#writing for trash magneto was a challenge

[zer0pm]

Imagine working your first night in the village tavern and serving a drink to a man you catch sitting by his lonesome. He accepts your kind gesture and engages you in conversation. You didn’t realize you were talking to Lord Heisenberg until it was too late.

“Got a tall one with your name on it.”

The silver-haired man simply glances up at you from his seat, bright eyes switching between your smiling face and the full mug you’ve placed in front of him. The bored expression he wore previously relaxes into that of mild intrigue.

“I didn’t order that,” he says, amusement in his deep voice.

You shrug casually, “It’s on the house.”

When he didn’t say anything right away, you proceeded to explain yourself. “Barkeep mentioned you haven’t ordered anything since you got here. I figured I could spot you a round. Hope you don’t find it rude.”

To your surprise, the man chuckles, returning your patient smile with a toothy grin. “Can’t tell if you’re brave or just straight-up fucking strange. But you are definitely interesting, I’ll give you that.”

You tilt your head curiously, unsure of what to make of his comment. Perhaps, this stranger is one of those lone wolf types that rarely engage in social interaction. However, that didn’t seem correct. He seemed more like the type that enjoyed talking, if not just to hear the sound of his own voice. He has such a distinctive voice too, you found, the rich baritone hitting strings inside you that sent shivering notes tingling down your spine. You shudder not out of fear or anxiety, but out of genuine fascination.

The stranger takes the mug you’ve put down for him in one of his hands, lifting it by the handle and bringing it to his lips before tipping his head back. It gave you an opportunity to look him over. As you suspected, he is large in build. Burly and robust but not overly ripped in muscular definition. He looked strong and undeniably imposing, shaped by hard, laborious work. You imagine that if he wasn’t holding the mug at its handle, he could wrap his thick, calloused digits around the cup with ease. The loose shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled up, exposing several wiry scars that adorn the back of his hands and forearms. They varied in length and size, barely faded by time, and matched the old wounds that ran across his rugged face.

Questions danced upon your tongue on how he got his scars, but you thought better of it and bit them down. He looked different from the other men you’ve seen in the village and had a unique air about him too, one that you would be able to immediately spot in a busy crowd. He was quite handsome, in a rough sort of way.

The man must have noticed you staring for when you brought your eyes back up to his, he was already looking right at you. His bright gaze remained locked onto you even as he sets the drink back down with a quenched sigh, a devilish tongue swipes the excess liquid from damp lips before withdrawing behind wolfish teeth. The ends of his mouth tugs upwards, putting his canines into full display. The damn man is smirking again and his eyes had a knowing, teasing gleam to them. Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, you bowed your head to hide the embarrassment burning on your cheeks.

Suddenly feeling incredibly shy, you take a step back. “I-I’m going to see to my other patrons, then. If you need anything else, just-”

“What’s your name, buttercup?” He cuts you off. There is an edge to his tone, as if daring you to move from your spot before him.

Buttercup? He’s giving you a petname? Is it derogatory or is it a genuine term of endearment? Either way, it made your face burn hotter.

Overwhelmed with the need to answer him immediately, you gave the stranger your name without a second thought. He repeats it in a low, slow drawl as if testing and savoring the sound on his tongue. Your heart picks up speed and you spoke up again in a futile attempt to calm the rapid beating.

“What’s yours?”

Like flipping a switch, the air between you two suddenly shifts. The wide smirk he wore falters and his brows furrow. These few words seemed to have disarmed him as the grey-haired man beholds you with a piercing glare, searching your face for any signs that you are joking or something. You could do nothing but stare back, balancing on the balls of your feet nervously. When he found that you were sincere in your question, he grasps his bearded chin thoughtfully.

“Intriguing,” he comments, his expression deeply pensive. His reply didn’t relieve any of the tension you were feeling and you wondered if you somehow offended him for not knowing who he is. “Are you local?”

Unable to fathom where his line of questioning was heading, you decided that it was best to answer him honestly as you have been doing thus far. “Uhh, yes, of course. Born and raised. Although, I’m not from the immediate area, if that’s what you mean.”

A thick silver brow arches. “So, I take it you’re not the religious sort, then.”

You shake your head. There was no helping the guilt taking root inside you. Clearly this man thinks that his identity should be apparent to you. Thinking about it, he does look sort of familiar but you couldn’t quite place him. You wished then that you paid more attention to the people around you in the weekly sermons.

“Not really,” you rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I rarely went to church. Not that I don’t follow the black faith, mind you. I just have other priorities. Life can be hard in the village, you know how it is.”

When he didn’t comment on this, you followed up with your own inquiry with the intention of making polite conversation. He mentioned religion, so…

“Are you a pastor?” That seemed like a logical thing to ask. But surely if he was leading the mass, you’d have remembered him right away. Maybe you simply missed each other in passing. You can’t shake the feeling that you do know him somewhere.

A bellowing laugh erupts from his throat. The man bends over on his seat, banging the wooden tabletop with a clenched fist as zealous humor consumed him. You didn’t notice that the rest of the tavern went completely quiet at his spontaneous outburst. When he finally sits back upright, he was in tears.

“Damn, you’re adorable!” He sighs deeply, his grin wide as he wipes the water from his eyes. “Do I look like the kind to give fucking sermons, buttercup?”

Again with the petname. You weren’t bothered by it this time. If anything, you took the lighthearted turn in the conversation as a good sign, pleased to see that the man looked like he was enjoying his time with you. Even at the expense of your embarrassment.

Deciding it best to play along, you returned his good humor with a playful smile of your own. “Looks can be deceiving.”

He scoffs, “Can say that again. Guess not everyone in Miranda’s herd is a sheep.”

You didn’t quite register that. “Excuse me?”

His hand waves off your question dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. You…”, the grey-haired man leans back against his chair, his lopsided smile bordered on teasing. “You get to call me Karl.”

A surprised hum escapes you, you didn’t expect a man so interesting to have such an ordinary name. Thankfully, he didn’t seem offended by the involuntary sound. Remembering you had a job to do, you throw him a courteous nod.

“Nice to meet you, Karl. I really should check on my other customers. Is there anything else I can get you?”

He casts you a playful look, “Are you on the menu?”

Although you were standing still, you nearly tripped over on the spot and tried to save face by quipping back. “Ha ha. Think you’re so smooth.”

Karl shrugs, reaching for the mug once more and inspecting the contents lazily. “I prefer to be rough. But no, I think this will do. For now.”

Your brain shut down after “rough” and you were quick to retreat back to the bar, ears turning red upon hearing his knowing chuckle as you created distance. So distracted by the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you that you failed to realize that the usual hustle and bustle of the busy tavern was completely void of sound. A loud bang of what sounded like someone slamming their hand against the wood harshly is all that it took to bring life back into the room and the patrons returning to their own devices. This somehow went under your notice too. You did not regain your wits until the barkeep you were working with for the night snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Oy! New blood! Didn’t I tell you not to bother that one?” he reproached you. Was that panic in his eyes?

You blink back at your distressed coworker. “If it’s about the free tankard, I’ll foot the lei. Everyone else looked like they were having a fine time besides him. That didn’t seem right to me.”

The frantic man shook his head fiercely, “Whether or not he is enjoying himself isn’t any of our business. He could very well be plotting his wrath upon this establishment for what you did!”

The excitement that was bubbling within you before is now replaced by confusion. “Why would Karl do that? Who is he?”

The barkeep’s face falls into that of pure shock. “Are you completely daft!? He’s-”

He chokes. Suddenly, his expression pales to an alarming shade of white. From the corner of your eye, you spot a large shadow looming and felt an imposing presence from your side.

You turn your head to see the man from before standing next to you. But this wasn’t the Karl that you spoke with earlier. He had the same face but wore more clothing- more distinct articles of clothing that made you freeze on the spot upon recognition. Afterall, who could ever miss the signature dirty trenchcoat, or the dark, round glasses, or the well-worn hat of Lord Heisenberg himself? Who dares not recognize one of the four nobles that rule over the village with an iron fist? Evidently you.

He didn’t meet your eyes right away, instead he had a deathly glare directed right at the barkeep who was now quivering in his boots. “Because I’m in a good mood,” the lord began, voice descended into a low growl, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear what you just called my new friend.” Lord Heisenberg then looks down at you behind black lenses, his demeanor shifting from threatening and terrifying to playful and pleasant.

His smile returns, seemingly wider than before, likely because he knows that you know who he is now. “Thanks for the drink, buttercup. I’ll see you real soon.” He pushes his shades down the bridge of his nose, winking at you before tipping his hat in an exaggerated head bow. With heavy footsteps, he takes his leave, not giving a second glance.

Your eyes followed him and lingered on the door he went through long after he left. There was a deafening silence. It filled the tavern for what seemed like an eternity before it was broken by the clanging of the metal tray you once held in your hands.

The lord of steel was here in the flesh. And you were talking to him so carelessly. And he was flirting with you so shamelessly. This was not how you expected your first day on the job to go. And he declared he intended to see you again.

You’re in deep trouble…

#heisenberg #heisenberg x reader #heisenberg imagine #karl heisenberg #resident evil 8 #re8 heisenberg #resident evil village #resident evil imagines #resident evil x reader #sorry it’s been awhile #took a little break #I will get back to our dashing Spaniard #but wanted to post for the trash can #please enjoy #writing for trash magneto was a challenge #heisendaddy #my writing #Zer0PM imagine

[chiefbeck]

Chapter 18: Harley and Me A basket case...

I was born in 1966; I know a lady never mentions her age, but I never got a rule book, and to tell the truth, I don’t follow most of those antiquated sexist rules anyway. I believe we can all do what we need and what we want across gender barriers; it just isn’t that big a deal. Most of those silly rules are there to keep women in their place anyway. Face it, most women are not Barbie, and women do get a year older every year. We just age well I guess, kind of like wine.

So on with the story, I was born in 1966 and a friend of mine builds Harley Davidson motorcycles as a hobby. He is a technical genius and retired from the Navy and is now a firefighter. God knows why he went into saving more lives after 20 years of combat in the Navy, but that is what he’s up to. He builds these awesome motorcycles for fun.

In his garage spread around in half a dozen milk crates and baskets was a 1966 Harley engine. A basket case. Now this is a special engine; it was the year of my birth, and it was also the first year Harley made a shovel head engine. I had an old 1960 Harley, which is still in the family, but a 1966 bumps me up into a more reliable engine with the newly designed head and cam design. The problem is this was a Panhead lower and shovel upper. If you don’t know what I am talking about with all this “Harley head” stuff, look up those couple of things.... it’s kind of cool.

So the problem, it was mixed up, but that was also a really cool part ‘cause this engine number’s in the few thousands and is kind of rare. Other problem was it was all torn apart and all over his garage. There were broken and worn out parts mixed with a few Honda parts, dang. Oh yeah, a mouse was living in one of the jugs. Oh, yeah, the jug is a cylinder; that’s the part that holds the piston and the pressure from the explosions.

I begged him for the engine. He said no, he had an idea for a bike.

I deployed to Afghanistan and got back a half a year later.

I begged him for the engine, even pointing out that the mouse had kids, and I needed that engine for my project bike. It was my dream bike; one that was born the same year as me. It needed a bunch of work; it was a torn up and old broken barely anything left...kind of like me.

He said no.

Months go by and I see him at work down there in Dam Neck Navy base, and we go to some bars, and the engine is never brought up. A few months go by, and I am getting ready to go back to Afghanistan, and he sees me at the bar. “Hey Chris, you want that engine?” “Hell Yeah!” “Two Thousand and it’s yours.”

I am the proud new owner of 7 baskets of parts. I haul them to my garage in Virginia Beach. He gets to keep the mouse.

I deploy to Afghanistan. In my will that we all write up before we deploy, I leave this pile of parts and my 1960 Harley to him. He is one of my best friends and still is by the way.

When I get back from the war, I take 4 weeks off. I am going to build me a motor-sickle. I spread all the parts out on my work bench and start cleaning stuff up and measuring them out to see if they are in specifications to re-use. Three days later I have a list of parts that I need to buy to complete the engine. I start making up another list of parts to actually build the bike.

My favorite builders are “Zero Choppers.” So I build a combat style zero chopper. I get a sweet rigid gooseneck frame and some pretty big rims and tires. This is going to look a little like a Mad Max meets WWII combat motorcycle with barely any chrome or flashy junk. “Chrome don’t get you home; flash is trash.”

I start building the engine, and in a few weeks, I have a complete engine. Ported and polished out the intake and exhaust and cut some of the engine off to “customize” it. I used tractor hydraulic hoses for all the oil lines. The engine looked real cool. Hope it runs.

I get the frame, fenders and bars and all kinds of stuff sent in the mail. Luckily I have my own MIG welder at the house like any girl would, duh. And I am a welding, cutting and chopping. I am in heaven.

I go out on some more work out of the country and am gone a lot during these years. So I work like a madwoman on the motorcycle, then I am gone for a while. The project is going on near two years, dang war.

I have a buddy that owns a shop a few miles from my house, so I get back from one of my trips and ask him if I could bring the bike over to finish it out. He says yes, just keep the beer fridge full. Cool.

I load the bike up; its three quarters done. Fine tuning and then a once over to make sure I didn’t jack anything up. The shop is a story to itself. We work hard, but then start drinking beer and moonshine every afternoon, and then, the chainsaw comes out or we start welding some crazy shit. Once in a while we pull the guns out and start doing real stupid stuff. You got to love Virginia; there is no other place like it.

I get parts from all over the place. I use an old thrown away oxygen tank that was used for thermo baric cutting torches as an oil tank and old surplus weapons parts all over the bike. NO parts were added to the bike that didn’t need to be there to make it run. This is not a bozo bike like Orange County with stuff just pasted on to make it look good.

I minimized Chrome and for some things that only come in chrome I sand blasted the parts to dull them out. For paint, I used rattle can olive drab for the tanks and fenders. Frame was black. A lot of black parts, like the foot pegs and controls, needed to be powder coated to make them last. I couldn’t afford the powdered coating at the time, so I did it myself. Sprayed the powder on and used the kitchen oven to bake them at 250 degrees for half an hour. It worked great, but made the kitchen smell real bad. The oven won’t be baking any cookies ever again unless they use some of that easy off or some engine cleaner or something. Oh well.

A few weeks into our drunken monkey wrenching, the bike is rolling, and we got the engine and all the pertinence hooked up. Time to kick it. YES, kick it.

You see there are t-shirts that say “ole skool biker,” but that type of person is rare now-a-days. A Harley of this era didn’t have no electric start. As a matter of fact, the bike I built didn’t even have a battery. This was truly an ole skool bike.

We added about a gallon of gas to the tank, let the carburetor fill up and then I started giving it some prime kicks to get the gas in the cylinders and move some oil a bit.

Then, I retarded the magneto, so the spark would be late. Yes, you want it retarded a bit, which is a late spark, so when it fires off, the engine it doesn’t catch the kick peddle and break your leg. It does happen.

Ignition on, primed, spark late.... I kick with all my might. Nothing. I kick again. Nothing. Ok to keep this from going on tooooooo long. I am kicking for ten minutes, one of the guys says let me try. No way. I kick another five minutes and fall off the bike onto the ground, freaking beat me. Dang it. We go over the whole bike and find a short, dang. Well off to the races.

I start kicking and five minutes later it coughs. I am jumping up and down like crazy. It coughed. We are drinking beers and toasting.

My legs are spaghetti so I am was surprised that it even did that. I look over my beer and ask if anyone else wanted to try a kick. Bear, yes his nickname is Bear and he is a big dude. One of his legs is the weight of my whole body. He can bench press five hundred and still runs like a gazelle, SEAL Team shit....don’t ask where these dudes come from.

He steps over the bike and cranks the throttle a couple times to prime it. Gives it a kick and ...rumble, rumble. It was like ten seconds of coughing. That was awesome. It looked like he was only half kicking it. Then he gives it anther kick and bam, it roars to life.

We are all cheering. Toasting and hooting and hollering.

It is the loudest bike ever made. The rear pipe is a cut up Russian Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher (RPG-7), and it is tuned to the loudest most obnoxious Harley ever built.

It was so cool and the coolest bike to ride. I rode it from Tampa to Daytona for bike week. Rigid frame wasn’t so nice, but I did it. I entered it into the “Willie’s Old School Chopper Show.” It came in first place for shovel heads. It was awesome. They took a photo of me with the trophy and a couple of girls who were models in the magazines.

I ended up in Easy Rider Magazine for that bike.

It was a cool bike; it started out as a broken up pile of junk with a mouse living in it. Really messed up. It reminds me of me. i was messed up and broken from the many injuries that I have survived. I am barely

holding it together in my mental and physical sense. How am I even still here? I am in the basket under a work bench in a dusty garage. I had a boost when I came out to live a new life. That boost started me working on myself. Dang in the old days I took a shower when I really needed it. Didn’t shave and barely brushed my teeth. I didn’t care; I was almost dead and didn’t need this body much longer. I didn’t care what anyone thought, pain didn’t care.

Living a new life, turning a new leaf. I use products in my hair now. I brush my teeth in the morning and at night before bed; even use some whitener. I use moisturizers now and take care of myself; kind of like re-welding the parts back in place and shining up the rough spots.

I think everyone needs this once in a while. We all need someone even if it’s ourselves to clean up and rebuild. Stop waiting and do it; color your hair or get your teeth whitened; every bit counts, and sometimes that little start will lead you to bigger and better experiences and challenges. With these great challenges comes great reward; trust me.

I am glad that I was able to do this with an old 1966 Harley and this old 1966 chick.

#harley davidson #Kristin Beck