Nike A Go Go
By Jimmmy D.


When I pull over to the dirty, rotten gutter Nike starts rumaging in the back of the jeep, “What are you looking for?” I ask, not turning around, but still taking a peek in the back of the keep. “Nothing she says, grabbing something and spinning back around in her seat. She’s found her black trench coat, she hasn’t worn it in ages. She steps out of the jeep and throws it around her shoulds. Its a plain black trench coat that goes down to about her ankles, it looks relatively clean, but only Nike knows what godawful things that jacket has seen.

There are puddles of merky water in the gutters and in potholes on the street, though it hasn’t rain in years. This place smells rotten, like some dead animal; like a colony of huge, fat rats gathered under the streets and committed mass suicide just to make this place smell like shit. My mind lingers on this thought for only a moment then I move on. I follow Nike into Fred’s shop. She opens the entrance but pauses for a second, she starts hacking then spits a wad of phlegm on the siewalk, near the feet of a passerby. After this profound moment she disregards it and moves into the shop, I follow her.

In Fred’s shop the lights are fluorescent but still dim, and considering it’s location the place is relatively clean. All along the walls on either side of myself and Nike are glass cases filled with guns and ammuntion, and above these cases, on the walls, are tons of racks holding up huge guns and swords, and other things of this sort. I stop at a case, maybe the fifth or sixth along the wall. This is the case I always stop at becuase it’s full of antique revolvers, like sixshooters. These days no one uses a gun unless it has seven magazine slots and five sights, infrared, and night vision; in short no one uses anything but a B.F.G.(B.F.G. meaning Big Fucking Gun). But me, I have class, I like to blast a fuckers head off with a nice sixgun, I’m particularly partial to the .357 magnum.

Not many people watch films anymore, especially since the earth has gone on menopause, I but like to watch a nice flm every now and again. A while back when Nike, Flem, Frank and myself were looting up some old scraps from some broken down beater we came across a box of films, not film reels though, more like laser discs. Either way they had a bunch of old movies; Dirty Harry, The Pale Rider, The Good The Bad and The Ugly, and other movies in that vein. I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, probably the only one anymore, no one is ‘light-hearted’ enough to watch films when the world is crashing down around our ears, but I really don’t care. Everyone has got to die some time.

After imagining myself riding out on the range during sundown I start walking quick, like to catch up with Nike who, despite my pausing, has kept moving on her path. “Slow down Nike, Fred’s not going anywhere.” I tell Nike, catching up with her, and shortening my strides to match hers. “Yea who gives a flying fuck, I don’t like Fred too much and I sure as fuck don’t like his goddamn sleazy ass store.” she tells me, and even though she’s not looking at me I can tell she says this through a rotten sneer. “Who are you calling sleazy?” I say this at a whisper, like only I can hear it, but Nike picks it up, “Yea, why don’t you fuck off, instead of having a fuck with me you’ll hafta choke your own goddamn chicken.” she tells me off.
“Well if I don’t fuck you then you don’t get fucked.” I say matter-of-factly.
“I’ll just go out to some bar and find some random fucker to get it on with.” she taunts me, “It’s not like I gotta worry about AIDs or any of that fuckin’ shit.”
“Yea well… Fuck you…” I say this last bit at length, not knowing what else to say.

Nike gives a mocking laugh, we both know she’s won the argument. At the end of this part of the building is a small office, where we’ll most likely find Fred. That’s where he always is. When reach come close to the back door Nike stops and turns to me, “You do the talkin’ and do it fast, I don’t wanna be around this faggot longer than we hafta be, okay?” she tells me, looking straight into my eyes, I nod. I reach up and knock on the door twice. “Yes, I’m very busy, who is it?” a voice calls through the door, Fred’s voice. “It’s me, me and Nike that is.” I shout back through the door.

After a moment, and bit of paper rustling the door flies open and there stands Fred Lowe. He’s probably about 6’1″ or 2″, he’s sort of lanky but has broad sholders. He’s got shirt black hair and glasses, today he’s got a bit of face stubble and he looks a little worn out. “Good to see you again, my friends.” he tells us forcing a, what he would think of as welcoming, smile through his constant grimace. He steps to the side and ushers us into the cramped office, “how have you been?” he asks in a friendly manner, “Good.” I say simply, and Nike just nods. He points to the three chairs infront of his desk, which is cluttered with papers and photographs, I take a seat in the one to the far left, and night sets in the one on the far right.

He takes a seat at his desk and continues he’s bitter-sweet smile, “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he asks, looking from Nike to me. I hesitate for a second, but then press on, “The same thing we always come here for.” I tell him. “You need rare and expensive parts then.” he says putting his right forefinger to his chin. “Well you got the ‘rare’ part right.” I say jokingly, though not really wanting to spend any money.