Sometimes it can be tough to find the time.
*
Author's Note:
If you're expecting a serious story, this ain't it. I'm taking a break from goofy fairy tales and instead focusing my love of parodies onto the genre of post-apocalyptic sci-fi. There's an evil warlord, a damsel in distress, and a sword-wielding hero on a motorcycle.
This story is also loosely coupled to a rock and roll soundtrack. If you'd like to play along, take a moment to cue up Ace of Spades by Motorhead, Supernova by Liz Phair, and I Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith. You'll know when to press play, I promise.
*
Post Apocalyptic Date Night
A lone warrior rode out across the desert, a cloud of dust trailing behind her. The roar of the Harley-Davidson between her legs echoed off the face of jagged rocks, as the arroyo she traveled in gave way to a deep box canyon. The fact that there was no way out of the canyon but forward was not a concern for the woman, but should have weighed heavily on the minds of the hundred or so of the Duke's men waiting for her. For they were the ones who needed to worry—they had made the mistake of kidnapping her girl. And on date night no less.
A massive California Condor, the last of its kind, swooped down from the heavens. Gliding on a three meter wingspan the color of midnight, it clutched in its talons a mighty broadsword. The majestic bird quickly closed the gap between itself and the rider, and after letting loose a powerful screech, dropped the weapon into the woman's outstretched hand. In the far distance, a forked tongue of lightning streaked toward the dry earth, the resulting thunder sounding suspiciously like the heavy metal crunch of an electric guitar.
It had begun.
*
As she rode deeper into the cool shadows of the canyon, the warrior woman had ample time to reflect upon how the events of today had come to pass. It was a long journey in the making. She envisioned herself as a child, no more than nine years old, on that fateful day when the world descended into shadow and chaos—the day her mother explained to her that they had to leave under the cover of darkness. People were in the streets, she said—bad people.
The nine-year old girl knew nothing of global warming, or its effect on the world's crops, and in particular the precious crops of the coffee bean plantations. All she knew was that everyone in the older generation seemed to be constantly on edge these days, and downright cranky in the mornings. Just days ago, in her own neighborhood, a group of smug tea drinkers had been put up against the wall and shot. It was later that night that her mother had roused her from sleep to embark on their clandestine journey.
But a mother's dream of a better life for her daughter made no difference to the coffee warlords and their roving gangs—the Bean Kings, the Sons of Juan Valdez. Soon the girl found herself as an orphan, trained as a gladiator slave, fighting and killing for the amusement of the most evil warlord of all, the Dark Roast Duke.
Though through her cunning, she was able to escape the Duke's clutches and find a peaceful life for herself in the California wilderness, the place she now called home. She had even domesticated enough to find herself a nice girlfriend in the nearby Native American village. It was not an easy life, but they made the best of it, and had recently started setting aside time for date nights.
Now, after many years, the Duke was back. While the warrior woman was enjoying the peace and relative comfort of her isolated cabin, the warlord had been building his empire—and exacting his revenge on anyone who had betrayed him, no matter how long ago the transgression. The woman felt the sharp sting of his retaliation when she woke one morning to find a scrap of her girlfriend's clothing stuffed inside a battered old coffee pot that had been left on her doorstep.
There was no question in her mind as to who sent the message, and soon after discovering it, she knew that the only way out was through. She donned her full-length oilskin duster and pulled her Harley out of the barn—the big V-Twin engine rumbling to life with a single kick of the starter.
She and the Native America woman had been trying for weeks now to go on another date, but it seemed like something was always coming up. And now that something was the Dark Roast Duke.
*
"Nobody fucks with date night," she muttered to herself, as she twisted the throttle and roared deeper into the canyon.
High atop of the canyon wall, the warrior saw a single ghostly apparition. All dressed in black, sporting a Stetson hat and some serious mutton chop sideburns, the supernatural figure appeared to be stepping up to a microphone.
How this came to pass in the middle of the desert, and how the apparition was suddenly, magically flanked by a guitarist and a drummer, the woman did not know. She had other, more pressing matters on her mind, like the hundred or so of the Duke's men riding toward her on all manner of ATVs, dune buggies, and dirt bikes.
The warrior woman squinted against the dust cloud kicked up by coming mob, looking for a weakness—a place to strike. As if on cue, the ghostly trio of black-clad musicians above began pounding out a familiar speed-metal riff. She smiled, for as soon as the lead spectre began belting out the words to Motorhead's Ace of Spades, she knew it was the ancestors who watched over her from above. They approved of her crusade and would provide the soundtrack as she loosed her wrath on all those who would dare to interfere with the sanctity of date night.
The Dark Roast Duke didn't stand a chance.
*
With a swing of her mighty broadsword, the warrior woman separated the first thug's head from his still convulsing body. Before she struck, he had already been riding erratically, seemingly having trouble keeping his dirt bike upright as he sped onward at the front of the pack. She did not know the source of his ailment or anything else about the man other than the color of his blood that was painting the rocks where his lifeless corpse now lay. She only knew that he was the weak link—her way in.
"One down, ninety-nine to go," she muttered. Her sword had already found its next target before the first man's head completed its macabre spinning arc to land face up in a red puddle behind his lifeless body.
After thugs ninety-eight and ninety-seven suffered a similar grizzly end—and ninety-six through ninety-two lay limbless on the canyon floor, their hearts still beating hard enough to send geysers of blood some three feet into the air—the remaining riders parted like a great sea, keeping a safe distance from the warrior and her motorcycle. And when she reached the far boundary of the mob, she turned to face them again.
They easy prey was gone. The lightly armored dirt bike riders had fallen so quickly that she was forced to quickly prioritize her remaining targets or risk letting her enemy regroup. The ATVs were the next logical choice in her mind, less protected than the dune buggies, but their numbers were many, and most riders clutched heavy bludgeoning weapons in their hands. One hit from a club or swinging mace would be enough to put her bike on the ground. She decided to go around the outside.
The warrior woman rode a great circle around the Duke's men, faster and faster she went, herding them into a tight group and then charging one side to separate a small number of them to be quickly and easily dispatched in a spray of blood and gore. This tactic worked to her advantage for three more revolutions until the remaining men finally stood their ground. Whether they were smarter or braver than the slain, she did not know. She did know that the fifty or so of the Duke's men who remained would be her toughest foes yet.
As the warrior woman sat astride her idling Harley contemplating how to pull off the next attack without being severely injured or killed, her spirits were lifted when she heard a howl. She recognized the voice as One-Eye, the old grey wolf who had a habit of coming around her campfire at night looking for scraps.
