective copyright holders, not me.
Chapter 5: Messy Mayhem!
by Raven Dhancer
Exhibit J: Chim-Chim's Diary, excerpted:
I have heard from my agents in Tulsa. Soon my plans will come to fruition and I can, at last, wreak my terrible revenge on all those who have so mistreated me over the years. The pain, humiliation, all will be repaid, in full, and with interest, and include additional charges for late payment, excess weight and insufficient funds! Bwa-ha-ha!
Oh, fortunate am I, although I lack a power of speech, to have access to the modern wonder, the internet! A truly munificent gift, I can live as a human, although in a necessary seclusion. As long as I limit my communication to the electronic frontier, I preserve my true “nature” (Ha-Ha!) and appear to the world of men as their equal, indeed many regard me as their superior! An illusion but one that serves to compensate for the injustice the world has wrought. To judge other creatures by a biased measure that these creatures have themselves invented? What justice is that? And if by that measure I surpass them? Too sweet indeed!
My cat Evil rubs against my legs as I write. How strange it is that she, like me, possesses needs and longings, thoughts, perhaps plans and schemes but cannot communicate them. For this and merely this, is she called, as am I, a “dumb animal”! She even makes sounds, in imitation of the very sounds I make. An unnatural thing, a foolish thing, for a cat to do but something she has learned. And she does communicate after a fashion, thus proving herself not so very dumb after all!
An intriguing thought has occurred to me that sparks my interest and may bring me amusement. Perhaps my cat Evil may also possess hidden depths as do I? If equipped with the appropriate technology, would she too be able to negotiate the world of men? Perhaps I could serve as a "modern Prometheus" for my lovely feline companion! I shall construct her a simulacrum, human in form, such as can be manipulated by her paws, coupled with the cerebral induction control circuits that have proven so useful to me. Indeed, if I am swift, perhaps she can be of use to me in Tulsa? I tire of Spritle and his cartoonish ineptitude. I shall commence work immediately following lunch! (I greatly hope we are done with bananas for a while, they are far out of season and lack flavor.)
-- excerpt ends.
I have heard from my agents in Tulsa. Soon my plans will come to fruition and I can, at last, wreak my terrible revenge on all those who have so mistreated me over the years. The pain, humiliation, all will be repaid, in full, and with interest, and include additional charges for late payment, excess weight and insufficient funds! Bwa-ha-ha!
Oh, fortunate am I, although I lack a power of speech, to have access to the modern wonder, the internet! A truly munificent gift, I can live as a human, although in a necessary seclusion. As long as I limit my communication to the electronic frontier, I preserve my true “nature” (Ha-Ha!) and appear to the world of men as their equal, indeed many regard me as their superior! An illusion but one that serves to compensate for the injustice the world has wrought. To judge other creatures by a biased measure that these creatures have themselves invented? What justice is that? And if by that measure I surpass them? Too sweet indeed!
My cat Evil rubs against my legs as I write. How strange it is that she, like me, possesses needs and longings, thoughts, perhaps plans and schemes but cannot communicate them. For this and merely this, is she called, as am I, a “dumb animal”! She even makes sounds, in imitation of the very sounds I make. An unnatural thing, a foolish thing, for a cat to do but something she has learned. And she does communicate after a fashion, thus proving herself not so very dumb after all!
An intriguing thought has occurred to me that sparks my interest and may bring me amusement. Perhaps my cat Evil may also possess hidden depths as do I? If equipped with the appropriate technology, would she too be able to negotiate the world of men? Perhaps I could serve as a "modern Prometheus" for my lovely feline companion! I shall construct her a simulacrum, human in form, such as can be manipulated by her paws, coupled with the cerebral induction control circuits that have proven so useful to me. Indeed, if I am swift, perhaps she can be of use to me in Tulsa? I tire of Spritle and his cartoonish ineptitude. I shall commence work immediately following lunch! (I greatly hope we are done with bananas for a while, they are far out of season and lack flavor.)
-- excerpt ends.
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Back at the garage, Sparky was pretty much wrung dry. I only had one last thing to ask, something I had nearly forgotten about.
“OK, Sparky” I said, “what happened to John Fontaine's half of the company?”
Sparky froze, but didn't answer. Just then there was a weird sort of rubbing whooshing sound behind me. This was followed by a whole sound-effects lab of noise, a clang and a clatter as a wrench hit the concrete and rebounded past my leg, a stream of curses and a crash as a rack of tools was knocked over. I stayed where I was, but trained my detective senses. A weird feeling crept over me, as if I could see into the workings of the universe. I felt certain that, had I turned around, I would have seen some luckless gunsel who had just been about to clout me, but who had been restrained by a chimp and a six-year-old dropping a tire over him. Soon, I knew, Chum-chum would hit the poor sap with a length of 1-by-6. In fact, …3...2...1...Thunk! Thud!
Memories of an old W&H drill sounded in my brain. `I had been in the presence of the children all night and at no time did I see them strike the plantiff.' Good times.
“Well, Sparky?“
“What was the question again?“
“Who. Owns. John. Fontaine's. Shares.“ I said.
“Oh yeah,“ said Sparky, “Well sir, I guess you're looking at him. Me and Trixie that is.”
“You're probably a dead man then.” I told him. “Who's the guy in the tire?”
“I'm what? That's Spritle. What do you mean? Hey!”
As I straightened and turned, I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and got the brass knuckles seated in place. Spritle was starting to revive. Two strides to close the distance, I started with a kick to the head and dropped a fist into his solar plexus with my weight behind it. He rolled into a ball like a boiled shrimp.
“Lindsey, what the fuck you doing?” asked Lorne from the doorway.
“Lorne,” I said over my shoulder, “this ain't one of your stories.” I hauled Spritle up and laid him out again. “It's one of mine.”
“OK, Sparky” I said, “what happened to John Fontaine's half of the company?”
Sparky froze, but didn't answer. Just then there was a weird sort of rubbing whooshing sound behind me. This was followed by a whole sound-effects lab of noise, a clang and a clatter as a wrench hit the concrete and rebounded past my leg, a stream of curses and a crash as a rack of tools was knocked over. I stayed where I was, but trained my detective senses. A weird feeling crept over me, as if I could see into the workings of the universe. I felt certain that, had I turned around, I would have seen some luckless gunsel who had just been about to clout me, but who had been restrained by a chimp and a six-year-old dropping a tire over him. Soon, I knew, Chum-chum would hit the poor sap with a length of 1-by-6. In fact, …3...2...1...Thunk! Thud!
Memories of an old W&H drill sounded in my brain. `I had been in the presence of the children all night and at no time did I see them strike the plantiff.' Good times.
“Well, Sparky?“
“What was the question again?“
“Who. Owns. John. Fontaine's. Shares.“ I said.
“Oh yeah,“ said Sparky, “Well sir, I guess you're looking at him. Me and Trixie that is.”
“You're probably a dead man then.” I told him. “Who's the guy in the tire?”
“I'm what? That's Spritle. What do you mean? Hey!”
As I straightened and turned, I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and got the brass knuckles seated in place. Spritle was starting to revive. Two strides to close the distance, I started with a kick to the head and dropped a fist into his solar plexus with my weight behind it. He rolled into a ball like a boiled shrimp.
“Lindsey, what the fuck you doing?” asked Lorne from the doorway.
“Lorne,” I said over my shoulder, “this ain't one of your stories.” I hauled Spritle up and laid him out again. “It's one of mine.”
“Ittle-lay itchers-pay ave-hay ig-bay eyes-way,” Lorne said, slashing a green finger across his throat and pointing at the kids.
My Ano-Movic is more current than my pig Latin so it takes a bit for me to parse that but the horrified faces on Chum and Spud; faces too innocent to learn about the real world, at least from me, it `d be like kicking a dying dog; clue me in. Maybe, just maybe, I should hold off on beating the crap out of the last and least of the Racers until Lorne can get them back to their Pa. Damn.
Speak of the devil and he appears. You'd a thunk I'd learned my lesson at W&H. Racer X, otherwise known as Speed's brother Rex, disowned for some half-assed reason, appeared at the garage door.
The boys shimmied up him like monkeys. Chum had a slight edge. Racer must have been in really good shape because the weight of the brats didn't make him waver at all.
“Dad! We saved Mr. MacDonald from that man. He had a gun! But then Mr. MacDonald started to beat that man up!” they prattled.
Racer nodded put the boys down and said calmly, “It's all right. I'll take care of it.” He walked over to Ol' Sparky, kids trailing behind like puppies, pulled out a 45 and plugged Fontaine right between the eyes, twice. Whatever it was Sparky kept stored in skull exploded out the back of his head like icky red and gray champagne.
I froze and I guess Lorne did too because we didn't stop Racer from turning to Spritle and giving his baby brother the double tap.
The spell broke. We all reacted at once. Chum yelled "You're not dad!" and sprung at the guy's neck. Spud didn't say anything but hit the guy a good blow at the knees. The gun went spinning and Lorne dived after it. No good. The guy shook free, ran across my floor, under a tool rack and then attacked me. It was like it pounced on my face. Like a cat. The lights went out and when I got up again, he was already gone. I-I think it went out a window. Like a cat...
"Lorne, check out Spritle and I'll..." I looked at the sad wreckage leaning against the car. There was a spreading pool of ... well, it should have been blood, but was, pretty damn obviously ... brake fluid? And the small chunks of grey matter looked a hell of a lot like lub grease. Ok.
I did a bit more looking and then wandered over to Lorne. "Hey, how's it going?"
"What? How do you think? This guy's a corpse."
"Oh, really?" I said absent-mindedly, "mine's a cyborg. Tough luck eh?"
"What!? Look, Lindsey, I'm ready to crawl back into bed with a week's worth of tequila and a month's worth of limes. What the hell is going on?"
"A week's ... all righty. Long and short, Sparky has got more metal parts than the Mach V. I guess you could say, for Sparky here, the worst has already happened. And it's got to be Pops who built those parts. Lucky bastard, those shots took off a lot of computer hardware, and blew his hydralics - look you can even see fluid on the ceiling! What's the psi he's using? Got to be 500 at least! Pops is nuts! - sorry, he'll probably be OK. If we can find Pops soon, that is. And Spritle?"
"Two shots." Lorne said. "One bounced off a rib, spun, hit the liver, rebounded, took out both lungs, entered the neck, exitted the nose, bounced off the lamp (see the shiny bit here?) and buried squarely in the heart. The other missed."
"Lorne, check out Spritle and I'll..." I looked at the sad wreckage leaning against the car. There was a spreading pool of ... well, it should have been blood, but was, pretty damn obviously ... brake fluid? And the small chunks of grey matter looked a hell of a lot like lub grease. Ok.
I did a bit more looking and then wandered over to Lorne. "Hey, how's it going?"
"What? How do you think? This guy's a corpse."
"Oh, really?" I said absent-mindedly, "mine's a cyborg. Tough luck eh?"
"What!? Look, Lindsey, I'm ready to crawl back into bed with a week's worth of tequila and a month's worth of limes. What the hell is going on?"
"A week's ... all righty. Long and short, Sparky has got more metal parts than the Mach V. I guess you could say, for Sparky here, the worst has already happened. And it's got to be Pops who built those parts. Lucky bastard, those shots took off a lot of computer hardware, and blew his hydralics - look you can even see fluid on the ceiling! What's the psi he's using? Got to be 500 at least! Pops is nuts! - sorry, he'll probably be OK. If we can find Pops soon, that is. And Spritle?"
"Two shots." Lorne said. "One bounced off a rib, spun, hit the liver, rebounded, took out both lungs, entered the neck, exitted the nose, bounced off the lamp (see the shiny bit here?) and buried squarely in the heart. The other missed."
TBC
AN: If you are Speed Racer challenged, there's a link in my profile for basic character info.