The Gas Station (© Corbin Blakenheart)
Page 1 "Shut
the fucking blinds kid I’m not gonna fucking tell you again." An angry clean
cut man about six foot and two hundred pounds hissed at a gangly nineteen year
old frat boy looking kid complete with polo shirt and khaki shorts. "Alright bro but they’re out there
and there’s more than there was." The kid said in a nervous whine but stood
straight up trying to look bigger and stronger than he really was, throwing the
A typical scathing rich kid superior look. "Why is it you think you can order
me around anyway? You should know I’m a legacy at the Delta Phi Capa house and
my Father is a US Senator so you can’t talk to me like that!! My brothers are…
AAHH." The boy shouted in fear as the man closed the gap between them and took
him to the floor one hand on his throat the other twisting his right wrist out
of the way at a painful angle. "I can and I fucking will talk to
you in any manner that I see goddamn fit to keep you from getting any of us
killed boy." The man hissed into his face. "Now keep FUCKING quiet or I’ll kill
you myself you spray tan Nancy boy bitch." Surging up to his feet he turned
away and paced to the far end of the store. Stepping up onto the register
counter the man looked out over the blinds towards the parking lot passed the
pumps and at the crowd of undead standing between him and his truck over the
red puddle of mush and bone that was the small elderly Asian man that owned the
place only minutes ago. And he got wrapped up in this for beer, chew cigarettes
and jerky. "Fucking hell, I’m not dying in a Korean owned chevron gas station
in pig knuckle Washington." Stepping down off the counter with a dull thud
belaying his size and weight, he reached up and pulled out a fresh can of
straight flavored chew and gently thumped it before snapping it open and taking
a dip. "Well mister Nang shouldn’t mind that I help myself just a tidge." The
man mumbled picking up a stack of canvas shopping sacks and stacking cartons of
cigarettes and logs of chewing tobacco. "Hey mister, are you like gonna take
ALL of the smokes because that was kind of the reason I came here to the store
and all…" a young Hispanic girl was saying to him and edging around trying to
snatch up a pack of menthol Kools. "I’ll tell you what child every pack
of menthols and ultra-lights is yours." The man replied with a comforting
smile. "That crazy fuck bruised my neck now
my initiation pictures are gonna look like shit, I’m calling a lawyer and
pressing charges man your done man. I’m gonna make sure you spend the next ten
years in prison you’re gonna get ra…." The Frat boy was cutoff mid rant for the
second time by the same man by violence of action. Getting smacked in the side
of the head by a Glock 17 is rather violent. "You have now lost talking
privileges, open your mouth again an I cut you down your frat brothers and US
Senator Daddy aside you mean less than nothing to anyone here rich kid and I
will kill you I shit you not, if you speak without being spoken to or piss me
off in anyway. Now go and sit down over there on the floor next to the fountain
drinks." The average sized man said angrily flicking the oversized spikey
haired child in the septum with the threaded barrel on his favorite costumed
out side arm a Gen III Glock seventeen nine millimeter. Staring down his charge
and making sure he was being obeyed he holstered his pistol in the shoulder rig
he wore under his button up work shirt, and caught an old man watching him intently.
"Is something on your mind sir?" He asked in a firm but respectful tone taking
a step forward to a more intimate distance. "No son I just notice things is all
and I happen to notice you have a pair of these," the old man said pulling a
beat up old set of dog tags from his shirt. "And I also noticed when your shirt
came open that under your left clavicle you have one of these," the man said
pulling his shirt down revealing a faded round tattoo with a parachute
sprouting spreading wings and a scuba mask in the middle crossed by a Ka-Bar
and an M-16 series rifle in the background. "So what I’m saying is brother, I’m
with you. And we are getting out of this one together and bringing as many of
these people with us as we can, except maybe the rich kid." The old timer said
with a grin making a gap in his unruly unkempt beard, simultaneously lifting
the hem of his flannel shirt revealing a worn in Browning Hi-Power .45 in a
paddle holster. [ Continue to page 2 ] |