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Joy Ride - and ABH
by Sherrie
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Disclaimers: Grand Master Lucas owns Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan lock, stock, and....ah...yeah, barrel. Damn. I guess Iıll just have to put them back when Iım done. I got no money-honey, so donıt come looking to sue me for any.
Scenario: youıre a long way from home on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.
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Part 2
The car is still rocking when you come to, so you can't have been out long. You take brief stock of yourself, but nothing hurts. Thankfully the airbag seems to have done it's job. The airbag plus your shoulder harness seems to have saved you from any permanent harm.
Reality thrusts itself back on you with the noise of a large vehicle sliding to a halt on the gravel behind you. You hear loud, raucous, drunken, male laughter behind your car. Desperately you fumble with the seat belt. Maybe you can just run into the trees....they're drunk, surely that'll make it harder for them to keep up with you in the bushes!
Finally the belt releases you and you fling the car door open. You take one look at the men and realize they are the men from the store. And they're really looking for someone to have some fun with...their kind of fun! Their laughter itself is obscene.
You turn and start to run down the gravel road, looking for a break in the bushes where you can squeeze through.
"Hey, the lil rabbit's runnin; away," one of the men shouts, alcohol slurring his speech ever so slightly.
A stampede of booted feet on gravel rumbles behind you, getting closer and closer. Panic stricken, you search for an opening in the underbrush, but to no avail. The woods here are too tight, too dense! Abject horror seizes your breath and stops your heart, but all you can do is keep running.
You scream as one of the men grabs your shirt and throws you sideways against the edge of the road. He laughs loudly at your predicament and grabs at one of your flailing feet. You dig your fingers into the gravel road.
"Looky what we got us here, boys!" he crows. "A scairt lil bunny!" He pulls on your leg and drags you towards the center of the road. You vainly scratch and claw at the road, kicking with your other foot. His friends crowd around you and another one grabs at your loose leg.
"No!!! Let me go!!" you scream.
The men just laugh back at you. One of them squats beside you, "Well of Ocourse we'll let you go, darlin'...but not Otil after you give us some bunny lovin'" The man laughs and slaps his knees, laughing at his own drunken humor. The smell of beer on his breath is overpowering.
In the distance, the ripping sound of a high speed motorcycle distracts the men for a brief moment.
You grab again at the gravel road, but this time to arm yourself with the only thing available to you. With a shout, you throw the dirt and gravel at the men holding your legs.
Slightly distracted by the approaching motorcycle, and under your gravel assault, one of the men lets go of your leg. You kick at the other and try to throw more gravel at him, but not before the man squatting next to you grabs your arms and pins you to the ground.
"Not gonna get away with that, lil bunny," he leers at you, licking his lips.
The caterwaul of the motorcycle has become quite loud and the light from its headlamp darts through the trees. The motorcycle rounds the bend at top speed and bears down you and your attackers. At the last moment, the rider leaps from the bike, crashing full on into the three men standing near your feet. Off to one side, the bike skitters down the gravel road on it's side and ends up in the bushes.
The rider's fists are in action almost before he lands, catching one man square across the jaw and sending him tumbling back on to the road. The other two men drop into fighting stances and start swinging at the newcomer.
"Take care of him! I'll hold her!" the man pinning you to the ground shouts at the others. At this, the one holding your leg lets go and turns his attention to the motorcycle rider.
Another sound makes it's presence known as a second bike roars up the gravel road, it's engine emitting a deep bass rumble. Almost before you know it, the second motorcyclist sets his bike down along the bushes and rushes the man pinning you to the ground.
The man is knocked ass over teakettle by the second bike rider, but he comes up with fists swinging. The newcomer is huge and powerful looking in the headlights of the beat up pickup truck. He stops your attacker's blows with his palms and with one blow, knocks him clear across the road.
But your drunken attacker is past feeling any pain. He thrusts himself back to his feet and lunges at the second rider. He may not be feeling much pain, but heıs not very coordinated either. The second rider is able to evade every lunge and punch. He finally puts and end to the charade with a sharp blow to the drunken man's jaw. The drunkard drops as if shot.
Just as quickly, he's at your side, pulling you up onto your feet and hurrying you back from the fist fight in the center of the road.
That fist fight looks pretty one-sided to you. The first motorcyclist, smaller in stature than the second, moves with grace and power, evading every clumsy punch the remaining three men can muster.
On the ground at the side of the road the first man struck starts to move again. Groggily he shakes his head and gets to his feet. Shouting obscenities, he moves in behind the motorcyclist, but the rider is too fast. Hardly breaking his rhythm, he turns and kicks out, knocking the local flat on his back.
The motorcyclist seems to play with the remaining three men, darting in and out of the cluster, causing them to land occasional blows on each other. His quick jabs taunt them with light strikes, and his body shifts and flows like a bullfighter's red cape. The effect on the men is about the same. Enraged, their moments become only more comic.
"Finish it!" your rescuer demands of the first motorcyclist, who only responds with the slightest of glances.
With a flourish and a twist of his hips, the motorcyclist kicks one attacker in the chest and pops two swift punches in the face of another. Both go down without another sound. The last man shouts another obscenity at your rescuer and tries to wade into him with jabs to the chest. But your rescuer simply dances out of the way before loosing another karate-like kick. The last man hits the ground just as easily as the first three.
The first motorcyclist dusts his hands off and walks towards you. "Well, that was a bit exciting, wasnıt it?" His question seems aimed more at the second motorcyclist than at you.
The second man simply nods his head, his face in a slight grimace. "Come, let's get her out of here before they wake up." Strong but gentle hands steer you towards the second motorcycle. Itıs a Harley-Davidson you note as you stand next to it.
Your rescuer turns away from you a moment and pulls the bike up from the bushes. He swings a leg over it and then looks at you. You just stare back, not entirely sure you trust him, rescuer or not.
"So are you coming with us," he nods his head towards the other motorcyclist who is at the moment checking his own bike for damage, "or would you rather stay here with these....?" he leaves the question hanging.
You blink a few times...and swing your leg over the back of the Harley. "Hang on to my shoulders," he commands. You do so with out question. He kicks the engine over and it roars to life. Behind you, the other man is still checking his bike over. As the Harley lurches forward, you find yourself having to wrap your arms around your rescuer just to stay on the bike.
As you rumble down the road on the back of the Harley, the wind starts to cut through your shirt. You weren't wearing a jacket anything very warm when you ran from the car. You pull yourself closer to your rescuer's large back, trying to shelter yourself from the wind. He seems to notice your discomfort and stops the bike.
He twists in his seat and disentangles your arms from his shoulders, shrugging off his jacket at the same time. He settled the large jacket over your shoulders, "Here, put this on for now."
Gratefully, you slide into the jacket. It's huge on you, but it's very warm from his body heat. You note with some interest that the jacket is an old aviator's flight jacket. Not something a motorcyclist usually wears. You snuggle deeper into the jacket. It smells wonderful, a heady mixture of leather, wood smoke, and man.
"Hang on," your rescuer brings you back to the present. You put your arms around his waist this time and hang on tight as the motorcycle lurches away again.
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