Meet Dirk McAwesome
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Who is in the mood for a good laugh today?
This space is given over to author Richard Junk, which is a pretty awesome pen name. He tells me his real name is Christopher Smith, uh huh. Sure it is. He also told me I could make up a name for him. I like Cosmo Corkington, but it’s just a demo.
Richard/Christopher/Cosmo is a member of the bastion of manliness known as Prose Before Ho Hos and contributed to the anthology Whiskey & Wheelguns.
He shared this with us on Twitter yesterday and such delicious silliness must be given to the world. Please enjoy…
DIRK GETS THE MAIL
Dirk McAwesome twisted his supertech screwdriver and made the final adjustment to the throttle of his sweet space motorcycle. It was a nice day, full of birds that made pleasant noises and light from a few of the planet’s suns. Dirk didn’t know how many suns there were, because he left the science-doing to the men of science back at the Corporation headquarters.
He slipped the screwdriver into one of the many pockets on his awesome, recently back-in-style cargo pants and hopped onto the bike. A red light swept over his eye and a sultry robot voice spoke to him from the console.
“Hello, Dirk.”
He patted the fuel tank, which didn’t hold fuel since it ran on some sort of nuclear power or something, but it was still an iconic part of the look so space-motorcycle designers wouldn’t ever consider making one without it.
“Hey baby,” he said, not realizing that the space-mailcarrier was walking up the driveway. When the mailcarrier cleared his throat, Dirk looked up. He probably would have been embarrassed if he wasn’t Dirk Mcawesome.
“Are you talking to your motorcycle?” the mailcarrier asked skeptically.
“Do I look like I’m talking to my motorcycle?” Dirk queried standoffishly.
The mailcarrier paused, slowly sliding his hand into his intergalactic mailsack. “Actually, Dirk McAwesome…” he started, but Dirk cut him off, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. One hand dropped to the holster at his side, coming to rest on the grip of Punch, one of his two favorite pistols.
“How do you know my name?” he asked slowly and dramatically.
“Because I deliver your mail.” Dirk heard the words spill from the mailcarrier’s mouth, but something didn’t feel right. In his years of being a supergalactic hero, he had learned to trust his instincts. He tightened his grip on Punch and with a thought his space-motorcycle roared to life. Even though technology was super advanced, the roar sounded cool, so it was another design staple of space motorcycles.
“I don’t remember seeing you deliver my mail before,” Dirk challenged, but even as the words spilled from his mouth, he realized what was really happening here.
“THAT’S BECAUSE I AM ACTUALLY A BOMB!” the robot mailcarrier-bomb yelled.
The mailcarrier-bomb’s eyes flashed. Literally, like with lights, and Dirk twisted the throttle hard. The bike soared out into the street because it didn’t have tires because it’s a space-motorcycle and not everything could be retro-styled on it.
Dirk felt the heat of his exploding house, yard, and driveway as the flames licked at his back. He didn’t have time to waste though, since two pursuers fell in behind him, each on their own space-motorcycles.
Knowing that there was a school full of tiny space-children nearby, Dirk had to think fast. He couldn’t put their fragile lives in danger! He turned the bike toward the space-freeway and opened the throttle, reaching speeds that normal men probably wouldn’t dare to go. He glanced behind him to assess his followers.
They were hot on his heels. Dirk cursed as he saw them each pointing something at him. At these speeds, he couldn’t tell what they were, but he guessed that they probably weren’t candy-and-gift-throwing guns. Looking ahead again, a smile crept across his lips as he saw it – a construction site, devoid of workers since they had all gone to Spacelbees for lunch because it was Tom’s last day.
Dirk heard shots whizz past his head – sure enough, that sounded like .44-caliber space-slugs, not chocolate coins or small-yet-tasteful gifts. One of these days…he shook his head and bore down on the throttle, riding toward that construction site.
The two were in full-speed pursuit when he got to the site. They chased him around for a little bit, but he kept avoiding them by being a better driver. Finally though, Dirk found himself cornered, surrounded by large blocks of spacecrete that boxed him in on three sides. The fourth side was pretty much the two riders who had been chasing him. Now that they were closer, he could see that they were half human, half robot warriors. Their bikes weren’t as sweet as his was though.
“Dirk.McAwesome,” one of them said. “You.Have.The.Right.To.Die!”
“Not today, Reverse Cyborgs!” he answered, glancing around for a means of escape. He spotted a large plank right in front of him that was resting on something, forming a ramp. A plan began to form in his head.
“Yes.Today,” the other Reverse Cyborg said, raising his pistol. “We.Will.Have.Your.Human.Parts.To.Add.To.Our.Machine.Selves!”
Dirk hated Reverse Cyborgs, because all they ever wanted to do was pretty much what that Reverse Cyborg just said. They were a race of robots who were always looking for human parts to replace their robot parts with, though nobody could figure out why. Maybe Dirk would visit their planet someday in the future to discover why they did this. Dirk’s motorcycle engine roared awesomely again.
“Not today, tin-man!” Dirk nearly shouted, wishing he had said something cooler as the bike hit the ramp in front of him.
Flying through the air, Dirk stood up on the seat of the bike, having unholstered both of his pistols now. The Reverse Cyborg assassins looked astonished, which is really hard for robots to do so that’s how you know they were really super surprised. Punch roared, YouInTheFace (his other pistol) roared too, and the assassins’ bikes exploded. The Reverse Cyborg assassins were ripped into pieces, the shrapnel flying towards Dirk as he landed the bike, still standing on the seat as he coasted to a stop.
Dirk blew the smoke from his awesome twin pistols and re-holstered them.
“It’s gonna take more than a few recycled assassins to keep me from collecting my mail,” he said, hoping someone was nearby to hear him.
Behind him, the busload of construction workers leaned out the window of their space-lunch-bus, cheering for him. He nodded to them, dropped back onto the bike, and took off for home, forgetting that his home was a smoking crater now. He would remember, though.
When he got there.
Good stuff! If you must know more about Richard and his Junk, please avail yourself of these fine clickable links.
Twitter: @Reckoner67
Amazon: Dirk McAwesome and the Giant Fire Breathing Space Ants
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