CHAPTER ONE:

Desolation Outlaw

The shot glasses smacked the oak bar at precisely the same moment, the retort of which echoed like a shotgun blast within the deafening silence of the otherwise deserted structure.

"Nothin' like a Southern Comfort burn to ignite the soul, am I right, partner?" the larger of the two men asked, his grotesquely oversized hand cupping the shot glass like a child's marble, its contents completely hidden within his massive palm.

The smaller man grinned through a dark crimson cowl, his meticulously toned physique perfectly defined through maroon-shaded tights.

"I'm not the elbow bender I was in our day, Force. Whoops…sorry, I mean, Desolation Outlaw . I'm gonna have a hard time calling you anything but Force, Benjamin. Force of habit, you might say," he replied with a sly grin, reaching up to push the cowl from his face.

Bending forward, the larger man studied the other for a moment while leaning onto forearms as large as a normal man's thighs.

"Ya don't look too worse for wear,Condor. We've both added a few wrinkles, not to mention scars, over the past…. damn, how long has it been, Ray?"

"At least four years, Ben," the Crimson Condor replied, "Haven't laid eyes on your ugly mug since Baton Rouge back in two-thousand…one…or maybe two."

"Baton Rouge. Got'cha. . ," he agreed with a nod, reaching over to refill their shot glasses to the brim's edge,"…helluva brawl, as I recall. Lost a tooth to Slayer's left hook. Damn thing is probably still lodged in his knuckle. You broke an arm that day, didn't ya? Or was it a leg?"

"Right arm just below the elbow. Tried to glide beneath Stingray's electro-cane and never saw The Brute coming. Big bastard straight-armed me right through the wall of that bank building. I had migraines for six months afterwards. Closest I ever came to permanent retirement, Force…uh. . Ben."

Both men paused, then traded winks before downing the shots in twin blurs of frenzied motion. Again, the room filled with the thumping echo of glass against oak.

"I remember droppin' ya off at Doc Wilkes office that evenin', Ray. Grumpy old bastard. The government was payin' him quite a wad to bandage up hero-types. Never could figure out his rabid Doberman personality."

Wiping his mouth with a gloved hand, the Crimson Condor then laughed aloud, glaring at the mostly empty whiskey bottle as if it were a crystal ball.

"He was an ornery SOB, all right. I'll say this, he was an equal-opportunity jackass. Treated everybody like crap, from what I saw. Ben, you'll never guess who I spent some rehab time with at Doc Wilkes' place."

Shrugging his massive shoulders through a snug-fitting black muscle T-shirt, Ben then pushed away from the bar and stood, various popping noises filling the air as he stretched his colossal frame.

"Old Flag-Face himself, Captain A . The Red Skull's cronies had messed him up pretty good. Cracked ribs, concussion; the works."

Now standing behind the waist-high bar, Ben pulled a fresh bottle of Jim Beam Gold from a dust-coated cardboard box and blew a wad of cobwebs free from the cap.

"Hoo-boy, spendin' time with true royalty there, Ray. Livin' legend material. So what was Mister Patriot like up close an' personal? Real ego-maniacal a-hole, I'll bet…"

"Believe it not, Ben, the man was as down to earth as you could imagine. At least, for a guy who's done and seen the things he has through the years. Quiet and reserved, but a real professional in every sense. Least, that's the impression I got."

Copyright © 2006 Terry L. Vinson