Broken Doorknob

“And only ten seconds on the clock!”

Opening the throttle on her newly modified Mirage, Ginger whipped around the last corner of the arena maze. All three rounds of her riot gun were spent, and in the heat and dust and flash grenades she was, too. Three offensive bikers closed in and she blazed towards the end of the field.

“Eight…Seven….”

Unclipping the strap of her gun, Ginger clubbed it across the facemask of the thunderbiker closing in on her left. Then out came her whip, and she lashed the lancebiker blocking her path and used him to slingshot herself around and into the goal to score, barely avoiding the goalies tetsubo that grazed across her cheek and shattered the bucklers of her helmet.

Horns blared the end of the match. A mix of cheers and curses could be heard through the arena, and the goalie jogged over to help Ginger right her bike.

“You keep showing up and wiping the floor with us, and the Timberwolves won’t have any new players!”

Gin grinned and peeled the ruined helmet from her head. “All I’m hearing is excuses, Pete! Keep getting your ass beat, or take my head and have your pick of any conference team.”

Pete tugged off his own helmet and raised it in salute to her as he backed to retrieve his own bike. “Then watch your six next scrimmage!”

Abandoning the helmet, she waved back and kicked her bike into gear. What felt like miles in the heat of the game now was a quick drive across the arena to the tunnel leading to the garages. The scrape across her right cheek stung from sweat. For a ‘non-lethal’ sport, regulations in combat racing had gotten lax.

Inside her bunker Ginger groaned out a sigh. Her legs protested as she swung off of her vehicle and moved to close the garage door against the offensive odors of sweaty bikers and ruffage. Then she petted the sleek side of the Mirage. It drove like a dream. The bike needed an acid bath, but between the blood, oil and grime she could use one, too.

Seats were wiped down, and the key was pocketed before she turned towards the back of the room. Several steps away she noted the way the office door hung ajar. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked.

Son of a gun.

“I don’t remember inviting guests.” She grabbed the closest tool – a screwdriver – and tucked it under her waistband and coat before stepping into the room.

Five gangsters greeted her; two Ancients, two Dogmen, and one First Nations. A troll Dogmen closed the door behind her.

“Take a seat, Ginger. Seems we all want words with you.”

Gin narrowed her gaze at the First Nation’s gangster sitting on the corner of her desk. “Tom, I just wrapped up a game. Couldn’t this wait for tomorrow’s meeting?”

“That’s the thing, hun,” spoke the female Ancient’s elf who was trying on Ginger’s sunglasses. “You’re cooking things we don’t want. It’s best you don’t go to tomorrow’s meeting.”

Ginger sighed, too tired for any petulance. “And what do you know about my plans, dandelion?”

The other Ancients gangster moved in, pissed, and breathed cigarette smoke into Ginger’s face. “Step down, breeder. No one wants a human in gang affairs.”

Ginger didn’t so much as flinch. She wiped a finger across her cheek, pretending to clean off spittle, then began unzipping her leather coat. “Seeing as you’re all apparently chipped, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

Behind her, Ginger could hear one of the Dogmen step closer while the other snapped the doorknob out of its socket.

The Ancient’s elf, still grounded in her personal space, exhaled another plume of smoke and grinned, showing off his gold-capped canines. “Guess you’re stuck with us, normie.”

The jacket was dropped to one side. “That’s where you’re wrong, pixie.” Ginger plucked the bent cigarette from the elf’s lips and extinguished its glowing end against the center of his chest. “You’re all suck in here with me.”