"So, you think you've got what it takes to be king? Do you?" Read the words on a dirt and grime-covered poster that probably hadn't seen the sunshine since the day it was plastered to the wall. However, the rain-covered asphalt became alive with the howl of gas-powered police cars and squealing of tires. Innovation City's night atmosphere had been upended by several patrol cars with lights and sirens ablaze chasing after...
"What in the fuck were you thinking?" Said Nobel as he cranked the steering wheel of his modified, fusion-powered, four-wheel-drive, Scorched-Silver, 1968 Plymouth Roadrunner. His lightning-white pupils cut through the darkness of the car as he glared at the auburn-haired, mischievous, rambunctious, short-statured guy in his passenger seat.
"Oh, shut up, Nobel. You know you loved seeing me flip that corporate pocket change off. Besides, you know I'm worth... all... this." Kerosene said all this while jamming out to the pop song blasting over the radio of Nobel's car. His hot-rod flame hoodie crop top barely covered his twinkish body while Nobel shook his head. "Kerosene, please... for the love of something... STOP ANTAGONIZING THEM!" Yelled Nobel as Kerosene leaned out the window with a wicked grin that spelled only trouble for Nobel.
The auburn-haired twink pulled up his crop top's sleeves, revealing sprayer mods he'd had installed last week. Before Nobel could yell at him not to do this, Kerosene sprayed a mist of the liquid he was named after. With the patrol cars scraping the guardrails, creating sparks, the air behind the '68 Roadrunner became engulfed in flames as the Roadrunner roared onto the freeway. Fuming with anger, Nobel pulled Kerosene inside the car's cabin. However, several of the patrol cars were still pursuing them. Nobel looked at Kerosene and sighed.
"The shit I do for you." Nobel opened the sun visor and took his goggles down from their holder. Like his car, they were scorched silver in color, but were WW1 Aviator Goggles, which his grandparents gave him before he moved to the big city. As he put them on, he glared through his rearview mirror at the red and blue police lights behind him. He switched his stereo from radio input to cassette deck with a grin. He inserted a cassette tape with a piece of tape labeled "Welcome to My Apocalypse", and the sound of nuclear sirens began to echo from the Roadrunner's speakers as a rap version of old nuclear age propaganda began to play. As the Freeway opened up, Nobel effortlessly cut up and down through the night traffic as he put the accelerator on the floor.
The Fusion-Powered '68 Roadrunner was leaving these peak-efficiency patrol cars in the dust. Nobel shifted the synchronic gearbox into fourth gear and watched the speedometer needle climb: "110... 120... 125..." He muttered under his breath as the song ended and the deep-voiced "Sixteen Tons" took over, making the speakers and tweeters hop and jump. As the road curved into a long straightaway, Nobel looked over to a clearly impressed Kerosene and winked as he pushed a button that was tucked under his armrest, which read with beat-up letters, A3-5Scramble. The Scorched-Silver Roadrunner turned off its lights and vanished without a trace into the pitch-black countryside while that cassette tape had the speakers jumping and thumping. The lead patrol car slowed to a pulled-over halt as the Police Chief, who'd been chasing them, sighed exasperated as he picked up his radio. "Dispatch, 41 here... suspects vanished into the pitch, so don't bother to waste the ink filing this. Whoever was driving... will only be caught if they feel like giving us a break." The Police Chief returned his radio to its dash-mounted holster as a "Copy that, 41", broke the silence of exhaustion that had filled the patrol car.
Meanwhile, the modified '68 Plymouth Roadrunner pulled onto the runway of an "abandoned" airfield. Nobel drifts the car to stop facing toward the now-closing hangar door and shuts off the engine. Before he did anything else, he snapped his glare to lock onto Kerosene.
"I love you, but stop this stupid shit... please?" His lightning-white pupils seemed to soften as did his tone. "Look..." Nobel ran a hand through his salt-white hair, allowing Kerosene to see the contrast between the color of his hair and the splotchy, discolored white and milk-chocolate pigmentation on his hands. "You're twenty-three and I'm twenty-four," Nobel rubbed his neck awkwardly. He'd never been one for confrontation, unless in cases of the big guy vs the little guy, "You've known since we started dating what kind of a risk it is for me to go anywhere near that city. Especially with the Petroleum Corporation's big "We own you and everything extravaganza getting ready to kick off. What happens if the Corpos grab me and I'm not there to protect you?"
Nobel's hand caressed Kerosene's warm, freckled cheek. Tears rolled down those cheeks as Kerosene shot into Nobel's chest for a hug. "I-I... I'm sorry... I-I forgot..." Sobbed Kerosene as Nobel scratched his head lightly and held him. "It's fine, my little firework. Just try to remember that old greedy-bags King Crude Cobra murdered my parents, trying to get me." Nobel paused momentarily as if remembering every little detail that had transpired on that unspoken day. Snapping back to reality, Kerosene was in the fetal position in his lap. Nobel dried the fiery twink's tears, then lifted his head.
"Hey, don't start doubting me just yet. I'm good, but he's rich." Nobel dried a few more tears from Kerosene's cheeks and eyes. Kerosene had stopped crying and was looking at his older and taller one-hell-of-a-catch [if he was to be honest with himself] boyfriend. Nobel kissed his cheek and smiled. "If you can do that from now on, I'll make us some dinner. Does that sound fair to you?" Kerosene nodded with a sniffle, to which Nobel opened his driver's door, slid himself out with Kerosene now in his arms, and carried him into the large, two-story building they'd repurposed as their home.
Much later, after dinner and a movie, Kerosene was asleep. Nobel stood shirtless on the balcony smoking a cigar. His skin was illuminated under the dull rays of the now-peaking moonlight, which had only started showing up within the last five minutes of his standing there. As he let out a puff of smoke, he ashed the cigar while his mind raced faster than his car had on that freeway...
*Flashback: A day, about 10 years ago.* His mother tried to keep him calm in his family's old station wagon, while the sound of what could've only been described as "the thud of a bolt-rifle" emanated from where he'd last seen his father. Suddenly, his father emerged, jumping into the now running station wagon and slamming it into reverse, then into drive, and sped down the street.
"Marie... Did you call them?" His father asked his mother. "Yes, Robert." She started to answer, "They'll intercept us, take him, keep him safe while we lose them... or if necessary... raise..." Marie's voice quivered, but she was snapped back to reality by Robert, who had yelled something at her. As the station wagon roared down city block after city block while a team of eight blacked-out SUVs raced up behind them, then came the sound of bullets peppering the station wagon's bumper... The next memory he could recall was waking up in the back of the overturned fire station wagon. He peeked outside to watch his mother, Marie C. Fusion, then his father, Robert O. Fusion, both hit the damaged asphalt, bullet holes through their heads, but their hands were clasped together tightly, locked together forever.
However, at this moment, a voice boomed out from just outside the overturned, burning station. "NOW, SEE HERE! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TRY AND CHECK A HARDWORKING MAN OUT OF WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY HIS! LET THE TRAGEDY OF THE FIRST AND LAST NUCLEAR-PUNKS BE A STARK REMINDER TO YOU... ALL OF YA!" Once the SUVs were gone, a man crawled into the back, pulled him out, and escorted him to the Ambulance unnoticed, rolling away with little Nobelium Fusion still alive, supposed to be a casualty of King Crude Cobra's war on "alternative ideas", in other words... a war on anyone who threatens his energy-corporation monopoly. *End of the Flashback.*
Nobel looked out across the dimly lit field to the towering skyscraper known as "Cobra King Heights", Executive Offices of Petroleum Corp, which by pure chance was positioned 50 flatland miles (80.5 Km) running parallel to the abandoned airstrip. Nobel let out the last puff of smoke from the cigar. Just before snuffing out the cigar butt, he spoke, not breaking eye contact with the tower looming in the distance:
"Better start running, Cobra... otherwise the Rads will getcha."