The Death of a Giant

Chapter 1: The Kickstand

            “Ripburger, you’re dumber than dirt!”  Malcolm Corley shouted at his middle-aged Marketing Vice President, Adrian “Rip” Ripburger.  They were in the back of Corley Motors’ PR hover-limousine.  Heading down one of the many deserted American highways, Mr. Corley was on his way to a meeting with his shareholders.  He was to unveil the future for Corley Motors.

            “But Mr. Corley…  If you’d only listen to my plan, my vision!”  Ripburger said, his eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses.  His voice was barely above a whisper; a gravelly sort of voice that it was.  It sounded the way a garbage truck would sound, were it able to speak.  His hands were covered in leather gloves.  The skin covering the muscle and bone was about as rough as Mr. Corley’s temper.

            “I know your plan, Rip.  Yer waitin’ for me to die so you can take over my comp’ny!”  Mr. Corley said.  He sniffed something back up his nose that had been dangling for a minute or two.  Mr. Corley was never really paranoid about his health.  Though, after he hit seventy, he ended his smoking and drinking vices and focused more on the future of his company, Corley Motors.  He knew he wouldn’t be around forever, and the company had to go to someone.  Mr. Corley seemingly didn’t have any family that wanted him for himself and not his cash, and Corley would have nothing to do with them.  The time was now to find a suitable candidate to take over after Mr. Corley kicked it.  It was time to make out a will, but whom to hand the company to?

            Mr. Corley’s was the last motorcycle company in the country.  Or what’s left of the country, anyway.  After the third war it became hard to find anywhere that wasn’t either poverty-stricken or under fifty feet of dirt.  Those who managed to survive the nuclear holocaust did so by relying on the kindness of absolute strangers.

That or they formed a biker gang and pooled their money together to buy an underground concrete shack.  One of the two.

Mr. Corley was eyeing up Ripburger when the driver of the hover-limo rang in through the two-way speakers, “Mr. Corley?  We’re about eighteen hours from the shareholders’ meeting.  Would you like to make a pit-stop?”

“A pit-stop?  You want to make a pit-stop?  I can make it!”  Mr. Corley was furious at this roundabout insult, “Why don’t you get me a goddamn coffee can to piss into if you’re so worried about your bleeding limo!  You call yourself a driver?  I hired you to drive, not be my doctor!”  Mr. Corley had half of his bladder removed after he pissed off a biker gang at one of the rallies his company held in the southern part of the country.  The gang’s only reprieve was that they weren’t aware that they were beating Mr. Corley, the man who gave them a reason to live.  That and Mr. Corley put up a helluva fight.  Corley put a million bucks into each gang member’s hand and sent them on their merry way a couple million dollar richer.

“Why, Mr. Corley…  There’s no reason for so much anger.  It’s bad for your heart.  You know that.  Why don’t you take one of your pills and rest a bit.  It’ll be better that way.”  Rip pulled an orange-colored container from one of the side compartments and shook its contents, attempting to persuade Mr. Corley.

“You want me to sleep?  I know what this is.  You and your two demons want me to sleep so you can smother me and claim it was a heart attack!  I’m on to you!”  Mr. Corley smacked the bottle from Rip’s hand and propelled it across the back of the limousine into the lap of Nestor, one of Mr. Corley’s bodyguards that Rip had personally hired.  The ‘demon’ next to him, Bolus, stared at Nestor a moment and asked if he was going to bogart the pills or if he’d consider sharing.  Nestor looked at the bottle a moment and then snickered his famous evil snicker.  The one that makes babies cry.