Little Fighter (The Lost Boys)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Little Less Conversation

But first a word from the sponsors.

"Is life getting you down? Do you feel like there's just no point anymore? Well that's cause it's Monday folks! Don't let those early work-week blues get to you down. DJ J.P Jones is all fired up and ready to get to work so that you can too. Here's a Golden Oldie from The King to remind you all that the weekend isn't as far off as you think because everyone's dancing to that jailhouse rock!"

The Chevelle raced through the darkness like a black and white tiger as Lincoln kept his foot a deadweight on the gas. The engine's guttural snarling was plain old mean while those top-of-the-line racing tires clawed up asphalt as they tore toward the Santa Carla border. Even the heavily tinted lenses of the Aviators could not dull the vicious gleam of Lincoln's eyes as he ground down his teeth.

He cursed David's name over and over again like a mantra.

Lincoln did not fear death. Self-preservation was a trait that had been lost in some stinking shit pile of a Vietnamese jungle back in the late Fifties. He always knew that he would never be lucky. In life and whatever came next.

Lincoln had no business wanting to live a full life. God, immortality was great and all but from his end of the deal, it seriously sucked. Close on thirty years of sleepless days and blood soaked nights was enough to make any man stop and wonder if a bullet between the eyes was a good idea. Problem was a bullet would not cut it. No, if he was going to go out, he was going to do it in a blaze of freaking glory.

But first he had to take care of a little business.

It no longer mattered what he did so long as he got Sarah out of Santa Carla. The Boss was not going to care if he just blew the whole business up to the high heavens. And if he did, well, he was supposed to die right? Fine then.

But he was not going to be the only one.

As the music blasted out of the Chevelle's car radio, Lincoln couldn't help but agree with The King. That man always knew what to do with enough flare to last ten lifetimes. There were not enough rhinestones in the world that could outshine that legacy.

"Brother turned to Shifty and he said, nix nix. 

I gonna stick around while I get my kicks!"

The seedy roadside all-night diner was nothing special. Disgraced with a side-order of faded glory from the days when Route 66 was a crowning jewel for road riders from coast to coast. Its purpose had long since lost its usefulness once the new and improved four-lane highways became the main arteries for travel across state lines. Rusted chrome and broken neon with crack sidings would have repelled most people. But Lincoln was not people. Not even close.

The flickering moth light sign was what caught his attention.

Don a's D n r

Lincoln had once knew a gal named Donna. She was a real pistol. Right up to when he drained her. A true ginger never tasted better than she had after she had pulled the trigger and left a dollar sized hole in his gut. That was one scar he wished he still had.

The red-eye night shift and the few bleary-eyed patrons did not think anything of the roaring muscle car that swerved off the old highway and fishtailed into a parking spot beside a battered Ford pick-up that had at one time been blue. It looked miserable enough that whoever owned that rust bucket should have it taken out back and shot.

Even in her current condition the Chevelle looked miles better than the rigs scattered across the dilapidated parking lot. A few long-distance haulers took up one end while the rest just squatted on cracked pavement making love to the weeds with their tires. The only vehicle that had any sort of spark left in it was an old soft-top Cadillac, one of those chrome boats on white-walled tires with polished hubcaps. This one was tucked away from the rest in the shadows on the far-side of the grease joint. Somebody did not want anyone touching that old cruiser.