invisionary: "When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint.  When I ask why the poor have no food they call me a communist." (Default)
[personal profile] invisionary
"Jimmy, you sure this thing's gonna work?"

"Have my engines not worked yet?"

"The last one exploded."

"Okay, not counting that one. This one will smoke 'em, it don't matter what they're riding in!"

"And will the axle hold with that much power?"

"Don't see why not."

"You don't sound very convinced."

But that didn't matter. Adam knew he was going to be making this run whether or not the equipment was sure to work. The money was too good. Sixty miles of back country roads at night. An airplane engine under the hood. Tire spikes that can be dropped if the police give chase. And about twenty gallons of 150 proof moonshine. Pretty good odds for a pretty big payoff.

The Davis farm had been cooking up white lightning long before Prohibition started, especially when the crops were lean. Legal liquor was just too expensive for most everyone, but now it was in demand from those with money too. But with demand came competition, and he had a hunch that the cops were confiscating their product and selling it themselves. He rigged this batch with a small amount of TNT to wreck the cargo just in case he got busted. No way he was going to let that sum'bitch Meyers take his hootch!

He knew the route by heart, including a number of shortcuts not on anyone's maps. So when the sirens hit he jumped a little, then realized who it was that was following him. Only one goddamn lawman smart enough to figure this route out, he muttered. He dropped the hammer and kicked up some dirt and dropped his spikes. In a few seconds the only engine he heard was the roar of his.

About ten miles later the sirens came back with a much louder engine roar. It was Meyers! He started cursing up a storm - Sum'bitch must've had a deputy back there! Knowing nothing else, he dropped the hammer again, this time hoping old-fashioned speed could win where dirty tricks couldn't. He raced off, leaving him in the dust. He slowed down a little when he saw he was clear.

Then he hit a bump. The dynamite trap blew. The explosion knocked out the rear axle. He let out a much quieter bunch of curse words on an unmarked road in the middle of the night. But it wasn't long before flashing lights came to his "rescue".

This piece is written as an intersection with the excellent [livejournal.com profile] nishi_kaze - head over to his journal and read Sergeant Meyers's side of the story!
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invisionary: "When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint.  When I ask why the poor have no food they call me a communist." (Default)
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December 2011

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