Metalocalypse ficcage
Feb. 12th, 2007 05:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Jennys and Jack(asses)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1119
“You’re late. Again. Don’t think I won’t dock your pay because I will. Now get your ass and your rig around to dock four. I saved THIS run just for you.”
There was a distinctly evil smirk on the face of his weasely boss and Murderface was extremely disappointed when, as he groped at his belt, he realized he’d left the bowie at home in his rush to get his new drummer moving. It had been far too long since he’d threatened the stupid bastard. He’d been holding off because last time the spineless loser had pissed himself. His own was one thing but Murderface wasn’t exactly enamored of having his boots messed up by others’ lack of bladder control. But clearly his dickhead of a boss needed to be reminded that William Murderface was no man’s dog but his own. He and his rig could always go elsewhere. And in spite of his rather splotchy driving record, he did have a reputation for always making his drop offs no matter the conditions. He could get hired elsewhere.
Grumbling under his breath and digging dirty, too-short nails into his palms in a poor attempt at controlling his temper, Murderface stomped into the shit hole that passed for a break room. The only dildos still idling in the place were Sarge and Nancy and he flicked them both off as a means of greeting as he crossed the stained industrial carpet towards the coffee pot. Black sludge, double brewed and straight up, he poured the hearty stuff into a styrofoam cup and tossed half of it back before he’d even finished putting the dingy carafe down. Shit wasn’t even hot anymore but the caffeine would be enough to chase off the last of his hangover. One closed fist against the vending machine and he had a pre-packaged, expired excuse for a cinnamon bun to sop up the slop he was putting into his gut. And thus fortified, Murderface tugged once on the brim of his company cap, swiped all the remaining sugar packets just so nobody else could have them, and headed back to his cab.
It had taken him three years, a decent amount of extortion and the judicious theft of social security checks from his bitch of a grandmother but he’d finally had enough to buy the ’84 Mack. An old acquaintance from high school had souped it up once he had been given the proper encouragement and his Class A license had been perhaps the easiest thing he’d ever gotten in his life. How some dildos failed the exam was completely beyond Murderface; the first time he’d climbed up behind the wheel and stomped on the clutch, throwing through the gears, he’d finally felt at home somewhere beside with a bass in his hands. He wasn’t known for taking good care of, well, anything, and his truck wasn’t an exception. The interior of the cab was more like a trashcan than anything else and the outside was covered in road dirt. But the engine throbbed in vibrant, low-throated life and that was all that really mattered. Besides, the logo of the company was better looking when it was obscured by salt and bird droppings. Too bad he couldn’t smear crap over his hat again. That had been fun.
In a matter of moments, Murderface drove across the asphalt and gravel yard of the ‘Pack Mule’ shipping company and hung a right around the main receiving building to go and pick up his first load of the day. ‘Pack Mule’ was an independent outfit, contracting work from other haulers and from individuals and then subcontracting the work out to owner-operators like Murderface. Most of the locals in the business tended to refer to the company and its employees as ‘Jackass’ instead, poking fun at both the stupid donkey logo and the general attitude of the founder and upper management. Murderface didn’t take kindly to being called a jackass and more than one person had been introduced to his knuckles, his steel-capped toes, or one of his knives before they learned to address him by his name and make no mention of donkeys, mules, horses, or anything else of an equine persuasion in his presence. Dock four was halfway down the line of general receiving bays and he didn’t pay it any attention at first, focusing on backing in and fighting off the urge to run down his stupid dick boss. It wasn’t until he hopped out of the cab to see to the coupling and get his paperwork that he actually noticed his cargo.
“Fuck! There’sh no way in hell! I don’t do liveshtock and you dildosh know it.”
Now the smile, the same fucking grin he was getting again, made perfect sense. Contractually, he would be responsible for unloading his cargo at the destination. Typically that meant unhooking a trailer and that was that. But there was a load of chickens waiting for him, hooked in the usual linked two by two configuration and stacked six cubes high. There had to be over three hundred squawking, shitting birds and he would have to unload each and every one of the damn things.
“Awww, that’s too bad. I had a suicide to Trenton but I had to give it to Brian when you didn’t show up on time. This’s all I’ve got for you.” His boss chuckled and tried to hand him a clipboard. “Purdue run. Take ‘em to the processing plant up on the Eastern Shore. If you can make it back by two, I’ll have something else for you. Otherwise, don’t bother bringing your ugly mug back in here late again.”
Murderface was about five seconds from snatching the clipboard and using it to beat the head jackass’s nose back and up into his tiny brain. About the only thing that stopped him, white-knuckled rage drawing blood in shallow crescents in his palms, was the fact that he HAD to get paid. There was equipment to buy and he didn’t know if his new drummer had any money so he couldn’t get kicked out of his apartment in case he needed it to offer to the Wisconsinite. And Pickles was good, good enough that maybe Antietam would finally grow beyond Richmond and the surrounding towns. Then he could quit. The thought of what he would do when he tendered his permanent resignation was enough to make him smile as he grabbed the paperwork. His loser boss edged away, properly disturbed, and Murderface made sure to toss a half-full bottle of “road juice” out the window to break at and splash on the dildo licker’s feet as he spat gravel on his way out of the lot.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1119
“You’re late. Again. Don’t think I won’t dock your pay because I will. Now get your ass and your rig around to dock four. I saved THIS run just for you.”
There was a distinctly evil smirk on the face of his weasely boss and Murderface was extremely disappointed when, as he groped at his belt, he realized he’d left the bowie at home in his rush to get his new drummer moving. It had been far too long since he’d threatened the stupid bastard. He’d been holding off because last time the spineless loser had pissed himself. His own was one thing but Murderface wasn’t exactly enamored of having his boots messed up by others’ lack of bladder control. But clearly his dickhead of a boss needed to be reminded that William Murderface was no man’s dog but his own. He and his rig could always go elsewhere. And in spite of his rather splotchy driving record, he did have a reputation for always making his drop offs no matter the conditions. He could get hired elsewhere.
Grumbling under his breath and digging dirty, too-short nails into his palms in a poor attempt at controlling his temper, Murderface stomped into the shit hole that passed for a break room. The only dildos still idling in the place were Sarge and Nancy and he flicked them both off as a means of greeting as he crossed the stained industrial carpet towards the coffee pot. Black sludge, double brewed and straight up, he poured the hearty stuff into a styrofoam cup and tossed half of it back before he’d even finished putting the dingy carafe down. Shit wasn’t even hot anymore but the caffeine would be enough to chase off the last of his hangover. One closed fist against the vending machine and he had a pre-packaged, expired excuse for a cinnamon bun to sop up the slop he was putting into his gut. And thus fortified, Murderface tugged once on the brim of his company cap, swiped all the remaining sugar packets just so nobody else could have them, and headed back to his cab.
It had taken him three years, a decent amount of extortion and the judicious theft of social security checks from his bitch of a grandmother but he’d finally had enough to buy the ’84 Mack. An old acquaintance from high school had souped it up once he had been given the proper encouragement and his Class A license had been perhaps the easiest thing he’d ever gotten in his life. How some dildos failed the exam was completely beyond Murderface; the first time he’d climbed up behind the wheel and stomped on the clutch, throwing through the gears, he’d finally felt at home somewhere beside with a bass in his hands. He wasn’t known for taking good care of, well, anything, and his truck wasn’t an exception. The interior of the cab was more like a trashcan than anything else and the outside was covered in road dirt. But the engine throbbed in vibrant, low-throated life and that was all that really mattered. Besides, the logo of the company was better looking when it was obscured by salt and bird droppings. Too bad he couldn’t smear crap over his hat again. That had been fun.
In a matter of moments, Murderface drove across the asphalt and gravel yard of the ‘Pack Mule’ shipping company and hung a right around the main receiving building to go and pick up his first load of the day. ‘Pack Mule’ was an independent outfit, contracting work from other haulers and from individuals and then subcontracting the work out to owner-operators like Murderface. Most of the locals in the business tended to refer to the company and its employees as ‘Jackass’ instead, poking fun at both the stupid donkey logo and the general attitude of the founder and upper management. Murderface didn’t take kindly to being called a jackass and more than one person had been introduced to his knuckles, his steel-capped toes, or one of his knives before they learned to address him by his name and make no mention of donkeys, mules, horses, or anything else of an equine persuasion in his presence. Dock four was halfway down the line of general receiving bays and he didn’t pay it any attention at first, focusing on backing in and fighting off the urge to run down his stupid dick boss. It wasn’t until he hopped out of the cab to see to the coupling and get his paperwork that he actually noticed his cargo.
“Fuck! There’sh no way in hell! I don’t do liveshtock and you dildosh know it.”
Now the smile, the same fucking grin he was getting again, made perfect sense. Contractually, he would be responsible for unloading his cargo at the destination. Typically that meant unhooking a trailer and that was that. But there was a load of chickens waiting for him, hooked in the usual linked two by two configuration and stacked six cubes high. There had to be over three hundred squawking, shitting birds and he would have to unload each and every one of the damn things.
“Awww, that’s too bad. I had a suicide to Trenton but I had to give it to Brian when you didn’t show up on time. This’s all I’ve got for you.” His boss chuckled and tried to hand him a clipboard. “Purdue run. Take ‘em to the processing plant up on the Eastern Shore. If you can make it back by two, I’ll have something else for you. Otherwise, don’t bother bringing your ugly mug back in here late again.”
Murderface was about five seconds from snatching the clipboard and using it to beat the head jackass’s nose back and up into his tiny brain. About the only thing that stopped him, white-knuckled rage drawing blood in shallow crescents in his palms, was the fact that he HAD to get paid. There was equipment to buy and he didn’t know if his new drummer had any money so he couldn’t get kicked out of his apartment in case he needed it to offer to the Wisconsinite. And Pickles was good, good enough that maybe Antietam would finally grow beyond Richmond and the surrounding towns. Then he could quit. The thought of what he would do when he tendered his permanent resignation was enough to make him smile as he grabbed the paperwork. His loser boss edged away, properly disturbed, and Murderface made sure to toss a half-full bottle of “road juice” out the window to break at and splash on the dildo licker’s feet as he spat gravel on his way out of the lot.
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Date: 2007-02-14 06:22 am (UTC)