Motorhead (First Draft) – Part Two

“Preceded by a Lengthy Diatribe on Spectacle Horror and Impostor Syndrome.”

If you want to get right to the story, just skip the first ten(!!!) or so paragraphs. You’ll know where to start.

But if you’re here for my weekly soapbox, then please, stay, grab a seat and listen! Before I jump right in to the second (and final!) part of this weirdo biomechanical nightmare that is the “Motorhead” story, I want to share with everyone a particularly frightening short horror film that I encountered over the weekend. Granted, I was in an, ah, altered state of consciousness when I first found it, but after watching it later and sober, I do think it is one of the more effective short horror films I’ve seen to date. It scared the shit out of me when I first watched it, though, which is a compliment that I do not give out lightly. Things don’t scare me anymore, and I’m constantly searching for something to truly rock me to my core. Sure, the fear from this one didn’t quite stick, but in the moment I was back to being scared of the dark. It was like I was a child again, or on the cusp of puberty, when I was much more easily frightened. Just for a little bit. And that’s got to mean something, right?

Anyway, the movie’s only about seven minutes long, and it’s called “Portrait of God.” When I first watched it I was so absolutely convinced it was the pinnacle of horror that I was tempted to throw in the towel and give up trying to make anything comparable (especially because I have a work-in-progress project of my own that is, in some ways, eerily similar to this. Damn.). I was, again, also under the influence, so that likely had something to do with it, but the quiet terror of this little video did stick with me. I think what gripped me in the moment was the quiet biblical implications of the wider world of this short film, which I think you’ll kind of see if you watch it. Looking back at it later, it feels more like an SCP short or something than a cutting religious commentary, but that biblical context absolutely adds something. And the ending, though, that ending! It is a pretty perfect ending. Ambiguous, unsettling, subtle. Even if it isn’t quite as immaculate as I imagined it to be, it is by far one of the most effective uses of short-form horror that I have encountered lately.

Although I still commend the video, whether or not it holds up in the light of day is largely irrelevant. It masterfully accomplishes one singular moment of horror, some creeping dread that is bound to stick long after the webpage has closed. And that, I think, is what the best horror is; one singular moment of terror. See, the more I write, the more I feel like I deal in something I’m tentatively calling “spectacle horror.” Similar to Stephen King’s three stages of horror, this is. This is stuff that has the trappings of horror, and maybe has some genuine scares, but isn’t “scary,” per se. Spectral Crown fits well in this, for the most part. I don’t think I’d say there’s one particular moment of that book that is truly scary; there is no “one moment of horror.” And there’s nothing wrong with Spectacle Horror, of course. This is your Resident Evil 4’s, your Cabin in the Woods, your Aliens (as opposed to the original Alien), everything Stephen King has ever written, and the like. These are all still great works of horror! Just, you know, in a different way. Things that excel at a true One Moment of Horror, on the other hand, are your PT’s, that doll house scene in Resident Evil Village, your Hereditary’s and Kairo/Pulse’s, Uzumaki, the original Haunting of Hill House, and things of similar styles. Quiet. Uncomfortable. Subtley wrong. But not in your face about it. That’s the tension necessary for a “One Moment of Horror.”

I don’t know if I’m cut out to write a truly powerful “One Moment of Horror.” I don’t feel like any of the projects that I have on the back burner are of the same bloodline as even “Portrait of God,” which does seem to have set a new high-water mark for me, personally. Maybe no one sets out to do something like that. Maybe nobody starts working on a project knowing that the final result will have some of the most unsettling singular moments in any medium. Maybe that moment has to come from a mixture of the right person, in the right mindset, interacting with the right work, and it’s not something that the author can really control. I mean, lots of people find psychological thrillers to be far more frightening than any monster movie, but I could just never get into them. There are, I’m sure, just as many One Moments of Horror in things like Silence of the Lambs as there are in stuff like “Portrait of God,” but they do not hit me the same way.

Actually, quick tangent regarding this kind of stuff. I have a problem with jealousy (or is it envy?). I have this issue where I find something or someone that I really admire, or I really enjoy their work, or I find just a singular piece of art and I say to myself, “why can’t I do something like that?” And then I make myself feel bad, because, in my eyes, whatever I’m admiring is within the realm of things I could do. This is something I could create, or is similar to things I want to make. But then I spiral, and put it on a pedestal beyond criticism, and I beat myself up for not being good enough, for not being enough to make something even close to whatever it is I’m appreciating. This is actually the source of my longstanding hatred of John Green; although I have no issue with the guy (he seems like a nice person, even if he lives in Indiana), I think his books are hacky and melodramatic and have shitty dialogue and are things that I could do. Even I can do better than this. Then why the hell is he so popular? Why aren’t I? What’s wrong with me and my work?

The easy answer is, of course, that I haven’t made anything and/or haven’t put in the requisite work to bring whatever I’ve produced to the public eye. This blog is great, or whatever, but it’s not taking me anywhere. I haven’t sent enough query letters or produced enough material to become someone like John Green. Or Jacob Geller. Or Brian David Gilbert. Or the guy behind the Mandela Catalogue. But that doesn’t matter; my OCD won’t let me see past the obvious answers and instead go for the ones that hurt the most. I’m not good enough, and I never will be. And so, instead of trying to rationalize or make myself feel better or look at the reality of the situation, I put whatever I love up on a pedestal where it is perfect and untouchable and prostrate myself before it and commit mental acts of self-flagellation. In the name of art, I suppose. In the name of self-loathing. In the name of… something.

Then, once in a while, I’ll share whatever I am currently loving/deeply jealous of, and they’ll take a look at it and say, “eh, it’s alright.” I did this exact thing with the Mandela Catalogue. I watched it, watched some reviews of it, loved it, hated myself, told myself that whatever I do will never be enough if this high schooler from Wisconsin can capture YouTube’s attention, and then I showed it to my mom and sibling, and their responses were, “I don’t get it.” “It isn’t scary.” “I’m bored.” “It’s ok.” And I had to take a step back, and mentally readjust. That wasn’t the intended response at all. But maybe that was what I needed to hear.

I think I’m going through something similar with “Portrait of God.” It is, in some ways, very similar to two projects I’ve been toying with for a while now. And that never feels good, to have this great idea planned out and then see someone else publish something that is basically your idea but “better than you could ever make it.” It is also something that I could absolutely see myself making. But I didn’t. I haven’t. And I never will. Because I’m not good enough. I’m not dedicated enough. I don’t have the ability to think of and produce something of this quality. My ideas aren’t good enough. My work will never be what I want it to be. And someone will always be better.

I don’t quite know why this short video grabs at me so completely as to make myself doubt whether I want to continue writing at all. Maybe it’s because I do watch a lot of these short horror films, and most of them are laughably bad, campy and lame, or almost good but not quite. They are, for the most parts, things that I could exceed, if I ever finally make the projects I want to. But to find one that truly feels masterful is bizarre. And to know that it was put together by a guy in a position that I could, theoretically, also have if I just worked harder, is kind of crushing.

And that’s always the Catch-22, too. This unspoken promise that, well, if you just work harder, eventually your work will be recognized. And if it’s not? Must not have been good enough to merit cultural impact or people’s interest. And this is usually followed by the terribly realization that I am nowhere near where I want to be to make these projects a reality. I do not have the resources, time, or even the energy to put together the books, stories, and media that I want to see in the world. And if I did, it would probably just get drowned out in the sea of everything else, anyway. Just like “Portrait of God” has gained a relatively small amount of attention compared to what I see as being one of the most haunting horror films I’ve seen recently. If this gets a lukewarm response, how am I supposed to ever succeed what I’ve set out to accomplish? I’ll never be good enough.

But I don’t know. I could delve deeper into this unfortunate, twisted psyche of mine that revolves around constant self-loathing, doubt, and the feeling of being a satellite in orbit of greater celestial bodies. Sure, it’s easy to say “stop comparing yourself to others. Let your work stand on its own.” But the reality of the situation is that if I want to make it in the literary world, I have to keep the pressure constant and keep my finger on the pulse of what’s hot. And it is exhausting and I’m not even doing half of what I should be for it. And most of the time, I want to just give up and go live in the woods somewhere.

But I guess I’m not giving up today, because here’s the (lengthy middle, bloody climax, and) bizarre end of that new story I wrote. It’s a first draft, so please be kind. I haven’t decided to up and disappear into the wilderness. Here’s a link to part one.

“Motorhead,” by Andy Sima (2022)

Content Warning: Body Horror, Violence, Exploitation

Where we left off:

“No dice,” Blitz yelled over the sound throbbing metal. He trudged his way back to the counter, leaned his weight on it and stared at me with this spinning gears. They clicked away, almost clock-like in their intensity and focus. The flesh where the gears met with his head was red and wet.

            “What about other models? Other years?” I asked.

            “Replacing your wheel bearing with the wrong part, especially as such a sensitive junction, could result in, ah, more permanent damage. Especially at your level of wear,” he said…

….“So, what am I supposed to do, then? Just wait until you get the right part? And have my leg freeze up every other step?” I said.

            His massive shoulders hunched, and he looked down at the table in thought. The gears in Blitz’s head increased their revolutions. Once, the gears clacked together, and got stuck, frozen in place. Blitz reached and picked out whatever bit had lodged in the gears’ teeth, and he looked at it with a level of contemplation normally reserved for philosophic debate before he stuck it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing.

            “Tell you what,” he said, jerking his head upright again to face me. “Out of professional courtesy, and because you’re my friend, I’ll cut you a deal. I might be able to expedite a new piece. I’ll even install it for free.”

            “What’s the catch?” I asked.

            “Just as I service you, you service me,” he said, breaking out into a snaggle-toothed grin, his mouth the front bumper of a car that had been shattered in a wreck and restitched together with an inexpert hand. His teeth were an oil spill of colors, silvers and golds and rotten browns. He took a step back from the counter, and shifted away his apron.

            “I’ve been meaning to try out my new equipment,” he said, and the large piston, shining and full, began to pump up and down. It was thick at the end, with a broad head at the end of a thinner shaft that seemed almost to have been soldered on with extra pieces to add to the length. It moved like an idling engine, with a slowness that betrayed the calculated nature of the request.  I considered the proposition, massaging the muscles at my sore hip.

            “What are my other options?” I asked, after a moment’s consideration. My wheel bearing ground some more of my muscle into blood. This choice might be something I would have to save for a later date, because however much things changed down the assembly line, this would always be available to me, I was certain. When things would, inevitably, get more desperate, I had one last escape route. But I wasn’t there. Yet.

            Blitz’s grin closed, the gears on his spin backpedaling without a break. “Suit yourself. I’d also take an, ah, equal exchange to speed up the process a bit. Better yet, if you can get the piece yourself, I’ll install it for free.”

            That could be a challenge, but one that I was, maybe, able to physically accomplish. I stepped backward, and my leg locked up as the wheel bearing shifted. I had to at least see what I could do.

            “How am I supposed to do that?” I asked.

            Here, Blitz grinned again, and the speed at his reaction suggested that, just maybe, this was the outcome he’d been hoping for anyway. “Easy. Let me show you something.” He flipped up one edge of the counter, and stepped into my side of the room. Still carrying the sledgehammer over his shoulder, he sidled past me and stepped out of the garage into the hazy glow of the day. From behind, I could see that his piston still moved up and down. Just a little bit.

            I followed him outside, and stood back on the sidewalk while he made his way over to the middle of the asphalt river of the main drag. The muscles of his back tensed, the struts that sprung from his spine contracted, and the hydraulic tubing pulsed with the fluids moving inside. He hefted the sledgehammer high overhead, and with the hiss of gasoline sucking in, squeezing inside his engine, banging with an explosive force, and spitting out of his exhaust, he brought the sledgehammer to the earth. Once. Twice. Three times, with an industrial strength. The earth itself shuddered and whimpered with each strike.

            The asphalt cracked up into pieces, debris spraying around us. The street’s crude leaked out of the very edges of the wounds, and filled into the cracked pavement where the hammer had landed. Blitz cleared the gaping wound of ashphalt chunks, tossing them to the sidewalk near where I stood. Soon, black tar had pooled in the wound of the road.

            Turning to face me, he held his hands wide, teeth gnashing and gears whirring, showing off the new crude stains on his apron. He walked to the sidewalk where I stood, and sat down. The sledgehammer never left his grip.

            “You want me to bring you crude?” I asked, incredulously.

            “No. Wait.” He said, staring at the cut in the road. The asphalt pulsed as more crude filled in to try and replace the missing bituminous chunks.

            From across the street, out of the thin gaps between abandoned brick buildings, the streeteaters began to crawl into the smoke-blocked sunlight. Some stood upright, with flesh and machine mixing at their chest, four-cylinder engines pumping blood to skulls full of serpentine belts and headlights for eyes. Some, one-axle models with vulcanizer rubber instead of feet, rolled cautiously forward with hunched backs and throats made of magnetized pulverizers. Very few, the oldest of them all, crawled about on all fours, fingers flicking the pavement with knuckles of iron and joints that scraped steel on steel, skin caught between tendons and cracked bone.

            All of them emitting a sound like saw blades grinding metal into dust as they drank like dogs from the tar puddle in the road.

            The first to reach the destruction in the roadway pulled the freed chunks of solid asphalt, still dripping with oil, into their mouths and crushed them between piston teeth and metal esophagi. When the solid chunks had been depleted, they, too, began to drink from the ground, pushing others out of the way to get better access to the resource before the road began to heal itself more fully.

            “Like flies to shit,” Blitz said, and stood up, hefting his hammer with him. He walked to the group of streeteaters, and a few of them scattered at his approach. But the unlucky ones, the ones facing away, didn’t notice his presence until it was too late. In a crash of foresight, I saw what was to happen, and both dreaded it and, more frighteningly, relished it.

            Blitz pulled at a broken fender at the neck of one of the streeteaters, and spun it to face him. “Shit, man, what the hell did you- wait, fuck, no!” “Hey, lay off him, man!” “Oh, fuck off, buddy.” “Get the hell out of here, you crazy asshole!” “Don’t touch him, hey, oh, shit!” “Oh! Fuck no! Hell no!” The other scattered, yelling.

Blitz pushed the streeteater to the ground, and the back of his head hit the pavement with a clank. In the same motion, Blitz threw his hammer above his head and brought it down onto the streeteater. Once, on his chest. Twice, to his neck. Three times, to the engine block that was his head. The first few strikes caused screams to erupt from the streeteater, alongside the revving of engines and the shocking popping of exhaust. The last few strikes only elicited a few wet thuds and the gurgle of dying machinery.

Blitz ripped the engine block off of the streeteater’s head, and threw it towards his shop. He punched a hole in his chest cavity, and pulled out a heart, which he tossed disgustedly aside. The air compressors above the heart, though, he tucked into the belt of his apron. The bearings at the joints he pulled and prodded at, tucking them into unseen pockets of his single piece of clothing. None of them would fit me. One still had a bicep curled around it. Dissecting the thing on the ground into its constituent pieces, it was no longer possible to call it man, machine, or anything else. Blood, oil, bone, metal, screaming cloth and stainless steel. Expandable ribs, self-cleaning exhaust. With a doctor’s care and a butcher’s precision, taking the streeteater apart was both art and science, degeneracy and transcendence. But it was just parts. Maybe this was how Blitz saw the world. Colored in years, makes, and models. For different purposes and repurposes. Interchangeable. Marketable. Expendable. Useful.

Eventually, he turned to me, and I stumbled backwards, staring. Skin, what you might optimistically call leather, hung from his shoulder. He tossed the sledgehammer to me, and I caught it, but only after stumbling backwards. With three fingers, he gripped at the engine block and lifted it to his other shoulder. Various odds and ends clung to his apron.

“Don’t look at me like that. Damage is good for business,” he said, making his way through the small side door of his barber shop. I followed, because what else could I do in a moment like that?

He dumped the parts on the counter, next to where his tools were still spelling out their obscure meaning. His back was to me when he said, “Find me something worth trading for, and I’ll get you a new wheel bearing. If you can’t, we’ll talk about alternatives.” I could hear the grin in his face as the gears at this skull whirred excitedly.

I walked home, painfully, rubbing at the knot in my side as much as I dared. I could feel the ligaments being chewed up by the machinery of my leg, where my components switched make and model. The pain vacillated between excruciating and a mild annoyance, pushing my walk into a frequency of motion. In the past, it had been that I could run a marathon, without the use of wheels. Without the use of machines at all. The frequency of the throbs in my leg spelled out the epitaph of that part of me.

Nearing my garage, I passed the alleyway where the group of streeteaters had been this morning. Against my better judgement, I turned off the main road and onto the side space, where the decimated engine block still lay. Scrape marks had begun to appear on its outside, made by metal fingers.

None of the streeteaters were here now. They were likely off roaming some of the side streets, looking for two-axle wrecks or new road growth. I stood in their absence, and closed my eyes, tilting my head to the sky. I breathed in the smog around me, and imagined the feel of my feet running across the pavement, pounding out the beat of my movement, as my lungs heaved in oxygen and I smashed the skulls of the streeteaters in, ripping out pieces of their limbs.

No. I flinched at the intrusive appearance of that mental image. No. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be thinking about it. I didn’t want to think about crushing their ribs under the weight of a hammer. Or peeling apart the stitching that brought skin to seam. I just wanted to run, and run, and run, and run, and

“Hey, pops, what’s up?” Said a voice, from the front of the alleyway. I opened my eyes and turned to face him, the same streeteater from this morning. I stared at him.

            “Got any crude?” he asked. I stared at him again. My right leg locked up.

            “You just gonna stand there?” he asked again, rolling up to me. I stared some more.

            “Hey, pops, you’re weirding me the fuck out. Get gone, would ya?” I imagined the inside of his skull. Then shook my head and walked away.

            “Sorry,” I said. I walked back to my garage.

            “Bring me something to use next time,” the streeteater said, throat gears spitting the words.

Sitting in the leather reclining chair I kept at the back of my garage, I waited in the darkness. My options were limited. I massaged my wheel bearing and thought.

Off in the distance, way down the main drag, I heard the tell-tale scream of a two-axle drag race beginning. The smash of cylinders firing and gasoline igniting inside cages of metal and blood, the explosive roar of high-octane engines and full stomachs as tired skidding anxiously at the pavement, dying to be set free and loose to tear down the track, skittering across the asphalt. And then the quiet thrum of the two-axles as they waited for the countdown to reach zero before the cacophony began again. And then I had an idea.

Scrambling up as quickly as my stiffening leg would allow me, I hobbled to the garage door and threw it open. I grabbed a huge pair of scissors, stuck them in my pocket, and a plasma cutting torch for good measure. I stepped out onto the pavement, limped to the nearest streetlamp, and tore open the access panel at the base of it. I got to work disconnecting wires as quickly as I could. And then disconnecting the rest of the pole from the ground.

The plasma torch was slow going, but it cut through the steel of the light post eventually. I only had a few minutes, and I could hear the steady roar of the two-axle drag race as they raced up and down the main drag, every so often drawing almost close enough to see the fire pouring from their exhaust. The road was lit up like sunrise just beyond what I could see through the haze.

Finally, the light post was cut, and it stood, teetering on the lip of its metal base. I would have only one shot at this. I clung to the streetlamp as best I could, using my right leg to anchor my weight to the pavement. The two-axles got closer.

One flew past, catching me by surprise and almost throwing me off balance. The streetlamp started to slip from my fingers, and I held it back from falling, but just barely. Another streaked by. And then another. And another. And I could see two more, just behind them. One more went past, and just as my grip was failing, the last one was only a block away.

I judged his speed as best I could, judged the weight of the streetlamp and exactly how long it would take for it to fall and smash into the pavement. I didn’t need to be precise. Just close enough. And then I pushed. The effect was immediate.

The streetlamp tumbled to the road, seemingly caught frozen in the air like sparks flying from a buzzsaw, suspended lazily in the air. Only for long enough for the two-axle to barrel down the road, huge eyes narrowed and focused on the road ahead, metal grille mouth muzzled and screaming. The impact was better than I could have predicted, and the tip of the streetlamp, the curved scythe of the fallen light, smashed into the wheel well of the two-axles front fingers. The thing, clearly caught off-guard, over corrected and spun to the left, losing all traction on the road and flipping itself into the air, tires and fingers and feet and axles all launched into that space above the road.

And then it smashed back down into the pavement, upside down and skidding for a hundred feet along the top of its skull, peeling back layers of skin and hair and skull and brain matter until there was a red streak of oil-slick blood, rainbow spreading across the pavement. The two-axle gave a shriek like metal rending and flesh popping in an acid vat, fat and subcutaneous tissues mixing with brake fluid in the black mat of the road. When it came to a stop, finally, its tires and fingers clawed frantically, hopelessly, automatically at the air, its life upended and now leaking into the asphalt.

I rushed over and pushed at the side of the thing, feeling its skin pulse over the frame of metal that must have cost an unimaginable amount to produce. The expertly-weaved leather frame of the wheel wells, the massive, muscled arms where rubber met body, the custom-fitted bolts and imported suspension kits that had to have been installed by someone cleaner than anything Blitz could accomplish. I took out the scissors and began to cut.

The two-axle screamed, and the scream became a low moan became a gurgle became a choke as the damage to its brain finally dawned on the rest of the thing’s enormous body, and it finally began to die. Unnamable fluids leaked from its multiple exhaust ports, and the smell was like burning rubber, the iron scent of blood, and kind of smell you get from popping a festering wound.

I took the scissors in one hand, and the plasma torch in the other, and cut away swath after swath of skin, metal, leather, metal, flesh, metal, muscle, metal, bone, metal, intestine, metal, until I was so deep into the thing that it was too dark to see by anything other than the light of the torch. Squelches of failing organs surrounded me as oil and blood dripped into my hair and got caught in the gears of my leg. I gave the bloated liver a kick for good measure, which burst on my foot, and then plunged my hands into deepest recessed of the beast.

I rooted around inside of it for what felt like hours, but must have only been a few seconds, until I pulled out what I had come here for. The catalytic converter, a vestigial holdover that still held immense value in some circles, especially when ground into certain traditional fuel additives. It was something that I could identify, was small enough to carry, and was worth easily ten times more than my wheel bearing replacement. Blitz would be thrilled.

I grabbed any other small odds and ends I could in my pockets before extricating myself from the wrecked body. I was covered in slick, and as I rubbed the mess off my face to look around, I saw that I was surrounded by both streeteaters and other things like me. Including the same streeteater from earlier.

“Ford and Ferrari, pops, what the hell is this?” it asked, saliva already dripping from between its teeth.

“Eat up,” I said. I turned back to the two-axle one last time and cut off its arm for good measure. A model like this might have three wheel bearings in that limb alone.

Dragging the massive arm behind me, which had stiffened into a heavy fist, I left the destruction behind. The streeteaters had already begun to tear into the thing, clanking metal and sharpened claws pulled flesh and screws out and greedily stuffing them into gullets. Those that were more akin to myself hung back, but I could tell that they, too, would begin to pick through for whatever they needed or could sell. No one could resist a windfall like this. Anyone around here would be stupid to. It would be a grand day in the neighborhood, and I was certain all that would be left would be the metal frame by the time I got back.

The two-axle’s arm left deep grooves in the pavement as I dragged it behind me. The clenched fist was the side of my torso, and the bone that I gripped was studded with bolts and wiring connectors. It was wearing a watch, a massive one at that, and the face was cracked and broken and left behind shards of glass. The metal hands of it dug into the sidewalk. The watch face was engraved with “To Eddie.” Certain traces of guilt began to rise up, but I pushed them out just as quickly as they appeared. They, too, felt vestigial now.

Even my good leg was beginning to stiffen up with exertion by the time I got to Blitz’s. I slammed my fist on the massive sliding garage doors of the barber shop, and with a thunderous crash they slid to the side. Blitz was standing there, grin plastered across his face and practically spreading to this dirty apron. His gears spun madly as he saw what I was carrying.

“What have you done?” he cried gleefully, rushing forward to heft the arm over his shoulder. He dashed into the shop, and grabbing a hook from the scaffolding across the ceiling, pierced the arm’s flesh and dangled it from a chain. The watch clanked against other hooks as Blitz used a pulley system to lift it high. He admired it the entire time.

“It gets better,” I nearly shouted, and I pulled the catalytic converter, bits of vein dangling limply from either end, out of my pocket. Blitz turned his attention to me, and his gears outright stalled. Stumbling forward, one of  his arms spasmed back and forth in a repetitive motion while the other smashed the side of his own head with an open palm. The gears began to whir again.

“Beautiful craftsmanship. Just beautiful. What a gorgeous piece of machinery. You’ve outdone yourself, Eisen,” Blitz said, swiping it from my hand. He peered at it, sniffed it, licked it, sucked on the veins at the end of it. And then he grinned.

“This will cover the procedure nicely,” he said, and ran behind his counter. Instead of going to the shelves of parts along the wall, he tore open the curtains hiding his personal space, and stuffed the catalytic converter into a chest under his cot. He then turned to me.

“Are you ready to get a new wheel bearing?” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you prepared to undergo surgery now?” he said. He stepped up to the counter and began to line the belt of his apron with the profane tools that had been out all day. Just underneath his apron, I could see the outline of his piston moving up and down.

“Your wheel bearing has been, ah, extremely expedited,” he said. Moving to a box of spare parts along the wall, barely out of the entrance of the garage, he rummaged through a series of identical-looking pieces until he pulled out a ring of concentric circles and steel pillars. A new wheel bearing of exactly my make and model.

The frantic energy that had overtaken me ever since the first road of the two-axle drag race flowed away, brake fluid leaking from cut lines. Damage was good for business.

My leg throbbed as the muscles wound up against my old wheel bearing.

“Sure,” I said. “I’m ready now.”

“Great to hear it,” Blitz shouted, unperturbed. He pointed with a fat finger at the hydraulic lift in the middle of the mechanic and barber shop. “Just lay there and the barber will be with you in just a moment. Strip down, please. We’ll just need some metrics first.” His grin was palpable, even as I turned away.

I removed all my clothing, and climbed up onto the stainless steel lift, and laid against the curved metal that was wide enough for tank treads. The transition between the skin of my hip and the metal of my leg was tight and hot and raw and red. The wheel bearing clanked and whirred and tried to unwind itself, tried to undo what it had done and how it had torn up my leg and my ability to run. It stalled out, and instead wound tighter. I winced.

The lift began to ascend until my hip was a few feet off the ground. Blitz stood next to me, gears chittering and talking to themselves. He had one tool in each hand, muscles and wires flexing, and their movements spelled out the procedure that was to come. I felt increasingly ill.

“Ready to get your leg back?” Blitz said. I chuckled, dryly. There had never been any hope of that. I should have known it from the start.

“Go ahead,” I said. And Blitz began to cut.

(END)

And so concludes a violent and frightening story about violent and frightening people, trapped out in an array of appearances that may be more suited to the tastes of GWAR than Motorhead, really. At least I was able to keep my promise and make this story only a two-parter! And it’s a reasonable length, too. Though it was originally much shorter, as the very first outline had the story end after Blitz killed the streeteater. Eisen just went home and felt sad. But that didn’t feel like a very satisfying ending.

I want to take a minute to point out, once again, that this is a first draft. Most authors will never let you see a first draft, and there’s good reason for this. If/when this story eventually gets professionally published, or even if it makes a rerun on here later, it will be cleaned up of any grammar errors, weird sentences, and some of that extra fluff that just takes up space. Hopefully, later drafts will be more focused and pointed. The only reason the first drafts are going up here at all is because I need to write more, don’t want to make dedicated blog-only posts, and I have nothing else to post this week. I also figure the readership here is low enough that it won’t impact my future career. Hopefully.

As a secondary and final reminder, I want to again connect you to the excellent “Greaser” game, which I recommend you play because it’s even shorter than this story and uses exactly one button. And, thankfully, I do not feel jealous of that piece of media. Just, ah, inspired. So I can truthfully say that this story is not some sort of vain attempt at recouping self-worth after I destroyed what little was left. Hurray? Hopefully the venn diagram comparing this story and that one is wide enough for both to exist.