Gray Kane - Psychic Steampunk Parade

PSYCHIC STEAMPUNK PARADE

Gray Kane

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Gray Kane

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CHAPTER ONE

Ten-foot pink chopper. Sword backrest. Eagle hood ornament. On a turn, the foot peg hit the pavement. The 300 rear tire slid out from under her. Josie felt alive.

She had long legs. White tattoos of thigh-high vine-and-leaf stockings. On her inner right ankle, a tattoo of an 1869 Brass Knuckle-Pistol Combo tied by a thin leather strap. In a tattoo universe, she could fight even on her back. On her outer right thigh, an 1851 Colt with a gold-finish 7.5 octagonal barrel and golden grip. On the left, another tattoo of a white garter. Tucked into it, a Remington Double Derringer. Hanging on her outer hip, an 1874 Schofield with an engraved nickel-plate 8 barrel and ivory grip. No matter how she fell, how she kicked her legsin a tattoo universe, she could draw and finish the job, and still look stylish ...

Which she practiced when she wasnt out riding or if who she was riding would play along. She had decorated not just these, but all of her tattooed weaponry, and even their real counterparts, with silencers. As she told one male visitor, Dont think of a silencer as a muffle. Standing over him in a bathrobe, she traced his lips with her high heel. Not like a man's putting his hand over my mouth. Some call silencers suppressors. She hooked the heel in his mouth. A silencer doesnt suppress anyone. Slowly pulled the corner of his lip.

His tongue licked her heel.

A silencer frees up air pressure, like you wanted to say something really big, but couldn't open your mouth wide enough to get it out."

His thick hands gripped her tattooed ankle.

"Not enough room to escape. The pressure. It's going to explode." Josie bent her knee, flexed her calf. "But the silencer expanded your mouth, Yanked his lip wide to the side, by twenty or even thirty times. (He made an inarticulate attempt to say ow.) It's given what you had to say room to breathe. It's given what you had to get off your tits enough freedom. She looked not at him, but inside herself. Her glossy eyes stared towards the popcorn ceiling. Your cheeks dont have to explode. You dont have to yell anymore." She looked down at him. "You can speak softly. She snapped his lip back against his teeth.

You make it sound like the silencer is doing the gunshot a favor. He rubbed his unshaven cheek.

Kind of romantic, isnt it?" She stabbed her heel into the pillow by his head. "Guns are romantic. Theyre about rights and freedom. But without a silencer, that freedom is loud and obnoxious. She looked down at the man under her satin sheets, between her tattooed legs. True freedom doesnt have to draw attention to itself. Making a statement isnt the point. Just the statement is. True freedom speaks softly.

And carries a big stick?

Shut up. Some guy made that up. She jabbed her high heel into his crotch. The man groaned. True freedom just speaks softly." He grabbed her leg. He struggled to push it from him. "Because theres never any threat of exploding. Her gesture became gentler. His hands relaxed their grip.

Josie bent down and retrieved from her purse a six-shooter with a silencer. His eyes widened. She unscrewed the silencer from the barrel.

I made this one at work. Inside, theres an extension with holes. The holes allow heat to escape the barrel into a larger chamber. Her slender fingers handed the silencer to him. The bullet passes through a caliber-specific hole in a divider, called a baffle.

Baffle, the man repeated, like a child learning a new word.

Josie smiled at him. The spaces between each baffle let the air expandlike my arms, spreading open a hot robe. She spread open her robe, exposed the white tattooed wings that cupped her breasts. An eagle's talons clutched out from her ribs, as if kicking to free its head from the cleavage. The baffles are like beaded curtains that brush the robe from me. She pushed her breasts forward, wiggled her shoulders until the robe slid down her back onto the mattress.

A warrior princess.

Youre going to regret you used that word. Josie descended. Say it. Warrior goddess .

She accelerated into the sunrise. Unbraided strands of her hair fluttered behind her like flags.

Someday in the not-too-far future, she will tell a friend, I got the tattoos before I knew what they were for.

What did you think they were for? her friend will ask.

To scare off weak men. Challenge the ones who thought they were tough. While I speed past them in a bikini. Her right hand will rev an imaginary throttle. Vroom, vroom. Then she'll wrinkle her nose and show her teeth.

Josie wore a leather bikini top and matching shorts, so that in a motorcycle accident, at least shed protect her T&A. People told her sleeves and pant legs retain moisture and protect from dehydration. But South Florida's summer sunrises offered enough moisture. And she liked scars. A scar blurred the Remington rifle on her back, as if life's shutter speed were too slow to capture her withdrawing it.

When she downshifted, Josie backfired flames. She knew she needed to clean her carburetor, but then what would she do to the cars that tailgated her? How would she replace that orange and black shotgun blast to the front bumper?

Only hours before, a little girl giggled.

Josie referred to herself in third person when telling stories to her niece. On Saturday nights, Josie's sister provided dinner without interrogating Josie about her lifestyle, and in exchange, Josie tucked Isabella to bed, telling her stories without letting her sleep, so that Josie's sister and brother-in-law could spend both Saturday night alone and Sunday morning free.

Then one night she had a dream that started her great awakening. She crawled under her satin sheets, her mind racing." Josie crawled into bed with Isabella. "Not about anything in particular. Her mind leapt from topic to topic. Her mind moved too fast. Hopped from thought to thought. Then her mind landed on thoughts she didnt recognize. They werent her thoughts.

What do you mean? asked her niece, curled under her Strawberry Shortcake comforter. "Whose thoughts were they?" Isabella grabbed the comforter, crumpled it by her lips.

Josie withdrew a small aluminum ashtray and a pack of Winstons from her purse, placed the ashtray on top of the scratch-and-sniff stickers on the nightstand, drew a cigarette from the pack, lit it, exhaled, leaned the cigarette against the ashtray. I know this doesnt make sense, but she was jumping from mind to mind. On this particular night, Josie had something she needed to get off her chest. She pulled a pack of candy cigarettes from her purse and offered one to her niece.

Isabella put it between her lips and puffed. Her breath pushed powder smoke into the air.

Dont get me wrong. She knew she was asleep." Josie leaned into the little girl. "But her thoughts werent her own," she whispered into her niece's ear. "She was in someone elses mind." Josie pulled back. "And she could tell by how different the thoughts were that she wasnt staying in any one mind. She kept jumping from mind to mind. Even the languages were different.

She could read other peoples minds? Isabella puffed her candy cigarette intensely.

Josie nodded. She grabbed her own cigarette and took an equally intense drag. She rolled the cigarettes ash along the ashtray's edge. Her mind was racing faster and faster. Then suddenly she realized she wasnt just in one mind anymore.

Josie looked at the candy cigarette, the way the girl uncomfortably adjusted it in her lips, like a foreign object she could never make comfortable, no matter how much she feigned otherwise.

I know this doesnt make sense, but she was in multiple minds at once.

The little girl shook her head.