Thu Nov 20, 2014 3:26 am
The Long Road to Tulsa, Part 1
In which HERE COMES A NEW CHALLENGER. Kubboz enters the fray! And I take some liberties, though not the same kind of liberties that some of us seem to fancy 
__________________________________________________________________
Strop’s eyes flew open to an unfamiliar room.
Slowly, he rose, seeing a sunset filtered through the faded curtains. Over the next few minutes, details and recollections of the past day’s events flooded in, and he rubbed his eyes, finally realising where he was. That’s right, somewhere called Grand Junction, or more specifically, some cheap motel alongside the highway which ran through Grand Junction.
He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. There was one from Rayyan ‘Balls ‘o’ Titanium’ Rawat, proposing an alternative route to Tulsa which was, oh goodness, completely in the opposite direction that he had gone since he, like most everybody else he imagined, had turned south to avoid passing through Salt Lake City. Then there was another one from the same Rayyan, offering the use of an airfield in Texas, so they could get to the next stage without too much trouble. Oh, that was convenient. And interesting. And he had to think about that one, especially how he was planning to move all twenty five cars and what kind of hardware he had access to and what kind of people he knew to access that and oh god what if it was a trap-
Nevermind. He’d scope that one out later. Stretching, he rose and immediately felt his stomach grumble. Guess that was his next priority sorted.
He had been sitting in the diner maybe about ten minutes, mushing his way through overboiled carrots and peas when a familiar face walked in. In leathers both top and bottom, messy “just woke up” blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, the only lady of the League, Kristina, strode in. Strop’s spirits rose, pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face in this tense interlude, but hesitated, not sure whether he was about to blow some kind of cover. About ten minutes later, he realised, what was he thinking, what would anybody else know? So he got up and moved on over.
Preoccupied by some internal monologue, Kristina blinked in surprise as she recognised the horse guy approaching, and again when he actually asked, “May I sit here?”
“Of course, you don’t have to ask me!” There was the scrape of a chair and Strop sat down, where they sat in a slightly awkward silence. Or rather, Strop was being awkward, and Kristina, casually leaning back in her chair, was half the picture of amused, half bemused.
“How are you holding up?” Strop belatedly realised why this felt so awkward. Kristina’s outfit scarred with the relics of battle and a life that had surely seen far more hardships than he had, it felt hardly right to be asking. But he was reassured by a small smile. “Not too bad, considering.” Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “Good job putting this together, it’s one hell of a ride.”
Strop smirked, relaxing. “I’m glad to hear that. Though I think it’s going to get messy from now on.”
“Ha.” Kristina grabbed her glass and swigged down the last of their contents. “Probably. Nothing I haven’t seen before, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I thought as much.” Strop half pointed at her. “You looked like the kind of woman who could handle yourself in a pinch.”
It was Kristina’s turn to examine him: “Well, what about you? How are you doing?”
Strop half-laughed, “Truth be told this is getting a lot bigger than I intended. You know, have a few nutjobs drive around places, perhaps a little mischief here and there, travel the world, race on a few tracks and sit down and have a few beers afterward. Guess I didn’t think about it enough.”
“Or I think maybe you wanted it to turn out this way.” Kristina had a bit of a twinkle in her eye. “Admit it horse guy, you guys share the same madness as everybody who signed up. You couldn’t possibly have expected otherwise.”
Strop looked down, fiddling with his hands. “Yeah. You’re right.” He looked back up, doing his best squared-jaw impression as he raised his glass. “And we’re gonna see this ride to the end, so buckle up and hold on to your asses!”
Kristina laughed, “I’ll drink to that!” Facetiously she raised her empty glass and a clink rang through the diner. Then she rose, “Hey, I’m gonna go catch some sleep, it’s still a long way to go. I’ll see you at Tulsa, OK?”
“Yeah.” Strop nodded and waved. “Take care.” Kristina almost shook her head as she left the diner, not sure how remarkable it was that McHorseguy was the first male she had a conversation with on this trip who didn’t try to get in her pants.
__________________________________________________
Mostly by Kubboz, with minor edits for continuity
Strop sat in his Peapod, pondering the timing of his next move. It was about seven now, the sun barely sinking over the horizon. There was still a good nine hundred miles to cover, which meant maybe about eighteen hours of driving, in two days. It was almost like a full time job. Then there was the fact he still wasn’t sure where the rest of the Gryphon Gear crew were, though they had said they’d catch up to him later. He sure hoped the Peapod didn’t decide to pop a gasket or blow the manifold now, pushing nine hundred horses out of a flat four wasn’t exactly healthy for the engine.
His reverie was interrupted by a roar of a flatplane. He took a peek out of the window to see which contestant he could talk to, and spotted a green estate. From what he could see, it was a heavily tuned Skoda, which would not be out of place in his League. Why was it here though? The car was then switched off, and a man in an olive green uniform, and a black cap with blue M written on it got out of the car. Strop could immediately see a giant hammer strapped to the man's back, and as the mysterious guy approached him, he understood he was the one he wanted to talk to. And then the man pulled out his ID.
Strop's eyes widened, and he braced against the door, ready to slam the weird hammer toting guy if he tried anything funny, a panicked "who the fuck brought cops to this place" running through his head. And then he noticed the ID was not actually a police officer's badge. Instead, it read as following:
MODERATOR SQUAD
Moderator Jack Cossack
Member ID 21
“Look “ Jack Cossack finally spoke up “We have a problem...”
“Well, yes, we do.” Strop could not quite recall who the hell the Moderator Squad was. “There's some random guy with an enormous hammer at my door and I don't know what he wants.”
“Really? I can take care of... “ The Moderator began responding with a worried tone, but then he realised he was the one Strop talked about. “Well, I'm a Moderator! We oversee the activities in the world, ya know? Why, you might ask? Well. All the police forces, courts, etc. are trying to make sure nothing illegal takes place. The Moderator Squad, well, the Moderator Squad cares more about BAD things taking place. Now, let's talk about your street league...”
Strop's eyes widened. Shit. It was all over now...
“Hey, man.” Jack looked at Strop confusingly. “What's the matter? Why do you look like you've done something wrong, huh? I'm on your side, calm down. Obviously, it IS barely legal, but it's not bad! I mean, you promote breaking the boundaries of engineering, your presence alone promotes fair sportsmanship. Not to mention, you going all world tour with your racers allows them to experience different cultures. Man, you're doing a GREAT job!”
Strop's eyes widened, again. Shit. Someone might hear this moderator guy.
“What's the matter then, what is wrong...Mr Cossack?”
“The Moderator Squad believes someone tries to sabotage your league. See, that police chase before the race...we've got proof it was not a coincidence.”
“What...? You mean, someone tipped them off?”
“Yeah, after all, you guys had been speeding along the highway away from Wendover. How many squad cars do you think Wendover have, compared to how many there were coming from the West? You guys had pretty much every donut munching Utah cop on wheels after you, in the middle of the night, on the most deserted stretch of highway in Utah. Doesn’t add up does it?|
“So who’d do such a thing and get such a response?”
“Ah... here's the thing: we do not know that yet. It could be anyone, really, from a bunch of influential ecoterrorists, to someone with connections and some personal vendetta against you.”
“Oh...”
“I believe you won't be able to handle the events that will unfold alone. You need to get some protection,” Jack Cossack continued, and then chucked from a dick joke he formed in his mind involving getting protection. He would not tell it though. It's not time for that now.
“What do you mean?”
“You see my car?” Jack pointed at his Skoda: “It's a squad car code F three L one C fourteen C zero M eighty-one.” He then scribbled the code F3L1C14 C0M81 on a piece of paper and gave it to Strop. “It actually fits the criteria of your contest. I mean, it was built by Skoda for a pro-street league long before this era, but then Volkswagen found out and withdrew the Skoda's submission. What a bunch of dick eaters. The Moderator Squad found the car in a barn and refurbished it just half a year ago. It is my squad car since then. Skoda actually build, believe it or not, a one off twin turbocharged V8 just for this car and squished it into a body of a green Felicia Combi...”
“I think I see where this is going...”
“Oh yes, back to topic. You would plant me as a racer, and I would overwatch the events all undercover, trying to spot any clues, and trying to protect ya all from what is going to happen. What do you think?”
Strop scratched his chin, turning the offer over in his head. In the back of his mind, there was the vague impression from a previous life he may or may not have lived, that the Mod Squad were your best allies, and your worst enemies. In a time when he really didn’t know who was what was which, he knew at least which he preferred. He stuck out his hand.
“Welcome to the Barely Street Legal League.”
___________________________________________________
Strop felt the vibrating in his pocket through the vibration of the Peapod on the highway, and fished out his phone, not bothering to pull over.
“Strop, we have to talk.”
“Noah. How nice to hear from you.”
“No, this is serious,” Noah insisted, though he always looked so serious nobody was ever sure when he might or might not be crying wolf. “Waxwell’s found a few points of interest.”
“Oh?” Strop’s ears pricked. “Such as?”
“You know that super cop car that could outrun Tom’s Brimstone and probably half the rest of the cars in the BSLL? Yeah, well, it’s called the Hasira.”
“Okay, that’s really informative.”
“Let me finish asshole. The Hasira’s top speed is estimated at four oh seven. It’s got more power than almost every car in the BSLL, only it’s equipped to intercept and disable racers. It’s got a bigger armory than a Republican NRA member’s gun cabinet. It’s a street racer’s nemesis… and it was made by Normandy Automotive.”
Strop almost dropped his phone. “Normandy!? But isn’t…”
“That’s right. Now consider, just where our friend from Normandy might have been instead of running with everybody else in Bonneville…”
Strop pounded one fist into the other, the steering wheel jumping sharply to the right due to the ridiculous amount of torque Peapod pushed. Cursing, Strop dropped the phone and grabbed the wheel just in time to save himself from plowing off the highway into the prairie beyond. Groping at the passenger seat, he finally found his phone and picked it up. “I’m gonna truck slam that bastard, just see how HE likes that.”
“Easy now,” Noah said. “Normandy isn’t exactly the most transparent of companies. They do a lot of no-questions-asked transactions, so we don’t know just how much to infer from this. But yeah, watch your back.”
“Right.” Strop’s mouth set grimly as he started the ascent into Colorado’s rocky ranges, coaxing the car around the winding highways. “Well, I’ve got a source of my own so I’ll do some checking.”
“A source of your own?” Noah immediately sounded suspicious. “What kind of nutjob have you picked up this time?”
“Trust me,” Strop said, knowing full well that it tended to have the opposite effect on his Gryphon Gear colleagues. “He’s a friend.”
______________________________________________
FUN STATISTICS:
Number of guys Kristina has burnt after making unsolicited advances on either herself or her car- 3
Number of tyres nuked so far- 56
Bugs splattered on windshield- 237
Number of confused mechanics who have never seen anything the likes of the car that just pulled into their garage- 17
Number of bottles of Gin 8bs has consumed- 13
__________________________________________________________________
Strop’s eyes flew open to an unfamiliar room.
Slowly, he rose, seeing a sunset filtered through the faded curtains. Over the next few minutes, details and recollections of the past day’s events flooded in, and he rubbed his eyes, finally realising where he was. That’s right, somewhere called Grand Junction, or more specifically, some cheap motel alongside the highway which ran through Grand Junction.
He pulled out his phone and checked his messages. There was one from Rayyan ‘Balls ‘o’ Titanium’ Rawat, proposing an alternative route to Tulsa which was, oh goodness, completely in the opposite direction that he had gone since he, like most everybody else he imagined, had turned south to avoid passing through Salt Lake City. Then there was another one from the same Rayyan, offering the use of an airfield in Texas, so they could get to the next stage without too much trouble. Oh, that was convenient. And interesting. And he had to think about that one, especially how he was planning to move all twenty five cars and what kind of hardware he had access to and what kind of people he knew to access that and oh god what if it was a trap-
Nevermind. He’d scope that one out later. Stretching, he rose and immediately felt his stomach grumble. Guess that was his next priority sorted.
He had been sitting in the diner maybe about ten minutes, mushing his way through overboiled carrots and peas when a familiar face walked in. In leathers both top and bottom, messy “just woke up” blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, the only lady of the League, Kristina, strode in. Strop’s spirits rose, pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face in this tense interlude, but hesitated, not sure whether he was about to blow some kind of cover. About ten minutes later, he realised, what was he thinking, what would anybody else know? So he got up and moved on over.
Preoccupied by some internal monologue, Kristina blinked in surprise as she recognised the horse guy approaching, and again when he actually asked, “May I sit here?”
“Of course, you don’t have to ask me!” There was the scrape of a chair and Strop sat down, where they sat in a slightly awkward silence. Or rather, Strop was being awkward, and Kristina, casually leaning back in her chair, was half the picture of amused, half bemused.
“How are you holding up?” Strop belatedly realised why this felt so awkward. Kristina’s outfit scarred with the relics of battle and a life that had surely seen far more hardships than he had, it felt hardly right to be asking. But he was reassured by a small smile. “Not too bad, considering.” Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “Good job putting this together, it’s one hell of a ride.”
Strop smirked, relaxing. “I’m glad to hear that. Though I think it’s going to get messy from now on.”
“Ha.” Kristina grabbed her glass and swigged down the last of their contents. “Probably. Nothing I haven’t seen before, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I thought as much.” Strop half pointed at her. “You looked like the kind of woman who could handle yourself in a pinch.”
It was Kristina’s turn to examine him: “Well, what about you? How are you doing?”
Strop half-laughed, “Truth be told this is getting a lot bigger than I intended. You know, have a few nutjobs drive around places, perhaps a little mischief here and there, travel the world, race on a few tracks and sit down and have a few beers afterward. Guess I didn’t think about it enough.”
“Or I think maybe you wanted it to turn out this way.” Kristina had a bit of a twinkle in her eye. “Admit it horse guy, you guys share the same madness as everybody who signed up. You couldn’t possibly have expected otherwise.”
Strop looked down, fiddling with his hands. “Yeah. You’re right.” He looked back up, doing his best squared-jaw impression as he raised his glass. “And we’re gonna see this ride to the end, so buckle up and hold on to your asses!”
Kristina laughed, “I’ll drink to that!” Facetiously she raised her empty glass and a clink rang through the diner. Then she rose, “Hey, I’m gonna go catch some sleep, it’s still a long way to go. I’ll see you at Tulsa, OK?”
“Yeah.” Strop nodded and waved. “Take care.” Kristina almost shook her head as she left the diner, not sure how remarkable it was that McHorseguy was the first male she had a conversation with on this trip who didn’t try to get in her pants.
__________________________________________________
Mostly by Kubboz, with minor edits for continuity
Strop sat in his Peapod, pondering the timing of his next move. It was about seven now, the sun barely sinking over the horizon. There was still a good nine hundred miles to cover, which meant maybe about eighteen hours of driving, in two days. It was almost like a full time job. Then there was the fact he still wasn’t sure where the rest of the Gryphon Gear crew were, though they had said they’d catch up to him later. He sure hoped the Peapod didn’t decide to pop a gasket or blow the manifold now, pushing nine hundred horses out of a flat four wasn’t exactly healthy for the engine.
His reverie was interrupted by a roar of a flatplane. He took a peek out of the window to see which contestant he could talk to, and spotted a green estate. From what he could see, it was a heavily tuned Skoda, which would not be out of place in his League. Why was it here though? The car was then switched off, and a man in an olive green uniform, and a black cap with blue M written on it got out of the car. Strop could immediately see a giant hammer strapped to the man's back, and as the mysterious guy approached him, he understood he was the one he wanted to talk to. And then the man pulled out his ID.
Strop's eyes widened, and he braced against the door, ready to slam the weird hammer toting guy if he tried anything funny, a panicked "who the fuck brought cops to this place" running through his head. And then he noticed the ID was not actually a police officer's badge. Instead, it read as following:
MODERATOR SQUAD
Moderator Jack Cossack
Member ID 21
“Look “ Jack Cossack finally spoke up “We have a problem...”
“Well, yes, we do.” Strop could not quite recall who the hell the Moderator Squad was. “There's some random guy with an enormous hammer at my door and I don't know what he wants.”
“Really? I can take care of... “ The Moderator began responding with a worried tone, but then he realised he was the one Strop talked about. “Well, I'm a Moderator! We oversee the activities in the world, ya know? Why, you might ask? Well. All the police forces, courts, etc. are trying to make sure nothing illegal takes place. The Moderator Squad, well, the Moderator Squad cares more about BAD things taking place. Now, let's talk about your street league...”
Strop's eyes widened. Shit. It was all over now...
“Hey, man.” Jack looked at Strop confusingly. “What's the matter? Why do you look like you've done something wrong, huh? I'm on your side, calm down. Obviously, it IS barely legal, but it's not bad! I mean, you promote breaking the boundaries of engineering, your presence alone promotes fair sportsmanship. Not to mention, you going all world tour with your racers allows them to experience different cultures. Man, you're doing a GREAT job!”
Strop's eyes widened, again. Shit. Someone might hear this moderator guy.
“What's the matter then, what is wrong...Mr Cossack?”
“The Moderator Squad believes someone tries to sabotage your league. See, that police chase before the race...we've got proof it was not a coincidence.”
“What...? You mean, someone tipped them off?”
“Yeah, after all, you guys had been speeding along the highway away from Wendover. How many squad cars do you think Wendover have, compared to how many there were coming from the West? You guys had pretty much every donut munching Utah cop on wheels after you, in the middle of the night, on the most deserted stretch of highway in Utah. Doesn’t add up does it?|
“So who’d do such a thing and get such a response?”
“Ah... here's the thing: we do not know that yet. It could be anyone, really, from a bunch of influential ecoterrorists, to someone with connections and some personal vendetta against you.”
“Oh...”
“I believe you won't be able to handle the events that will unfold alone. You need to get some protection,” Jack Cossack continued, and then chucked from a dick joke he formed in his mind involving getting protection. He would not tell it though. It's not time for that now.
“What do you mean?”
“You see my car?” Jack pointed at his Skoda: “It's a squad car code F three L one C fourteen C zero M eighty-one.” He then scribbled the code F3L1C14 C0M81 on a piece of paper and gave it to Strop. “It actually fits the criteria of your contest. I mean, it was built by Skoda for a pro-street league long before this era, but then Volkswagen found out and withdrew the Skoda's submission. What a bunch of dick eaters. The Moderator Squad found the car in a barn and refurbished it just half a year ago. It is my squad car since then. Skoda actually build, believe it or not, a one off twin turbocharged V8 just for this car and squished it into a body of a green Felicia Combi...”
“I think I see where this is going...”
“Oh yes, back to topic. You would plant me as a racer, and I would overwatch the events all undercover, trying to spot any clues, and trying to protect ya all from what is going to happen. What do you think?”
Strop scratched his chin, turning the offer over in his head. In the back of his mind, there was the vague impression from a previous life he may or may not have lived, that the Mod Squad were your best allies, and your worst enemies. In a time when he really didn’t know who was what was which, he knew at least which he preferred. He stuck out his hand.
“Welcome to the Barely Street Legal League.”
___________________________________________________
Strop felt the vibrating in his pocket through the vibration of the Peapod on the highway, and fished out his phone, not bothering to pull over.
“Strop, we have to talk.”
“Noah. How nice to hear from you.”
“No, this is serious,” Noah insisted, though he always looked so serious nobody was ever sure when he might or might not be crying wolf. “Waxwell’s found a few points of interest.”
“Oh?” Strop’s ears pricked. “Such as?”
“You know that super cop car that could outrun Tom’s Brimstone and probably half the rest of the cars in the BSLL? Yeah, well, it’s called the Hasira.”
“Okay, that’s really informative.”
“Let me finish asshole. The Hasira’s top speed is estimated at four oh seven. It’s got more power than almost every car in the BSLL, only it’s equipped to intercept and disable racers. It’s got a bigger armory than a Republican NRA member’s gun cabinet. It’s a street racer’s nemesis… and it was made by Normandy Automotive.”
Strop almost dropped his phone. “Normandy!? But isn’t…”
“That’s right. Now consider, just where our friend from Normandy might have been instead of running with everybody else in Bonneville…”
Strop pounded one fist into the other, the steering wheel jumping sharply to the right due to the ridiculous amount of torque Peapod pushed. Cursing, Strop dropped the phone and grabbed the wheel just in time to save himself from plowing off the highway into the prairie beyond. Groping at the passenger seat, he finally found his phone and picked it up. “I’m gonna truck slam that bastard, just see how HE likes that.”
“Easy now,” Noah said. “Normandy isn’t exactly the most transparent of companies. They do a lot of no-questions-asked transactions, so we don’t know just how much to infer from this. But yeah, watch your back.”
“Right.” Strop’s mouth set grimly as he started the ascent into Colorado’s rocky ranges, coaxing the car around the winding highways. “Well, I’ve got a source of my own so I’ll do some checking.”
“A source of your own?” Noah immediately sounded suspicious. “What kind of nutjob have you picked up this time?”
“Trust me,” Strop said, knowing full well that it tended to have the opposite effect on his Gryphon Gear colleagues. “He’s a friend.”
______________________________________________
FUN STATISTICS:
Number of guys Kristina has burnt after making unsolicited advances on either herself or her car- 3
Number of tyres nuked so far- 56
Bugs splattered on windshield- 237
Number of confused mechanics who have never seen anything the likes of the car that just pulled into their garage- 17
Number of bottles of Gin 8bs has consumed- 13
