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RedPiggy
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: DUE TO THIS BEING A FIC ABOUT SPIKE, AND HE'S NOT EXACTLY SQUEAKY-CLEAN GOODY-TWO-SHOES, I AM RATING THIS PG13 DUE TO REFERENCES TO BEHAVIOR UNBECOMING OF POLITE FOLK. (however, it's no worse than what the series had ...)
Prologue: The Day the Plants Died
A television encased in rock was finally turned on by the remote control. The screen took a couple of seconds to display an image. It started off blue, with a white pterodactyl head in profile surrounded by a thick white circle with the words “Please Stand By” printed on it. Finally, the image changed to one with a logo of a large trilobite with steam coming out of its nostrils. A dramatic musical interlude played for a few seconds before a stern male voice-over announcer came on, “Good morning, students of Bob LaBrea High!”
The video cut to a student bathroom, rather large to accommodate the size of the students, with large skylights, dingy from lack of cleaning. Several beige stalls were in the back of the room, while a few white sinks were barely attached to the front walls, broken mirrors hanging above them. Just before the stalls were several potted trees to the right, with a large red and black sign nailed above them that read, “Number 1, watering trees is fun! Number 2, the stalls are for you!”
Suddenly, a large hulking shape appeared at the bottom of the screen, as a spiky dinosaur lumbered into the restroom. It turned to face the sink. The male dinosaur had purple scales and a pale yellow underbelly. His head was triangular: a broad skull with an angular snout. Very small spikes spread across his snout, slightly lighter than the scales on his skin. Some larger spikes grew along his brows. The sides of his head were punctuated by three-inch or so horns. He wore a red bandana, which stayed in place thanks to the many spikes. His long-sleeved jacket was made of black leather, with a thin silver chain wrapped around the left shoulder and a graffiti-like patch just below the shoulder seam of a tyrannosaur skull with a bloody fork on the left of the skull and a toothed saw on the right of it and “Scavengers” written above it. The jacket was torn to accommodate sharp spikes on his back, about ten or so, which reduced in size starting around mid-back. He also wore a red tank top underneath. His long thick tail had half a dozen or so foot-long spikes emanating from it, towards the end. He wore large black boots with silver chains wrapped around the ankles.
He walked up to the mirror and adjusted his sleeves with his left hand before turning on the water, keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket. His eyes were a piercing yellow. He cleared his throat and spoke in a smooth voice, with only the slightest hint of a hissing quality. His accent denoted a poor urban street-smart upbringing. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, as if rehearsing a speech, “it is my solemn duty to inform you of the disastrous,” he said, his eyes and mouth widening for emphasis, “nature of the tale which you are about to hear.” He shook his head, frowning. “It is one filled with all kinds of uncivilized behavior,” he remarked, his face brightening at the thought, “and all-out mockery of manners and decorum.” His head, at the end of a neck roughly forearm-length, reared back. His voice began to sound more excited. “Ladies and gentlemen … you know me to be more than willing to tell you how it is. Well, here it is … this story starts off with complete destruction, followed by some charming survival tales as we scrape and scourge the countryside to keep from getting eaten by dinosaurs even more desperate than we are! My companions, members of the Scavenger Pack, are ruthless and cringe-inducing.” His face became ever more animated with a wide grin. “It has always been a pleasure to hang with my pack … and this humble little tale will express my … trials and tribulations … as the one you may recognize as the Connoisseur of Fine Females, the Maker of Deals, and the Scourge of the Swamp,” he exclaimed, laughing.
A deeper male voice could be heard clearing his throat. The spiked one looked toward the unseen door to the restroom. “Mr. Pullman?” he asked in a shocked voice. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Mr. Pullman, the science teacher of Bob LaBrea High, expressed his thoughts in a constantly condescending tone. “Spike – I told you the school is closed today. While I appreciate your willingness to ‘hang out’ with the academic crowd, I must insist that you end this speech at once.” He paused. His voice sounded more exasperated. “After all, the students here must not be made aware of unseemly and juvenile delinquent behavior. Your particular brand of humor is completely inappropriate for upstanding members of Pangaean society.”
Spike smirked, chuckling. “Well, Mr. P, when I see some, I won’t say a single word to ‘offend’, deal?”
A long pause. Finally, Mr. Pullman could be heard patting the door. “Well, since you seem to like it here so much, I just came in to tell you that you have been assigned to the school marching band.” A long pause, as Spike’s face nearly blanched. “Do get out of those atrocious threads and get your hot pink frilly uniform out of the maintenance room, got it?” The door closed. Spike, his eyes wild, stared up at the camera.
“Noooooo!” he screamed, waking up from a pile of broken boxes behind the Tavern on the Swamp, the place where he stayed most nights. Well, on those nights he felt like staying with anyone. The Swamp was nearly a couple hours’ walk from the Sinclair home, where he liked to pop in every once in a while … to tease Rob “Scooter” Sinclair, of course. The musty smells, mixed with ample boozy breezes, filled the air. It didn’t make him gag – he was far too used to it by now. It was still a ramshackle of a dump … cobweb-littered boxes everywhere, broken and warped boards forming the dive he called his home. Ever since he had taken out his leader, Andre (to save Robbie … er … to keep Scooter alive so his parents would still feed him at night), he had gradually transitioned the Scavenger HQ, bringing in Howlin’ J, a cool blue mammal jazz and blues singer, and turning the old dump into a dump of a jazz hole. It was a privilege only the Leader of the Pack could do without getting his throat stripped out to make a belt. His eyes squinted in the sunlight. He checked a pocket watch. Hm, he thought, ten in the morning … an excellent time to get up and head over to the high school. It didn’t matter that Bob LaBrea started classes at seven … for Spike, education was far more rewarding when it was … self-paced, he thought to himself.
“Hey, Brother Spike!” exclaimed a scratchy gruff voice from the back door. It creaked open, out popping a green long-nosed male dinosaur with black sunglasses in brown rims, and a red baseball cap adorned with a thin silver chain. He only kept his head visible, which still had a couple of scars from the battle with Spike at Rob’s “funeral”. He spoke as if he had chain-smoked his entire life.
Spike nodded. “How’s it goin’, Scabby?” he asked, feeling a little hung-over himself as he stood up, wobbling initially. He must have really had a good time last night.
Scabby thrust his snout toward the direction of the high school. “You headin’ out to class today?”
Spike shrugged. “Gotta go where the honies are, Scabby. ‘Sides, need to talk to Scooter.” The Scavenger Pack didn’t always agree with their new Leader about “The Mop” (aka, Scooter, so called due to some hijinks accomplished by other packs) … though, the last time a member chided Spike about it … Andre’s old second-in-command pterodactyl … Spike ate him. He never really liked the little tail-kisser anyway.
“Huh,” Scabby replied, “good luck.”
Spike glanced at him in confusion. “You not comin’?”
Scabby shook his head. “Can’t. Drive-by eatin’ scheduled today.”
Spike groaned, slapping his head. “That was today?” Maybe it was a bad idea not to have a “clerical position” in the pack after all. He took out his pocket watch. “When is it?” He paused. “Haven’t taken part in one o’ dose since … uh … January?”
“Well, usually you’re too busy killin’ time with --,” Scabby stopped abruptly, noting Spike’s icy glare. “Uh, you’ve been … um … awfully busy … uh,” he stammered, his lip trembling, “providing … alternative … uh … community perspectives in … an attempt to diversify cultural attitudes.” He chuckled nervously. He bowed his head (less of out respect and more of an attempt to hide the soft parts of his throat). “You’re quite the inspiration to packs everywhere, Brother Spike.”
“You’re too kind,” Spike retorted dryly.
“Hey, Spike!” a young gravelly voice shouted from atop a pile of boxes. Spike and Scabby turned to find a bright blue mammal, about two feet tall, with a narrow snout. His face was always filled with exuberance, especially now that his father’s band’s music was getting more popular. A few more months and they should be able to afford a bathroom in the Tavern. A working one, anyway.
Spike smirked. “What can we do for you, Sonny?”
“Dad says to come inside – the Lizard has gone pure crazy!” The ‘Lizard’ was a derogatory mammalian slang for dinosaurs. Although Howlin’ J rarely used it anymore among his normal crowd, whenever a dinosaur instituted some stupid policy, it still came out of his mouth every once in a while.
Spike and Scabby shrugged, glancing at each other, and went inside the Tavern. The band and a few remaining members of the Scavengers huddled around a television. Spike could hear the newscaster speak solemnly. “As the cider poppy crisis enters its second week, it now appears a solution is at hand. An independent task force of concerned citizens has come forward with a plan to spray the entire super continent with a powerful chemical defoliant.”
The mammals of Howlin’ J’s band looked at each other with trepidation, their pointed ears drooping.
Scabby shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”
A shorter brown dinosaur with a turtle-like face maneuvered closer to the television. He wore a backwards black baseball cap, round black eyeglasses, a short-sleeved red shirt, a black leather vest with a silver chain draped around the right shoulder, and metal studded bracelets. Rounded tan spikes ran down his spine and along his tail. His voice was high-pitched and grating. His eyes were widened, his jaw agape. He pointed at the television. “They’re planning on poisoning us all!” he shrieked. His finger trembled. “Such a wide distribution of poison will not only destroy the cider poppies, but it will ensure the destruction of potable drinking water and increase incidents of respiratory dysfunction and contact dermatitis!”
Everyone stared at him, unblinking.
Sonny coughed. “Uh, Crazy Lou, what you’re tryin’ to say is that … uh … we’ll have no water, we won’t breathe real good, and our skin will itch a lot?”
Crazy Lou nodded sadly, staring at the floor. “Yeah … and then we’ll die.”
Spike shook his head. “What kind o’ idiot ….”
The footage showed Earl Sinclair, Robbie’s old man, discussing the plan alongside that slow-witted brown tyrannosaur buddy of his.
Spike stifled a gasp. He jabbed Scabby with his left elbow. “Where’s Lingo?” he asked in a tense tone.
Scabby nodded toward the front door. “He said he found a new use for those poppies yesterday. Hasn’t been back since.”
Spike slowly exhaled. He shot a quick glance to Scabby, his lips curled, baring his teeth. “Get him.” He nodded at Crazy Lou. “We’re cancelin’ da drive-by, Lou. Get everybody we know in here … if they don’t come willingly … slice their Achilles’ tendon or something … drag ‘em here kickin’ and screamin’, if ya have to.”
“Uh, Spike,” began Howlin’ J, who had a gruffer and deeper voice than Sonny, and looked like a scruffier and paler version of his son. He was rubbing the fingers of his right hand together under the table so no one would see. It was a nervous tick of his.
Spike stared at him. “Nuthin’s gonna happen to the band … you worthless piece of tick-infested rugbag,” he interrupted with the type of tone he used when he was teasing. He cracked a smile. “I wouldn’t eat the bunch o’ you if you were the last rotten snack on the supercontinent!”
Mudbelly, the band’s darker-blue fat drummer, smirked in turn. His voice was very deep and smooth. “Good to know, you purple spiky pain in the fur.” He forced a chuckle. Being mammals in the presence of desperate Lizards was not exactly on their list of good events. The insults, though, were just their way of telling each other how incredibly worried they were … without the humiliating sappiness.
Spike maintained his grin. “Now, if you boys will excuse me … I got a bomb threat to call in.” He went through a side door beside the bar.
The band stared at the door for a few moments until they were sure Spike was out of hearing range. Sonny glanced at his father expectantly. Howlin’ J shrugged, wiping off some nuts off the table. “He’s trying to evacuate his school, Sonny. Spike’s too proud to call for help.” He sighed. “You know that weak-kneed friend of his goes to that school, too.”
“And of course there’s all the girls,” continued Mudbelly with a slight chuckle. “If all the fem-lizards die off, Spike won’t have anyone to slap him!”
<><><><><><>
Late in the afternoon, Spike was clearing out the empty bottles scattered around the bar. The band was trying to clear the floor. Scabby had found Lingo around two in the afternoon, nervously pacing in the woods, rubbing his arms constantly. Spike glanced over at where Lingo now sat, in a chair at the far corner of the room. Lingo was a tall narrow-nosed purple dinosaur with dark purple stripes on his tail. A white tie was wrapped around his head, the ends drooping past his shoulders. He wore a long-sleeved black leather jacket with round metal studs along the sleeves and rose-colored wire-rimmed glasses. His lips were pale blue … naturally. He continued to scratch, his head bobbing up and down in a state of almost delirium. He couldn’t seem to focus on any particular thing.
“Hey! Lingo!” Spike called out loudly enough to make the others cringe. “You okay?”
Lingo nearly threw up. He smiled weakly. “Kickin’ it, Brother Spike,” he replied in a deep voice.
Spike flashed a grin before frowning. “Don’t blow chunks on the floor, Lingo. If you’re gonna do dat – I’ll eat ya right now.”
“Probably don’t wanna do that,” noted Howlin’ J with a wry smile. “There’s no tellin’ what’s been in that kid’s gullet.” He jumped when he heard breaking glass. Howlin’ glanced over at the bar, where Spike had crushed a bottle in his left hand, his face scowling, eyes averted. Ever since he had had to stop Rob from making a mess of himself with thornoids, Spike had become rather touchy when it came to his “family” – whether it was the Sinclairs or the Scavengers – doing things they shouldn’t have been doing. Though Spike didn’t mind alcohol (which he considered a drink as natural as water or soda), the stuff he considered more dangerous was absolutely forbidden. Howlin’ tried to continue cleaning up … though no one else had come back yet. Crazy Lou was long overdue. Rob had called Spike, telling him his family was safe at their house.
Finally, Crazy Lou walked through the front door. Spike asked him who he brought. Lou shook his head. “We aren’t exactly a triage unit or an emergency shelter, Brother Spike,” he retorted. He shrugged, seeking the bar for a glass. “Search and rescue is not typically our forte.”
Just as Lou sat down at the bar, sighing when he realized Spike wasn’t going to give him anything, the sound of choppers sprang up. A thick rain of glop was sprayed everywhere, covering the windows with a yellow film. They watched and listened for about half an hour, mesmerized by the sensory experience of food sources dying out en masse.
Prologue: The Day the Plants Died
A television encased in rock was finally turned on by the remote control. The screen took a couple of seconds to display an image. It started off blue, with a white pterodactyl head in profile surrounded by a thick white circle with the words “Please Stand By” printed on it. Finally, the image changed to one with a logo of a large trilobite with steam coming out of its nostrils. A dramatic musical interlude played for a few seconds before a stern male voice-over announcer came on, “Good morning, students of Bob LaBrea High!”
The video cut to a student bathroom, rather large to accommodate the size of the students, with large skylights, dingy from lack of cleaning. Several beige stalls were in the back of the room, while a few white sinks were barely attached to the front walls, broken mirrors hanging above them. Just before the stalls were several potted trees to the right, with a large red and black sign nailed above them that read, “Number 1, watering trees is fun! Number 2, the stalls are for you!”
Suddenly, a large hulking shape appeared at the bottom of the screen, as a spiky dinosaur lumbered into the restroom. It turned to face the sink. The male dinosaur had purple scales and a pale yellow underbelly. His head was triangular: a broad skull with an angular snout. Very small spikes spread across his snout, slightly lighter than the scales on his skin. Some larger spikes grew along his brows. The sides of his head were punctuated by three-inch or so horns. He wore a red bandana, which stayed in place thanks to the many spikes. His long-sleeved jacket was made of black leather, with a thin silver chain wrapped around the left shoulder and a graffiti-like patch just below the shoulder seam of a tyrannosaur skull with a bloody fork on the left of the skull and a toothed saw on the right of it and “Scavengers” written above it. The jacket was torn to accommodate sharp spikes on his back, about ten or so, which reduced in size starting around mid-back. He also wore a red tank top underneath. His long thick tail had half a dozen or so foot-long spikes emanating from it, towards the end. He wore large black boots with silver chains wrapped around the ankles.
He walked up to the mirror and adjusted his sleeves with his left hand before turning on the water, keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket. His eyes were a piercing yellow. He cleared his throat and spoke in a smooth voice, with only the slightest hint of a hissing quality. His accent denoted a poor urban street-smart upbringing. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, as if rehearsing a speech, “it is my solemn duty to inform you of the disastrous,” he said, his eyes and mouth widening for emphasis, “nature of the tale which you are about to hear.” He shook his head, frowning. “It is one filled with all kinds of uncivilized behavior,” he remarked, his face brightening at the thought, “and all-out mockery of manners and decorum.” His head, at the end of a neck roughly forearm-length, reared back. His voice began to sound more excited. “Ladies and gentlemen … you know me to be more than willing to tell you how it is. Well, here it is … this story starts off with complete destruction, followed by some charming survival tales as we scrape and scourge the countryside to keep from getting eaten by dinosaurs even more desperate than we are! My companions, members of the Scavenger Pack, are ruthless and cringe-inducing.” His face became ever more animated with a wide grin. “It has always been a pleasure to hang with my pack … and this humble little tale will express my … trials and tribulations … as the one you may recognize as the Connoisseur of Fine Females, the Maker of Deals, and the Scourge of the Swamp,” he exclaimed, laughing.
A deeper male voice could be heard clearing his throat. The spiked one looked toward the unseen door to the restroom. “Mr. Pullman?” he asked in a shocked voice. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Mr. Pullman, the science teacher of Bob LaBrea High, expressed his thoughts in a constantly condescending tone. “Spike – I told you the school is closed today. While I appreciate your willingness to ‘hang out’ with the academic crowd, I must insist that you end this speech at once.” He paused. His voice sounded more exasperated. “After all, the students here must not be made aware of unseemly and juvenile delinquent behavior. Your particular brand of humor is completely inappropriate for upstanding members of Pangaean society.”
Spike smirked, chuckling. “Well, Mr. P, when I see some, I won’t say a single word to ‘offend’, deal?”
A long pause. Finally, Mr. Pullman could be heard patting the door. “Well, since you seem to like it here so much, I just came in to tell you that you have been assigned to the school marching band.” A long pause, as Spike’s face nearly blanched. “Do get out of those atrocious threads and get your hot pink frilly uniform out of the maintenance room, got it?” The door closed. Spike, his eyes wild, stared up at the camera.
“Noooooo!” he screamed, waking up from a pile of broken boxes behind the Tavern on the Swamp, the place where he stayed most nights. Well, on those nights he felt like staying with anyone. The Swamp was nearly a couple hours’ walk from the Sinclair home, where he liked to pop in every once in a while … to tease Rob “Scooter” Sinclair, of course. The musty smells, mixed with ample boozy breezes, filled the air. It didn’t make him gag – he was far too used to it by now. It was still a ramshackle of a dump … cobweb-littered boxes everywhere, broken and warped boards forming the dive he called his home. Ever since he had taken out his leader, Andre (to save Robbie … er … to keep Scooter alive so his parents would still feed him at night), he had gradually transitioned the Scavenger HQ, bringing in Howlin’ J, a cool blue mammal jazz and blues singer, and turning the old dump into a dump of a jazz hole. It was a privilege only the Leader of the Pack could do without getting his throat stripped out to make a belt. His eyes squinted in the sunlight. He checked a pocket watch. Hm, he thought, ten in the morning … an excellent time to get up and head over to the high school. It didn’t matter that Bob LaBrea started classes at seven … for Spike, education was far more rewarding when it was … self-paced, he thought to himself.
“Hey, Brother Spike!” exclaimed a scratchy gruff voice from the back door. It creaked open, out popping a green long-nosed male dinosaur with black sunglasses in brown rims, and a red baseball cap adorned with a thin silver chain. He only kept his head visible, which still had a couple of scars from the battle with Spike at Rob’s “funeral”. He spoke as if he had chain-smoked his entire life.
Spike nodded. “How’s it goin’, Scabby?” he asked, feeling a little hung-over himself as he stood up, wobbling initially. He must have really had a good time last night.
Scabby thrust his snout toward the direction of the high school. “You headin’ out to class today?”
Spike shrugged. “Gotta go where the honies are, Scabby. ‘Sides, need to talk to Scooter.” The Scavenger Pack didn’t always agree with their new Leader about “The Mop” (aka, Scooter, so called due to some hijinks accomplished by other packs) … though, the last time a member chided Spike about it … Andre’s old second-in-command pterodactyl … Spike ate him. He never really liked the little tail-kisser anyway.
“Huh,” Scabby replied, “good luck.”
Spike glanced at him in confusion. “You not comin’?”
Scabby shook his head. “Can’t. Drive-by eatin’ scheduled today.”
Spike groaned, slapping his head. “That was today?” Maybe it was a bad idea not to have a “clerical position” in the pack after all. He took out his pocket watch. “When is it?” He paused. “Haven’t taken part in one o’ dose since … uh … January?”
“Well, usually you’re too busy killin’ time with --,” Scabby stopped abruptly, noting Spike’s icy glare. “Uh, you’ve been … um … awfully busy … uh,” he stammered, his lip trembling, “providing … alternative … uh … community perspectives in … an attempt to diversify cultural attitudes.” He chuckled nervously. He bowed his head (less of out respect and more of an attempt to hide the soft parts of his throat). “You’re quite the inspiration to packs everywhere, Brother Spike.”
“You’re too kind,” Spike retorted dryly.
“Hey, Spike!” a young gravelly voice shouted from atop a pile of boxes. Spike and Scabby turned to find a bright blue mammal, about two feet tall, with a narrow snout. His face was always filled with exuberance, especially now that his father’s band’s music was getting more popular. A few more months and they should be able to afford a bathroom in the Tavern. A working one, anyway.
Spike smirked. “What can we do for you, Sonny?”
“Dad says to come inside – the Lizard has gone pure crazy!” The ‘Lizard’ was a derogatory mammalian slang for dinosaurs. Although Howlin’ J rarely used it anymore among his normal crowd, whenever a dinosaur instituted some stupid policy, it still came out of his mouth every once in a while.
Spike and Scabby shrugged, glancing at each other, and went inside the Tavern. The band and a few remaining members of the Scavengers huddled around a television. Spike could hear the newscaster speak solemnly. “As the cider poppy crisis enters its second week, it now appears a solution is at hand. An independent task force of concerned citizens has come forward with a plan to spray the entire super continent with a powerful chemical defoliant.”
The mammals of Howlin’ J’s band looked at each other with trepidation, their pointed ears drooping.
Scabby shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”
A shorter brown dinosaur with a turtle-like face maneuvered closer to the television. He wore a backwards black baseball cap, round black eyeglasses, a short-sleeved red shirt, a black leather vest with a silver chain draped around the right shoulder, and metal studded bracelets. Rounded tan spikes ran down his spine and along his tail. His voice was high-pitched and grating. His eyes were widened, his jaw agape. He pointed at the television. “They’re planning on poisoning us all!” he shrieked. His finger trembled. “Such a wide distribution of poison will not only destroy the cider poppies, but it will ensure the destruction of potable drinking water and increase incidents of respiratory dysfunction and contact dermatitis!”
Everyone stared at him, unblinking.
Sonny coughed. “Uh, Crazy Lou, what you’re tryin’ to say is that … uh … we’ll have no water, we won’t breathe real good, and our skin will itch a lot?”
Crazy Lou nodded sadly, staring at the floor. “Yeah … and then we’ll die.”
Spike shook his head. “What kind o’ idiot ….”
The footage showed Earl Sinclair, Robbie’s old man, discussing the plan alongside that slow-witted brown tyrannosaur buddy of his.
Spike stifled a gasp. He jabbed Scabby with his left elbow. “Where’s Lingo?” he asked in a tense tone.
Scabby nodded toward the front door. “He said he found a new use for those poppies yesterday. Hasn’t been back since.”
Spike slowly exhaled. He shot a quick glance to Scabby, his lips curled, baring his teeth. “Get him.” He nodded at Crazy Lou. “We’re cancelin’ da drive-by, Lou. Get everybody we know in here … if they don’t come willingly … slice their Achilles’ tendon or something … drag ‘em here kickin’ and screamin’, if ya have to.”
“Uh, Spike,” began Howlin’ J, who had a gruffer and deeper voice than Sonny, and looked like a scruffier and paler version of his son. He was rubbing the fingers of his right hand together under the table so no one would see. It was a nervous tick of his.
Spike stared at him. “Nuthin’s gonna happen to the band … you worthless piece of tick-infested rugbag,” he interrupted with the type of tone he used when he was teasing. He cracked a smile. “I wouldn’t eat the bunch o’ you if you were the last rotten snack on the supercontinent!”
Mudbelly, the band’s darker-blue fat drummer, smirked in turn. His voice was very deep and smooth. “Good to know, you purple spiky pain in the fur.” He forced a chuckle. Being mammals in the presence of desperate Lizards was not exactly on their list of good events. The insults, though, were just their way of telling each other how incredibly worried they were … without the humiliating sappiness.
Spike maintained his grin. “Now, if you boys will excuse me … I got a bomb threat to call in.” He went through a side door beside the bar.
The band stared at the door for a few moments until they were sure Spike was out of hearing range. Sonny glanced at his father expectantly. Howlin’ J shrugged, wiping off some nuts off the table. “He’s trying to evacuate his school, Sonny. Spike’s too proud to call for help.” He sighed. “You know that weak-kneed friend of his goes to that school, too.”
“And of course there’s all the girls,” continued Mudbelly with a slight chuckle. “If all the fem-lizards die off, Spike won’t have anyone to slap him!”
<><><><><><>
Late in the afternoon, Spike was clearing out the empty bottles scattered around the bar. The band was trying to clear the floor. Scabby had found Lingo around two in the afternoon, nervously pacing in the woods, rubbing his arms constantly. Spike glanced over at where Lingo now sat, in a chair at the far corner of the room. Lingo was a tall narrow-nosed purple dinosaur with dark purple stripes on his tail. A white tie was wrapped around his head, the ends drooping past his shoulders. He wore a long-sleeved black leather jacket with round metal studs along the sleeves and rose-colored wire-rimmed glasses. His lips were pale blue … naturally. He continued to scratch, his head bobbing up and down in a state of almost delirium. He couldn’t seem to focus on any particular thing.
“Hey! Lingo!” Spike called out loudly enough to make the others cringe. “You okay?”
Lingo nearly threw up. He smiled weakly. “Kickin’ it, Brother Spike,” he replied in a deep voice.
Spike flashed a grin before frowning. “Don’t blow chunks on the floor, Lingo. If you’re gonna do dat – I’ll eat ya right now.”
“Probably don’t wanna do that,” noted Howlin’ J with a wry smile. “There’s no tellin’ what’s been in that kid’s gullet.” He jumped when he heard breaking glass. Howlin’ glanced over at the bar, where Spike had crushed a bottle in his left hand, his face scowling, eyes averted. Ever since he had had to stop Rob from making a mess of himself with thornoids, Spike had become rather touchy when it came to his “family” – whether it was the Sinclairs or the Scavengers – doing things they shouldn’t have been doing. Though Spike didn’t mind alcohol (which he considered a drink as natural as water or soda), the stuff he considered more dangerous was absolutely forbidden. Howlin’ tried to continue cleaning up … though no one else had come back yet. Crazy Lou was long overdue. Rob had called Spike, telling him his family was safe at their house.
Finally, Crazy Lou walked through the front door. Spike asked him who he brought. Lou shook his head. “We aren’t exactly a triage unit or an emergency shelter, Brother Spike,” he retorted. He shrugged, seeking the bar for a glass. “Search and rescue is not typically our forte.”
Just as Lou sat down at the bar, sighing when he realized Spike wasn’t going to give him anything, the sound of choppers sprang up. A thick rain of glop was sprayed everywhere, covering the windows with a yellow film. They watched and listened for about half an hour, mesmerized by the sensory experience of food sources dying out en masse.
