Fury versus Fury

Rematch

Now everything that was happening was moving from the grotesque to complete madness. The beast and the machine looked at each other like duelists - ready, but still hesitating to end this conflict. All he really wanted to know was who was driving. Well, he got the answer. The emerald glow filled the interior space again. There were two of them: one has a gray-pale face and a second one was scratched and bloody. "- How?! This is impossible!" confusion again overtook the Creeper. "You shouldn't have blocked our way. Am I right, Christine?" the guy spoke up, breaking the silence first. "Absolutely." Bryant replied. Only now it wasn't her voice. Arnie was answered by a completely different girl, whose devilish tone, up to this point, was hidden in the noise of iron parts and radio interference. The look of driver changed completely: the eyes, glowing bright green, with a cat's pupil, met the Creeper's gaze. Devoid of any fear and full of hysterical excitement. He swung the axe and ran straight at the couple. Malice overshadowed the monster's other feelings. The hood on his head opened so abruptly that he threw the famous Stetson hat onto the asphalt. The huge wings spread out like two old fans. The car didn't even think to move. The driver only smiled slightly at the performance she saw. The headlights turned white again. Only now he was not just bright, but dazzling. It seemed that searchlights were directed at the creature, so strong that you could see every capillary on the leathery membranes. Such a flash was more than enough to confuse the monster.

"The key is on the "start", and the pedal is on the floor!" Arnie Cunningham and Christine Bryant said almost synchronously, like two crazy racers ready to smash themselves to pieces in order to achieve a cherished victory.

The monster closed his eyes and at exactly the same moment the car abruptly began to move. Now it's up to him to get even for all the wounds on their bodies. "Ooh, this is going to be fun!" greaser shouted over the roar of the eight-cylinder engine. The Creeper's body was instantly under the wheels of the Chrysler's monster. The car bounced as if on springs, because the creature was not going to give up just like that. The filth made every effort to throw off the hated car. "Too late lizard!" the same female voice sounded, only now echoing in his mind. Burnout! The engine screeched, dense white smoke was flying from under the body. The wheels violently broke joints, tore dense muscle fibers, wound the insides. The screams of the monster's pain, the monotonous roar of the musclecar, the hysterical laughter of the driver. All this mixed into a crazy cacophony, which was complemented by another rock'n'roll smash hit that did not fit into the situation in any way. Plymouth drove back and forth and so on several times, until the Creeper began to vomit crimson foam and the remains of the last victim. Fury rushed far ahead, leaving a trail of wheelprints that lit up with green flames. The torment of the monster is over. The Creeper, or rather, what was left of it, began to frantically flap its surviving wing. Then, the upper limbs tore off the torso and scraps of the raincoat from the asphalt. Finally he stood up. Slowly hobbling up to the overturned truck, dragging the left wing and holding the falling flaps of flesh, the filth lifted its battered hat. Putting it on and leaning on a part of the ram, he peered at the receding red headlights and the license plate of his opponent's car:

"SMSHYA" SMASH YA - that's what was written on the plate.

The monster thought about it, and sighed heavily, "I hate rock and roll!"