Full Throttle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


An F.B.I agent is called to a small california town to investigate two peculiar murders.

Submitted: July 24, 2018

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Submitted: July 24, 2018

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FULL THROTTLE

A TALE BY

JOSHUA WEBSTER

 

Part One

 

“Two bodies were found last night. They both were heavily mutilated, they both lacked sets of triceps and biceps.”

The old man slightly moved the red desk-lamp beside him upward, so that he could see the face of the young agent who sat opposite him.

“So why do I need to go that town again?”

“Because you’re the best we’ve got.”

“Aw, thanks. But, do I get a higher pay check?”

“Fine, but I expect to hear from you  A.S.A.P.”

“Sure thing.”

The town was situated in California and it was called White Hollow.

The young agent walked around, searching for a phone booth near his hotel. All he could sense was the aroma of cotton-candy and other boardwalk snacks. It reminded him of when his parents would take him to Little Cypress as a kid, and they would go on rides ad sleep in sleazy motels. As his walk continued, he spied a small yellow booth, dimly lit by a street-light.

He checked his watch; it-was seven-in-the-morning.

“Mr. Butch? Are you there?”

“Yes Jeffries.”

He checked his watch again, it was now two-minutes-past.

“Well anyway, you didn’t tell me I was going to White Hollow, home of that young actor who got shot with his lover, erhm… John Valentine, yes that’s him.”

“I really didn’t think you would care.”

“Well, you know I love movies, speaking of which; have you watched Tremors 2: Aftershocks yet? You see it’s…”

“I didn’t want a freakin’ movie review at seven-in-the-morning. I wanted an update on the case.”

“Oh, sorry. Well I went to both scenes.”

“And?”

“There was nothing.”

“Wait, wait. When did you visit the scenes?”

“A soon as I came of the plane last night.”

“And the time was?”

“Eleven-ish.”

“And you couldn’t find anything?”

“Other that some petrol that forensics say came from a Dodge Charger.”

 

Part Two

 

Agent Jeffries left the phone booth, while thinking about the detail of the Dodge Charger. He spotted a nearby multi-story car park, and approached it.

The building was a huge mass of concrete, second-hand cars and rubber-marks scraped across every level of the car park.

He entered the building and looked around, one of the cars that caught his attention was a red Ford Mustang.

“Could that be the one John Valentine owned?”

He took a second glance.

“No. Probably not.”

He then spotted a silver Dodge Charger.

“Aha!”

His pace quickened when he walked towards it and then it went slower when he realized what was dripping out of the old car’s side door. Blood.

He proceeded to quickly scribble-down the car’s number plate on a rough piece of notepad paper he had stashed-into his blazer pocket in case he desperately needed to write down a detail whilst on a case.

After, he ran back to the yellow phone booth where he dialled once again for Butch.

“Jeffries, what do you want?”

“I went searching for a silver Dodge Charger, well I found one, and I also found blood dripping out of its side door.”

“Hold on a second, where are you I’ll send across some agents.”

“Erhm, let’s see; Sunset Road, outside of the Triangle Hotel oh, and there’s a diner.”

“Ok, go inside the diner, buy a drink. Relax, more agents are on there way.”

“Thanks so much.”

“No worries and Jeffries.”

“Yes?”

“Stay safe.”

The place was called Cassetti’s Diner, it had huge neon glowing lights outside. It looked like someone had been too pleased with Christmas decorations.

Inside, the place was peaceful. A gentle ambience of retro music flooded the air. He found an empty stool at the bar and sat down, he continued to draw the attention of a blonde waitress, presumably around his age (he thought).

“Can I get you anything, handsome?”

“A milkshake please.”

“What flavour?”

“Any, I’m a little anxious I just need to relax you know?”

“Sure. In fact, I just made this one but you can have it.”

“Much appreciated, thanks.”

Jeffries analysed the atmosphere, lots of people. A whole mixture; teens, bikers, couples, some people sat on their own enjoying solitude. It was strange how such a busy place achieved to be so peaceful and friendly.

“You ok, kid?”

He searched around for the perpetrator of the noise and realized that it came from the man beside him. He was fifties (presumably), had dark-brown greying hair that he untidily combed back and rested a pair of black, thick sunglasses on his wrinkles, tired forehead.

“Yes, sir. I’m quite fine.”

“Look like you’ve seen quite the horror.

“I’m just tired.”

Jeffries didn’t like how he had to lay all of his responsibilities onto a another group of agents. Where are they, have they been attacked? What was in that car?

“Say, kiddo; I’m just about to drive home, can I give you a ride?”

“Yes, it would be much appreciated.”

“Right, oh; I’m Montana Davis.”

“I’m David Jeffries.”

“Nice to meet you.”

 

Part Three

 

Once Jeffries had put his blazer back on and Montana put his leather jacket on, they left. Rainfall was soaking the streets when they emerged from the diner.

“There she is, there’s my beauty.”

I looked over to him, and to the car he was complementing; it was a silver Dodge Charger. I won’t say anything now, I’ll wait until we’re in the car, innocent until proven guilty.

They both got in, it was a tight squeeze. Montana’s huge shoulder length made it tighter. He twisted the key-ring collection of a key into the ignition. The engine roared, and their journey began. They drove deeply into the night-life of the small town.

Jeffries payed attention the most to the speed dial.

20mph, 30mph, 40mph, 50mph, 60mph, 70mph, 80mph, 90mph, 100mph, 110mph.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

“I am, kid.” Montana said, staring at Jeffries.

120mph, 130mph, 140mph, 150mp, 160mph, 170mph, 180mph, 190mph, 200mph.

“Ask me how my car can go so quick.”

“How can you’re car go so quick?”

“It’s a muscle car.”

As Montana said those words, the lightning from outside illuminated his face which proceeded to create a huge grin.

This is the man, he’s just (pretty much) confessed. Is he using the muscles for his car, I mean I’ve never seen a car this old go so fast. I have to call Butch.

“Is this you’re place, kid?”

How did he know where I stayed?

“Yes, thank you for the lift.”

“No sweat, see you around, kid.”

Montana pushed his sunglasses up to his eyes and recreated that huge grin.

Jeffries (feeling a little spooked) left the car immediately. He was slowly walking past the “mouth” of the multi-story car park when he heard the Charger’s engine start again.

 

Part Four

“Hey kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Look.”

The Charger bolted toward Jeffries, it would have hit him if he had not leapt over the hood of the car. Jeffries continued to run into the multi storey car park, he had no other choice for if he tried to go to the hotel, near the open road; he would surely get run-down. So he ran, further and further toward the very top of the building, Montana was not far behind. His car was drifting and roaring as it fired-up the many slopes that allowed the car park’s levels to be interconnected.

The Charger that Jeffries saw there earlier that night was no-longer there. Montana is the killer. He figured it out too late though, for while he was looking at where the car had been, it was now right behind him and it smashed into him. The last sensation Jeffries remembered was the force of the Charger colliding with him, the tyres scrapping his skin, and the chunks of gravel that dug into his flesh.

The car’s tyres screeched as they crushed Jeffries’s skull, turning into a lump of bloody-pulp on the harsh, cold floor.

The Charger blasted away, deep into the night.

It would soon appear (once again) in light and that was when Montana parked it inside his garage, just at the edge of town.

He peeled-off the interior cover for the door and looked at the moist-stash of muscles he had collected and stashed there. In the trunk he had the one’s from Jeffries. He knelt-down and kissed the car’s door.

“We are gonna win this race, baby. Even if it’s the last thing we do. We are gonna have a nice drive along the West-Coast and up to Canada, from there we’re headed to Faire and that’s where we are gonna race.”

He kissed the car again.

“I believe in you, I believe in myself, I believe in us.”

 

 

 

Part Five

 

Sophie Morrison was 17 years-old. She worked late shifts at Cassetti’s Diner.

She was behind the counter one night, serving various milkshakes to various customers as well as food.

She then spotted a middle-aged man sat at one of the bar stools. He had dark brown, greying hair that was messily combed back. He was called Montana.

He later asked her if she could him move something into the trunk of his car. She accepted.

Little did she know that she would be that something in the trunk of his car.

Later; she was chopped up, cut up and had her muscles extracted with some hits from the ‘60s playing while it all happened.

Her parents found her the next day; tied to a tree in their front garden.

The mother swore that she would find who did this, the girl’s father left her and now this. Whoever did it would pay.

 

Part Six

 

Charlie Richardson was 15 years-old. He worked late at Morton’s Garage.

He was well-known their because he had the eye-for-detail that the others did not.

One day, a silver Dodge Charger came into the garage for a repair. It had been heavily dented in a multi-story car park.

When it hit 11pm, Charlie was the only person around, besides for the middle-aged driver.

“Can you check the engine please?”

“Sure thing.”

When the young man lifted-up the hood to look at the engine, it fell down on him and decapitated him.

He was found the following day, dumped in the back of a pick-up truck.

 

Part Seven

 

The Charger was ready, Faire was a long-way-away from White Hollow, but the car was fast as hell. Its new top speed thanks to the muscle collection; 600mph.

He was soon driving along the highway that led straight into Faire.

A woman had positioned herself in the centre of the highway. She knew who the man in the Charger was. She produced a shotgun.

Montana increased his speed.

250mph, 300mp, 599mp and finally 600mph.

“This is for Sophie you bastard!”

She fired two bullets, neither of them hit him, she went to reload. But she was crushed to death by the mass of the Charger.

Back In White Hollow:

“My son has been killed.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“No, but I do know they were driving to Faire.”

“In Canada?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, we believe that man is also responsible for the deaths of  two people missing arm muscles, one teenager, an F.B.I agent and now you’re son. I’ll call for a roadblock.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Thank you.”

 

Part Eight

 

Montana noticed a huge row of police cars parked across the highway. They were all armed. He stopped his car to analyse the situation. He wasn’t going to get out of this alive, he already knew that today would be his last day of living. If he got to the race, he was planning on shooting himself after anyway.

He was ready. The engine started, and he blasted off into the direction of the police, his car radio was loud, the police began to fire storms of bullets at him and his car. Most of them succeeded to pierce his flesh.

He reached 600mph.

Millions of bullets continued to fire at him and his Charger. The car collided with the other police cars.

“I just wanted to be free, fuck this world, and fuck everybody.”

His car smashed into a second row of police, the action created one huge explosion. Everyone on that bridge had died. A huge cloud of smoke hovered above that section of the bridge for hours. But then the clouds parted, and light was restored into that area of regret, anger and pain.

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


© Copyright 2019 Joshua D. Webster. All rights reserved.

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