Saving the Vette
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit piece intended for entertainment purposes only. I don't own the copyrights on the characters of the A-Team, I only play with them for fun.
A.N – Didn't I say when I finished the other A-Team story that I would take a little break from writing and start reading the backlog of ff stories I have in the "to-read" list? Yes, I did. But… I love fooling myself too much. My flight got delayed two days ago, so, what else could I do with that extra time at the airport with a crappy wifi? Exactly. You got it: writing, rather than reading. Bummer. At least I only got delayed, not sucked out of the window like my fictional character Mrs Everson or that poor real-life woman yesterday. How spooky is that?
I watched the last episode of season 3 shortly before I finished the "Back in 'Nam" story, right when I was planning how to recover the van. That episode gave me the idea of using a cabin in the woods by the lake to give them a break, and I made up they had left the van parked by the airfield, and the corvette left at a garage, because I've always wondered how they recovered the vehicles. The resulting plot bunny of watching that episode has been bothering me ever since. The issue: how do they recover the Vette every time they escape in the van and they leave the car behind? And, where do they park it/keep it every time they go out of the country? And more specifically: how did they retrieve the Vette after leaving it with Decker at the beginning of that episode, "Incident at Crystal Lake"? I guess there are a few stories about this issue, but I haven't read any yet. And I don't want to, at the moment, so I don't get interference with their contents while I am writing mine.
Despite trying to knock that pesky plot bunny on the head, back to the limbo where it belongs, the thought stuck with me since, so, at the airport I decided to try a new kind of story for me, just for kicks. It will be messy, non-lineal, going forwards and backwards in time, with multiple POVs written in first person, including some unusual ones, like the Vette itself. Every time I mention some significant event in the story, shortly after there will be a chunk of text/scene related to that, whenever that happened. I hope it doesn't get too complicated to follow the plot with this new format. I want to experiment, so bear with me. And If I fail miserably with it, I can always rearrange the bits to make the story lineal, no biggie.
As usual: action, action, action… plus violence, humour, angst, hurt and comfort, filth, maiming, blood, and in this one, lots of inner dialogue/thoughts. Not many surprises there!
WARNING: Maiming of main character right from the start, sorry. And you know who that would be ;)
And, FYI, the theme throughout will be: "Damn!" (you'll see lots of "damns" everywhere. It's not an unconscious repetition. It is the funny theme here, everybody is moaning, and saying it, constantly. And I mean everybody, no exceptions.)
Now, there we go. Have fun! And please, take the little time it takes to review, if you can, and tell me what you think of this new project, thanks.
Ready… steady… maim! LOL
I swear to God, the next time Hannibal says that something, anything, will be "a piece of cake", I'll shove that cigar down his throat with a mighty, furious punch! C.O or not, I don't care, because I had it!
Every time that man says those words, someone gets hurt. And most of the times, that someone is me. Why it had to be me, always me? That crazy, jolly buffoon that I called "my friend" jokes about it sometimes: "hit him anywhere but the face" he says, pissing himself laughing, like I'm sure the other two do as well when I'm not looking, as if getting trashed by hoods all the time could be funny, for anyone. Maybe it is hilarious for them to watch how they beat me to a pulp, but it's not so enjoyable for me, always at the receiving end of this shit. And unfortunately, this time, nobody explained the bad guys they should spare my good looks, because the blows keep landing there, right on my face! Damn!
With the last punch that split the left corner of my lower lip, I felt a veneer losing up, again. I have lost count of how many times I had to go to the dentist to have bits and pieces replaced or fixed. By now, that guy must think that I am an out-of-control sadomasochist perv who can't get enough thrills from landing blows in his mouth. And in the meantime, he's getting rich. With our hard-earned money. Damn!
"Well, I'm waiting, Peck," said the man in charge, Colonel Decker, who was enjoying the punishment from a short, safe distance, not getting his hands dirty with my blood, the bastard. "Will you tell me now?"
The brute in uniform that was hitting me yanked at my long, blonde hair, pulling my head up so I would look at his boss in the eye. I blinked with my mouth open, gasping for air, unable to breathe through my broken, bleeding nose, wondering if I should style my hair as short as B.A, so the bullies won't have such an easy grip on me ever again. I focused my bruised, already puffy and half-closed eyes on the Colonel's, while a trickle of blood ran from my split lip, down to my neck, on its way to join the large, red stain on my expensive white shirt, made by the torrent of blood running down my nose.
Damn! All that blood will never wash off well from that fabric. Another good shirt ruined.
Decker looked expectant, but no, I wasn't going to tell him shit, and he knew it. So, instead of the location of the guys, I delivered the usual snappy comment, a talent that such an uninspired, boring man, will never appreciate fully, but… old habits die hard.
"I already told you I can't… because I don't know. Did you forget to change the battery of your hearing aid?"
Decker, stone-faced, crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to that soldier one more time. The brute let go of my head, stepped back, and delivered such a stupendous right hook to my jaw that he sent me to the floor with chair and all. I banged my head on the hard concrete, seeing black dots, but against all odds, I didn't pass out. I guess Decker was impressed by my unconceivable toughness. Who wouldn't? I certainly was, chuffed with myself.
The already wonky veneer inevitably fell off then, floating lose in my, by now, extremely sore mouth. I wanted to keep that little piece of porcelain safe, so the dentist only needed to glue it back in place, always a cheaper option than replacing it with a new one, but I had my wrists handcuffed behind my back on that chair, so I couldn't. I coughed, feeling quite nauseous and dizzy after that blow, and I spat the veneer out to the floor within a blob of blood and saliva, giving up on it. Another one that I couldn't keep for later. Damn!
By then, I got scared, freaking out. How far was Decker taking this? He said I would need plastic surgery by the end of it. Oh, boy. Was he serious? And, how much more could I take before I cried like a baby, asking for mercy? Because I really didn't know where the guys went, so I couldn't tell him, even if I wanted to. And yes, I meant to look for a tracker before I got in the car, but I got so excited to see my baby again, that I forgot. Damn!
Not completely satisfied with that punch, the soldier booted me as I lay on the floor on my right side, dazed, still attached to that chair. I didn't expect that mean, brutal kick, so I didn't tense my almost non-existent six-pack to soften the blow, and that boot sank in my upper abdomen, hard, fast, and deep.
I cried out in agony then. I was already sore above that area, thanks to the cracked rib I got when that guy shot me at close range at the cabin while I was, luckily, wearing one of Bob's bulletproof fishing vests, before I fell off the widow, but this pain was something else. Something had gone wrong, really wrong, inside. I felt it like a bang, right there, under the ribs: something burst within, and the pain was suddenly unbearable. But I didn't have much time to panic about it, because I passed out almost immediately with the shock.
I was so glad to see him, my dear, oh-my-God-so-handsome servant. At last! Such a happy sight after weeks of boredom in that ugly, filthy, fetid garage, waiting for him to show up and drive me away.
What a dreadful experience! And the worse part of that lonely nightmare? That annoying, somehow elongated, lean man with the deeper than deep voice, who had the nerve of taking me for sneaky rides at night, farting on my red leather! How dared he, the stinky son of a tow truck!
I nearly leaked some oil with the excitement when I felt my servant's soft hands at the wheel again, and the warmth of his cute arse on the driver's seat.
I love him. More than a master should ever love their servants. But he is different, and in some respects, a true gentleman, because during all the years he had served me, he had never, ever, farted on my leather. Never. That's what I call RESPECT. Although, he had done many other dirty things, my cheeky, deliciously indecent, little scumbag. Most of the smutty, filthy moves involved beautiful blondes, his favourites, as well as an endless stream of some other not-so-stunning babes with nearly any hair colour, because after all, contrary to popular belief, he's not really that picky when it comes to women: at times of need, nearly anything goes for him, unless they resemble orcs, of course. He has that very minimal, basic set of standards. Poor thing, he must draw the line somewhere.
I am aware most people consider me a powerful chick magnet, even though I'm not the most comfortable ride for a quick shag, but hey, thanks to him, I've seen naked, dumb blondes from every possible angle, as he has always been so creative, using nearly every inch of my surface for that shagging purpose, specially the bonnet. Oh, God, how much I love having a vigorous body polishing from time to time! Or as I prefer to call it: a B6 (Bodywork Bum-Buffing By Beautiful Babes, a Faceman ™, patent pending. The term B6 is applicable to Blondes, Brunettes, Brown or Black hair ladies. Not so much to the Reds and Gingers. Or Grays, of course, because ageing ladies also fall below shaggable standards for him. Shame about the reds, though; they match my leather, and the stripe). All that B6 rubbing keeps all my surfaces –including the leather interior– so shiny and slick, smooth like silk. I love it!
So, as I was saying before I lost track, going off in tangents with the babes: my servant was back at the wheel and I nearly melt with joy. However, I didn't have much time to revel in the pleasure of that physical contact, because as soon as he turned the key to start my engine, three soldiers materialized out of nowhere, and surrounded us with their weapons, aiming at his gorgeous face.
He should have hit the pedal, run them over, and break free from that shithole, smashing the garage door with my nose, but no, he couldn't do that, the idiot. He couldn't contemplate doing such thing, causing me any harm, so he turned back the key, killing my roaring, eager-to-go engine, and he lifted his arms, surrendering. Damn! What a fool!
At times like this, I wished they would have fitted me with an A.I computer, like that KITT that has a zizzing, flashy red nose like Rudolph. That lucky, black Pontiac Firebird can do as it pleases, driving itself under its own mind and will. It's so unfair! If I had that system mounted in my dashboard, I would have go for it today, head-on. After all, what do I care about a few bumps and scratches on my face and body, or even becoming a total wreck? I could always be repaired, not like them humans, those soft and squashy, irreplaceable little things. He is more important to me than my bodywork, and I want to keep him safe. But, as I already said, he is an idiot with no sense, and he always gets in a pickle. Always. So, instead of using me as a battering ram, he surrendered, and now, he was the one getting trashed and crushed, while I could only watch, impotent, unable to help him. Damn!
I hope his three friends show up soon, because he went really quiet after the nasty kick that bulky, mean-spirited jerk directed to his undercarriage.
Maybe if I concentrate fully, like a Jedi Master Car, I can suddenly open my door and smash his lower parts the next time that soldier comes near me. That would be something unexpected!
"Shit, Face, what have they done to you?" I said when I lifted his lifeless body up in my arms to place him at the passenger's seat of the Vette. I was shocked by the state of him, and I felt like crying, or hitting someone, specially Decker. If I had the chance of getting my hands on him right now I could always blame the fury on my insanity, because I was so furious that I could kill him, for real.
Poor Face. He always got battered, but not like this. Never like this. This was too much!
I opened the garage door, jumped behind the wheel, and drove out of there as fast I could go without crashing. Face was out, totally limp, and his head lolled forward, with his chin resting on that blood stain that had turned the top of his white shirt of a brownish-red colour. At least, he was breathing through his open mouth and his broken nose wasn't bleeding so much now, but he looked pale as a sheet.
Damn you, Decker!
I felt especially bad, and guilty, because I had insisted on him going in to get the car, when he was so cautious and reluctant to do it, suspecting a trap, which is what this was: a fucking trap. He had felt the bad jazz, but I didn't listen to him. Damn!
"Hold on, Facey. We'll get you to a hospital, or at least, to see Dr Sullivan to check you over. You'll be alright," I said, but he couldn't hear me, or answer me. Then, I remembered the tracker. "Did you have time to look for the tracker?"
Even if he did, they could have replaced it when they caught him red-handed, so I stopped the car at the side and stepped down to check. I squeezed as much as I could under the low car, crawling on my back to have a good look, but I couldn't see anything suspicious. But just in case, we could use B.A's little toy to look for bugs and transmitters when we meet them. Then, when I was about to get up and go back behind the wheel, I saw something dropping from the undercarriage. It was a small transmitter. That was lucky!
I got back to the car and carried on to the next junction, where I stopped again, waiting. The transmitter had a magnetic catch, so I had no problem planting it on the bumper of the tatty, rusty truck that stopped at that junction shortly after, right next to me. Then, I got on the phone.
"Hannibal, we got the car, but it was a trap. They beat Face real bad. I think he needs a hospital."