Radioman (A 2/19th Spinoff) - Complete

Trans-Am Blues

I could hear the music all the way out in the parking lot of the honky-tonk bar. The sign no longer advertised my mother and father, instead they were advertising something else. Something I couldn't bother to read.

I stood in the light snowfall and stared at the front of the building. A porch on the front, the chairs empty. The windows were brightly lit and I could see from the outside that the place was pretty full.

The cars and trucks around me were typical for small farming town Kansas. I'd hear Gail mock them often enough, but to be real, they were just honest farm trucks, just like most of the people in the honky-tonk were just there to have some drinks, and from the looks of it, do a little dancing and maybe a little smooching.

I knew better than to go in. Too many people in the crowd, too many variables, too many angles I could be attacked from without warning.

Instead, I stood at the edge of the puddle of light from one of the parking lights, in front of the bondo and primer Trans-Am, holding its grill in my hands.

of high priority to any soldier is the ability to choose and control the battlefield

Lancer's voice.

I actually lit another cigarette before finally someone came out on the porch, shaded their eyes to look out at me, then vanished inside. I could see them weaving through the crowd for a moment before they vanished into the press of bodies.

I set the grill next to me, then opened up the hood. I quick little bit of work with my Leatherman prepped it for what I wanted. It was pretty easy to do.

I shut the hood carefully.

After a minute the doors crashed open and I could see a handful of people silhouetted by the lights of the honky-tonk. I could hear shouting, but I didn't care about the words. I knew that the words didn't matter.

deeds, more than our words, is what defines us, my beautiful Paul

Four of them were coming down the steps. Four was more than I wanted to take on, to be honest, when I was thinking clearly. Stokes's training, unlike a lot of the martial arts, was less about the perfect fight and more about just surviving second by second and putting the other guy down.

Four of them were in the lead, heading through the light snowfall toward me.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The one in the lead asked.

Yup, that was the one I wanted. I just stayed silent, watching as they came through the snow. The stopped a couple of steps from me, staring at me.

"Motherfucker!" the junkie I'd faced off against in the parking lot of the general store, the one who had hurt me so bad when I was younger, laughing, and worse, at my tears.

I couldn't stop myself from smiling as I tossed the grill of his car at his feet.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He asked me. He stepped over the grill. "I'm going to..."

Whatever he was going to do stopped suddenly when I turned, grabbed the front of his hood, and, as far as anyone else was concerned, just ripped it clean off. It was broadside when it hit him, smashing against him with a loud bong. He let out a cry of pain and surprise as I let it go, letting it land on top of him as the force threw him to the ground.

I just stood there, in the snow and darkness, staring at the other three.

The one on the right lunged toward me, telegraphing the attack. He reeled back, spitting blood, when I hit him in the throat with the edge of my palm, feeling his trachea crackle. He went down on his knees, coughing and gagging, blood spattering into his hand.