Rescue by Radio (Edwin, Open)

Some one-thousand years into the future, Feila is now ruled by pop-crazy teenagers, computer nerds, and gun-wielding gangsters. This period is most like our present day Earth, specifically the 2000's, with the Internet, MP3 players, and towering skyscrapers. All natives are furry (Skin Avian are present here too). No native humans.
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Larcen
Duke
Duke
Posts: 1092
Joined: Thu Oct 25, 2007 4:31 am
Gender: Male
Species: Coyote
Location: East Berlin, Pennsyltuckia
Contact:

Rescue by Radio (Edwin, Open)

Post by Larcen »

"...Headed down the last road of your li-ife,
Dead-end drive,
Do and die,
The road to Hell's before your bloodshot eyes..."


"Ehh, second thought, nah, not that. Let's see..." It had to be a good one, and that song was about being drunk, which did not apply here. The coyote's paw clicked a few buttons on the CD changer's remote.

"We-ell that'll be the day,
When you say goodbye, yeah,
That'll be the day,
When you make me cry,
You say you don't love me,
You know that's a lie, 'cuz
That'll be the da-a-ay,
When I die!"


"Might as well." The coyote sat at the wheel as the singer moaned out his greatest hit. That guy was dead long ago. Lucky.

Cars honked and sped by on the passenger side. What was he doing, the idiot? He can't turn left there. Oh it might be noted that the coyote was idling, foot on the brake, left signal on. The entire car shook as he did, but from its own raw, rumbling power rather than adrenaline and anticipation. She was an antique two-door hatchback with an incongruously huge inline six--an SUV engine, really--built to four-hundred or more gurgling horsepower, wrapped in sparkling blue fiberglass where possible and emblazoned with a white stripe in the shape of a hockey stick along her sides. As it was a Gremlin, she had been christened the Kobalt Kobold. The coyote at the helm had loved it since his parents had gotten it when he was a mere five-year-old pup.

Now came the really hard part. Might as well go all the way with it. This kind of road trip could only be made once, and so ought to be done all out. Still, he hesitated. Okay, do it. He picked up the razor blade--how did pigs and possums and rats and whoever USE these things, anyway? Fashion had created some really dumb ideas, though smooth skin he supposed did feel nicer than bristle. The thin, flexible, double-edged blade, fresh from its packaging quivered between thumb and forefinger. If he did this, there was no turning back. Nope, he didn't want to turn back now. The note had been written, or rather, hand-typed on an antique Royal, the social media posts posted, everything was in order. He slashed, and missed. This was the hard part. Okay, slower. Don't fear the pain. The razor sliced fur, then bit flesh. Blood trickled out of both wrists.

Seeing his own life dripping onto the reupholstered Levi's denim seats, the coyote grit his teeth and punched it, wheeling the freak machine onto the highway, headed south. In the northbound lane. This was it. It would all be over soon. C'mon, girl. Show me what you've really got; this is your last time to show it. 80. 90. 100. 110..Come on...120! Rats, out of numbers. Oh well, the tachometer had more in it. Might as well build up as much speed as possible. If more people knew how very long it took to bleed out through slashed wrists, fewer would try it. This the coyote knew; he wasn't committing suicide by blade. It was just a romantic flourish, because why not? No, the true finish would happen not long after reaching redline. Crimson spattered onto the gearshift, steering wheel, center console. More cars honked and swerved as he dodged between them, slaloming down the broken white line. After reaching maximum speed, he would find the first unsuspecting trucker, and kiss his grille. The Gremlin had no modern safety features--no crumple zones, no airbags, no reinforced monocoque shell, just a dry-rotted seatbelt, and at that speed it would probably snap. At a hundred-thirty or so miles per hour, plus seventy going the opposite way, it would be like hitting a wall head-on at NASCAR speed. If he remembered the story of his uncle's tragic demise back in the 1970s, he would plunge head-first through the windscreen and richochet off of the truck's radiator, with the car doing nothing to protect him. His unwilling accomplice would likely have much better safety features, not to mention a lot more mass, and would be fine. Probably. For him, however, death would be instant, and beautiful in a way. The coyote and his beloved steed, his only prize possession, perishing at the exact same instant.

WAIT! There was one more message to deliver. Shaking, he picked up the mic. So much money he had spent on a vintage, manufacturer-correct 4 speaker AM/FM Stereo with a built-in CB radio! Set up just like they had back in the day. A quavering, manic voice broke over channel 19.

"Breaker breaker one-nine, this is the Kobalt Kobold with a 10-17 for anyone with their ears on. My 20 is Route 15, marker, heh heh hee h-hee," shoot, stave off that laughter so you can finish talking, he chided himself, "Ahem, marker 30. Stop me if you can. You probably can't, so, HAHAHA, sorry, little trouble staying on the level hee-hee-here. Just stay off 15 if you wanna make it to your next stop. I don't intend to. 10-27 40 so if you think you can stop me." Before the consternation reached his speakers, he switched to channel 40 to see if anyone cared enough to try and stop him. He knew they didn't. Still plenty of blood left in him, still plenty of adrenaline keeping him from crashing. Until he wanted to. Give 'em a chance.
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