The story you are about to read is graphic in nature. It is violent and contains foul language, sexual situations and should not be read by those offended by: motorcycle mayhem, feminist domination, sadomasochistic torture, rude behavior, offensive and strong political imagery that is critical of both government and its citizens. If any of these details upsets you in any way and may cause you to hinder the experience it is recommended you do not continue reading.
For those of you who still remain, thank you. I, your humble narrator, now present for your reading pleasure, Hell in Heelz.
CHAPTER 1: The Open Road
The scene is New Mexico. Somewhere near the Mexican border not far outside of El Paso near the NM-9, a long two lane highway that runs parallel to Interstate 10 which runs to Tucson and eventually takes you to Phoenix. From there a multitude of connections can lead you to highways that either take you to L.A. or Vegas which is where our characters would like to ultimately reside. The desert landscape is split in two by this stretch of highway and the heat puddles off the floor as a lone 1967 Harley Davidson cruises on the highway. It roars as the rider owns the road and the blue sky that watches over him. Its chromed out piping shines with the glare of the sun and its candy red pearlescent paint job sparkles with the driver’s reflection smiling on the surface. For much of the journey he is alone but when the occasional small cluster of traffic appears he shifts into a lower gear and pushes the throttle accelerating past the slower cars once again opening to an empty interstate.
Our rider, Billy, let’s call him, is a rugged man. Caucasian with a military background. A veteran, honorably discharged. Iraq. And a little Afghanistan. Actually a lot of Afghanistan. Too much Afghanistan. But aside from that not much is known about his past but from the looks of him one can tell he has been through a lot and seen even more. He’s let his beard go while on this trip but it still appears scruffy and patchy as it is no more than a few weeks old but his hair almost reaches his chin and he’s got to tie a bandanna to keep it out of his eyes. It’s the first time since high school that it’s been this long and we wonder if he was more carefree as a child and what was it that made him cut it off as well as grow it back.
His jacket, an old leather one that once belonged to his father. It still sports his old motorcycle gang, “ The Losers”. Normally one wouldn’t sport a gang’s jacket if they weren’t in it but this one is long gone since the 60’s and the jacket is more of a novelty now. No one remembers The Losers or the fucked up shit they did back in the day which was a good and a bad thing for Billy. It was more about the nostalgia and a connection to the old man he looked up to. The good times riding the bike on the weekends when he wasn’t loaded or beating his mom or running with the Losers raping, pillaging, and murdering. Besides the bike, it was the last thing he had to remember him in a positive light as his lineage was near extinction with only one member still roaming the land.
Before the scenery begins to change to no more gas stations and rest stops, Billy chooses to stop nearing the last next major exit before hours of nothing. He decides his ass could use a break and his legs a stretch so he pulls into a Shell station to refill and refuel. He parks at a gas pump and turns off his bike cutting off the loud radio that he customized and installed. The station is full of tourists on the same path to Vegas and the West Coast and Billy moves fast to the cashier to get in line before the rest of the customers beat him to the spot. He speaks to a hefty pale blonde middle aged man with a bad haircut who is eating a piece of cheesecake. The bullet proof glass that separates them kind of muffles his voice.
“Fill it up on three please. And let me get some gum, a bottle of water and a few of those Slim Jims.” Billy asks.
“Slim Jims? Who the hell eats Slim Jims?” The pale clerk spits.
“I do. They aren’t that bad.”
“Yeah if there is absolutely nothing to eat. Like I’d eat deep fried rat tail before eating a Slim Jim. Covered it pee. That I dropped on the floor. And spit on.”
“Can I just get my stuff buddy?”
“Ok take it easy. I’m joshing you. You know how boring it is out here? You’re the one riding in on your motorcycle. Oh look at me I’m Mr. Biker Guy!”
Billy looks on wondering why and how he became the butt of this guy’s jokes. He notices a number of surveillance cameras and a sign that says:
Robbers will be prosecuted to the furthest extent of the law.
A sign next to that reads:
Your mask is my problem. COVID IS A HOAX.
Another sign reads:
There is a safe and it’s filled with ammo for my gun.
“You get a lot of trouble?” Billy asks.
“Sometimes. But I’m always ready.” The clerk responds. He then pulls out a baseball bat with barbed wire wrapped around it. Billy’s eyes widen and he tilts his head as he’s taken aback by the crude instrument. The customers behind him begin getting impatient as the clerk continues his casual conversation.
“And this is just for starters. My wife has an AR-15!” The clerk thumbs to his middle aged wife that sits at the counter playing solitaire.
“I’m ready for those motherfuckers.” The clerk’s wife says as she pulls out an AR-15 from underneath the counter. She pulls out the magazine, checks the ammo to make sure it’s full, and refits it before cocking it like a pro in record speed.
“That’s my girl.” The pale clerk says proudly with a smile.
“Who exactly are you getting ready for with a thing like that?” Billy asks. With his military service he’s quite familiar with the weaponry. He believes in America’s right to bear arms but does believe some people are grossly under qualified. He’s seen fellow trained soldiers buckle under the pressure and he can only imagine these two in the middle of it.
“The illegals! The Mexicans! The Blacks! Crossing over selling drugs to our children! Getting them pregnant!” The clerk’s wife preaches. “Sodomizing them with giant dildos!”
“Ok, honey. That’s enough of that! Don’t mind her, she still thinks it’s 2022.”
“It is 2022.” Billy responds.
“Ha! Sure, buddy! Here’s your Slim Jims!” The clerk says mockingly.
Mystified Billy takes his change and items and walks back to his bike. He sips the water a few times and uses the bottle to wipe his forehead after pulling off his Old Glory bandanna. Billy stuffs his purchases into a reachable spot in a pack on his bike and pours some water into it and uses that to wipe down his neck and various parts of skin that have been exposed to the dry desert sun. Billy notices that a SUV has parked behind him. A young Asian man is trying to figure out how to work the credit card machine. He keeps swiping but the machine doesn’t read it.
“Damn this crazy thing! Anna!” The man yells. Billy can’t help but chuckle and the Asian man notices and gives a sullen look.
“Sorry.” Billy apologizes. “But that’s why I only carry cash.”
“I miss cash. Especially on this trip.”
“Where you headed?” Billy walks to the Asian man who is still struggling with the card machine. The man backs off in fear as Billy’s presence overshadows him.
“Vegas. If I can get this thing to work and get back on the road.”
“Nice. I’m headed there too. May I?” Billy holds out his hand and the Asian man, still distrusting, reluctantly hands the card to Billy who blows on the card and shakes it a few times before swiping it and getting the machine to read it.
“Whoa, how did you get it to work?
“You gotta be quick..”
“I need to learn that trick.”
The man begins pumping the gas struggling to get the hose to untangle and then trapping himself behind it when he finally gets it connected to his car. After placing the switch so the gas pumps automatically he struggles to lift his leg trying to climb over the hose and nearly eats it while trying. Again Billy chuckles at the man’s clumsiness being entertained by his plights. He begins pumping his own gas into his bike while doing a quick look over. He wipes the bike down as the desert sand has started to coat its red paint job. He checks the tire pressure and the most important parts as the vintage bike that he meticulously maintains because this was the first to last thing to remember the old man by. It used to have a matching side cart that he and mom would ride in while they did those Sunday drives but it was lost in the accident. Before dying in the pen he wanted to let him know he had found old Christine and brought her back to life. To let him know he tried to do something for him.
“That’s a nice bike. What year is it? Looks pretty old.”
“It’s a ‘67. Rebuilt her myself.”
“Wow. How’d you even find something like this.”
“It was my dad’s. Kind of like a family heirloom.”
“Man, that’s a hobby. I collect comic books.”
“That’s a hobby.”
“No, it’s not. It’s what happens when you’re a lonely nerd at age fifteen. This is a hobby. This is a trade. This is useful. Outside of the occasional eBay sale what is collecting comics ever gonna do for me. If I knew how to build a bike, man. I could really get away,
“Comic books are cool, man. I collect the zombie ones. Here, see.” From his knapsack Billy pulls out a rolled up copy of Walking Dead #1. The first issue is one of the most coveted comics of the modern age and one of the most expensive. A mint copy sold for over $10,000 at one point. Billy hands it to the Asian man with no care whose face is in a complete state of shock. His hands tremble as he takes the beat up copy that looks like it’s seen more action than the Dead Sea Scrolls.
“What are you doing?” The Asian man asks saddened by the state of the comic.
“What? Oh, yeah I don’t collect them. I like to read them. This one is my fav. I’ve read it a million times.”
“I see that.” The Asian man hands the comic back to Billy.
“I’m not into horror to be honest. I hate how they always kill off your favorite character.”
“No hobbies, no horror, what happened?”
“Wait I thought you said comics were a hobby?”
“You said it wasn’t.”
“Fair enough. I got married, had kids.”
“And you’re heading to Vegas?”
“We heard it can be family friendly! It’s not all casinos is it?”
“Hope you brought a babysitter.”
From over Billy’s shoulder the Asian man sees something that catches his eye or more like someone. Billy notices his proudly annoyed perplexed look and looks to where the man’s attention is directed and sees a vivacious Hispanic woman coming out of the restrooms while on the phone with a young boy in tow. Between the loud demands in Spanish to her child who simply ignores her as he controls a medium sized drone with expert ease and her shouting to whoever she is on the phone with, Billy can not only tell that these two were not only a handful but they were the Asian man’s handful. The man waves to them to remind them of his location and when the boy notices he waves back to his father and then drops the lollipop that was in his mouth and loses control of his drone when he takes his attention off of it to pick up his candy. The drone crashes in the middle of the parking area and the boy stomps in disappointment.
“Tony! Que estas aciendo?! Watch what you are doing and pick up your shit!” the Hispanic woman shouts.
Tony picks up the dirt covered lollipop and runs to grab his drone. Cars honk and screech as he runs across the station oblivious to his surroundings. The boy grabs his drone as his father cringes at the havoc his child creates. The Hispanic woman appears behind the boy out of nowhere to slap the lollipop out of his hands just before he is about to put the filth covered candy back in his mouth.
“Cochino!” The Hispanic woman scolds. “Did you see that Joseph?” The woman yells, directing her attention to the man. “And you say he is a smart kid? How can this kid be intelligent if he puts dirty things in his mouth?! Desgraciado!” The woman shouts.
Joseph smiles at Billy who is also grinning.
“She likes to gamble.” Joseph says, shrugging his shoulders.
“I bet.” Billy responds.
The Hispanic woman gets back to the SUV with Tony and instructs the body to get into the backseat. She notices Joseph making small talk with Billy and gives them both a disgusted look before getting in the front passenger seat and locks the door. She turns the key so she can lower the power windows and shouts to Joseph.
“Why are you making friends with a dirty hillbilly? Stop being gay and get in the car!”
“I guess that’s my queue.”
“Guess so. Enjoy Vegas. Maybe I’ll run into you there.”
“Yeah, that be cool. Here take my card in case of anything.” Joseph hands Billy his business card. It is simple yet striking with gold embossed lettering and reads:
Joe Mui, Tax Attorney
“I’m Joe, that’s my wife Anna and my son Tony. Oh I’m not gay for you or anything. She’s just, you know.”
“It’s cool man.” Billy reassures Joseph. “I’m Billy. Lawyer huh?”
“Tax lawyer. It sucks.”
“Alright, hopefully I won’t need you in Vegas.”
“Or hopefully you do! Means you probably had a good time am I right?” Joseph gives a jab of the elbow and a corny wink. Billy looks on unmoved and then forces a slight grin.
“Alright, good to meet you Billy.”
“Likewise. Be cool Joe Mui.”
The horn from the jeep blasts and Joseph turns around and sees Anna pressing on the wheel.
“Apurate Joseph! I’m starving! This man is going to kill me!”
Joseph lets out a breath before taking a deep one and scurrying back to his car. The SUV back tire slightly screeches kicking up dirt and rocks on the battered pavement before getting back on the road.
“Be careful!” Anna yells. “You’re driving like a crazy!”
Billy shakes his head in amusement and finishes filling up. He looks over the bike one more time making sure everything is secure and then remounts, turns it on and revs the engine a few times before peeling off like an expert and getting back on the highway.
[Property of Studio Mogura. Written by Alex Anico. The previous chapter is a sample and not the final product. Any reproduction without the author’s consent is strictly prohibited. Seeking a publisher for this and other books currently in production, if interested please contact Studio Mogura via gmail.]