Encounter: Sprocket and Son
Mikala Ash

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Copyright ©2016 Mikala Ash

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Sprocket and Son

I was underneath a '27 Hudson Roadster Steam Carriage, a bastard of a machine to work on, covered head to ass in oil when someone kicked my boot.
"Fuck off! I'm busy."
"I'm here to see Sprocket. Fetch him for me, lad."
"What the fuck!"
I'm not usually so articulate, but I'd been wasting the whole morning on this particular piece of crap some brain challenged idiots call an engine, and my tolerance for shite was lower than usual.
I rolled out and the wheels of my creeper scuffed a highly polished riding boot, and the sleeve of my oily overall brushed the finely tailored trouser leg of my harasser. He stepped back, damning me for an "empty bottle head."
I got quickly to my feet, one fist curled around the neck of my king dick wrench while I took off my brass goggles with the other. He was a tall well built stooge not much older than me with pale blue peepers and a black pencil-thin moustache. Nothing would have felt better than belting him across the chops with my wrench, but he was clearly a stooge, and as father always said, "the sweetest bread comes from the vilest customer."
I fixed him with a baleful glare. "You're looking at 'im."
He gave me the once over. "I mean you're father, boy."
"Worm food these past six weeks. This is my shop now."