Geoffrey A. Landis - Hot Death On Wheels

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Hot Death on Wheels

Geoffrey A. Landis

originally appeared in Realms of Fantasy November 1996

Cars today, they're nothing, kid; crappy little Detroit shitboxes

stamped

out of sheet-metal. A waste of your fuckin' money and so full of electronic

crap that you can't even tune 'em up without a fuckin' computer.

You like that one? Pretty, you say? Let me tell you, you couldn't

afford it,

not that one. Not for sale, anyway.

Let me tell you about cars, kid, about real cars. I was a kid

too, once. Yeah, that was a while back, more miles than I care to remember.

Used to tag along behind the greasers. A grease-monkey wannabe, me, hair

slicked back with Bryl Creem and snot dripping out my nose and thought I

knew something about cars. Nah, I didn't know nothing back then, but Den

Tolbert, he tolerated me trailing around behind him, sometimes even let

me hold a wrench for him while he worked on his street-rod, let me feel

like I was part of it, something special.

Never heard of him? Kid, I'm not surprised, you wouldn't. But believe

you me, he was the best there was, maybe the best there ever was. He was a

t-shirt grease-punk back when the word punk meant something, not like

those fags today who think they're something because they got a staple

though their face. Not that anybody--anybody--would have

called him a punk to his face, no sir.

Den had a '57 Chevy, just like that one. The finest car ever made, my

opinion. He'd crammed a Cadillac flathead V-8 in it, the one that, back

then, they made special only for ambulances. He took it apart and rebuilt

it,

the engine bored and stroked and milled and ported and polished, every

cam sanded and shined and rubbed and put back together the way he

wanted it. He had damn near five hundred raging broncos chained under

the hood, with fat racing slicks of Pirelli rubber two feet wide in back, and

custom hand-tooled air shocks he took off an Italian racer that crashed and

burned off Topanga Canyon one misty morning; some asshole who had the

bright idea that 'cause he could afford a pretty car, he knew how to drive it.

Den's rod had chrome so bright your eyes hurt to look at it; rubber so

hot

it left sooty flames on the asphalt five hundred feet behind where he'd been,

twin quad-barrel carbs and a tuned exhaust that let him do zero to one-

eighty in nothing flat. He spent weeks fine-tuning just the aero, looking

for

that perfect edge that would keep the rear-end from floating right off the

street at top speed. Other streetpunks had their cars all dolled up, with

cherry-slick enamel and white-wall tires and fancy hi-fi radios. Except for

the chrome, Den's rod was slick glossy black with only a white skull on the

hood and the words Hot Death on Wheels. He didn't

have nothing inside, not even a tach, because he knew every quaver of his

engine and could always tell just exactly what he was doing by the sound.

He left behind everything on the road. He didn't even have a

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Geoffrey A. Landis - Hot Death On Wheels

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