Post by brooks on Jul 7, 2011 13:05:06 GMT -5
Before Mercury Rising
It had been a more than righteous pain in the ass of Texas' Favorite Son. Right before the show in Fort Wayne Indiana, the atmosphere of the town seemed to shift somehow, from a fairly easy-going small town to a place designed to promote paranoia. Every corner would be occupied by a patrol cop, watching, waiting. Later the Cowboy would learn from his close friend Devon what had prompted it, a small bit of payback to the Great American Nightmare that ended up causing more problems for the rest of the ACW stars than the humor had been worth. But what was done was done so to speak and Devon might make apologies to those that deserved them later on. But what did all that have to do with the pain in the ass that Shane Brooks was going through? Oh that. Well it seemed that on Monday when he was getting ready to travel from Northern Indiana – why ACW wasn't having Mercury Rising in Cleveland which was a quick scoot over was beyond Brooks...down to Southern Ohio and Cincinnati when he'd discovered a small problem.
His Dodge Laredo, well kept of course and freshly detailed for that matter, refused to start. Brooks hadn't been frustrated at first, trying it again in case butter fingers had caused a slip of the key. Nothing. By this time he had begun to feel that sinking sensation that all was not well, popping the hood release and slipping out of the truck. Before he could get around to look at the engine Cynthia's pretty voice had risen up showing a bit of confusion and a hint of irritation.
“Merde ... tu te fous de moi? Pepsi bouteilles partout sur le sol ...Brooks, cher...tell me, truck won't start? Well look at this here.”
Brooks came around the tailgate of the truck and saw what she was pointing at, the ground around the truck was littered with empty Pepsi bottles, and there was a suspiciously dried sticky residue on the side of the truck near the gas intake! Brooks swore powerfully, those blue eyes narrowed as he flipped open the gas port cover, seeing there a small 'puddle' of Pepsi in the well around where the gas cap sat so innocently. Shane Brooks rarely lost his temper. So much so that when he did it was a remarkable thing indeed. But this?
“SON OF A B*TCH!”
The rant lasted considerably longer than that, and Cynthia's dark eyes were suspiciously wet before he wound down, she wasn't upset at his anger but there was a sort of soft spot for her when it came to this truck, all the miles they'd logged in it together. He saw that little sniffle, and gathered her up, still fuming but patting her toffee colored curls soothingly.
“It's all right Daisy. I'm sure...” He wasn't, not really... “I'm sure we can get her fixed. Don't you worry none.”
The real trouble started after he called for the tow truck.
First he ended up on hold, then the call transferred. Only that soft pliable form in his arms, snugged to his side kept him calm. Finally he was told in fairly dismissive fashion that all the trucks were engaged doing other things, but that if he waited a few hours they'd 'be by directly'. A snort of disgust had him hang up and then he called the police to file a report that his truck had been tampered with. It seemed like it would be fairly straightforward, while he had a real good idea who was behind this, he didn't have any solid proof unless there were fingerprints on those empties and he somehow doubted that there would be. When the officers showed up with a Police Impound Yard tow truck following though, well then the Cowboy might have started to worry a little. He was right to worry as it would be an ongoing pain from that moment forward.
Answering their questions, including the snide one that wondered if he'd sabotaged his own vehicle to try and make their town look bad.
Sitting and waiting endlessly on the people that were supposed to file the report but kept losing parts of it and making him go over it again.
Being sent back to the hotel and told not to leave town while this 'incident' was under investigation? That one was what bought him an over night in the lockup for cursing out the officer that told him that.
By the time it was all cleared up it was the following Monday! Swearing to never set foot in Fort Wayne Indiana again if he had a say about it, the Cowboy put foot to pedal and was comforted watching the town disappear in the rear view. What had been the problem with the truck? Simple trickery actually...someone had tinkered with the engine a little, removed the coil pack and undid a few wires. Nothing had actually been put in the gas tank and one car wash later all evidence that had led him to think so was washed away clean.
Wednesday, July 6th
When the cell rang, the number wasn't one usually seen on the Cowboy's screen, and there was no special ringtone or song attached. Cynthia rolled over and grabbed it off the nightstand and looked at it, squinting in the dark and apparently the internal light bulb went on...Megan had asked for Brooks' number and now it made sense why. Her voice, sleepy called out to the Cowboy who was getting dressed across the room and she tossed him his phone.
“For you cher, one of dem Harris' ...” before her head hit the pillow again.
Brooks' low deep baritone rolled out as he stretched, lending extra weight to his speech.
“Hello? Well, mornin' back BH. What do I owe the pleasure at the crack o'dawn then, to get a call from the Red Bishop, hmm?”
Cynthia sat up yawning, moving her pillow around to lay it across her lap and raised knees before she semi flopped on it. Smacking her lips a little as Brooks set the phone on speaker and laid it down on the table while he put his feet into special boot socks. Brian's voice was remarkably true to life, but then his Creole Lady had gotten him a very nice phone indeed.
“Well hey there Cowboy dude. Look, I wanted to call and tell you, that I know it was kind of a dick move to mess with your truck like that. Even though we made sure not to do anything y'know, permanent and ACWcensored. Sure didn't anticipate you getting kind of trapped in Fort Wayne Twilight Zone either really. So, well...sorry about that and shit. I ain't asking for forgiveness though Brooks because t'be totally ACWcensored-ing honest about it...”
“Go on...”
There was a pause and a snicker.
“I'd do it again, given the chance. Just to watch Aaron Lawrence blow a vein trying to guess who the hell did it. MAN that was fuc...funny. So, that's that Cowpoke. I'd wish you good luck on Sunday and all that but man, my Mother hates it when I lie, so you know out of respect for her I'm going to avoid that ACWcensored shit where possible. And tell Cynthia to wear that one sundress that rides up in the back. Mmmhmm. Later dude!”
There was a pause as the disconnect sound was heard, and Brooks looked up at Cynthia whose eyes were a little wide, and she slowly blinked as he looked down at the phone and then back up to her, the words of the fast-talking Brian Harris fully registering to the still somewhat sleepy Lone Star native. Then came a powerful shout.
“Why that dirty...low down...red-headed son of a b....!”
“Grand Homme?”
“No, Daisy...it's okay. But I'm gonna get that smug little...mess with my truck will he? Talk smack about how fine my lady's a...well I'm gonna get him. He needs a refresher.”
“On the House Rules?”
“That too Daisy. But this goes a lil' further than that.”
It had been a more than righteous pain in the ass of Texas' Favorite Son. Right before the show in Fort Wayne Indiana, the atmosphere of the town seemed to shift somehow, from a fairly easy-going small town to a place designed to promote paranoia. Every corner would be occupied by a patrol cop, watching, waiting. Later the Cowboy would learn from his close friend Devon what had prompted it, a small bit of payback to the Great American Nightmare that ended up causing more problems for the rest of the ACW stars than the humor had been worth. But what was done was done so to speak and Devon might make apologies to those that deserved them later on. But what did all that have to do with the pain in the ass that Shane Brooks was going through? Oh that. Well it seemed that on Monday when he was getting ready to travel from Northern Indiana – why ACW wasn't having Mercury Rising in Cleveland which was a quick scoot over was beyond Brooks...down to Southern Ohio and Cincinnati when he'd discovered a small problem.
His Dodge Laredo, well kept of course and freshly detailed for that matter, refused to start. Brooks hadn't been frustrated at first, trying it again in case butter fingers had caused a slip of the key. Nothing. By this time he had begun to feel that sinking sensation that all was not well, popping the hood release and slipping out of the truck. Before he could get around to look at the engine Cynthia's pretty voice had risen up showing a bit of confusion and a hint of irritation.
“Merde ... tu te fous de moi? Pepsi bouteilles partout sur le sol ...Brooks, cher...tell me, truck won't start? Well look at this here.”
Brooks came around the tailgate of the truck and saw what she was pointing at, the ground around the truck was littered with empty Pepsi bottles, and there was a suspiciously dried sticky residue on the side of the truck near the gas intake! Brooks swore powerfully, those blue eyes narrowed as he flipped open the gas port cover, seeing there a small 'puddle' of Pepsi in the well around where the gas cap sat so innocently. Shane Brooks rarely lost his temper. So much so that when he did it was a remarkable thing indeed. But this?
“SON OF A B*TCH!”
The rant lasted considerably longer than that, and Cynthia's dark eyes were suspiciously wet before he wound down, she wasn't upset at his anger but there was a sort of soft spot for her when it came to this truck, all the miles they'd logged in it together. He saw that little sniffle, and gathered her up, still fuming but patting her toffee colored curls soothingly.
“It's all right Daisy. I'm sure...” He wasn't, not really... “I'm sure we can get her fixed. Don't you worry none.”
The real trouble started after he called for the tow truck.
First he ended up on hold, then the call transferred. Only that soft pliable form in his arms, snugged to his side kept him calm. Finally he was told in fairly dismissive fashion that all the trucks were engaged doing other things, but that if he waited a few hours they'd 'be by directly'. A snort of disgust had him hang up and then he called the police to file a report that his truck had been tampered with. It seemed like it would be fairly straightforward, while he had a real good idea who was behind this, he didn't have any solid proof unless there were fingerprints on those empties and he somehow doubted that there would be. When the officers showed up with a Police Impound Yard tow truck following though, well then the Cowboy might have started to worry a little. He was right to worry as it would be an ongoing pain from that moment forward.
Answering their questions, including the snide one that wondered if he'd sabotaged his own vehicle to try and make their town look bad.
Sitting and waiting endlessly on the people that were supposed to file the report but kept losing parts of it and making him go over it again.
Being sent back to the hotel and told not to leave town while this 'incident' was under investigation? That one was what bought him an over night in the lockup for cursing out the officer that told him that.
By the time it was all cleared up it was the following Monday! Swearing to never set foot in Fort Wayne Indiana again if he had a say about it, the Cowboy put foot to pedal and was comforted watching the town disappear in the rear view. What had been the problem with the truck? Simple trickery actually...someone had tinkered with the engine a little, removed the coil pack and undid a few wires. Nothing had actually been put in the gas tank and one car wash later all evidence that had led him to think so was washed away clean.
Wednesday, July 6th
When the cell rang, the number wasn't one usually seen on the Cowboy's screen, and there was no special ringtone or song attached. Cynthia rolled over and grabbed it off the nightstand and looked at it, squinting in the dark and apparently the internal light bulb went on...Megan had asked for Brooks' number and now it made sense why. Her voice, sleepy called out to the Cowboy who was getting dressed across the room and she tossed him his phone.
“For you cher, one of dem Harris' ...” before her head hit the pillow again.
Brooks' low deep baritone rolled out as he stretched, lending extra weight to his speech.
“Hello? Well, mornin' back BH. What do I owe the pleasure at the crack o'dawn then, to get a call from the Red Bishop, hmm?”
Cynthia sat up yawning, moving her pillow around to lay it across her lap and raised knees before she semi flopped on it. Smacking her lips a little as Brooks set the phone on speaker and laid it down on the table while he put his feet into special boot socks. Brian's voice was remarkably true to life, but then his Creole Lady had gotten him a very nice phone indeed.
“Well hey there Cowboy dude. Look, I wanted to call and tell you, that I know it was kind of a dick move to mess with your truck like that. Even though we made sure not to do anything y'know, permanent and ACWcensored. Sure didn't anticipate you getting kind of trapped in Fort Wayne Twilight Zone either really. So, well...sorry about that and shit. I ain't asking for forgiveness though Brooks because t'be totally ACWcensored-ing honest about it...”
“Go on...”
There was a pause and a snicker.
“I'd do it again, given the chance. Just to watch Aaron Lawrence blow a vein trying to guess who the hell did it. MAN that was fuc...funny. So, that's that Cowpoke. I'd wish you good luck on Sunday and all that but man, my Mother hates it when I lie, so you know out of respect for her I'm going to avoid that ACWcensored shit where possible. And tell Cynthia to wear that one sundress that rides up in the back. Mmmhmm. Later dude!”
There was a pause as the disconnect sound was heard, and Brooks looked up at Cynthia whose eyes were a little wide, and she slowly blinked as he looked down at the phone and then back up to her, the words of the fast-talking Brian Harris fully registering to the still somewhat sleepy Lone Star native. Then came a powerful shout.
“Why that dirty...low down...red-headed son of a b....!”
“Grand Homme?”
“No, Daisy...it's okay. But I'm gonna get that smug little...mess with my truck will he? Talk smack about how fine my lady's a...well I'm gonna get him. He needs a refresher.”
“On the House Rules?”
“That too Daisy. But this goes a lil' further than that.”