Post by squid on Dec 18, 2015 13:32:59 GMT -6
It had been several days since he had managed to escape The Pentagon, as he later discerned after he put together landmarks he had seen during his escape. Of course, he had assistance from the man named "Steele", though he has obviously not been much help since the initial breakout. For all "George" knew, that guy was probably in some sort of deep shit with whomever he worked for. Disobeying orders, especially in such a place, would entail a firing at the least, if not a total "erasure" of the military man.
But that was ancient history, as he found himself riding the rails, still in the sanitation suit. Some of the more adventurous security and transit police have pursued him a few times, only to either be eluded completely, or to meet a tragic demise. Perhaps he was some sort of death machine, and was to be put out of commission as a result of the brutality that he found himself inflicting on everyone who had made it clear their hostile intent towards him. He didn't know, and honestly didn't care.
"Fuck those guys. They knew the risks!" he would say to himself, as he would toss them off the train into various objects that would impale, crush, or otherwise obliterate their bodies upon impact. One had even been tossed off of a long bridge going over the Mississippi River. He may have lived, though "George" doubted it. If the impact didn't kill him, the hypothermia probably would do the job. That is, if the guy could swim. And even then, there's still the undertow to think about. Again, "George" didn't care, other than to say that guy would not be a problem ever again.
But those were not the only concerns that he had to contend with. Other vagabonds also had the same idea, and more than one had tried to scrap with him for his respirator, suit, or other gear that he managed to hold on to, which did not turn out well for them. They also met the same fate, those who were ballsy enough to attack him. Again, another show of devastation, before letting the fucktards meet Death, generally discouraged other illegal travelers from tangling with him. Even the "weasels", those who would try to stick close to a stronger vagabond, would not bother him. Alas, one did, before "George" booted him in the chest, off of the boxcar they occupied, right into an oncoming telephone pole, which was interesting to "George", as the fucker didn't fall from the pole. Must have been one of those poles with the spikes on the side so that maintenance men could climb the poles easier.
The worst part about these vagabonds was that their "loot" had nothing of major note worth taking, except one gentleman, who had tried to stab "George" with a multi-utensil which also sported a fork, spoon, and can opener. "George" easily relieved the man of the multi-utensil before sending him to whatever God he paid lip service to. "Tell your God and Death I said "hello"!" he would bellow out to each and every person he had sent to those meetings. Almost like it was an angry yet quick prayer for each person who crossed him.
But it was not like he would seek these conflicts, it was the nature of this life. He was not the only stone cold killer on this speeding bullet that cut through the landscape of Middle America, though he was easily one of the most effective. His frightening combination of size, strength, speed, endurance, and intelligence had managed to serve him well when faced with such foes, like "Fork", who was known to take the eyes of his foes after he would murder them for whatever whim he chose to murder others for. Women were less fortunate, as he would rape them before ripping their tits off with same said fork, and would live with the deformation, that was if they somehow survived the encounter. "George" had taken a measure of pleasure when he returned the favor for him after said encounter that would prove to be the last one for the man named "Fork".
"George" had been moving from one boxcar to another when he happened upon a car with several others within it, all standing in a circle around Fork and his latest victim, a runaway girl who looked to be maybe 13? With all the dirt and grime all over her, it was difficult to determine, but she was lithe in a childlike way, which he saw through the legs of the bystanders. It was the only time that "George" had felt the urge to intervene, and started his intervention via throwing said bystanders from the boxcar.
He had managed to toss the fifth bystander from the car, to include one woman, before "Fork" had decided, along with the rest of his cronies, to address the situation before "George" tossed them from the train. Fork said, in a barely incomprehensible accent...
Fork: Faak! Whut yur pro'lm, mang? Dis hur FORK CAAT! Who you be cummin' in hur like so?
"George" wasted no words on the living bag of shit, as he continued to toss the bystanders from the boxcar before "Fork" slammed himself into the side of "George", sending him into the corner of the boxcar, on top of others who were hiding in the shadows. They moved, rather than assist, or attack, as "Fork" made his intentions clear when he stated...
Fork: He MINE!!! Cum'mon fucka!
"Fork" jumped on "George", as George felt the prongs of his namesake plunge into the right side of his face and compromising one of the straps of his respirator in the process. "Fork" continued his assault, getting three or four more good stabs in, but missing his mark every time. "George" had managed to finally grab the quick yet fat hand of "Fork", ending the assault on his face in the process. "Fork" readjusted himself to put all of his weight, which was considerable, onto the fork, in an effort to drive it into his assailant's face, but it was no use. "George" held him up like his weight was negligible, before tossing him off, back into the light in front of the boxcar door.
"George" got to his feet in time to be greeted by another football tackle courtesy of "Fork", as he continued his assault with his fork. "George" drove his head past the jab of the fork, straight into the Jack O' Lantern face that was the face of "Fork", which prompted Fork to grab for his face as his eyes began to water, and for "George" to capitalize on the opening, as he grabbed the fork with his right hand, and for his throat with his left hand. He had learned he was just as strong and dexterous with his left as he was with his right, though "Fork" started to laugh until it was choked out of him when "George" squeezed the hyoid bone in his throat. Panicked, "Fork" scurried off of "George", knowing from past experience just what kind of damage he was in for...
Fork: KILL YOU, MUDDER-FUKKA!
"George": We'll see who meets their God and Death before him. My nickel is on YOU making that meeting, FUCKER!
Both men make it to their feet, as they circle. Many within the boxcar had moved on, fearing the end result of the bloodlust between the two getting carried over, save for the girl, who had not moved from position. "Fork" raised his weapon of choice, but before he could make a move with it, "George" nailed him in the face with a roundhouse kick, which he carried into a spinning hook kick, staggering "Fork" before he fell to a knee. "George" stomped on the hand with the fork, which Fork used to keep himself from falling, but had now become his primary source of pain. "Fork" went to bite down on the foot that held him in place, only to get a stomp to his head for his trouble. And another, and another, before "George" drove a knee into the back of his head, smashing his face into the ground. "Fork" rolled over, sans his favorite eating utensil in his broken, mangled hand, as he is barely able to utter the words...
"Fork": No'Mo! No'Mo!
"George": GODDAMN RIGHT, NO MORE!!!
"Fork" rolled to get up, but "George" grabbed his head as he returned to his feet. "Fork" made one more last effort to tackle "George", but found himself getting shifted by the strength of this stranger, and felt his head slam into the side of the boxcar for his efforts. He then felt himself get lifted by this stranger like he was once again a child. A child of four, who lost his parents too early in life. Before it all went to hell, from foster family to foster family.
Before he found himself in juvenile detention, being raped by the stronger boys and corrections counselors. Before he ran away at 14 and spent at least 20, or was it 30 years? It was difficult to keep time. Either one, he spent a good chunk of his life taking advantage of other vagabonds. He grew into the monster that he became, killing and raping for his survival and his pleasure. Alas, the last memory he held dear was that time as a four year-old being passed from his father to his mother in a playful game of toss between the two, before...
CRUNCH!!!
His life force started to leave his body, as his head became a new grease spot in the middle of the boxcar. He heard "George" shout something about meeting his God and Death, and greeting them, but was unsure what was said. With his dying came the justice of hundreds before him. Those that he preyed upon as a young man from the shadows, before he grew into himself and became the formidable bully that now lay at the feet of "George", broken and devastated.
"Fork's" body was still twitching from the Death Blow that "George" had dealt him, as George stripped the clothes off of the seasoned hobo. In all, he managed to salvage an old raincoat, which reminded him once again of "Steele". "George" yanked off "Fork's" boots and pants as well, stripping him as naked as the day he was born, before getting rolled off of the speeding train somewhere near Denver, as he could tell from the changing landscape from flat barren land to foothills that were forming mountain tops in the distance. "George" hocked a loogey in the direction of the fallen monster, before he turned to see what his prize was for ending the life of the vagabond.
"George" went through the pockets, to find in total two $1.00 bills, $4.87 in change, a magnifying glass, a Zippo lighter that had no flint, and a worn-out wallet that seemed to double as a photo album. Most of the pictures were ripped from magazines and were of a vulgar nature, though he did find one picture of a man and woman with a child of maybe four. He flipped it over, to see the words "family, 1973" on the back of said photo. "George" scattered them to the wind, as he looked over for the first time since the fight to see the girl, who had sat up and was looking at him warily. "George" just shook his head, as he moved to a dark corner of the now vacant boxcar, save for this girl.
"George" was tired, and he was starting to feel the wounds inflicted by "Fork", yet the girl inched closer to him. "George" stood up, as the girl scurried back across the boxcar into a darkened corner. "George" then said...
"George": Just because I saved you from that bastard does not mean I want to take you as my ward. Now fuck off!
"Girl": You kill Fork! Big fuckin' deal! Fork been 'round long time!
The girl's voice was much huskier than he anticipated. He had half-expected her to squeak if he had bothered to squeeze the life out of her, rather than tolerate her company. No, this was a WOMAN'S voice, and it stirred something within him. Something base and instinctual. Much like the warriors of yore, who would kill their opposition in battle, and take the prize in the comforts of a woman in order to feel good about themselves while extending their legacy. But he swallowed the will to do such. Something within him told him that his interactions with ANYBODY led to them not being long for Planet Earth when they crossed him. This girl would probably be no exception to the rule.
From her corner, and over the noise of the rails, she asked, or rather shouted...
"Girl": Name?
He had almost uttered the name "George" across to her, but then held back. Why the fuck would he give a stranger vagabond his name, if it was even his name to begin with? Then he remembered what "Steele" called him, and said...
"Squid": Squid. Your name?
"Micro-Pixie": Micro-Pixie. I get called one or other. Rarely both. Your face...
"Squid": I'll survive...
She produced a white bottle, and rattled it around in her hand, before tossing it in his direction. She then says...
"Micro-Pixie": Antibiotics. Painkiller. Sleep, if you dare to, as well. I have pills for all ails. Even those that strike old men in the pants.
He grabbed the bottle of pills, and dumped them into his hand. He looked through them, and could see they were pills of many different uses. Most of them were indeed blue sex pills, though there were a few ibuprofen, aspirin, and others within them. Some looked like diet pills, and even a few painkillers. He dumped them back into the bottle, perturbed that she had lied to him. As he looked up, she rattled another bottle, before tossing them in his direction, saying...
"Micro-Pixie": Most don't look at the pills. They just take them. These are the antibiotics. I give those to those who try to take what I have. I take a raping, but they usually keel over holding their chest when done. If not, I finish them in other ways. But Fork? He scared me. Not like the others. Neither are you. You new?
"Squid": New to the rail. Not new to sending people to their God or Death before them.
He then pulled two pills out of the bottle and sniffed them, satisfied that they had the molded stale scent to them that he was familiar with. It still baffled him how he knew such things, but it has thus far kept his ass alive. He put them in his mouth and swallowed them dry. He recapped the bottle, before tossing both back in her general direction. She managed to grab one, but let the other one get away from her. It came back in HIS direction, as he understood this behavior she was playing at.
As she got up, he could see her pants were still wrapped around her knees and ankles, her ass exposed to the world as she stumbled around trying to get control of the bottle of pills. He felt himself get aroused a bit, as she turned and he could see pubis formed where her womanhood had begun. He slammed his fist, then his head against the boxcar wall, forcing the pain to override his baser instinct to pounce on her and fuck her like the animal he had just removed from the world. She looked over, hearing him self-inflict pain upon himself, as she pulled up her trousers and say...
"Micro-Pixie": Later, perhaps... Bet you're big, too...
"Squid": Thank you for the pills.
"Micro-Pixie": Least I could do. Can I at least ride closer? Others may make their way to this cart. Friends of Fork, for example...
"Squid" growled, as he knew if she came over, it would eventually happen, whether he wanted it to or not. He got to his feet and stormed across the boxcar, where she huddled herself in the corner, awaiting him to assault her in one way, shape, or form. Instead, he picked her up and looked into her eyes, which were green, with shocks of yellow in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his head and drew him into her face. She even forced her tongue into his mouth, but he did not placate to her demands that they engage in tonsil hockey. Rather, she pulled back, realizing that maybe it was the pain that prevented this. Hell, the guy just stabbed him in the face with a FORK! And Gods know where the hell that thing had been...
"Micro-Pixie": You need attending to. I have no thread, or anything else to heal wound...
"Squid": Got fire and steel?
"Micro-Pixie": That HARD. You tough, yeah?
"Squid": Have to be. Make do with what we have. No thread, but fire kills all. I got steel. You got fire?
She reached into her large Army jacket that she could have probably camped inside of, and probably has done, to reveal a Bic lighter. He grabbed hold of it, before setting her down in her corner. The wind was not very strong, so he stayed in place and heated the blade. Once it came to change color, he would feel around his face, finding the exact spots of the wound, and would apply the blade to his face, groaning in the process. "Micro-Pixie" then reached inside of his pants, as he held the blade out, as he said...
"Squid": Child, what are you DOING!
"Micro-Pixie": Getting your mind off of pain. You're not my first, and will probably not be my last...
She dipped her head into his lap, and put herself to work on him. He fought the urge, but she KNEW what she was doing. The pain subsided, and he let it happen. She raised her head up, and said...
"Micro-Pixie": Work the fire and blade. Seal the burns. I take care of your pain...
She went back to work, as he felt his eyeballs start to roll into the back of his head. He even bit his own fingers to try and stay focused on the task at hand. He heated the blade, before once again finding spots on his face that needed tending. The pain overrode any physical pleasure he was deriving from the blowjob, to the point where he felt himself go soft. She stopped, and said...
"Micro-Pixie": See? Lot less painful this time, yeah?
He nodded in agreement, but still felt dirty. Was his life like this before The Pentagon? Was life like this? Finding things that you cannot, or should not, have and hold for yours? He was unable to ponder this for very long, as three vagabonds came in through the door from the roof. They seemed rather shocked when they saw Squid and Micro-Pixie huddled together, his blade out and cooling off, while she hovered over his unzipped manhood. One vagabond moved in, and Squid got to his feet, and his pants came down around his knees. He reached down to grab his pants, as the forward man says...
Vagabond 1: Where Fork be at?
"Squid": He met his God, and Death before him. Do you wish to meet your God, and Death before him as well?
The vagabond's eyes go wide, as he states plainly...
Vagabond 1: You kill Vagabond King Fork! What you moniker be?
"Squid": Squid. You?
"French": Dey call me French. Dat be Soupie, and duh udda be called Q-Tip. We be movin' on, New King. Hope Micro oh-kay...
Micro-Pixie: Ça va, Frenchie.
"French": Tu bonne fille, Pixie. Bonne fille...
"Squid": D'où êtes-vous?
"French": Montréal. Vous parle français?
"Squid": Je suppose que oui. Étrange...
"French": C'est bien. Très bien! Apologies for intruding. Hope dis don't make for Bad Road...
"Squid": You mind your path, and I will not cross yours. You fuck with me or mine, and expect to meet your God and Death before him. Bien noté?
"French": Bien noté! Allons, messieurs! We leave King Squid alone!
French backed off, as the other two groaned as they found handholds to get themselves safely out of the car and onto the topside of the train once again in search of a safe car. Squid looked down at the blade, as he knew he still had plenty of work to do on his face. He felt her hot breath on him down below once again, as he sighed and applied the flame to the blade once again...
But that was ancient history, as he found himself riding the rails, still in the sanitation suit. Some of the more adventurous security and transit police have pursued him a few times, only to either be eluded completely, or to meet a tragic demise. Perhaps he was some sort of death machine, and was to be put out of commission as a result of the brutality that he found himself inflicting on everyone who had made it clear their hostile intent towards him. He didn't know, and honestly didn't care.
"Fuck those guys. They knew the risks!" he would say to himself, as he would toss them off the train into various objects that would impale, crush, or otherwise obliterate their bodies upon impact. One had even been tossed off of a long bridge going over the Mississippi River. He may have lived, though "George" doubted it. If the impact didn't kill him, the hypothermia probably would do the job. That is, if the guy could swim. And even then, there's still the undertow to think about. Again, "George" didn't care, other than to say that guy would not be a problem ever again.
But those were not the only concerns that he had to contend with. Other vagabonds also had the same idea, and more than one had tried to scrap with him for his respirator, suit, or other gear that he managed to hold on to, which did not turn out well for them. They also met the same fate, those who were ballsy enough to attack him. Again, another show of devastation, before letting the fucktards meet Death, generally discouraged other illegal travelers from tangling with him. Even the "weasels", those who would try to stick close to a stronger vagabond, would not bother him. Alas, one did, before "George" booted him in the chest, off of the boxcar they occupied, right into an oncoming telephone pole, which was interesting to "George", as the fucker didn't fall from the pole. Must have been one of those poles with the spikes on the side so that maintenance men could climb the poles easier.
The worst part about these vagabonds was that their "loot" had nothing of major note worth taking, except one gentleman, who had tried to stab "George" with a multi-utensil which also sported a fork, spoon, and can opener. "George" easily relieved the man of the multi-utensil before sending him to whatever God he paid lip service to. "Tell your God and Death I said "hello"!" he would bellow out to each and every person he had sent to those meetings. Almost like it was an angry yet quick prayer for each person who crossed him.
But it was not like he would seek these conflicts, it was the nature of this life. He was not the only stone cold killer on this speeding bullet that cut through the landscape of Middle America, though he was easily one of the most effective. His frightening combination of size, strength, speed, endurance, and intelligence had managed to serve him well when faced with such foes, like "Fork", who was known to take the eyes of his foes after he would murder them for whatever whim he chose to murder others for. Women were less fortunate, as he would rape them before ripping their tits off with same said fork, and would live with the deformation, that was if they somehow survived the encounter. "George" had taken a measure of pleasure when he returned the favor for him after said encounter that would prove to be the last one for the man named "Fork".
"George" had been moving from one boxcar to another when he happened upon a car with several others within it, all standing in a circle around Fork and his latest victim, a runaway girl who looked to be maybe 13? With all the dirt and grime all over her, it was difficult to determine, but she was lithe in a childlike way, which he saw through the legs of the bystanders. It was the only time that "George" had felt the urge to intervene, and started his intervention via throwing said bystanders from the boxcar.
He had managed to toss the fifth bystander from the car, to include one woman, before "Fork" had decided, along with the rest of his cronies, to address the situation before "George" tossed them from the train. Fork said, in a barely incomprehensible accent...
Fork: Faak! Whut yur pro'lm, mang? Dis hur FORK CAAT! Who you be cummin' in hur like so?
"George" wasted no words on the living bag of shit, as he continued to toss the bystanders from the boxcar before "Fork" slammed himself into the side of "George", sending him into the corner of the boxcar, on top of others who were hiding in the shadows. They moved, rather than assist, or attack, as "Fork" made his intentions clear when he stated...
Fork: He MINE!!! Cum'mon fucka!
"Fork" jumped on "George", as George felt the prongs of his namesake plunge into the right side of his face and compromising one of the straps of his respirator in the process. "Fork" continued his assault, getting three or four more good stabs in, but missing his mark every time. "George" had managed to finally grab the quick yet fat hand of "Fork", ending the assault on his face in the process. "Fork" readjusted himself to put all of his weight, which was considerable, onto the fork, in an effort to drive it into his assailant's face, but it was no use. "George" held him up like his weight was negligible, before tossing him off, back into the light in front of the boxcar door.
"George" got to his feet in time to be greeted by another football tackle courtesy of "Fork", as he continued his assault with his fork. "George" drove his head past the jab of the fork, straight into the Jack O' Lantern face that was the face of "Fork", which prompted Fork to grab for his face as his eyes began to water, and for "George" to capitalize on the opening, as he grabbed the fork with his right hand, and for his throat with his left hand. He had learned he was just as strong and dexterous with his left as he was with his right, though "Fork" started to laugh until it was choked out of him when "George" squeezed the hyoid bone in his throat. Panicked, "Fork" scurried off of "George", knowing from past experience just what kind of damage he was in for...
Fork: KILL YOU, MUDDER-FUKKA!
"George": We'll see who meets their God and Death before him. My nickel is on YOU making that meeting, FUCKER!
Both men make it to their feet, as they circle. Many within the boxcar had moved on, fearing the end result of the bloodlust between the two getting carried over, save for the girl, who had not moved from position. "Fork" raised his weapon of choice, but before he could make a move with it, "George" nailed him in the face with a roundhouse kick, which he carried into a spinning hook kick, staggering "Fork" before he fell to a knee. "George" stomped on the hand with the fork, which Fork used to keep himself from falling, but had now become his primary source of pain. "Fork" went to bite down on the foot that held him in place, only to get a stomp to his head for his trouble. And another, and another, before "George" drove a knee into the back of his head, smashing his face into the ground. "Fork" rolled over, sans his favorite eating utensil in his broken, mangled hand, as he is barely able to utter the words...
"Fork": No'Mo! No'Mo!
"George": GODDAMN RIGHT, NO MORE!!!
"Fork" rolled to get up, but "George" grabbed his head as he returned to his feet. "Fork" made one more last effort to tackle "George", but found himself getting shifted by the strength of this stranger, and felt his head slam into the side of the boxcar for his efforts. He then felt himself get lifted by this stranger like he was once again a child. A child of four, who lost his parents too early in life. Before it all went to hell, from foster family to foster family.
Before he found himself in juvenile detention, being raped by the stronger boys and corrections counselors. Before he ran away at 14 and spent at least 20, or was it 30 years? It was difficult to keep time. Either one, he spent a good chunk of his life taking advantage of other vagabonds. He grew into the monster that he became, killing and raping for his survival and his pleasure. Alas, the last memory he held dear was that time as a four year-old being passed from his father to his mother in a playful game of toss between the two, before...
CRUNCH!!!
His life force started to leave his body, as his head became a new grease spot in the middle of the boxcar. He heard "George" shout something about meeting his God and Death, and greeting them, but was unsure what was said. With his dying came the justice of hundreds before him. Those that he preyed upon as a young man from the shadows, before he grew into himself and became the formidable bully that now lay at the feet of "George", broken and devastated.
"Fork's" body was still twitching from the Death Blow that "George" had dealt him, as George stripped the clothes off of the seasoned hobo. In all, he managed to salvage an old raincoat, which reminded him once again of "Steele". "George" yanked off "Fork's" boots and pants as well, stripping him as naked as the day he was born, before getting rolled off of the speeding train somewhere near Denver, as he could tell from the changing landscape from flat barren land to foothills that were forming mountain tops in the distance. "George" hocked a loogey in the direction of the fallen monster, before he turned to see what his prize was for ending the life of the vagabond.
"George" went through the pockets, to find in total two $1.00 bills, $4.87 in change, a magnifying glass, a Zippo lighter that had no flint, and a worn-out wallet that seemed to double as a photo album. Most of the pictures were ripped from magazines and were of a vulgar nature, though he did find one picture of a man and woman with a child of maybe four. He flipped it over, to see the words "family, 1973" on the back of said photo. "George" scattered them to the wind, as he looked over for the first time since the fight to see the girl, who had sat up and was looking at him warily. "George" just shook his head, as he moved to a dark corner of the now vacant boxcar, save for this girl.
"George" was tired, and he was starting to feel the wounds inflicted by "Fork", yet the girl inched closer to him. "George" stood up, as the girl scurried back across the boxcar into a darkened corner. "George" then said...
"George": Just because I saved you from that bastard does not mean I want to take you as my ward. Now fuck off!
"Girl": You kill Fork! Big fuckin' deal! Fork been 'round long time!
The girl's voice was much huskier than he anticipated. He had half-expected her to squeak if he had bothered to squeeze the life out of her, rather than tolerate her company. No, this was a WOMAN'S voice, and it stirred something within him. Something base and instinctual. Much like the warriors of yore, who would kill their opposition in battle, and take the prize in the comforts of a woman in order to feel good about themselves while extending their legacy. But he swallowed the will to do such. Something within him told him that his interactions with ANYBODY led to them not being long for Planet Earth when they crossed him. This girl would probably be no exception to the rule.
From her corner, and over the noise of the rails, she asked, or rather shouted...
"Girl": Name?
He had almost uttered the name "George" across to her, but then held back. Why the fuck would he give a stranger vagabond his name, if it was even his name to begin with? Then he remembered what "Steele" called him, and said...
"Squid": Squid. Your name?
"Micro-Pixie": Micro-Pixie. I get called one or other. Rarely both. Your face...
"Squid": I'll survive...
She produced a white bottle, and rattled it around in her hand, before tossing it in his direction. She then says...
"Micro-Pixie": Antibiotics. Painkiller. Sleep, if you dare to, as well. I have pills for all ails. Even those that strike old men in the pants.
He grabbed the bottle of pills, and dumped them into his hand. He looked through them, and could see they were pills of many different uses. Most of them were indeed blue sex pills, though there were a few ibuprofen, aspirin, and others within them. Some looked like diet pills, and even a few painkillers. He dumped them back into the bottle, perturbed that she had lied to him. As he looked up, she rattled another bottle, before tossing them in his direction, saying...
"Micro-Pixie": Most don't look at the pills. They just take them. These are the antibiotics. I give those to those who try to take what I have. I take a raping, but they usually keel over holding their chest when done. If not, I finish them in other ways. But Fork? He scared me. Not like the others. Neither are you. You new?
"Squid": New to the rail. Not new to sending people to their God or Death before them.
He then pulled two pills out of the bottle and sniffed them, satisfied that they had the molded stale scent to them that he was familiar with. It still baffled him how he knew such things, but it has thus far kept his ass alive. He put them in his mouth and swallowed them dry. He recapped the bottle, before tossing both back in her general direction. She managed to grab one, but let the other one get away from her. It came back in HIS direction, as he understood this behavior she was playing at.
As she got up, he could see her pants were still wrapped around her knees and ankles, her ass exposed to the world as she stumbled around trying to get control of the bottle of pills. He felt himself get aroused a bit, as she turned and he could see pubis formed where her womanhood had begun. He slammed his fist, then his head against the boxcar wall, forcing the pain to override his baser instinct to pounce on her and fuck her like the animal he had just removed from the world. She looked over, hearing him self-inflict pain upon himself, as she pulled up her trousers and say...
"Micro-Pixie": Later, perhaps... Bet you're big, too...
"Squid": Thank you for the pills.
"Micro-Pixie": Least I could do. Can I at least ride closer? Others may make their way to this cart. Friends of Fork, for example...
"Squid" growled, as he knew if she came over, it would eventually happen, whether he wanted it to or not. He got to his feet and stormed across the boxcar, where she huddled herself in the corner, awaiting him to assault her in one way, shape, or form. Instead, he picked her up and looked into her eyes, which were green, with shocks of yellow in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around his head and drew him into her face. She even forced her tongue into his mouth, but he did not placate to her demands that they engage in tonsil hockey. Rather, she pulled back, realizing that maybe it was the pain that prevented this. Hell, the guy just stabbed him in the face with a FORK! And Gods know where the hell that thing had been...
"Micro-Pixie": You need attending to. I have no thread, or anything else to heal wound...
"Squid": Got fire and steel?
"Micro-Pixie": That HARD. You tough, yeah?
"Squid": Have to be. Make do with what we have. No thread, but fire kills all. I got steel. You got fire?
She reached into her large Army jacket that she could have probably camped inside of, and probably has done, to reveal a Bic lighter. He grabbed hold of it, before setting her down in her corner. The wind was not very strong, so he stayed in place and heated the blade. Once it came to change color, he would feel around his face, finding the exact spots of the wound, and would apply the blade to his face, groaning in the process. "Micro-Pixie" then reached inside of his pants, as he held the blade out, as he said...
"Squid": Child, what are you DOING!
"Micro-Pixie": Getting your mind off of pain. You're not my first, and will probably not be my last...
She dipped her head into his lap, and put herself to work on him. He fought the urge, but she KNEW what she was doing. The pain subsided, and he let it happen. She raised her head up, and said...
"Micro-Pixie": Work the fire and blade. Seal the burns. I take care of your pain...
She went back to work, as he felt his eyeballs start to roll into the back of his head. He even bit his own fingers to try and stay focused on the task at hand. He heated the blade, before once again finding spots on his face that needed tending. The pain overrode any physical pleasure he was deriving from the blowjob, to the point where he felt himself go soft. She stopped, and said...
"Micro-Pixie": See? Lot less painful this time, yeah?
He nodded in agreement, but still felt dirty. Was his life like this before The Pentagon? Was life like this? Finding things that you cannot, or should not, have and hold for yours? He was unable to ponder this for very long, as three vagabonds came in through the door from the roof. They seemed rather shocked when they saw Squid and Micro-Pixie huddled together, his blade out and cooling off, while she hovered over his unzipped manhood. One vagabond moved in, and Squid got to his feet, and his pants came down around his knees. He reached down to grab his pants, as the forward man says...
Vagabond 1: Where Fork be at?
"Squid": He met his God, and Death before him. Do you wish to meet your God, and Death before him as well?
The vagabond's eyes go wide, as he states plainly...
Vagabond 1: You kill Vagabond King Fork! What you moniker be?
"Squid": Squid. You?
"French": Dey call me French. Dat be Soupie, and duh udda be called Q-Tip. We be movin' on, New King. Hope Micro oh-kay...
Micro-Pixie: Ça va, Frenchie.
"French": Tu bonne fille, Pixie. Bonne fille...
"Squid": D'où êtes-vous?
"French": Montréal. Vous parle français?
"Squid": Je suppose que oui. Étrange...
"French": C'est bien. Très bien! Apologies for intruding. Hope dis don't make for Bad Road...
"Squid": You mind your path, and I will not cross yours. You fuck with me or mine, and expect to meet your God and Death before him. Bien noté?
"French": Bien noté! Allons, messieurs! We leave King Squid alone!
French backed off, as the other two groaned as they found handholds to get themselves safely out of the car and onto the topside of the train once again in search of a safe car. Squid looked down at the blade, as he knew he still had plenty of work to do on his face. He felt her hot breath on him down below once again, as he sighed and applied the flame to the blade once again...