Disclaimer: On November 13, Stoker1439 was asked to leave his
place of residence. That request came from his disclaimer. Deep down, he
knew it was right, but he also knew that one day, he would return to it.
With no other place to go, Stoker1439 went to the home of longtime friend
Oscar Madison, whose own disclaimer, years ago, had also told him to leave,
never to return. Can two un-disclaimered men live together without driving
each other crazy?
I do not own "Biker Mice From Mars," and make no profit off this
story. Zero, zip, nada. Got it? This was written for the fun of it. Enjoy!
Note: The characters and situations created in this story do belong to me (thanks to the copyright, ha ha!), so please restrain from writing any FanFics using them. All the subtle foreshadowing I throw in could go straight down the tubes with one little story. Please respect this wish and don't be mad. You're welcome to try your hand at sketching any of them, however!
If there is one good thing to be said about Mars, it's this: you'll never
get heat stroke there. I mean, if you don't spontaneously develop skin cancer
from the near-total lack of an atmosphere and die. The red planet is far
from red hot. Its distance from the sun makes Mars a dusty iceball. To be
scientific about it, Mars's average temperatures can range from a 60 degree
(F) high to a -90 degree low.
In the summer.
In winter, it can go as low as -200 degrees (readers outside the continental
United States should get out their temperature conversion charts--I can't
remember the Celcius conversion equation, and besides that, I'm not doing
any math until next month). The moral of the story: if you decide to visit
Mars, bring extra socks and a space heater.
For Mars's native inhabitants, however, winter is more comfortable than
it would be for humans. It would have to be, or Mars wouldn't have
any inhabitants. Many species at the poles developed larger feet for walking
on the snow, not unlike a snowshoe. Others hibernate. And all the native
races cute enough to make into plush toys are covered in a thick coat of
fur, particularly those which evolved at the poles.
So perhaps it should be no suprise that the cold didn't bother Stoker on
this, the last day of 1991. He was better equipped to deal with Mars's sub-arctic
winter temperatures than summer. Despite the blizzard all around him, his
thick jacket and gloves kept his hands and torso relatively warm.
Besides that, he had always loved winter. Never mind getting called off
school (Stoker's hometown had been used to blizzards and rarely canceled).
Stoker just liked the way it looked. He liked the way winter blanketed everything,
especially when the snow and ice would freeze on tree branches through an
entire forrest and leave the whole thing looking like something out of a
fantasy painting. For as long as he could remember, the loveliness of a
snow-covered field could take his breath away, seconds before he tore through
it on his bike, destroying the pristine beauty. After all, you can only
admire scenic beauty so long before you have to use it for a bike path.
And, of course, there was the added bonus that snow-storms, like the one
he was presently riding through, provide excellent cover for large groups
of armed resistance groups such as the Freedom Fighters. If not for the
cover of the snow, they would've had to have been more worried about the
threat of Plutarkians following them.
Stoker had a short lead on all the Freedom Fighters, but he could hear them
all as they followed behind. Chaos McKlash and Jamespolychronopolus, aka
"Jimmy," were the closest to him, both physically and in terms
of friendship, and were swapping jokes, many of which can't be reprinted
here. Behind them, Stoker could pick out the sounds of gray goliath Smoke
and his oh-so-sensual lover Haywire fighting (again). Scoot and Chance,
the slacker and the former-Army soldier, were riding behind the two of them.
And although, further back, voices were carried away by the wind, Stoker
could still hear the sounds of the three very finely-tuned engines belonging
to the four young Biker Mice from Mars--Throttle, Modo, Vinnie, and Bingo--ripping
through the night air. Behind them were the couple-dozen extras who rounded
out the Freedom Fighter lineup and can be named or left nameless at my convenience.
Yes, Stoker was in a good mood tonight. But was it the winter, or because
of how well today's battle had gone, or was it because it was New Year's
Eve? He'd decide later.
Looking ahead, Stoker spotted, through the snow, what appeared to be normal
stone wall at the base of an otherwise nondescript mountain capped with
a monestary. He smiled to himself as he pulled to a halt just short of the
wall, slightly off to the side of the winding road. Stoker quickly hopped
off his bike, letting it idle. With one numb palm, Stoker pushed up a small
rock in the bulwark, revealing a numbered keypad beneath. Stoker typed in
the passcode (1-8-8-7), then stepped back to allow a hidden entranceway
to reveal itself. A small drift of snow which had accumulated on the top
of the door fell away in a white, sparkling curtain.
"Everybody inside!" he shouted, waving an arm at the brightly-lit
tunnel at his side. "Hustle!"
Stoker waited beside the doorway, watching all the other Freedom Fighters
venture inside before him, along with their bikes (including Stoker's own).
It wasn't so much to do a headcount--Stoker did those before the mice left
the battlefield (today's had been what remained of Crater Run, a former
planetary preservation park akin to Yellowstone, only with fewer hot springs
and more craters), and double-checked once every hour or so, just to be
safe--but as to have some time alone to unwind. When he was in battle, Stoker
let his adrenilen carry him. He seemed invulnerable between his speed and
strength. But when the day was done, and that adrenilen was spent, Stoker's
body ached. Perhaps he just got too excited to feel any pain during
battle, but after was a completely different story. He was exhausted. At
least most times, it was a pleasant sort of exhaustion, akin to the feeling
a swimmer has after spending a long, satisfactory day in the pool.
And yet, this private rest period went beyond the physical. Stoker needed
time to pull his mental state back together. During a battle, he was expected
to be one of the shining stars on the field, taking out Plutarkians left
and right, but also, to be leader. The combination often left him feeling
sort of frazzled, burnt out, by day's end. He never felt intelligent after
a battle, like he had expended all his brain-power and was running on empty.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Stoker was coming to terms
with the fact that, no matter how many battles the Freedom Fighters seemed
to win, no matter how many Plutarkians they put six feet under, more were
always on the way. More of their well-trained troops. More of their advanced
weaponry. More.....
Shaking his head, Stoker watched as the last few of his fellow Fighters
entered, then gazed up at the sky. The blowing snow and heavy clouds obscured
most of it, but he could see, through holes in the gray, the saphire blue
sky peeking through, and the twinkling stars hanging there. For a moment,
Stoker tried to pick out the constillations he knew. He was sure he had
spotted Earth, then dismissed it as a sattelite (even though he was right
the first time).
I wonder, Stoker thought to himself. When I'm gone, will this
still be here? Or will the Plutarkians steal the sky, too?
Fearing that his thoughts might become even more fatalistic should he remain
outside, Stoker quickly and quietly slipped inside. He shook the snow from
his coat onto the flagstones that lined the hall and pulled it off quickly.
The passage was too warm to wear heavy clothing in for more than a minute.
Pushing his dark brown bangs out of his red eyes, and his two long, twin
ponytails off his slightly-paler brown-furred shoulders (and making a mental
note to find some Pantene ProV for those nasty split-ends), Stoker felt
along the wall until he found a small, rounded stone there, twin to the
one outside with the keypad hidden inside it. He pressed down on the little
rock, and listened as the door shut firmly behind him.
I love this place, he thought to himself as he entered a slightly
larger hallway, one wide enough that three or four mice could walk abreast
in it and not bump each other. We couldn't have picked a better location.
He was right. The Serene Monestary was an ideal base. The monestary, the
mountain it was built on, and several dozen acres of the surrounding countryside
were all property of the mysterious Order of St. Dumas, making it property
that the Martian government could not seize, not even with eminent domain.
The Order's monks still occupied the three, rather plain, small buildings
which topped the mountain the underground base was hidden in.
But those buildings had been built in the recent, measurable past. The catacomb-like
underground hidden inside the mountain and presently occupied by the Freedom
Fighters was beyond ancient. No one, not even the monks who lived there,
knew who had built it, or why. Or if they did, they wouldn't say. It had
once been a refuge for religious and political dissidents long ago, which
probably explained the elaborate tunnel system and hidden entrances and
exits, but little else of its history was known.
All else aside, this gigantic basement of sorts was a twisting rabbit's
warren. Tunnels ran all through it, connecting the large, suprisingly airy
rooms and living quarters nicely. There were enough of these to afford individual
rooms to those that wanted them, and still left plenty of space for a bike
garage, weapon storage, and a kitchen. All the tunnels led, in the end,
to a huge "hall" the Freedom Fighters used for dining and general
assembly when something needed to be said to the group, such as plans for
the next day's battle.
What amazed Stoker about the place most of all was how easily the Freedom
Fighters had aquired it. During a snow storm rather like tonight's, Stoker
and his small band of followers had sought refuge in the monestary. When
Scoot had discovered the hidden tunnels while looking for a bathroom (which
he never found), the monks readily lent it to the rebels. Stranger still,
despite the fact that the monestary itself relied on candles for light and
wells for water, the underground rooms had been wired up for electricty
and had modern plumbing. Whenever Stoker had tried to find out why
such a clearly ancient place had such amenities, and not the monestary itself,
the monks would just shrug and say, "Sorry, can't. Vow of silence."
This annoyed the leader of the Freedom Fighters to no end, as they were
regular chatterboxes any other time. Their damn chanting could drive a Freedom
Fighter wonky. The monks claimed they were preparing to cut an album based
on Gregorian chants, but no one believed them.
But nobody complained. The monks had been more than kind. Not only did they
give the Freedom Fighters shelter, but they also swore they would never
reveal the location of the secret base. Stoker couldn't say why, but he
trusted them, even though most of the other Freedom Fighters didn't on the
basis that they were Dumasians. Maybe knowing Affidayvit had something to
do with it. Stoker couldn't be sure.
He thought of none of this, however, as he continued through the hewn-rock
tunnel. At the moment, Stoker wanted nothing more than to sit down in his
small, private room, relax, and maybe do a little reading before he had
to start thinking about the next skirmish with the Plutarkians.
Have to talk to Chaos about that, he decided, slightly somber.
She'll know from the government's spy sattelites where they're headed, and
where we can stop them. I'll ask her before we meet up with Jimmy. Don't
wanna think about that kinda thing too much on a night like tonight.
War strategy would only be a part of their conversation, Stoker was
well aware of that. When he started talking with Chaos, he often found himself
babbling about anything and everything under the sun. He couldn't explain
it, but he loved to talk with her. It wasn't that Chaos was a great conversationalist
or anything, but she was a wonderful listener, which, ultimately, was more
important (and usually is). It always did Stoker's heart good to talk to
her, or just to be with her.
"Stoker!" a chipper young voice called out suddenly from behind.
The older mouse barely had time to turn around before a pair of bare, pumpkin-furred
forearms wrapped around his neck and pulled him close. He wrapped his own
thin, tautly-muscled ones around the slender, softly-curving and oh-so-farmiliar
body. His hips pressed in tight against hers, and he could feel a deep,
rising heat in parts of his anatomy I can't mention here, lest this story
be dubbed pornography, despite the fact that Anne Rice's books would never
be called that save by the up-tighter members of the religious right. When
the girl pulled back to arm's length, he could see the heavy blush in her
round cheeks, and Stoker wondered if the two of them weren't about to take
their relationship to a new level.
Which was absolutely fine with him.
Any heady sexual mood was abruptly killed when Harley threw back her head
and giggled, her wavy hair bouncing around her blue eyes as the air filled
with her bubbly laughter. It hit home once again with Stoker just how young
she was, especially compared to himself. It had always been a joke between
the two of them that, one of these days, they were going to end up on a
talk show with a title like, "She's Not My Grand-daughter, She's My
Girlfriend!" (perhaps they were lucky that Kheta-Burnez, one of Mars's
major telelvision centers and home to several dozen such programs, had been
destroyed months ago).
But it was a May/December romance, to be sure. Harley was twenty, Stoker
was sixty-three (which is almost mid-life for a mouse; Martian mice can
live one-hundred fifty years easily). It would've sent most mice into coniptions.
Both of the two mice involved, of course, seemed to be enjoying it. Stoker
could be incredibly romantic, and Harley loved being with a dashing older
man. But although he tried to downplay it, the difference in their ages
did bother Stoker.
He tried to dismiss these thoughts.
"Hey, kitten," he said with a smarmy grin.
"Don't `kitten' me!" Harley said with mock-anger. "I've been
looking all over for you!"
"Is that a fact?" Stoker asked, raising an eyebrow.
Nodding, Harley snapped, "You shouldn't have left me behind! What if
someone had been hurt? Or a bike was hit? Or--"
"It wasn't a big deal, Harley! We won, first off, we didn't lose anybody,
and practically no one was even hurt! It was nothing that we couldn't handle
on our own! I knew it was going to be a small fight, so we just doubled-up
on first aid supplies and went from there. I had Scoot doing first aid!"
Harley's face turned white.
"Are you sure no one died?" she asked.
"Positive! Even Scoot isn't that bad. Besides, I thought you could
use the break!"
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Harley asked with a
crooked smile.
Shrugging, Stoker replied, "You're always saying you're exhausted,
that you need some rest. I give you a chance, and you get mad! Girl, make
up your mind!"
Harley hmph-ed and said, "Well, you could've at least told me, instead
of letting me oversleep! I thought everyone had abandoned the base without
telling me or something!"
"Sorry," Stoker answered, shrugging.
"Geez! I didn't know that there was even a battle today until one of
the mice in the infirmary told me! When did you plan this?"
Smiling a little, Stoker replied, "Ooooh, say, last night, around midnight.
Chaos found out the fish-heads were headed for--"
"I still can't believe you didn't tell me!"
Stoker sighed. Attractive as she was, sometimes Harley got on his nerves.
He hated to admit it, but they were really worlds apart at times. Particularly
at this moment. She just wouldn't let go of being left behind. He wouldn't
tell her so, but part of the reason he had left her behind was because she
had been too clingy lately.
Okay! he told himself. Now is not the time for talk; now is the
time for action!
"Actually," Stoker said, pointing to his arm, "I think I
pulled a muscle in my shoulder. Maybe you could take a look?"
Smiling, Harley carefully began to feel up Stoker's arm. Her fingers carefully
pressed along its firm surface and parted the thick brown fur there, searching
for any sign of damage.
Suddenly, Stoker grabbed her at the shoulder and back and dipped her, as
if they were a pair of dancers in the midst of a tango. Harley giggled as
Stoker kissed her full and on the lips.
There we go, he thought to himself. No more conversation for me,
thanks!
Before they could get into any major tonsil-hockey, however, Stoker paused.
Despite the fact that he hadn't heard anyone approach, he realized that
they weren't alone.
He looked up, not yet unlocking himself from Harley's lips (it might just
be a squirrel-bat or something, and he wasn't about to stop kissing Harley
because of a stupid squirrel bat), and realized even before he saw
her young, white-furred face, that it was Chaos. She was standing behind
them, a slim, white-furred mouse with her arms hanging at her side. Almost
looked a little riled. Maybe it was just the way her hair was falling in
her eyes. As was her custom after a battle, she had removed the long green
headband she wore (now in one slender hand). Thus released from their green
ribbon prison (try saying that three times fast), shanks of dark chocolate
hair were free to fall across her green eyes, giving her a more messy look
than she preferred.
But was that.....jealousy in those liquid green pools, or was it
just the light?
Probably just the light, Stoker decided, still locked in his kiss.
Chaos isn't the jealous type.
At least, she never was before....
"Ow!" Harley shouted, pulling herself out of Stoker's arms and
covering her eyes. "Dammit, Chaos! Cover your stupid hand up!"
Chaos smiled a bit, holding up her metallic left arm and inspecting it as
if she was suprised.
"I'm sorry, Harley. I can't help the way light bounces off this thing.
Or my leg. It's just beyond my control."
"I'll bet," the Martian mechanic snarled. "Maybe you should
cover that leg up a little more. Shorts in this weather can't be good for
your circuits."
"And I'd wager wearing a shirt like that with such a low collar without
a bra can't be too good for you, either," Chaos replied, eyes narrowed.
Although Stoker was not well-versed in the ways of women, he could feel
the mounting tension between the two of them (as if their bared teeth and
clenched fists weren't enough of a clue). He stepped quickly between the
two of them.
"McKlash," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, "I'm
sorry I didn't come in with you and Jim. I just needed some time alone,
is all."
"Of course," Chaos agreed, pulling a long orange hair from Stoker's
vest. She raised an eyebrow, then said, "Which is why you were in a
lip-lock with Harley, right?"
Harley crossed her arms over his chest and snapped, "Are you here for
a reason, Chaos, or do you just like to interrupt mice expressing
their love for each other?"
Chaos, slightly riled by the question, replied, "Actually, Harley,
I'm here to see you."
"Me?" Harley asked, slightly skeptical.
"Mmhmm. There are mice in the main hall who're waiting for you with
injuries more serious than a `pulled shoulder.' They need you, and I think
you should take care of them promptly. Internal injury is hard to spot unless
you're trained, after all. I mean, I don't know about you, but if one of
those mice were to die of internal bleeding while you and Stoke were--"
Harley sighed grandly and turned to Stoker.
"I'll be back later," she said. Sparing a glance at Chaos, she
snapped, "Maybe then we can find a place away from prying eyes."
She gave Stoker a quick peck on the cheek, which made him smile. But he
wasn't oblivious to the disappointment on Harley's own face when there was
no discernable change in Chaos's expression. In fact, there was a look of
shock on Harley's face, which just made Chaos shrug her shoulders,
as if to ask, "What?"
Harley disappeared down the hall, cursing to herself.
Damn Chaos, she thought to herself, clenching her fist. She's
always so.....so....so.....oooh! Always butting in like that! She likes
Stoker, I know she does! Well, she's not getting him! He's mine!
"Is that true?" Stoker asked, looking her square in the eye, glaring
slightly.
"Partially," Chaos replied slyly. Other mice could be intimidated
by Stoker, but she never was. "There are mice in the main hall.
Just not wounded ones. I wanted to get Harley out of the way so we could
talk for a minute."
Stoker crossed his arms over his chest and said with a smile, "Very
clever, McKlash, although you could've just asked her to step around the
corner for a minute."
"Harley doesn't listen to me," Chaos corrected him. "She
doesn't like me."
"Sure she does!" Stoker laughed, patting Chaos on the back. "She
just doesn't show it, is all."
Chaos shook her head and pulled something from her pocket, which she handed
to Stoker.
"What's this?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.
"Note from Jim," she replied.
Not bothering to unfold it, Stoker asked, face slightly fallen, "We're
still on for tonight, right?"
"If you're not too busy," Chaos answered. "Do
you think you can put off another round off being with Harley for about
twenty minutes? We won't keep you long."
Stoker snickered, then held up the note and asked, "Then what's this?"
Shrugging again, Chaos said, "I don't know. I'm not in the habit of
reading other mice's correspondence. Jimmy just asked me to give it to you.
I think he said something about meeting somewhere different tonight."
"Really?" Stoker asked, raising an eyebrow.
Nodding, Chaos added, "I forgot where, though. I'll ask him if I see
again."
"With that memory of yours, I'm not suprised."
Shrugging, the white-furred mouse started to walk away, adding, "Yeah,
well, that might not even be what it's about. I'll see you--"
"Wait!" Stoker shouted.
Chaos turned around, a curiously hopeful look on her face.
"Something bothering you?" he asked.
"No," Chaos replied, shaking her head.
Scratching his head, Stoker said, "Hmm. You just look a little depressed.
You're not usually like that on New Year's."
"No, I'm fine."
"Okay, then. I'll see you later."
"Okay."
Damn Harley, Chaos thought to herself, clenching her fist in her hand.
Little...little......oooh! Every time I wanna talk to Stoker, she's all
over him, like some kinda goddamn octopus! Geez! If she'd just leave him
alone for five minutes....
No, that's not right. It's my own fault that he doesn't know how I feel
as much as anything she's done. I should've just told him when he asked
if anything was wrong. Ah well. Maybe one of these days...
Sometimes, I just don't get that girl, Stoker thought to himself, watching
her disappear down the hall.
He then turned his attention to the note.
It was on pale yellow paper--hotel stationary, Stoker guessed--and written
in Jimmy's hectic, sprawling script, most likely with his favorite pen--a
small green that revealed a topless girl when turned upside-down. Over the
years, this innovation had helped Jimmy to become very adept at writing
while lying on his back.
It read:
STOKER,
ROOFTOP MAIN BUILDING (THE TALL ONE). ELEVEN.
BYOB.
YOUR #1 PORN STAR,
James
Stoker shook his head and crumpled the paper in his hand. He decided that
he might very well kill Jimmy tonight. He paused for a second, then decided
against it. Stoker liked New Year's Eve too much to kill anyone, even his
best friend.
Looks like Chaos was right, he thought to himself. Phew. I was
worried for a minute that something else came up. Heh. Jim wouldn't
cancel on us.
He pushed up the brown band on his right arm and looked at his watch.
Ten thirty? Later than I thought. Hmmm. There probably isn't a
drop of booze left in this place. Guess I'm gonna have to go dry tonight.
Just as well.
Still, he decided to check the kitchen and see what was left. After all,
not everyone on base liked to get smashed on New Year's. Maybe some
considerate soul had left a shot or two for him.
Sheah, right, and monkeys might fly out of my butt, he thought to
himself, walking down the narrow, twisting hallway that would lead him into
the kitchen. Maybe it's all for the best. Gotta stay alert. Never know
when the fish-faces are gonna attack. This morning's fight was kind of a
suprise itself.
Still, I was kinda lookin' forward to--
"Stoker!"
Stoker turned, almost expecting to see Harley again, and was just a little
disappointed to see a male, tan-furred mouse rushing up to meet him, several
years Harley's junior. The boy was clearly out of breath, and had obviously
been looking for Stoker for quite awhile, if the relieved look on his face
was any indication.
"Throttle," the older mouse said, smiling. He stopped and waited
for the young mouse to catch up. It was easy for him to forget how quickly
his long strides could carry him compared to those of the Biker Mice's young
leader. It would be easier on Throttle if he just waited a moment, as opposed
to Stoker just slowing his pace. "What's up?"
Throttle jogged up to Stoker's side, his heavy flack vest and long hair
bouncing as he did. When he finally managed to stop, he had to rest a moment
before he could talk.
"Spit it out, kid," Stoker laughed, patting him on the back. He
almost knocked Throttle over with the blow.
"We were *pant* wondering where you *pant* were!" Throttle explained
between great gasps of breath.
"You're not the only one!" Stoker laughed. "I'm a popular
mouse tonight. Everyone's looking for me."
Throttle grinned and added, "We *pant* thought you *pant* might've
changed your *good golly Miss Molly I'm outta breath* mind about ridin'
*huff* out to see *puff* the meteor shower with us!"
Stoker slapped his hand against his forehead and shouted, "Dammit!
I forgot all about it!"
Throttle straightened and pulled off his black and green mirrorshades, cleaning
them carefully with the corner of his shirt as he said, "Well you'd
better hurry! We don't get too many really good ones! Usually we're fightin'
the fish-heads when there's gonna be a decent one. Some might even hit tonight!
You don't wanna miss this!"
After a moment of silence, Stoker sighed and shook his head.
"'Fraid you boys are gonna have to go without me," he said sadly.
Disappointment playing across his young face, Throttle cried out, "But
you said you wanted to see it!"
Stoker sighed and pushed his bangs out of his eyes and said, "I know
I did. But.....I kinda made plans for tonight before you guys told me about
the shower. I just forgot about them until tonight."
"What plans?" Throttle asked, annoyed. He couldn't have been mroe
upset if Stoker had just confessed that he was a Plutarkian spy working
to destroy the Martian resistance from within. "Come on, Stoke! It
won't be any fun without you!"
The young mouse's eyes were so heart-breakingly disappointed Stoker could
hardly find it within himself to say no. Truth be told, he did want
to see the shower. Throttle was right--few and far between were the oppurtunities
he had to just kick back and watch something like that these days. Stoker
had missed the planetary alignment a few years back. He hated to
miss another astronomical event of this caliber. And with the four young
Biker Mice--that would be fun.
As he shifted his weight to the other foot, he could feel the note in his
pocket rubbing against his hand.
He sighed again.
Putting a hand gently on Throttle's shoulder, Stoker explained, "Throttle,
everyone's got holidays that are very special to them, okay? Christmas,
Easter, first day of summer, this `Kwanza' thing I keep hearing about, you
know? Well, New Year's Eve is very special to me, and--"
"So why don't you wanna spend it with us?" Throttle asked
angrily as he stared up at the older mouse. There was a full head of height
between them, but Stoker almost felt that Throttle was going to knock him
down with those eyes.
If it had been anyone but Stoker to deny him, Throttle could've dealt
with it easily. There would've been rejection issues to deal with later,
possibly on a therapist's couch, but he could've dealt with it. Or he'd
just go postal in a government building. Both would be equally effective
in relieving his anger.
But Stoker was Throttle's absolute idol. There was nothing
Throttle wanted more in the world to be like the older mouse, who was not
only Mars's most famous biker, and probably the most skillful, but also
an incredible leader, tactician, and completely brilliant. Stoker was everything
Throttle aspired to be.
He also had great, bouncy hair, which Throttle wanted to have, too.
And for Stoker to say he didn't want to spend time with him (and his bros)....it
was a terrible disappointment.
And Stoker knew it, so he tried to soften the blow.
"Kid," he said gently, "you and your bros are a family, right?
I mean, I know you're not related, but.......you get the drift."
Throttle nodded.
"Okay. You're a family, you're best pals, you've been that way for
years. But tell me this much--who did you spend last Christmas with?"
"With you guys, remember?" Throttle asked, a slight grin on his
lips. "It just just six days ago."
"Oh yeah," Stoker muttered. "Okay, but before the war--who
did you spend Christmas with? Your parents, right? Or your grand-parents?"
The young mouse answered simply, "My Great-Aunt Hale. My grand-parents
are dead. We'd go up to her place in Detsunu every Christmas Eve and spend
the night there. Then we'd go home the next day."
Nodding, Stoker said, "And why did you do that?"
"'Cause we always did that," Throttle answered simply. "It
was kinda tradition. I didn't mind goin', though. I loved bein' with Aunt
Hale."
"Okay, you do it because of tradition. Well, tonight's the same deal
with me. Every New Year's Eve I spend with Jimmy and Chaos, just the three
of us. We've done it for the last four years or so, and I wouldn't miss
it for the world."
Throttle bit his lip and slid his glasses back on.
"I understand," he said, turning on his heel and starting to walk
away quickly.
Stoker's hand suddenly clapped on Throttle's shoulder, stopping the young
mouse in his tracks.
"No you don't. You're just upset and you wanna get away before you
start to tear up."
Sighing, Throttle slumped his shoulders and said, "So? What's the difference?
You're not coming and there's all there is to it."
God, Stoker thought to himself, was I like this when I was fifteen?
Stoker turned Throttle around--an easy task; like I said, he had a foot
of height on the young mouse and was a good deal stronger--and said with
a gentle, knowing smile, "Look, you wanna know why we spend New Year's
Eve together? It's kind of a long story, but it might make it sting a little
less."
"Well, it's kinda late, and I gotta get goin'......." Throttle
said carefully, although Stoker could tell that he was curious. Throttle
loved long stories. It was one of the qualities the two mice shared.
Which reminded Stoker that Throttle still had his unabridged copy of The
Stand.
"Siddown, kid," the older mouse said, leading him into the kitchen
and patting the chair sitting on the far side of the room.
Throttle turned the chair around backward and wrapped his legs around the
back. He crossed his arms and rested them on the top of the chair, then
plopped his chin down on top.
Stoker hopped up on the bar.
"Now, just in case I get long-winded, do you mind missin' the shower?
You might not make it out to the spires if you leave too late."
Throttle smiled and pulled a small walkie-talkie from his vest-pocket. He
pushed in the button on the side and said into the bottom, "Vincent,
you there, bro?"
There was a hiss of static, and then the high-pitched, changing voice of
Vinnie VanWham came on from the other side, asking, "Bro? Where are
you? We're already at the spires!"
"I'm gonna be awhile. Tell Bing to be ready with a black hole if I
need her t'be. I'll probably be in the kitchen at base, okay?"
"Is Stoke comin'?" Vinnie demanded.
Throttle looked up hopefully at the older mouse hopefully.
Stoker firmly shook his head no.
"No."
"That sucks! What's so damn important that the old fart can't--"
Stoker plucked the walkie-talkie from Throttle's hand and said, smiling,
"This old fart is planning how to punish you for rank
insubordination, punk."
"Stoke!" Vinnie stammered nervously. "Uh, I wasn't talking
about you! I said somebody left a fart! It was
Modo!"
"Did not!" a distant voice shouted from the other end of the walkie-talkie.
Throttle and Stoker both snickered a little.
"Throttle'll catch up to you boys a little later," Stoker continued.
"He'll make it in time for the shower, don't worry. And try not to
dig yourself in any deeper, Vincent."
Vinnie grumbled as Stoker handed the small communicator back to Throttle,
who pushed down the telescoping antenna and tucked it away.
"He really likes you," the younger mouse said with an apologetic
grin.
"I know," Stoker replied. "He's just like me. But that's
not what we're here to talk about. Well, like I said, it's kind of a long
story, Throttle. Goes back a couple years."
Throttle raised an eyebrow and asked, "You wanna share? Might be quicker."
Stoker shook his head and said, "Naw. You're young--you don't need
an old mouse's messed-up memories floatin' around in your head."
"Aw, Stoke, you aren't old!" Throttle laughed.
Smiling at the inadverdent comment, Stoker added, "Besides that, I'm
no good at sharing anymore. I just plain lost it when I was a kid. I was
sick for awhile, and when I woke up, it was gone."
"That's too bad," Throttle said sadly. "A mouse like you's
probably got tons of cool memories."
Stoker nodded and said, "Of course. I've lived an interesting life.
But then again, most mice these days can't share like they could when I
was young."
"Really?" Throttle asked curiously. "I didn't know that!"
"Sure. Folks don't need it anymore. It's only really useful for criminal
trials and war and stuff. Most biologists figure that the only reason we
have the ability in the first place was to pass on history and oral traditions
(snicker), and it's been sort of dying ever since. After all, we've got
a written language now, and cameras can capture images more sharply and
more accurately than memory. Like I said, it'll be useful during this war,
but not as much as it could've been. I guess life was too peaceful too long.
When mice don't use it, they lose it. It just disappears.
"How are you at it?"
Throttle said simply, "Well, I guess I'm good. My bros always say I'm
pretty clear. They even say they can hear me narrating, too."
"That's impressive," Stoker said, nodding. "Keep at it, kid;
that's a skill that could help you later on." He snickered, then added,
"Especially for flashback sequences.
"Now, where was I?"
"Why New Year's is important to you....?"
"Oh yeah. Well, in the first place, I've always loved New Year's. I
mean, it's a beautiful time. Snow on the ground, blanketing everything,
you know. And it was important to my old man, so I've always liked it for
that reason, too. But beyond that, with the beginning of another year, you
can be reborn yourself. I've always taken resolutions seriously for that
reason. It's the perfect time to start again.
"Why I spend it with Chaos and Jimmy kinda goes along with that.
We were all reborn that night--well, technically, it was the following morning--and
we like to celebrate that fact. I remember that night like it was yesterday.
The year was 1986, and it was, obviously, New Year's Eve. The snow was falling
in bricks that night. The worst blizzard of the decade. Worse than tonight's,
even, if you can believe it."
"I don't know that I can," Throttle said with a sarcastic grin.
"Smart-ass. Anyway, the snow was blowin', the roads were slick, and
I was on my way to visit Jimmy....."
If it can be said that cities live and die, then Ash was like a person in
a vegetative coma. Just lying there with no hope whatsoever of recovery.
It was actually worse than that, even--the plug was being pulled.
Once the proud mining center of Mars, Ash had boomed for the first hundred
years or so after its founding by a small group of brave frontiers-mice
who had left a neighboring city to escape religious prosecution.
Well, actually, because they wanted to marry their cousins.
No, that's not quite right either. They wanted to have the right to marry
their brothers and sisters, which was permissible in the city they
had left. The problem was, no one could figure out the proper dowry. One
side of the town said that the bride's family had to give the groom's family
a pair of pigs, while the other, clearly more intelligent side of town,
said it was four chickens. It was this philosphical debate that split the
town and led to the founding of Ash.
So, as you can see, it was f--ked up from the beginning.
But as the mines dried up, the jobs dried up with them. Families who had
worked in the mines for generations and had known no other life than growing
up, getting married, starting a family, working in the mines, and dying
(though not necessarily in that order), now found themselves out of work
and out of money with no idea of what to do. And many of the town's mice,
after decades of hard, back-breaking work in the mines, were too proud to
go on the welfare rolls or social security, which was probably for the best--the
Martian government's current system was running quickly out of money (sound
farmiliar?). With no other major job market in Ash, mice had to leave, to
seak out greener pastures (or if there were no greener pastures to be found,
then jobs).
A few souls remained, however; mostly the gruff, older, single male mice
who had been born and raised in Ash and were determined not to leave unless
the town was hit by a thermonuclear device. Then, they conceded, they might
consider moving.
There wasn't much to do in Ash for these hangers-on. For some odd reason,
and I'm still not sure just why, when there were no jobs and very
little cash flow among the citizens, major coporations had no interest in
building malls or creating sports franchises. Presently, the main activity
in Ash was drinking. And while it was easy enough to drink at home, most
of Ash's citizens preferred to do so at the place Stoker was presently en
route to.
Now, all Stoker's life, he had been a Biker Mouse, and he was very proud
to be one. He rode his motorcycle everywhere, rain or shine, no matter what
the distance. He eschewed using Transporters (which were too expensive),
or buying a sand-skimmer (too ugly, too bourgeoisie), and using the hyper-fast
U-Trains whose tunnels ran just beneath the surface of the planet (he would
say, "too bourgeoisie" again, but the fact of the matter was,
the back-and-forth motion of the train made him too sick to read).
Now, he was really starting to regret his decision not to use a form of
alternative transportation.
As it was every year, the Martian winter was, on average, rougly two-hundred
times worse than any blizzard ever to strike any reigon of the Earth. Howling
winds drove snow down in thick, heavy blankets at incredible speeds, coating
entire towns in minutes. The roads, where there were roads, were slick with
slush. Colossal drifts became giant white waves across the huge, open fields
between Martian towns.
Tonight, in addition to all that, Stoker had to deal with freezing rain.
With no overhead protection from it, a thin coating of ice had built up
on his bike's dash, obscuring the dials, and on his toggle jacket and brown
leather riding chaps. He had lost the feeling in his hands and feet an hour
ago, despite the thick gloves and boots he wore. The wind somehow found
a way to get into his helmet and was busily trying to find a way to chap
the skin under his fur. The rain had turned Stoker's long ponytails into
a pair of fat, wet brown clumps sitting like a pair of tiny sumo wrestlers
on one shoulder. The only good thing about the icy water raining down on
him was that it had built up a thick enough crust on the snow outside Ash,
where there was no road, to support his bike (thank God for smart-traction
tires!). If it had broken under its weight, or there had been no crust,
he would've had to use his bike's single laser cannon to melt a path through
the snow. That would've cut down on his power, and he probably would've
had to wait for his battery to recharge before continuing. That would've
meant spending an entire night in the icy fields, something Stoker had no
intention whatsoever of doing.
It better be like an oven at Jimmy's, Stoker thought grimly to himself,
taking his hands off the grips to rub them together, desperately trying
to revive them. God, I'm freezing. If he's out of fuel, I swear to God
I'll kill him. Kill him and burn his body to warm up.
Say, that's not such a bad idea...
Stoker had hoped that, upon reaching the highway, they would be relatively
clear. After spending several days riding in the blizzard and unpaved, dune-ridden
fields on his way North from Cimmeria, he was fairly certain that Ash's
roads would be plowed by the time he arrived at the checkpoint where he
would be allowed passage into the city.
No such luck.
Upon reaching the checkpoint, where the highway into Ash began, Stoker was
disheartened to see the road almost as thickly covered as the surrounding
plains. If anything, it looked worse. The salt tossed down on the ice--the
only effort to clear the road at all--had frozen fast to it, creating a
thick, bumpy top layer.
At least I'm almost there, he told himself, pulling up to the large,
drive-up bank-sized booth. Almost there. I'll get some hot soup. Tell
Jim I want it before I'm even in the door. Shout it from outside. Maybe
I'll stop at a payphone on my way and tell Jimmy to have it ready for me
when I get there.
There didn't seem to be anyone manning (mous-ing?) the booth tonight.
The lights and the television inside were both on, but Stoker could see
no one at the desk waiting to take his travel visa.
Dammit, he thought to himself angrily. I can't get in if they don't
lift the gate. I could try to slip under, I guess. Ash probably doesn't
have the new electro-plates under the gate itself, but still.....
He looked for the intercom button on the near side of the building,
to call inside to see what was going on, and saw an OUT OF SERVICE sign
taped on the front. It was abruptly torn away by the breeze and disappeared
in the swirling snow.
Sighing, Stoker put up his kickstand and swung his right leg up over the
bike. He stepped onto the slick pavement and walked gingerly over to the
door around the side of the building.
If nobody's here, he told himself, then I'm just gonna call my
bike under. That's all there is to it. Don't care if I get a fine
or not.
Suddenly, Stoker's right foot slipped out from under him. He watched
it fly up in the air in front of him as he began to fall.
"Shit!" he shouted.
WHISH!
He whipped his tail up around the rain spouting just under the roof and
pulled it tight as he fell toward the ice. Stoker flipped over backwards
in mid-fall and found himself suspended from the spouting by his tail, the
tip of his nose an inch from the pavement.
"Phew," he whispered, attempting to wipe the sweat from his brow
but actually just wiping off his helmet as he swung lazily around. "That
was close."
CRACK!
WHUMP!
The spouting broke suddenly and sent Stoker face-first onto the pavement.
He laid there for a few minutes, the sharp pain of impact in his hands and
feet suddenly bringing them back to life. He would've rather kept the numbness
as opposed to the needle-sharp awareness he now enjoyed.
"Ugh," he muttered, palming the helmet screen up and rubbing his
sore nose. "That's it. Next winter I spend in Twin Venus."
The door suddenly flew open.
Standing there, in the frame, was a black-haired seventeen year-old mouse
brandishing a small pistol in one peach-furred hand. His golden-red eyes
were wide, and fairly terrified. A single hank of hair hung down between
his eyes, making him look younger and all the more frightened. If the gun
did go off, it wouldn't be because he had pulled the trigger--it would be
because his shaking accidentally triggered the firing mechanism.
Clearly, he wasn't expecting visitors.
"Who're you?" he asked nervously. "Just what do you think
you're doing sneaking around back here?"
Stoker rose to his feet slowly and said, raising his hands, "Just passing
though. I didn't think anyone was in the booth, and I came around to see
if anybody was here. I'm not gonna hurt anybody."
"Oh," the young mouse sighed, dropping the pistol to his side.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were trying to break in. You wanna come inside?
It looks cold out there."
"Thanks," Stoker replied, whistling for his bike. It zipped in
behind him as he entered the booth and closed the door.
Seconds after entering, Stoker felt as though he was starting to melt. The
jacket which had barely kept him warm seconds before was now sweltering
him. The kid obviously had the heat up on red giant star. Stoker quickly
shucked his jacket and hung it on the wall quickly.
The boy lead him into the large, lounge-like room at the rear of the booth
which was meant to provide an open space where the employee on duty had
a place to relax when traffic was slow.
Which was all the time in Ash.
"Here, sit down!" the boy said, motioning toward an old, decrepid
green chair with huge holes in the upholstery. "You want some coffee?"
"Sure," Stoker replied, pulling off his helmet. "I didn't
think you were supposed to bring civillian mice in here, though."
Shrugging as he poured from an old pot into a sytrofoam cup, the young mouse
answered, "I'm not. But it looks cold out there, and you look like
you've been ridin' awhile."
"Right on both counts."
"That, and my brother says you should always be hospitable to other
Biker Mice," he concluded. "You want cream or sugar or anything?"
"Good policy. No, thanks."
"Good, `cause we're out of both of them."
Stoker pulled off one boot and let the water drip out of it. As he removed
the other, he asked with a grin, "You're a Biker Mouse? Pardon me for
saying so, but you look a little young."
The young mouse turned with a pair of coffee cups in his hands and started
to say, "Yeah, well, I--"
SLOOSH!
The cups hit the floor with a tiny splash. Both of them were completely
empty, rolling in the spilt coffee staining the carpet at the boy's stunned
feet.
Well, I don't know that feet themselves can be stunned...
"Kid?" Stoker asked, rising to his feet. "Are you okay? What's
wrong?"
The boy's face was blank with shock. Truth be told, he looked more suprised
than when he had been preparing to ventilate Stoker with the gun a moment
ago.
Suddenly, the suprise became joy, pure, uncontainable joy. He looked like
the Publisher's Clearing House people had just called him to the door and
presented him with the gigantic cardboard check (arguably the second-best
part of winning, after the money).
"You!!!!!!" he shouted gleefully. "You're--you're--you're--you're
Stoker!!!!!!!"
"Gulity as charged," Stoker replied, secretly relieved. He
had thought something was genuinely wrong. The kid was just excited was
all. Frankly, Stoker loved this routine, even if it had caught him off-guard.
It could happen ten times, twenty times, two-hundred times, but it would
never get old in his book.
After all, who doesn't enjoy meeting one of their fans?
Feigning modesty, the brown-furred mouse asked, "You've heard of me?"
"Heard of you?" the boy asked, eyes wide as saucers, chin
nearly dragging on the floor. "Of course I've heard of you!
Man! You're the baddest biker on Mars! In the solar system! In the universe,
even! Man! Man! Man!"
This kid has no idea what he's doing to my ego, Stoker thought
to himself with an inward smile. Probably all for the best. Now comes
the part where I pretend to be even more modest to draw out even more praise.
Feigning shyness, Stoker bowed his head and said softly, "Aw, I'm
not that good."
"Not that good?" the boy asked, shocked. "You're the
best! The best! You've won the Twelve-Mile Crater Leap eleven times!"
Shaking his head, Stoker pointed to a small silver medallion on the right
side of his shirt and said, "Twelve. Just got it this last weekend."
The young mouse was practically howling with joy. It reminded Stoker of
when Mars first began intercepting broadcasts of a young Earth rock star
who drove all the women, on both planets, absolutely nuts with his wobbling
hips and sensual voice.
It's good to be king, Stoker decided. Better to be the
King, but he's dead, so I guess I'll just be satisfied with being Stoker.
But then again, who wouldn't be?
Suddenly, the young mouse put on his most humble face and asked, "Can
I have your autograph? Please? My friends--bros, I mean, bros--will never
believe that I met you if I don't have proof!"
"Sure," Stoker replied, grinning warmly. "You got a pen?"
"Yeah!" the boy cried, running off to the other section of the
booth to fetch one.
Crazy kid, the older mouse thought to himself. He sighed and stretched
out in the chair. The feeling was starting to return to his toes and his
tail. Truth be told, he wouldn't mind spending the night here, with the
fanboy, if that was what it came down to. It was warm enough, and there
was coffee to be had, heavily caffinated, which Stoker loved.....
Suddenly, the young mouse reappeared, brandishing a green fountain pen and
a magazine, both of which he eagerly handed to Stoker.
As he pulled the cap off with his teeth, Stoker asked, "Whu's yoo ame,
id?"
"Eh?" the boy asked, puzzled.
Stoker pushed the cap on the flat end and said, " `What's your name,
kid?'"
"Oh! Scoot!"
Nodding, Stoker looked at the magazine. He smiled as he saw it, for he recognized
it instantly: the December 1984 issue of Dust-Bowl Biker magazine.
Why shouldn't he? He was on the cover, after all.
Dust-Bowl Biker had, for the past forty years, devoted its December issue
to covering the Twelve-Mile Crater Leap, the biggest annual competition
each year for professional and amateur bikers, which took place in December
(but not before the magazine came out, which made it sort of a preview issue).
The race itself was a test of endurance, skill, luck, and who had the biggest
honkin' engine. The riders, usually several dozen of them, had to navigate
a course across the Southern Craterlands, consisting of several hundred
miles of riding through some of the most difficult terrain on Mars. All
the danger--from huge, driving rivers to treacherous mountain passes to
quicksand deserts--culminated in the last leg of the race--a leap over one
of the twelve-mile craters that gave the race its name. A speed strip, which
greatly amplifies a rider's speed, often to the speed of sound, stood on
one side of the crater, giving the riders who had survived this far on the
course just enough momentum to make the leap, though there were always a
few who didn't, unfortunate fatalities who couldn't quite make it. A fall
meant certain death (thank God for liablity release forms! It was the mantra
the contest organizers lived by). Immediately on the other side of the crater
was the finish line.
For the last nine years, Stoker had taken the cup home with him, tying for
the most number of consecutive wins ever, no mean feat. The record had been
unchallenged for years upon years. If he could win again this year, he'd
be the first Biker Mouse in the history of the race to take home ten consecutive
wins.
So, to document this, Dust-Bowl Biker had devoted several pages of its Twelve-Mile
coverage to Stoker himself, including a pull-out poster featuring his winning
leap from the year before. The magazine made an especially big deal of some
of his little "proclivities" while racing-- taking the turns like
he was on rails, waiting until the end of the race to pull out a long lead
(so cocky was he that he would win), and of course, that nasty little habit
of his bike essentially exploding after he crossed the finish line because
it had suffered such terrible abuse during the race.
And of course, there was the cover. Stoker had never been on a magazine
cover before (though he had often been regailed in the pages of them for
his incredible skill), and the experience had thrilled him to no end. The
picture was a good one; him standing in front of his bike (which had died
immediately after the race), arms crossed over his chest, with all nine
of his trophies from the previous races in a circle around him, the two
most recent ones on his bike. He was dressed in a sponsor's jumpsuit--he
didn't like having a sponsor, but he needed the cash for the rest of the
year after the race--and his hair had been fixed by a professional stylist
(though still in its conventional style--pulled into a pair of ponytails,
one hanging over his right shoulder, the other behind).
Stoker had loved that cover. His ego had been big before, but after
that, it just went through the roof. He had actually, that year, sent copies
of the cover with his Christmas cards, instead of normal pictures.
Stoker wrote broadly on the cover, "To Scoot, Keep on Rockin' In the
Free World!" (careful not to obscure his face) and signed his name
with a flourish. He handed it to Scoot and said, "Be careful you don't
smear the ink." With a smug grin, he added, "That'll be worth
something someday, kid."
Scoot nodded happily
"Can I ask you something?" Stoker said, pulling his boots on.
"Anything!" Scoot cried, elated.
Pulling on his jacket, the brown-furred mouse asked, "Could you.......put
the gate up? I got a friend waiting on me in Ash, and--"
"Oh yeah!" the younger mouse shouted, smacking his forehead. "I
completely forgot! Geez, Stoke, I'm sorry! I just got so excited--"
"Forget about it! Gave me time to warm up a little before I had to
get on my way. I would've been a popsicle `til I got there otherwise. At
least you keepin' me here let me get the feeling back in my antennae."
Scoot smiled and said, "Anytime." Then, slighly embarassed, he
said, "I gotta see your travel visa."
Stoker nodded and plucked it from his wallet. He handed the small, plastic
card to Scoot, who ran it through a card-swiper. Scoot barely glanced at
the computer before giving Stoker back his card, who tucked it away once
again.
"Thanks, kid. By the way, can I ask you something?"
"Sure!"
"Aren't you a little young to be manning the checkpoint? I mean, I
thought only Martian Army soldiers were allowed to be in charge of these
things, and if you don't mind my saying so, you look a few years short of
enlistment age."
Scoot sighed and said, "Actually, my brother is the one who's
supposed to be here. He doesn't come home often, so I came up here to see
him for awhile. He asked if I'd watch the place for him while he went to
get dinner. The jerk still hasn't come back, and he left two hours ago!"
Nodding, Stoker asked, "Where did he go?"
"Where else?" Scoot asked, grinning. "Jimmy's. It's the only
place to eat in Ash."
Stoker raised an eyebrow.
"What about the Fried McChicken King Hut? That was here six months
ago, wasn't it?"
"The owner got bought out. Somebody showed up at their place one night,
offered `em some money, and the next morning, the place was gone. I mean,
gone. Bulldozed or something."
Doesn't sound good, Stoker thought to himself, eyes narrowing. Sounds
kinda like what was goin' on in Arcadia when I passed through.
Stoker shook the thought from his head and said, "Well, kid, I'll
tell you what. Jimmy's happens to be where I'm going. If I see your brother
there--what's his name?"
"Bull."
"Well, if I see Bull, I'll tell him to get his tail back here pronto.
Fair?"
Scoot nodded happily and said, "Thanks! I really appreciate it. I've
been here for hours, and I'm so bored."
"No problem," Stoker replied, pulling his helmet back on. He motioned
to his bike and followed it out into the blowing snow outside. Stoker mounted
up, turned to Scoot, who stood in the doorway, and shouted, "Ride free,
citizen!" as he started down the highway, spraying a cloud of snow
behind him.
Watching him ride away, Scoot slumped in the doorway and sighed, "That
guy is so cool."