Shack 18

by Speranza

One good, hard kick of the boot and the door splintered open. Joe Dick looked at the dusty bar, the overturned tables, the crushed beer cans and broken bottles, the slant drift of snow from the two broken windows.

Behind him, a low wheeze of a laugh, and then Billy pushed past him, set his guitar case on end, and propped his elbow on it. the ends of his scarf swung in the draft. "Great venue."

"Shut up," Joe growled. He turned around and looked at Pipe. "Get back in the van."

"No, really, I love it. Fuckin' love it," Billy insisted, waving his arm around. "You want a non-commercial scene—well, this is fuckin' it, isn't it? This is the least fuckin' commercial scene I've ever—"

"Wait, but—" Pipe was wandering off through the snow with a frown on his face.

"I said get back in the fuckin' van, you idiot!" Joe yelled after him, but Pipe didn't stop. "Hey!" The outrage was building. "Numbnuts! I'm gonna fuckin'—"

"—middle of nowhere with no fuckin' people even. We're talkin' deeply authentic, true fans only, the gig to end all gigs, here, man. So tell me where to set up, because I am just rarin' to—

Pipe skidded to a stop and turned around. "Fuckin' Ox wandered off!" he called back. "He's fuckin..." He trailed off and gestured frantically to the north.

"What the—?" Joe quickly strode around the front of the van, and fuck, hell, yeah, the moron was off in the distance, a lone, dark shadow lurching away toward the mountains. For a moment, watching Ox grow smaller and smaller, Joe felt a sort of clenching despair. He took a deep breath and muttered to Pipe, "Go get him. Before he fuckin' breaks his head open..."

Pipe nodded and began stumbling after Oxenberger. Joe sighed and turned back to the shack, where Radio Free Billy was still goin' strong, without commercial interruption. "—this place is you, man. Fuckin' on its last legs in every possible way."

Joe walked into the shack and slammed the battered door. The sound was satisfying. "I said shut up."

Billy stared at him with narrowed, black-rimmed eyes. He was pale with cold. "Who the fuck's here to hear me?"

"I am," Joe snarled.

Billy smiled a slow, sweet smile that made Joe want to bash his face in. "Like I said. Who the fuck's here to—?"

Joe kept his voice deliberately light, deliberately casual, as he righted a chair. "I could kill you right here and now and nobody'd know. Nobody for miles and miles—"

"My point exactly," Billy said softly, almost seductively. "End of the line, ends of the earth, middle of—"

Joe couldn't listen to this; he made a fist and stepped forward. "Quit yer bitchin'. Now."

Billy straightened up and raised his chin defiantly. "I don't think you're gonna make me."

Joe stared at him for a long time. Around them, the endless nothing. They were very, very alone.

"You're wrong," Joe said finally.

(505 words) (492 words that aren't "fuck") *g*