One Gorgeous Piece of Ass

February 08, 2016:

Shift takes his wrecked motorcycle to Junkyard Jane. Not for TLC; the damn thing needs a rebuild.

Gage Scrapyard - NYC


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: I Cut Like a Buffalo by The Dead Weather

Fade In…

The Gage Scrapyard's several acres of neatly organized metal, plastic, rubber, concrete, and other odds and ends. Nearly half of the yard has been dedicated to vehicles, stacked one atop the other. The rest of the yard has piles of wiring, old appliances, industrial machinery, and pieces of old buildings. Near the gate, a two story cottage is attached to a large, open garage. Inside, a petite redhead wearing denim overalls, combat boots, and a flannel shirt works hard at welding one piece of metal to another. She seems to be building some sort of dog-sized robotic horse.


Life can be a real drag when you've burned your bridges. It wasn't by design; a very long story can be made short by summarizing that; Kwabena Odame needs a new mechanic.


A beat up, local cargo truck pulls up to the scrap yard. The driver, a Hispanic fellow, hops out and bangs on the side of his truck, cueing the rear cargo door to open. "Lo tienes, esse," he calls out. "Mejor deposito de chatarra en la ciudad!"

Shift climbs out of the truck, his expression lying somewhere between a scowl and a smirk, "Gracias, seniah," he answers, before going through the motions of hauling out his wrecked motorcycle. By all design, it's a Harley-Davidson Iron-883, wrecked to hell and back. The handlebars are bent at an odd angle, the transaxle is bent, it's missing one mirror, a headlamp, and the front tire is shredded. And that's not even the worst of it.

The bike gets stuck, so Kwabena grits his teeth and gives it a good pull. The bike comes out, landing on the pavement… with the front tire assembly now detached and clanking down on the sidewalk.

"… Fuck."


Jane's not totally deaf, despite the welding. She hears the digital tones of her dogs barking, announcing a potential customer. Did we mention the dogs were robots? Robot dogs. That bark and when they bark they shoot robot bees out of their mouths. She shuts down the blowtorch and pulls up the goggles, then heads outside of her lovely little workshop.

"That is a gorgeous piece of ass." Jane says, though her eye is on neither the latino nor the African man but on the mangled bike. "You should be ashamed, bringing it to me like that."


Kwabena hands the laughing Latino his payment, then promptly reaches into his leather jacket for a pack of smokes. "Yeah, yeah," he murmurs to the driver, revealing his heavy accent. "Laugh it up, Julio." The barking of robotic dogs quickly draws his silver eyes.

Eyebrows shoot upward. It's hard to say whether it's the dogs, the bees, the redhead or the reference to his bike as a 'piece of ass'. The Ghanaian puts his zippo away and puffs twice on the menthol, before hauling the remains of his bike up onto the sidewalk with a scowl.

"Yeah, well, you should see de oddah guy," he answers. "You Jane?"


"Jane's me." The redhead says. She marches over and kneels down to inspect the poor, broken Harley. "Mmmhmm." She leaps around to the other side. "Mmmhmm." Then she steps back and points her gloved left hand at the mangled mess. Some sort of beam of light, not unlike what a certain Mr. Stark's repulsors produces, shoots out and surrounds the motorcycle. Instead of blowing it to bits, though, the light beam lifts the Harley Davidson up into the air. Angling her hand carefully to keep the vehicle levitated, Jane walks beneath it and examines its naughty bits.

"I've got three of these in the yard in various forms of repair. Between them, I can get the parts to rebuild this."


Whatever judgement Kwabena may have prepared for this junkyard mechanic, it's immediately stalled when she performs that feat. He grimaces for about one and a half seconds when his bike gets essentially 'shot at', but it's fairly apparent what's going on when his bike rises up into the air. "Okay," he murmurs. "Dat wasn't what I was expecting to happen."

Eyes narrowing, the African walks forward until he's underneath the bike as well. He's never really seen it from this angle, after all. "You sure?" he asks, glancing Jane's way. "I pay cash. Got an estimate on what dis might cost me? Money's dere, I just got to make sure it's worth it." He glances back up to the bike with a smirk. "Don't you get jealous."


Jane glances sidelong at the man next to her. The size difference between them is almost comical. "Depends." She says. "If all the parts are on hand, three hundred bucks. I like working on a beauty like this. Makes me all happy and warm inside. If I have to order any parts from another yard, I'll need to pass along the cost to you but I won't tack on extra beyond what I pay and the shipping." She steps aside and lowers the bike to the ground, as gentle as a mom with her newborn.


Kwabena steps aside as well. He's good with cues like that. Another puff of his smoke is taken, this one cast off to the side so that the second-hand impact is negligible. "Deal," he answers. "I'd offah you some help getting it in," he gestures toward the garage. "But you seem to have dat well enough in hand." There's just enough dryness to that like to suggest it might have been an intentional pun. "It's not gonna come out of yah shop breathing bees from its tailpipe?"


"I don't change classics." Jane says with a shrug. "And honestly, the last time I James Bonded up someone's ride? It ended up exploding. Turns out putting a missle launcher so close to a heat producing engine? Bad idea." She smirks a little. Her power glove whirrs as she lifts the bike up in the tractor beam. "You need to come inside and give me your particulars. Name. Phone number. I don't ask for a deposit since, if you don't pay, I get to keep your ride."


"Yeah, please don't James Bond up my ride," The mercenary turns and follows Jane toward the garage. His attire doesn't exactly scream 'mercenary' or 'avenger' or anything like that; plain jeans, a black tee, a heavy leather riding jacket. His demeanor though may leave some questions. The way he walks, the way his silver eyes seem to maintain a constant awareness, this isn't just some ordinary Ghanaian.

He's about to reveal a bit of what's been held behind his poker face. Once inside the garage, he leans up against a free work space and folds his arms. "Now, I can give you a real name, or a not so real name. De real name carries with it some few challenges. Meaning, cops… govahnment agents… all sorts of bad, unsavory sorts. De oddah name? Squeaky clean. Your call, really, but…" A smirk. "I'd go for de oddah name."


"Whatever. I don't keep records on computer." Jane says, motioning towards a filing cabinet. "But, you give me the name you want to give me. I run a scrapyard. People come here because they can't go to regular garages. I repair the trucks of so many migrant workers I should probably get an award. Or deported. You know, back to Ireland." She rolls her eyes. "Big, sexyscary black guy with a criminal record to give me a fake name and not have me ask questions? I'm down."


No digital records? This place is becoming more appealing by the minute. "Mahcus… Wallace." He speaks the name slowly, then spells it out, because his accent is terrible. Just the first name; Wallace is easy enough. "Not Mahsellus." Because, you know, Shift is black and bald, but he doesn't have a band-aid on the back of his neck. He then provides a phone number to one of his burner phones, along with an e-mail address of 'moc.liameerf|205060215#moc.liameerf|205060215'.

It's worth mentioning he extinguished the cigarette when he came in, but it's unclear how. His hand went behind his back, but there's no butts on the ground. Said hand is, of course, curled, as if its holding the butt in there somewhere, but there's no sign of burning. Human flesh does have a signature odor when its been burnt, after all.

"I wouldn't quite call it 'criminah recahd'," he points out, before pushing off from the work bench. No, his real name brings a lot worse than a criminal record. "Do her right, I might send some few oddahs your way."


"Works for me. Glad to have the business." Jane says with a faint shrug. "Junkyard's pretty much open to anyone. No questions." She fills out the forms and then checks one last time, before ripping off one piece of paper and handing it over. Carbon paper. Honest to God, old fashioned carbon paper. "Okay. You're all set. I'll give you a call tomorrow, let you know how long it'll take to fix her."


Reaching out, Kwabena snatches up the carbon paper, folding it with some level of appreciation for old things before stuffing it into his jacket pocket. "Great, and thank you," he adds with a level of politeness, before turning to take his leave. He's doing the gal a favor by not telling him his real name, or his codename. God willing she'll go on forever never learning of it; bad things follow.

Once outside the garage, he pulls up his cupped hand and sticks the cigarette back into his mouth. Out comes the zippo, and he lights it again, before putting up a pair of shades. Long walk to the nearest subway, but he'd rather not take an MTA bus today.

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