Doomino's_Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery_A Bizarro Grindhouse Tale

by Lucas Pederson

  Wells grinned, revealing tiny white teeth. “They called it in just in time.”

  “I just cleaned that fucking kitchen.”

  “Does it look like I give a rat’s fuzzy tit about the kitchen, Convict? You’ve got work to do. Last one for the night. Let’s go.”

  She paused. “Why not someone else? I’m beat to shit right now.”

  “Everyone is already asleep, Cuntasarus. Move your tight lil’ ass.”

  She glared at him. “I hope you fall down a fucking well, Timmy, and Lassie laughs at your stupid ass.” She stepped out of her room and into the narrow hall.

  Wells said, “Go, for the love of floppy unicorn dicks. Go.”

  Spike started off toward the locker room.

  “No, not enough time to change. Go as you are.”

  She shot a glance over her shoulder. “Doom likes me all decked out for deliveries. Probably spanks his pink monkey while watching, not that I can blame him. I look pretty damn hot in all that leather.”

  Wells smiled. “He knows the situation. Just get your car ready. You’re on in five.”

  “Whatever. Where’s Javier?”

  Wells, index finger a knuckle deep in his right nostril, said, “Nah, we’re gonna let him get his beauty sleep. This is a solo mission.” He pulled the finger out and there on his cracked nail, shining under the fluorescents, was a bright green booger. Wells stared at it for a second, apparently impressed by its emerald sheen, and popped the tip of his finger in his mouth, sucking. The finger came out clean.

  “See what inbreeding will do to a bloodline?” Spike shook her head, looking away as he savored his snot morsel.

  “Just get your ass to work.”

  “Javi’s my partner. He doesn’t go, I don’t go. Simple as that.”

  “You looking to spend the next month in the hole? This is a solo delivery, like I already told you. Last minute shit that needs to get done and needs to get done now. So get your ass moving before I lose my temper, bitch.”

  She wanted to bash his saggy fucking face in, but refrained. Barely. Bypassing the locker room, she slammed open the double doors of the main entrance of the store and stormed to the garage. Her broken down sneakers crunched on shards of broken glass and squished over a used condom, and she wondered whose little squirmies she’d just Godzilla’d.

  Something fucked up was going on but, really, what was she going to do about it? Bullshit or not, this run meant she had only one more delivery after tonight.

  The guard standing there gave her a slow once over as she approached. “Help you, Spike?” he asked like some cashier at the local inconvenience store.

  “Open the fucking door, Barry,” she told him. “On a mission from the god of golden showers.”

  Barry the guard shrugged, clearly not giving a fuck what she had to do, and placed his palm on the ID plate. The large garage door lifted, rattling and squeaking. It shuddered to a halt halfway up, started down again. Stopped. Then squawked before finally going all the way up.

  “Have fun,” Barry told her. “Try not to die.”

  Spike shrugged at Barry’s cheery optimism, opened the door to the old Chevy, and got in. She buckled in and keyed the ignition. The giant engine growled to life, the familiar V8 vibration turning her on, a pleasant tickling feeling already dancing in her guts. She shook her head, trying to ward it off. Getting wet in her jumpsuit would be bad. She’d end up sliding all over her seat while she drove, turning it into a water slide before she hit the end of the block.

  Dead kittens, she thought, desperate to stay calm as the Chevy purred beneath her. Dead kittens, saggy grandpa balls, pink flamingos, Jackson Wells.

  The latter sucked up any wetness accumulating like a vampiric sponge. She sighed, shivered at the thought of the guy naked and sweaty, and rolled out of the garage. She parked in front of the store, waiting for the pizza to be secured in back.

  A few seconds later, Wells popped his head out from between the double doors. “The fuck ya doin’, flickin’ the bean? Come get the pizza! The crew is gone for the night!”

  Spike hissed, got out of the car and ran to the store. Wells handed her the pizza, oddly not fucking with her. She sprinted to the car, opened the back and secured the pizza in the mesh. Then she hopped into the driver’s seat and hit the gas, the gates already open. Tiny chunks of asphalt sprayed out behind her as she tore off.

  It only took her a few seconds to realize the usual fanfare of media vans wasn’t on her ass, the unnatural daylight of their presence missing. She glanced in the rearview mirror, confused by the empty street behind her. So used to the gleaming spotlight, the constant hovering of the crews, she felt abandoned and alone.

  “He’s trying to kill me, no doubt about it,” she muttered, grinding her foot against the accelerator, absolutely certain Wells had set her up to die.

  Stay positive!

  “Yeah, just like Magic Johnson.”

  Her route was new, but she’d been navigating those varicose streets long enough to know which were complete fucktastic nutsacks and those that were more or less out of the way. Ahead, about a mile, there was a trash-choked alleyway where she could cut through to Palin Street, a narrow road that dead-ended on Political Avenue, from which you could almost see Alaska Street. From there, she’d turn right, hit the next alley, and roll to her destination, 404 Apt. C, Shit Street.

  An easy delivery.

  28:12. 28:11. 25:00.

  Spike blinked. The drop in her retinal implant’s timer forced her to suck in a sharp breath. Someone was hacking the system. That shouldn’t be possible.

  Ahead, she noticed the alley was blocked off by a half-dozen wrecked cars. Beyond that was an ancient tanker truck on its side, the metal red with rust, it’s tank sprawled out across the street.

  “Fuck.”

  As she neared, trying to determine a new route, a car shot out from behind the wrecks, roaring her way. It lurched into the street behind her, then sped up. Flames licked its side panels. Another car on the other side blasted into the street, careening straight toward her. Spike yanked the wheel and veered off, hitting the gas, barely avoiding the collision.

  24:33. 24:01. 22:06.

  The car behind her, which appeared to be a modified `69 Plymouth Fury with a Little Teasers Pizza flag wiggling up top, which said, “Fuck you! Fuck you,” blasted forward, ramming into the Chevy’s rear bumper. The impact jarred Spike out of her haze. Only barely surprised by the ambush, she plotted how best to get away. She’d expected something, but just hadn’t known what. Wells must be desperate, she thought, throwing such blatant bullshit at me like this.

  The car keeping pace beside her looked like an armor plated `76 Ford Mustang. On the door was the logo for Pizza Slut, yet another rival pizza company in the new world delivery scheme.

  20:45. 20:10. 18:55.

  She ground the Chevy’s gears, whipping it backward, tires squealing as she spun around to go back the way she’d come. But before she could, the Mustang’s driver leaned back as the passenger aimed a gun at her and fired. Something bright pink flew through her open window, whipped past her nose, struck the passenger side door with a heavy thwomp, then bounced into her lap with a moist thwap. She glanced at the thing, at the weird gun, then back to the thing again.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The bright pink thing in her lap was a huge dildo, rigid bumps spread across it for her pleasure. Spike looked at the men in the Mustang just in time to see the driver smack the passenger over the head with a dildo that looked just like the one in her lap. Spike grinned and grabbed the dido, tucking it between her legs for later investigation.

  The nights got lonely, after all.

  No more projectile sex toys flying her direction, she peeled out and shot down a side road. The Plymouth followed and rammed her rear again and again. Harder and harder. Her head jostled like a giant bobblehead. The Chevy shuddered beneath her, and she heard the exhaust sputter, fearing Wells had tampered with it. She presse
d the gas pedal to the floor and, to her relief, the Chevy jolted forward, slamming her back into the seat. The big, pink dildo somehow slid under her as she bounced, riding up her ass like her high school guidance counselor. She giggled at the memory and fished it out, tossing it into the passenger seat. If she survived, she’d figure out how to smuggle it into the store later.

  Spike glanced at the Mustang again, just in time to see the passenger shoot something else at her. A loud clank and a pointy rod poked through her passenger door. Four flat barbs dropped from the rod, latching it to the car. She checked the road to make sure nothing was of immediate issue, then looked at the Mustang. A cable hung suspended between the two vehicles, connected to the barbed rod in the door.

  “Oh, you dirty cocknuggets,” she said just as the Mustang gunned its engine and swerved hard to the right.

  Play nice!

  The passenger door screeched, yanked completely off its hinges. It sparked on the street as the Mustang dragged it along. A shimmer in her peripheral vision drew her attention to the other side. The Plymouth roared, front bumper about even with her door.

  There was another clank, a loud screech, and then her door ripped free, kicking up sparks as it bounced along the street. She growled, realizing what they meant to do. They were tearing her car apart, exposing her like a good TMZ video. With her door gone, they could take their time killing her. She had no protection, the hearse open on both sides now.

  Unless the big pink dildo wielded magical powers, she was fixing to get fucked, and not in a fun, full-on furry gangbang way either. More like the bent over, ankle grabbing, not a hint of spit kind of fucking.

  She snatched up the dildo and pointed it at the Mustang speeding along on her right. A quick swish of it like she was Harry Potter and shouted, “Dickus eruptus!”

  When nothing more than old cum flakes fluttered off the tip, she tucked it between her legs again. Might as well get something out of it, she thought before returning her focus to the road, and damn near shit herself when she did. She was glad the dildo was packed tight against her asshole, blocking the flow, otherwise she would have.

  Respect the environment!

  Another mass of burnt out car husks were being pushed into the road, yet another delivery vehicle making a move to take her out. They hadn’t expected her so soon, though. The driver was desperate, pushing his little Toyota as hard as he could to get the roadblock in place, but the first of the vehicles swerved, leaving a gap near the sidewalk. Spike snarled. It’d be tight, the hearse sure to suffer, but they hadn’t left her much choice. She wasn’t going out like a punk.

  She veered toward the gap, but the Mustang saw it and sideswiped her at the last minute, knocking her back on a collision course for line of cars. Her thoughts turned to the .50 caliber fixed to the roof. Boy did she fucking miss Javi right then.

  The Plymouth slammed into her right side, metal shrieking, and before she could react, the Mustang slammed into the other side, its tire whirling right beside her, so close she could read the writing on the white wall.

  P205/75R14 95S.

  The two cars bounced her back and forth like goddamn ping-pong balls.

  “Oh, fuck this,” Spike said and stomped on the brakes.

  Her Chevy skidded. Dark plumes of burnt rubber drifted around her, filling her nose with an acrid stink. Both cars thundered passed. Spike hit the gas, while her other foot kept the brake pedal at the halfway point and spun the Hearse sideways. Almost to the roadblock, both cars had already started turning back.

  Spike clambered out of the driver’s seat, crawled into Javier’s spot, and poked her head and arms out the hole in the roof. She swiveled the .50 caliber around and pointed it at the bastards.

  “Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhh!” she said in her best Rambo impersonation, then fingered the trigger like it was a big-clitted lesbian.

  Bullets tore through the Plymouth, fist fucking the car up to the elbow and asking who its daddy was. The car swerved, fishtailed, banked off a curb and slammed into the Mustang. Stuck together, both cars crashed into what used to be a United One Bank and now a ruin like everything else. Steam rolled out from under both hoods. The third vehicle, seeing what happened to his partners, squealed in reverse and disappeared down an alley.

  Spike watched him go, waiting a few seconds to make sure he didn’t come back, then climbed back into the driver’s seat. She stared out the window at the wreckage and spied one of the men from the Mustang, the driver, pulling himself free of the car, his face doused with blood.

  9:40. 9:20. 8:33.

  Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white. You don’t have time for this, she thought. Just go!

  Meh! Who the fuck am I kidding?

  Spike gunned the gas and drove alongside the wreckage. She popped the car into neutral and jumped out, finding it so much easier without the door being there.

  Always stay in your vehicle!

  She didn’t recognize the guy’s face, seeing how it looked like uncooked hamburger meat. He groaned, barely dragging himself across the oil-slick asphalt. His partner hung from his seatbelt, his chest caved in where the engine had shifted and come through the dash, accordioning the guy between it and the roll cage.

  She glanced at the other vehicle and saw the passenger’s severed head laid in his seat, the body mangled and stuffed under in the wheel well. The driver looked like a stand in for John Carpenter’s The Thing, and Spike looked away, her brain not able to process the unnatural twists and turns of his body, a wide eyeball staring at her from what she thought was his colon.

  7:20. 7:10. 6:60.

  Time ticking down, Spike strode to the survivor and spat on him. She grabbed him under the arms and dragged him to the curb, forcing his mouth down on the concrete.

  She screamed, lifting her foot and driving it down on the back of his head. Teeth shattered, and she heard bone scrape against the curb as his jaw bent back, snapping with a booming crack.

  “You can thank Edward Norton for teaching me that one.”

  5:15. 5:00. 4:30.

  Spike hopped back in the Chevy and peeled away from the scene, blood already growing cold on the legs of her jumper. She cut through the alley and slammed to a stop in front of 404 Apt. C, Shit Street, just as her timer read: 2:12.

  The building was the only one still standing in this area. An old, crumbling, red brick monstrosity. She grabbed the pizza from the back and hauled to the door up front that led to the building lobby. The knob didn’t turn. Locked.

  “Of course, it is,” she shouted to no one, stepping back and kicking the door open. It nearly fell off its rusty hinges, the frame shattering.

  1:10. 0:55. 0:51.

  Growling deep in her throat, she barreled through the short lobby and took the stairs to the second-floor landing two at a time.

  0:22. 0:15. 0:10.

  Apartment C was the second door on the right. She skidded across the floor and knocked, the timer flashing and stopping its count at 0:03. She sighed and leaned against the wall as she heard footsteps stomping around inside the apartment, the assholes purposely dragging ass, thinking they were being slick by delaying, but all they were doing at this point was wasting her time.

  “Hurry the fuck up, God damn. The time stops when I’m at the door, you ignorant kangaroo fuckers.”

  At last, a dude with a face that looked like a salted pretzel opened the door, fingers unconsciously playing with the legion of zits on his cheek that brought to mind the surface of mars, only more pustulent.

  “Uh, you’re late, aren’t, you?”

  “If I am, you sure as fuck ain’t the daddy.” She handed him the pizza. He took it, staring at her blankly as if he’d just had an aneurism. “Thanks for ordering Doomino’s. Hope you choke on it.” She spun and stomped down the stairs.

  The customer might not always be right, but you aren’t important enough to argue!

  Spike snorted, got into her Chevy, and peeled out, kicking up rocks
in her wake.

  Your one lucky cunt, scrolled across her implant.

  “You’re,” she corrected, turning to the camera mounted in the rearview mirror and snarling. “And I’m coming for you Wells.”

  No reply, she drove back to the store, blasting The Accused’s “She’s Your Killer,” enunciating every word.

  Her implant blinked {1}, the number a brilliant green.

  Seven

  Spike stormed into the store, her cheeks so hot her eyes boiled in their sockets like eggs. “You fucking set me up, Wells.” Her voice echoed in the empty lobby.

  Wells stood behind the counter, shaking his head. “I did no such thing.” He shrugged, tapping one of the heavy pizza cutters on the counter, pretty much daring her to go at him. But she knew his game. Besides, she could see the dusty jackboots of a guard through the space under the oven, the guy trying to be discreet. She doubted the dumb son of a bitch could spell discreet, let alone how to be it.

  Wells was still working his angle, but she wasn’t playing into it. If she assaulted him, the guard there as a witness, she’d be looking at another five hundred deliveries added to her sentence, and for what? There was no way she’d kill Wells before the guard stopped her, and she wasn’t much for doing things half-assed. She was a full-ass kind of gal. Uterus deep or go home.

  Attempted murder was for losers.

  Obey!

  Spike drew in a deep breath, and let it out slow, turning her frown upside down. Two could play at being cunts, and she was better equipped for it. “Down to one last delivery, there, Boss,” she told him, offering up a wink like she’d gotten cum in her eye. “Just one more delivery and things change around here.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen, bitch.” Wells slammed the cutter down, snarling, and Spike was sad to see he still had all his fingers when he raised his hand to point at her.

  “Guess we’ll see soon, huh?” She shrugged. “Though the first rule I’m going to implement when I’m in charge is that you’re not allowed to stand near the oven. One day, someone’s going to box up that crusty face of yours and try and deliver it. Then we’d have the health department all over our asses for sub-standard ingredients, not to mention the customer complaints about it being overcooked. It’s one sad and sorry example of Doomino’s product, I have to say.”