The Pick-up Chapter Fifteen Adventures at the Zit
Chapter 15 Adventures at the Zit.story.txt
Chapter 15 Adventures at the Zit (c) 2025 by the Entangled Pair
The Last Exit on the Ave: (the Zit to those who knew). It wasn’t a café so much as a living organism, perhaps akin to the La Brea Tar Pits. Some called it the colon of Seattle. It was located on University Way, AKA 'the Ave' in Seattle's University District,
It was a sprawling squall of mismatched chairs, tables made from huge, round, stained oak cable spools, rectangular, antique, urinal stall dividers rescued from the reconstruction of the old Union Station, chipped chessboards, aged hurricane oil lamps, dented tin teapots, cups and mugs of all shapes and sizes, and an old, scratched up, weathered, upright piano with a sign stating "If you can't play, don't". This was strongly enforced by the regulars.
There was a grandfather cuckoo clock standing against the far wall, to remind customers when it was time to depart. "You don't have to go home, but you do have to go!"; intoned every midnight, not by the clock but by the barista who wanted to go home and get wasted.
The walls were painted all in the psychedelic colors envisioned by the mind of Eddie Walker, the internationally known, resident artist. There were Waldos.
Students, poets, hustlers, and strays all crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into its belly, breathing the same air of burnt espresso, clove cigarettes, a poppuri of imported teas, and occasional whiffs of marijuana wafting in from the back porch deck. Shades of Greenwich Village, where the owner was from.
Lucky Logger found his way in, like driftwood snagging on a dock. Not hired, not exactly. The owner knew better than to ask questions. He swept up and mopped the place regularly, poured coffee and pulled espresso when the line at the service window stretched around the side of the building. And he stood watch.
One look at his cutoff leather vest, and the lines carved in his face was usually enough to make rowdies think twice.
The Zit had its own gravity. Trouble drifted in, day by day, night after night. Lucky was one of its several unpaid, underthanked, and necessary protector/defenders. The insecurity guards. heh
He did his weapons practice and workouts in the semi-privacy of the parking lot in back. Bo staff, nunchaku, and chain whip. The locals noticed but never intervened. The only times he had to resort to their use was in that parking lot and alley.
The first incident came in the parking lot, when four Averats tried to make a move on him and Raven, after closing.
First mistake:
They split up, two of of them attempting to 'herd' Raven away, two confronting Lucky.
Knives flashed under the yellow glow of the streetlamp. Wrong move.
The chucks came out of his jacket in a whirling blur, cracking bones, before the two confronting him even realized he had moved. One dropped like a rock, the other falling back on the deck supports, beeding from mouth and ear.
The one nearest Raven went down at the same time with a boot to his groin.
With a double twisting turn Lucky unleashed a second flurry of strikes against the remaining punk, who folded double and also went down, bringing his hands up to cup his broken face. Raven kicked him in his exposed liver. He was done.
They lay there, three writhing, one howling, blood dripping on the pavement like punctuation marks.
Less than ten minutes after it ended, two bike cops, officers Adams and Buchanan, peddled up, dismounted and surveyed the scene. Both of them were aware of Luky's skills and workout routines. They had been frequent witness.
"Busy morning Lucky?", Adams inquired with a grin. Lucky just grinned back and replied "It hasn't been boring, so far.", and shrugged.
Buchanan said, matter of factly "I have to call for an ambulance. We will need statements."
Raven responded "Make your call. Here's my statement: I was walking to the van to get my jacket when these four Averats? Isn't that what you call them?, anyway, these four tried to hem me up. I yelled out to Lucky, who moved in and took on two of them."
"That one," she indicated the first assailant, who was cupping his sack with one hand while guarding his liver with the other, "grabbed my pussy and tried to force me back under the deck, which is why he's crying and fondling his dork. The other one just didn't get the message. Lucky got to him before I could." she finished.
The officer glanced up and saw that our usual after close 'party' was on-going and inquired if we could go inside to fill out the reports.
Lucky looked upward and inward, catching the eye of the freshly off-shift barista, Bones by name. He inclined his head and motioned for him to clear the place out. Bones complied: "it's past the witching hour and the Exit is closed. Please leave by the front door." which he unlocked and propped open for the half dozen regulars to exit the Zit.
As they passed through he completed the ritual "You don't have to go home, but you do have to go." Then he closed and locked the door.
Lucky opened the back door with his key and ushered the officers inside.
"Coffee?" he inquired unnecessarily as he filled a dented tin pot and placed it on the granite tabletop along with two exit mugs and two long spoons.
He then proceeded to craft a double grande, hazelnut mocha, with whipped cream and cinamon sprinkles. Then he poured half into a seperate mug, and set it in front of Raven. He topped that off with more whip cream and handed her the spoon. She took it, licking off the remaining froth with a wicked glance at her lover.
They passed a fat joint whille they filled out the reports. Then the officers departed and all was well with the world of the Uninvited.
Word traveled.
The second time, same alley, different night, different outcome. Four sorority girls, giggling their way back to the Ave, cut off and harassed by three wolves in denim.
Lucky appeared from the shadows, swinging around the lot, spinning circles of polished wood that hummed like angry hornets. He didn’t need to land a strike. The punks bolted and ran.
By the third time, the legend had outpaced the man. Four rock-throwers thought it’d be funny to smash the Zit’s windows. What they got was Lucky dropping from the roof like a thunderbolt, a set of chucks in hand, eyes glowing red from the light of the neon chess knight sign in the window.
They froze. One whispered, “I told you,” before all four turned tail and vanished into the night.
After that, Lucky wasn’t just a barista, or a janitor, or some ragged Marine who hadn’t gotten the memo that the war was over. He was part of the Zit’s fabric, the unwritten rule, the shadow in the alley, the reason you didn’t push your luck too far.
And for a little while, the Uninvited felt anchored. There was warmth; coffee that didn’t taste like gasoline, and a roof that leaked a bit but held.
But, unfortuanately, that road just won't let you rest.
In the dim light of the Exit after hours, with the smoke and laughter billowing around them, the wind pressed against the windows, seeping in like a whisper.
Keep moving.
Chapter 15 continued Knuckles at the Zit
Lucky stepped out into the alley behind the Zit, the wet pavement gleaming under the jaundiced glow of the lone streetlamp.
The air smelled of rain and motor oil.
Knuckles was waiting, squatting heavy on the cracked concrete like it had something to say. And maybe it did.
Lucky froze, eyes blinking. The bike’s tank shimmered, just for a heartbeat, then, across the black enamel bloomed the ghostly outline of the dragonet; faint, translucent, as if painted in light and smoke.
Its talons scraped, leaving fresh scratches gouged into the lacquer. When Lucky reached to touch them, the lines were real, rough. sharp.
Then the tank sighed. Not a sound, exactly. More like the vibration in Lucky’s bones, a thrum under the skin. A thought that wasn’t his own:
Don’t call me her.
Lucky blinked, pulled back his hand.
The silence deepened, thick as fog.
I haven’t decided yet.
The bike’s chrome rattled faintly, like the ring of a struck bell, and then the shimmer was gone. Just steel and scratches, grease and rain. But Lucky knew. Knuckles was more than just a chopped Harley now. Something had moved in, through and around it.
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, exhaling toward the empty night.
“Guess you’re riding with us too.”
The faintest vibration ticked up the handlebars, like a growl of amusement or warning. Lucky couldn’t tell.
Knuckles didn’t stay silent for long.
That night, after the cops had gone and the Zit’s back door creaked shut, Lucky rolled the bike down the alley, Raven close behind. The machine rumbled low, steady, like it was half-asleep and dreaming. Then, as he swung his leg over, the pipes coughed once sharp, like a bark of laughter.
Raven cocked her head. “Did Knuckles just… chuckle?”
Lucky fixed her with a bemused frown. “Carb backfire. Happens.”
But even as he said it, Knuckles thrummed again, a deep vibration in the tank that curled right up into his gut.
Not a laugh. A warning. Watch the girl in red.
Lucky froze, cigarette halfway to his lips.
He hadn’t thought that. He was damn sure he hadn’t.
He glanced at Raven, but she was busy tightening her jacket against the drizzle.
Out on the Ave, just beyond the neon haze, a lone figure passed, red scarf whipping in the wind. She didn’t look at them. Didn’t slow.
Knuckles rumbled, low, and Lucky’s hand clenched the throttle a bit tighter than he meant to.
“Who the hell are you talking about?” he muttered under his breath.
The chrome shivered in reply. No words this time, just a feeling that crawled up the back of his neck: Not yet.
Raven swung her leg over the back and leaned in close. “Talking to yourself again?”
Lucky exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. Just me, myself, and I.”
The bike rumbled once more, softer this time, like it disagreed. Came the half-thought, half-feeling: No sounds. Just thoughts.
And when the streetlight flickered, for a split second the dragonet’s shadow moved across the wall, wings unfurling larger now, almost big enough to take flight. Then it vanished, leaving only the scratches gouged in the tank and the growl of an engine that didn’t quite sound like an engine anymore.
Chapter 15 continued Knuckles on The Ave
That night, Lucky ran a rag across the tank, slow circles. The gouges were deeper than paint should allow, like something had torn at the steel itself. When he leaned close, the scratches seemed to shift, forming for just a second into the curve of a claw, the tip of a wing. Then gone.
He whispered, not sure why. “What are you?”
The pipes ticked as they cooled. Then, a low growl in the frame not words, not quite but he understood it all the same.
You’re my maker. But you’re not my master.
Lucky sat back on his heels. A laugh, rough and half-choked, slipped out. “Fair enough. Guess we’ll find out who you are together.”
The bike purred, almost pleased.
Raven, watching from the doorway with arms folded, tilted her head. “You talking to your ride again, old man?”
Lucky grinned, shaking his head. “Nah. Talking with it.”
Her brow furrowed, just a little, but then she smiled, slow and knowing. “Good. About time you had a conversation with something that actually listens.”
Knuckles’ pipes popped once, a sound that was definitely, absolutely a snort.
Lucky snorted too, then snubbed out the butt he had been smoking on.
Raven just smiled wider.
End Chapter 15
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