Audiobook
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US South)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
an hour and change later, the challenger rolled to a halt in front of Wayne's Roadhouse in Hammerman, talking in between a battered pickup truck and a flotilla of E bikes. The bikes all bore the same modeled crimson sheriff's star logo. The word new filled the middle of the star by virtue of it not being crimson. A number of the gang congregated on the porch, lounging about on the disintegrating remains of a few old sofas. Cautious stairs lingered on the driver as he got out locked the car. He ignored them. They were far more interested in fighting with the olds over the border than bothering freelancers. Inside the room smelled of food, beer and fart. A dozen or so people sat scattered at tables and booths, seats along the right wall. Waynes only waitress, a jittery, black haired android. Everybody called be waved at him. One artificial breasts, tongue out of her Tauron shirt and her tight leather pants didn't leave many curves to the imagination. Not that anyone really imagine much about a machine anyway. Probably why Wayne didn't waste a new shirt on her. A man have to be really only to get off on a plastic titi. She followed the driver to the bar, leaning on an imposed reminiscent of an Old West prostitute. Her smile might have been reassuring if not for the patches of visible metal on her cheek in the sporadic twitches shaking her body. Every so often, a bad one would come hand in hand with a spark and trace of burnt silicone in the air. Need anything? Hunt? Got any burger? Yes, yeah, yeah, yeah. Be in the throes of a violent spasm. Grab the bar in an effort not to fall. A little bit of deer and some other furry critters won't even taste. The tire marks fine. She headed off toward the kitchen in her herky jerky stride. Strands of dark hair wobbled back and forth over the bean 19 c on the back of her neck, Wayne emerged from a camouflage curtain behind the counter a few seconds after the brim of his cowboy hat. He was a head taller than the driver, and a decade or so older, something like 14 years ago. He'd been a driver himself, his ice blue eyes narrowed and he pulled his thick mustache. If you're trying to figure out what to make of the man slouched over his bar. What's with all the news? Outfront asked the driver. Wrinkles deepened at the corner of Wayne's eyes. As he left, he turned and held a mason jar up to the spigot. On the wall behind him, bunch of olds a rolled up south of here, A Ways Down by Carl Bad. He set the improvised glass full of thick brown beer in front of the driver. Why do they give a dust? Hoppers asked. Where Mexico starts anymore. Damn fine question, Kevin said. Wayne. Best I can figure is man need to have something to fight over or they ain't happy. Squabbling over borders of two countries would don't know Mawr exist. Seemed like a good excuses any I'm fixing to be happy. When I stopped fighting, Kevin fish the pouch out of his armor jacket and dropped it on the counter. The clatter of coins attracted every eye in the room. Except for bees. Finish that hermit delivery. Another 100 Today, Wayne pulled out a Warren Ledger and set about counting. He slid 100 coins to a separate pile, pulled 10 out of it, and then another three, the massive 900 coins went back in the pouch. 10% Kevin sat up is be put a play in front of him. A burger and fried sweet potato strips. I thought you said five. A creek came from the counter is Wayne leaned his weight onto an elbow. Read the fine print. Boy, I get 5% Commission on posted jobs. Minimum 10 coins. Gil Contract. Did you to collect 1000 for tobacco? You share that contracts 100 Roadhouse gets 10% facilitating fee, and you just paid me three for the food. 900 goes to the cellar. Kevin. Eight of fry grumbling the whole time. Where does that leave me? After adding a deposit line in the ledger under Kevin's name, Wayne pointed at a number 9918 Kevin smiled. One more run. He gathered the burger B was right. He couldn't taste the tires. Feminine grunting, accompanied by several heavy sets of footsteps and a woman yelling grew louder out front. The scent of meat filled Kevin's nostrils. Nothing else mattered. Get off me! Shouted a young woman before admitting a long, straining grown of exertion thump something hit the wall in the porch rattled with the clomping feet of several people. A few patrons glanced at the entrance. Help, please! Someone screamed. The same girl. Let me go! Men snarled and grumbled. The door opened with a crash, revealing the steel toed boot that had kicked it. Kevin stared over the bun at a mirror behind the counter. Everyone had turned to look except Wayne, who didn't seem to care much about the rockets beyond frowning at the man who'd punted the door, three men dressed in a random assemblage of mismatch garments Loped in T shirts, army coats, jeans, camo pants and road dust cover them. Two carried a squirming bound woman in a queen black jumpsuit, as if she were a bundled carpet. Long, pure white hair waved about as she fought to get free. She had a life delicate build and seemed young. Between 17 and 20. Cloud white, hands tied behind her back peaked out every few seconds, says she fuel. He tried to grab her abductors. Her outfit looked far too clean to have been outside long. Kevin returned his attention to the food and took a bite, the room and back to what they were doing as well. Wayne pulled the journal away, flipping it around. Looks like one of the moles poked her head out.