A regular day…

[Cherokeedog]

Anvil Terrapin. Interior. MobiGlas call sound (old style):

“Beep…beep…beep…”

Cherokee’s laying on the floor, face down, awkward position. A few whiskey bottles spread all around place. Most of them empty.

“Beep…beep…beep…”

The sound gets louder as he wakes up and slowly opens his eyes, putting heavy spikes of pain into his head.

“BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…”

He blinks fast in an attempt to clear his vision. To no avail.

“BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…”

“Damn trinket!” He smashes the mobiGlas screen, answering the call. A video call, that is.

“Yo, Dog! Are you there?”

“James? I’ll have your money by the end of the week.”

“You don’t owe me money.”

“That’s new…”

He attempts to get up, but falls back into the same position. “Crap…this hurts. I’ll remain here for a while.”

“Cherokee! Don’t fall asleep on me, man!”

“I’m not…I think… Anyway, why you callin’ me at this time a day, James? I ain’t no early bird, you know…”

“It’s noon.”

“It is?”

“You have to get your arse over here.”

“Where’s ‘here’?”

“On the station. Where are you, anyway?”

“Ummm…no idea…”

“You’re on a ship?”

“I think so…”

“That looks like the belly of a Terrapin.”

“Might be…” Cherokee manages to roll on his back, throwing a quick look around. The pain in his eyeballs is excruciating. “Damn! It seems so, yes.”

“Since when do you own a Terrapin?”

“I don’t.”

“So…who’s ship is it?”

“How the hell should I know? I just woke up here.”

“Are you on the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that thing have a bed?”

“It does. Apparently though, my journey last night ended abruptly before I could reach it…” He feels his face with his hand. “My jaw’s killin’ me…”

“What’s with all the bottles?”

“This thing also has a bar. Well…HAD a bar.”

“Crap! Anyway, you still have to get down here. And fast!”

“Why?”

“Your ship’s getting impounded.”

“What?!? Why?”

“’Cause you parked it on top of a Mustang.”

“I did?”

“Well…you tried. I hope you have insurance.”

“Damn! Say…James…my friend…can you lend me some credits?”

“NO!” James abruptly hangs up.

Cherokee slowly gets up, straightens his back spitting a wide variety of pain sounds and curses, and then heads towards the pilot seat, only to notice he was floating adrift in space.

 

[CosmicTrader]

I enjoyed that.
You should submit it and future stories to the TESTie Times.
Thanks.

 

[Cherokeedog]

*Guess the best way to say "you're welcome" is by servin’ a follow-up. A short one, for now.*

A few hours later – James’ chop shop. Closing time.

“You call this ‘fast’, Cherokee?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly close to the station. And I had to wait…for the ‘air’ to clear a bit.”

“For the ‘air’ to clear? Something tells me I’m not going to like this…”

“You probably won’t.”

“Okay…let it out, I guess.”

“Remember that ship I was on?”

“The one you stole?”

“I didn’t STEAL it. I just…borrowed it for a ride.”

“Do you know the owner?”

“Nope. Well…not exactly, to be precise.”

“By all means, BE precise. What the hell does that mean?”

“I kind of…identified the owner.”

“You did? That’s good. You gave it back, I take it?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not as easy as it might seem…”

“Again: why not?”

“Well…see…there was sort of…an inscription on the side of the ship.”

“I don’t like where this is going…”

“…”

“Well, what did the inscription say?”

“POLICE.”

“CRAP! You know what? I don’t want to know anything more about this.”

“Unfortunately…I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“What? Why?”

“’Cause I just parked it in your back yard.”

“SON OF A…!!!! YOU BROUGHT A STOLEN POLICE SHIP IN MY GARAGE?!?!”

“Keep your voice down. I don’t think they heard you on the other side of the station.”

James rubs his face in despair, then grabs Cherokee by the shoulder and pushes him inside the office, scouting around for nosy eyes. “Get your arse in there. Did anybody see you?”

*to be continued*

 

[Han Burgundy]

Very well done! I like it! Cherokee certainly sounds like a proper TESTie!

 

[Cherokeedog]

*Here we go again.*


As James closes the door and pulls down the blinders, Cherokee heads straight to a desk, opens the bottom drawer and liberates a bottle of Scotch. He rolls it in his hand as his eyes linger a bit over the label. “Ye always knew your booze, James!”

“Hey, put that down! I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

“Like what? Wakin’ up in the mornin’?” He swiftly opens the bottle and shoves a good portion of the liquid inside down his throat. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, checking the label once again: “To be honest, this’d be a really good reason for one to wake up in the mornin’.”

James shakes his head in dismay: “What the hell were you thinkin’, Dog? Out of all places, you HAD TO bring that thing here?”

“Well…it IS a chop shop, isn’t it?”

“It’s a LEGIT chops shop! I don’t do that anymore.”

“You sure? I’m positive I heard Sasquatch the other day braggin’ about how he got a brand new 325 from you. Half price, he said. You’re in the charity business now?”

“He’s…a friend.”

“And Beerjerker was riding…”

“Also a friend.”

“Montoya…”

“FRIEND!”

“Really? Ain’t he the one who parted you from your left hand fingers a couple of years ago?”

“Ancient history. Times change.”

“So…am I not a “friend”?”

“Not when you bring that kind of heat at my door! Look…” Mobiglas ringing interrupts his sentence.

James nervously searches his pockets and takes it out. His face covers with an expression of anxiety as he looks at the screen. “Damn it! It’s Montoya. I have to take this outside. Don’t move your arse from that chair!”

“I thought you said you were friends…” Cherokee grins for a second.

James points his finger at him: “Do NOT move your arse!” He then goes out of the office, closing the door behind him.

A couple of minutes later…

James enters the office, witnessing Cherokee’s success in his endeavour to finish the bottle. “Damn! How did you manage to drain it that fast?!?”

“Years of practice, my friend.”

“Ok. To hell with that. Listen: I just found a use for that police tin can.”

“Already? No wonder your business is doin’ so well.”

“Quit it with the smart arse remarks. We got a job.”

“A job?”

“Montoya needs a couple of bodies.”

“Ummm...ok…You got any body bags?”

“It’s a figure of speech, idiot! He needs o couple of able bodies.”

“Able…for what?”

“Hijacking a booze shipment.”

“Just like that? He calls and tells you to hijack a rig?”

“Of course not. Stop playin’ stupid. I knew about this. I was just sittin’ on my arse, waiting for a time and date. Seems it’s today. Right now, to be more precise.”

“So…where does my Terrapin factor into this?”

“’Your’ Terrapin?”

“Well…it does belong to the state…and I’m a citizen…payin’ my taxes…”

“Oh, shut it already. I was supposed to put some stickers on an old rig I got in the back yard. Didn’t get around to doing it yet. Anyway, havin’ a real police ship is better than a fake.”

“I guess… So where's this deed takin’ place?”

“Port Olisar.”

“WHAT? You want us to steal a truck full of booze, in a stolen police vehicle, in the middle of the station?!?”

“Cherokee…your mouth is still talkin’. Let’s move.”


*I guess since we got here, we’ll handle this job too. To be continued.*

 

[Cherokeedog]

About an hour later, somewhere between the ICC probe and Port Olisar. James is driving, as Cherokee indulges the company of yet another whiskey bottle.

“I’m mighty glad this little buddy survived my rampage last night.” He takes a long gulp from the bottle. “Never expected a turkey rig to be carrying such treasures.”

“Dog, focus. We’re close.”

“Close to where?”

“The diner.”

“What freakin’ diner?”

“’S been long since you’ve been around here, Dog. They’ve put a diner with a few landin’ pads right around here.”

“For what? They started baptizing the drinks on Olisar?”

“Actually…this is where they do the baptizing.”

“That meaning…?”

“Well, they’re baptizin’ something here all right, but it ain’t drinks. It’s cargo. Haulers who’ve got something’ to drop before goin’ through Olisar’s scanners, do it here.”

“You’re yankin’ my chain, buddy? This is right under the UEE’s nose.”

“Actually…it's sort of…a joint operation, so to put it.”

“What? You mean this is some UEE asshole’s side gig?”

“Well…maybe. But more on that later. We’re here.”

“Ok…” Cherokee leans on the pilot’s seat to see outside. “So…what’s the plan?”

“It’s simple: we wait for the mule to make his way here, pull him over, stun his arse and then take off in his ship. Piece of cake.”

“We take him with us?”

“No, you dumbass. Why would we do that?!? We leave him on this rig right here.”

“Well…I almost feel sorry for the guy.”

“Don’t. He’s actually comin’ here to lighten his load.”

“Well then…”

 

[Cherokeedog]

Cherokee narrows his eyes as their ship closes to the diner, trying to make a quick assessment of the situation. “It looks quiet.” Only an Aurora is occupying one of the front landing pads. His eyes slip towards the back of the building.

“There’s not much light on those landing pads there… But…I think I see a couple of Freelancers.”

“What? Where, Dog?” An expression of concern covers James’s face.

“Behind the diner. Nobody seems to be around.”

“Crap!”

“What’s wrong?”

“The mule we’re lookin’ for is a Freelancer. He must have arrived ahead of schedule.”

“Well then, he must be inside. Which actually presents us with the opportunity of partin’ him with his ship without hurtin’ his arse.”

“Yeah but…there’s two of them. Which one you think it’s ours?”

“Guess we won’t know unless we check’em both.”

“Damn! I don’t like this…”

James pulls the ship onto one of the clear landing pads. “Ok Dog, let’s get out there.”

Cherokee turns around, but all the booze he’s been downing finally takes its tall. He trips over a bottle on the floor, stumbles a bit… “Oh shit!” …and falls straight over the ship’s controls.

Both him and James watch helplessly as a rocket is launched from the belly of the Terrapin…straight into the fuel tanks of one of the Freelancers. The fireworks light up their stunned faces.

“Cheroke…what the hell!?!”

“Well mate…” Cherokee straightens his jacket “…at least now we don’t need to pick one anymore.”

“Damn! Get your arse out there.”

They move quick. James uses a small device to hack the door and then the controls of the remaining Freelancer, and they manage to get up in the air and away from the diner before anyone could tell what happened.

About half hour later, inside the Freelancer’s cockpit.

“James, I’m goin’ to check on that cargo…make sure none of that booze got spilled or anything.”

“Don’t you be slippin’ any of it in your pockets, you hear me? Or down your throat, for that matter!”

“Yeah yeah…”

A few minutes later…

“Hey, James, you think there’s a black market for…toilet bowls?”

“WHAT??? Are you tellin’ me we…?”

“Snatched a full load of’em, yes.”

“DAMN! Oh…crap…Montoya’s goin’ to be really pissed!”

“I reckon so. Say, James….how many fingers you got left?”

“THIS AIN’T FUNNY, DOG!!!”


*Well, this concludes a regular day.*

 

[Han Burgundy]

Excellent story of a TESTie in action! If I had a nickel for every accidental missile launch....I'd have $4.15.

 

[Cherokeedog]

Guess I must still be drunk... I actually calculated how many missiles that makes.

 

[thanatos73]

Good read, next one needs a Cutlass

 

[Cherokeedog]

Good read, next one needs a Cutlass.

Will do. Most likely will start on that toilet with a view.