Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)The golden wash of sunset was retreating behind the shelter of the Chicago skyline, limning the uppermost point of the Willis Tower for one still moment, like the star atop a Christmas tree, before it faded altogether and the buildings settled into the hazy gray of dusk. Windows blinked awake across the cityscape in quick, sporadic bursts until the sky was once again illuminated, now with artificial light.
Frank Bishop watched night descend from his vantage point in a deserted parking lot, far enough from the epicenter of the city that there were no tall buildings obscuring his view of the night sky. He felt apart from the city here, in the quiet, but he knew it wouldn't last. Once full dark arrived, as it was due to do any moment now, the kids would arrive in a caravan of sleek, custom cars, filling the abandoned lot to capacity with their bright lights and their thumping sound systems and their youthful aggression.
With a sigh, Frank pushed off the hood of his gleaming black 1969 Dodge Charger and stood to his full height, just shy of 6'3", and checked his watch. Any minute now, the place would explode with noise and activity. Frank hated visiting the races, watching all the hard work he and other technicians poured into some trust fund kid's ricer rendered obsolete by amateur driving and sheer ineptitude. But every once in a while there came along a set of wheels so cherry that he couldn't resist his burning desire to see it in action.
Tonight was just such a night.
Frank wasn't a regular at the races, but he was by no means a stranger to them, either. Half the kids came to him or one of his associates for all their custom work and half who didn't at least knew somebody who did. He had enough of a reputation, at least, that when some fool's exhaust started pumping white with a blown gasket, on more than one occasion it was followed by the fearful words, "Bishop is gonna be pissed."
He stuck out like a sore thumb, too, standing taller than most of the drivers, with broader shoulders and a head of striking black hair that was perpetually disheveled due to his tendency to poke his head into an engine at a moment's notice. He came straight from work, so he fully looked the part of the greaser, as well, his muscular chest and big, corded arms encased in an oil-stained t-shirt that may, at one point in its career, have been white but was now something more accurately described as 'grayish.' His jeans were in an equal state of disrepair, but since he only wore black, it wasn't quite so obvious in the dimness under the single burning light pole.
Not long after he checked his watch, a buzzing rose up in the distance, steadily growing into an angry growl of dozens of tricked out engines making their way to the meet-up. Soon, a long line of headlights was visible down the previously empty highway, and Frank's broad mouth pulled into an ironic, gleaming white grin.
"Here come the troops," he said to himself.
Frank Bishop watched night descend from his vantage point in a deserted parking lot, far enough from the epicenter of the city that there were no tall buildings obscuring his view of the night sky. He felt apart from the city here, in the quiet, but he knew it wouldn't last. Once full dark arrived, as it was due to do any moment now, the kids would arrive in a caravan of sleek, custom cars, filling the abandoned lot to capacity with their bright lights and their thumping sound systems and their youthful aggression.
With a sigh, Frank pushed off the hood of his gleaming black 1969 Dodge Charger and stood to his full height, just shy of 6'3", and checked his watch. Any minute now, the place would explode with noise and activity. Frank hated visiting the races, watching all the hard work he and other technicians poured into some trust fund kid's ricer rendered obsolete by amateur driving and sheer ineptitude. But every once in a while there came along a set of wheels so cherry that he couldn't resist his burning desire to see it in action.
Tonight was just such a night.
Frank wasn't a regular at the races, but he was by no means a stranger to them, either. Half the kids came to him or one of his associates for all their custom work and half who didn't at least knew somebody who did. He had enough of a reputation, at least, that when some fool's exhaust started pumping white with a blown gasket, on more than one occasion it was followed by the fearful words, "Bishop is gonna be pissed."
He stuck out like a sore thumb, too, standing taller than most of the drivers, with broader shoulders and a head of striking black hair that was perpetually disheveled due to his tendency to poke his head into an engine at a moment's notice. He came straight from work, so he fully looked the part of the greaser, as well, his muscular chest and big, corded arms encased in an oil-stained t-shirt that may, at one point in its career, have been white but was now something more accurately described as 'grayish.' His jeans were in an equal state of disrepair, but since he only wore black, it wasn't quite so obvious in the dimness under the single burning light pole.
Not long after he checked his watch, a buzzing rose up in the distance, steadily growing into an angry growl of dozens of tricked out engines making their way to the meet-up. Soon, a long line of headlights was visible down the previously empty highway, and Frank's broad mouth pulled into an ironic, gleaming white grin.
"Here come the troops," he said to himself.
