The Road Gunner

Updated on March 14, 2018
Paul Garand profile image

I write creative writing pieces inspired by '80s action, gaming, and heavy metal—classic "good vs evil" stories with smart twists.

Being a normal guy in a small Russian town where all buildings are from the Stalin and Khruschev era while the area itself is surrounded by a mountain range and steppes; I wasn’t up to date on what happened in big cities. Until today, when the rich brought their diseases and problems here with nightclubs, overpriced boutiques and shopping malls. My peers and my friends were all lost to this trendy way of life where nothing but instant gratification counted and losing yourself to the intoxication of alcohol, weeds and tablets.

Oh yes, I also mentioned problems; they were indeed here too with everyone suddenly caring about overly emotional, teary-eyed temporary romances as well as trivial feelings. Seeing a grown man get on his knees and weep pathetic tears for his girlfriend to take him back even though, from what I saw, she was an unfaithful, ungrateful, pampered little princess who was also had a “reputation” in the clubs; this is depressing.

I love this town and this plague is not going to destroy it; not my home so I have decided tonight that I will do what Alexander Nevsky would have done; who comes to us with a sword, will die by a sword. A good place to start was my grandfather’s garage; he passed away and left it locked down with a lock he forged himself; knowing my mom and her “think of the children” mentality alongside her dislike of anything masculine all too well. He had tons of cool stuff in there; from an old URAL motorcycle with a sidecar to a whole AKMSU folding-stock rifle he brought back from the Soviet-Afghan war after his service in the 1980s.

Moments later, I was riding my steel horse through the night, leaving lots of destruction and death; gunning down couples outside clubs, shooting up boutiques and malls with no resistance; the invaders didn’t think to arm their security. It’s an acquired skill to shoot on a bike, but I mastered it in no time; applying it on a pink limousine I cut off on a highway; busting its wheels and sending it spiraling off the road.

The night has lit up with police sirens, explosions, and fire from the destroyed plush-mobiles I put down with a gas tank shot and return fire I received from the police. Suddenly, my little Soviet town was as bright as Times Square in NYC that was so beautiful in films; except it’s the modern way of life that was burning; I would never trade this for NYC, let the pink, frilly disease burn away. My URAL roared on through town; a tour of blood, fire and bullets with many golden youths DOA.

The marvel of Soviet State Arsenal wasn’t the only weapon I had; when the ammo ran out, I fell back to a makeshift cannon mounted to the right side of the bike. Fashioned out of a horizontal-twin barrel TOZ-120 and a reloading mechanism that worked like the ones in tanks; shells ejected and new ones pushed in manually; the cannon made minced meat out of targets too scared to dodge. A drunk disgrace stumbling out of a bar getting blow in half, a pompous, effeminate, trust-fund cyclist transplanted from his fancy big city apartment getting booted off his disgrace to transport to be mangled by the URAL’s heavier frame; sites to cherish.

The cannon claimed more prizes as it spat shells made for Big Game hunting at ongoing human residue spreading or infected with the big city pink plague; high-speed and high fire rate to the point that the local police gave up the chase and resorted to road blocks and town-wide broadcasts of “stay in your homes and lock you doors.” Moments later, 9mm PMM bullets starting flying past my ears; swerving out of their way and shifting my weight to the back; I broke through their barricade with a wheelie. Those were regular patrol officers meaning that I’m yet to face the elite squads.

2 police UAZ 4x4s were flanking me with the occasional pot shot; however, I was out of ammo but, there was something else the pink disease would get. As a 9mm bullet hit my gas tank and fuel was leaking onto the road, I did a 180 degree turn and headed towards the most populated area. As the fuel dial slowly crept lower and lower; I pulled out my lighter, ignited it and threw it at the trail I left behind. Please Lord, Forgive Me.

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    © 2018 Jake Clawson

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