Powder
Keg jumped up from behind the wall. “Hey there!”
“What
the …”
Machine Ranger said. “You’re
not The Rustler … or
Ragnar the Red.”
“Look
who’s eyes are workin’ … congratulations on that, Machine
Loser. Hey, I’m the new guy … an’ they call me Powder
Keg—alright?”
“Well,”
the Ranger said, his arm cannons sighted on the newcomer, who looked
the part of a 1950’s street corner hood, “you were almost the
Confetti Guy. As in,
these guns were about to―”
“Blow
me to bits? Whew! I’m sure glad that didn’t happen.”
“Didn’t
happen yet, you mean.
You with those other two, junior? The Viking … and the Cowgirl?”
“That
depends!” The Rustler piped up from where he was crouched behind
the wall.
“Yes!”
added Ragnar the Red. “That depends very much on what happens
next.”
“I’ll
take the bait,” Machine Ranger said. “What happens next?”
“Some
fireworks,” Powder Keg said. “Hmmm …”
He pointed at an
automobile that was in a long line of them parked along the
debris-strewn street.
“You know, I’m not so sure these cars are
legally parked.”
His eyes glowed red.
“Someone’s gonna have to
move them.”
The
car exploded in a fireball, and launched up into the air. Then it
smashed back into the Earth, a burning, smoldering heap.
“Consider
me the valet!” He laughed in wicked delight. “A nice full gas
tank, thank you very much.”
Then,
he pointed at a pickup truck, and it met with the same fiery fate.
“I’m
glad to see everyone’s not driving around on empty; running out is
no joke.”
Machine
Ranger, noticing how close he was standing to another parked car,
took a few cautious steps away from it.
###
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