Nomad Ch. 03

This story is a work of fiction and is part three of a story that has been rattling around in my head. I apologize to those who feel the chapters are too short or too far apart. I write how I write and I have no control over how long it takes the editors at Literotica to review and approve it.

I am trying to keep the story as historically accurate as possible, but please bear with any errors I make as I did not live these events, I only pieced them together from vague recollections of others and whole cloth from my imagination.

This work belongs only to me and I retain all rights to it and any reproduction without my express permission is prohibited.

July, 1972 (Dallas, Tx.)

Case stepped off the Braniff Airlines flight from Chicago and walked down the long terminal wing as people flowed around him. He spied a young sailor about to board a flight, saying goodbye to his loved ones. He saw other people embracing for tearful farewells and welcome home's.

The airport was crowded by throngs of humanity of every description. There was even a group of chanting Hare Krishna types passing out pamphlets and flowers in the main rotunda. He saw a wide variety of young student as well, boys and girls in their late teens/early twenties, some of whom eyed him with disdain while most of the crowd just ignored him.

After picking up his Sea Bag from baggage claim, he walked out of the terminal at Love Field into a stifling heat that barely registered. His sole focus was aimed at acquiring three things, BBQ, Beer and Pussy. He realized with a smile that all three were easily within a short distance of his current location.

He held separation orders and was due to check in at the Naval Air Station (NAS Dallas) in Grand Prairie, but he knew he had plenty of time. His first stop, after hailing a cab, was Sonny Bryan's BBQ on Inwood Rd. It was a semi-squalid looking, no-frills BBQ joint and a Dallas landmark. He ordered two of their signature chopped beef sandwiches and stepped out of the stifling interior to the patio.

The smoky flavor of the chopped beef smothered in tangy sauce mixed with sweet pickle relish left a sublime smile on the young Marine's face. He savored each bite and chased it down with sweet southern iced tea that would have put any Yankee into a diabetic coma. As he watched the patrons come and go he reflected on his last year in the Corps.

Everything seemed to be going sideways in Nam. The U. S. government couldn't seem to make up its mind about what it was doing, nothing new there. As always, politics was like a cancer in every branch of the military and sapped the will of the men at the sharp end of the stick. South Vietnam had never been a united country so much as a loose conglomeration of factions rooting and squirming for American and European scraps like piglets on a sow. Their own government leaders were so busy buying and selling themselves (and each other) that nobody seemed to have the will to take a shit without American approval. As a result, they were blown hither and yon by the political windbags and their idiotic and nonsensical rhetoric that was taking place half a world away.

Case's final tour started badly and ended worse. He arrived in-country after two weeks at Po City in PI (Olangapo City, Philippine Islands) hitting every dive he could find, and drinking shots of Jose Cuervo tequila and San Miguel beer chasers with a few like-minded friends he'd run into. By the time he arrived in Saigon, he was sporting two new tattoos, three new scars, a busted lip, a black eye, and a hangover (along with a heavy dose of the clap).

He had re-enlisted as 21 year-old newly-minted Sergeant (E-5) who was pretty damn sure that he would not re-up again, just to chase that Staff Sergeant rocker. For someone so young, he was far-removed from the country bumpkin his DI had named "Hard-On" so many ages ago. Casey Hardin was still soft spoken, and still carried that East Texas accent that made people underestimate his intelligence.

Unfortunately for him, that was not the case with those who knew him in the Corps. His superiors quickly learned to trust his opinions, as well as his instincts, so much so that certain people affiliated with the government were beginning to take notice. Because of their attention, he was beginning to question some of the assignments he and his LRRP team were being tasked with. His future looked bleak, as he withdrew into himself with the knowledge he would soon be leaving the only real family he had.

Francis Casey 'Hard case' Hardin's final mission had ended with three of his 10-man team KIA and another three WIA, along with himself. The burns on his lower back and both legs were treated with skin grafts which got infected with staph germs and had to be repeated several times while both the left tibia and fibula were set with screws. All told, it took almost a year of rehab before his leg was well enough for him to walk without a severe limp, but he would never be returning to active service. Once he was released from Walter Reed, he was shipped home for early release with a Medical Discharge.

While watching the world pass by from the Sonny Bryans' patio, he noticed a couple motorcycles parked nearby. They were far from the typical machines he was used to as their front forks were extended and their frames were raked to avoid lifting the engine too high. Each bike had an extended banana style seat each with an elevated back pad along with a high chrome sissy bar to allow both the driver and passenger to lean back in relative comfort.

He knew they were called choppers, and having seen several Hells Angels movies, as well as Easy Rider he saw them as another extension of the growing 'counter-culture' that was sweeping the country as the 1960's merged into the 1970's. He had watched the effects as they trickled down into the newer recruits he had served with, as well as the younger and more rebellious icons he read about in popular magazines.

Case knew that many of the young people of America were adamantly opposed to the war, and by extension, they demonstrated that opposition through direct confrontation toward those who served in the military. Those people had the self-righteousness and youthful ignorance that allowed them to see everything as black and white. Despite their viewpoint, he was ambivalent toward them, the war, the government, and the counter-culture they claimed to represent.

He watched the two bikers fiddling with one of the machines, a flat head Harley or Indian that would not start. As he listened to them argue, he sidled over to offer a hand. When he approached, they each stood up and eyed him suspiciously. Case just held out a hand to the one holding a spark plug.

"Can I see it?"

The pair exchanged a look and the younger man handed it over. Case examined it then smelled the gap end.

"Carburetor's not pumping any gas. How far you need to go?"

"Just a few miles."

"You got enough tools to pull the carb?"

"Just a few wrenches really, but I have a bro with a pick-up I can call."

Case considered for a moment.

"You sure the gas is reaching the carburetor?"

"I prime it and can smell gas." was the reply.

"Got a flat screwdriver?"

The other guy handed one to Case, who turned the gas tank petcock to the closed position and started to unscrew the retaining clamp that fed into the aged Linkert carburetor. A small trickle of gasoline spilled out of the end of the fuel line until it was empty.

"OK. We know the line has fuel, let's check the carb."

Case took an open end wrench and began to remove the four bolts holding the carburetor between the engine heads. In a few minutes he had it off and was stripping it down. He found the problem in just a few more minutes and began reassembling the carburetor, wiping each part down with a gasoline soaked bandanna as he did so. He showed the pair the problem with the cork float that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since WWII and was so worn that it really needed replacing, but he figured it was good for a while if they weren't going far.

During this process, the three exchanged names and general conversation. Dave and Finn were cousins and avid riders who lived nearby. They were on the fringes of the biker scene in Dallas, but neither was affiliated with any of the clubs in the area.

After the parts were reassembled and reinstalled Case told Finn to, "Let 'er rip".

He primed the carb and came down hard on the kick pedal. After two misses the 74 cu. in. engine roared to life.

"ALL RIGHT!" the trio shouted.

Dave suggested that since Casey was not due to report until Monday, why didn't he let them buy a few beers as a thanks for his help. They mounted Case's green sea bag behind Finn and then climbed onto the back of Dave's bike.

September 29. 1980 (New Boston, TX.)

Case tossed his vest over the seat of his bike and looked around the dim shadows of the garage before turning and closing the wide door then re-fastened the two padlocks that guarded his most cherished possession. He nosed his pick-up to the door as an added deterrent, then walking to the back door of his isolated clapboard house, he reached down to stroke the fur of Tiko, his mixed breed Rottweiler who sat patiently waiting. The huge animal shook her stubby tail at the attention.

"Miss me, baby-girl?"

Entering the house, he checked the fridge and grabbed a cold bottle of Carlsberg Elephant beer taking half of it down in one long pull. Walking to the phone on the kitchen wall he dialed a number.

"It's me."

He listened for a few seconds

"Pro'bly a couple-three days at least."

a pause.

"Thanks for watchin' Tiko. How the plants doin'?"

pause

"Outstanding! I owe ya man."

pause

"No sweat, I'll be by to cover what I owe ya!"

pause

"Fuck You, asshole!" Case laughed "Ya don't owe me a fuckin' thing and we both know it."

pause

Ok bro, Semper Fi"

He hung up with a smile and headed to the bathroom for a long hot shower.

July, 1972 (Dallas, Tx.)

Having gotten his BBQ sandwich, Dave and Finn immediately set off to help Case acquire the other two items on his agenda, beer was easy, they had a case in their fridge and since they only lived a few blocks off of Harry Hines Blvd. They would soon find plenty of pussy.

By nightfall, Harry Hines Blvd. was streetwalker heaven. Prostitutes of every age, race, and description could be found strolling and strutting their stuff along the boulevard filled with bars, honky-tonks, strip clubs, peep shows and liquor stores from Northwest Hwy to Forest Ln. It was one of the most sinfully notorious sections of Texas, eclipsed only by 6^th Street in Austin and Jacksboro Hwy in Ft. Worth.

The trio were joined in their journey into debauchery by a bevy of friends and acquaintances that seemed to drift in and out of the scene as the night progressed. Case stood out everywhere they went with his high and tight haircut and ill-fitting clothes. Despite the time in rehab, he still had not regained all of his body mass and with his small frame, it was noticeable.

The three fast friends only got into a few minor skirmishes during the course of the evening, and returned to The small wood frame house that Dave and Finn shared relatively unscathed. Case woke on the couch to the sounds of Finn clattering around in the bathroom. By the time the three were up, it was noon and they shared a breakfast of cold pizza and beer.

"Damn Case, what time did we get home....and who was driving?" asked Dave.

"I drove, but I pro'bly shouldn't have."

Dave shook his head. "Good thing we live close, but I sure don't remember a thing after we left Baby Doll's."

"Hell Dave," added Finn, "I don't even r'member goin' TO Baby Doll's!"

They all laughed and shot the shit for a few minutes before Finn asked Case about what his plans were. Case explained that he wasn't sure as he had started his time in the Corps as a cop but quickly learned it was not to be his future after two weeks in Nam. Now he was just another jarhead with no real aptitude for anything in the real world.

"Fuck man, you can sure turn a screw. Why not use the GI Bill and get mechanic training? There's a bunch of trade schools right here in Dallas I know of. Even if you head back home to your old stompin' grounds back east there should be some."

Case gave it a thought. He had always had a knack for engines, but never really considered himself mechanically inclined. Most of the things he had worked on were just stuff he figured anyone could do.

"Hell man," he said after a brief hesitation, "I don't know if I could do that shit. I mean I dropped outta school and really never got the habit of studyin'. It takes me forever just ta read sumthin'. I look at a page and the words 'n letters seem ta just jumble theirselves up and it takes me a while just to straighten' 'em back out."

The three left it like that, but Dave had a thoughtful look on his face.

Dave had to work that night as a pressman for the Dallas Morning News. Finn was also a pressman, but worked for the evening paper, the Dallas Times-herald. They each had some seniority, so were able to schedule their shifts to coincide with only a small overlap due to each newspaper's scheduled run.

One of their friends, Brad, who had been with them on their bar crawl, invited Case along to a party in University Park near SMU. Case was hesitant, but Brad assured him that the crowd would be very eclectic and should be a lot of fun. Case finally agreed after Brad insisted he would have no trouble finding a cab if he decided to leave early.

"Besides," he said "If you get lucky you might find some rich co-ed to take you home."

The house was very large and very loud. The sound of The Doors playing Riders on the Storm was blasting on a stereo as the smell of marijuana wafted throughout the home. Most of the party was on the ground floor, but there was an ebb and flow of people going up and down the two flights of stairs into more private rooms.

Case was truly shocked at the disparate groups that were represented. He saw several older men and women that had that 'College Faculty' look. Some of the party-goers were Black and a few were Hispanic, but the vast majority seemed to be very white, very young, and very entitled. This much he managed to learn as he wandered from group to group, observing.

Quite a few took in his appearance and began asking/prodding about the war in Vietnam. A few seemed genuinely interested in his opinions, but most seemed to use him as a prop to emphasize their own positions for or against the war. Some of the more confrontational ones were almost laughably funny as they spouted words and phrases that seemed to be more or less literally taken from a book rather than the product of a deep and cogent study of the subject.

He took every opportunity to sidestep most of the serious confrontations, and his soft drawl, slow speech, and vague attitude soon deflected their litany of words off on a tangent toward other targets. He was sipping a Jack and Coke in the corner of a large room when a young lady stopped beside him and looked around the room at everyone but him.

"Boring as Hell, isn't it?" she said.

Case looked about to make sure she was talking to him before responding. "So, you read minds, or am I that obvious?"

"Maybe both, since you seemed to be the only other person in the room who looks the way I feel." she paused a second before turning her gaze onto him. "Jennifer Robicheaux"

He took her offered hand in his. "Casey Hardin, most call me Case."

September 30. 1980 (South of New Boston, TX.)

He followed the Farm to Market road for about three miles before turning off onto a rutted lane that was barely bigger than a game trail. The brush on both sides scraped the sides of his pick-up as he followed the twists and turns until he finally came to a gateway across a cattle guard. Here he found a large gate across the trail along with several warning sides proclaiming Private Property, Keep Out, No Hunting and Do Not Enter along with a heavy chain double looped and locked.

Case stepped out of his truck, walked casually up to the gate and leaned against one of the anchor posts in plain site and away from any shadows or shade with his hands in in plain sight. Pulling his Wayne Feeds ball cap low over his eyes, he leaned back against the railing and calmly waited.

Fifteen minutes passed before a sputtering engine noise approached and Case stood up and turned to face an approaching dirt bike that was dwarfed by its huge rider. The big guy on the little bike rode up and shouted a greeting at him. "Oye hermano, bienvenido de nuevo!"

He then began chattering away in a rapid-fire mix of Spanish interspersed with English while unlocking and swinging open the gate.

As soon as the larger man wound down enough to take a breath, he wrapped Case in a bear hug and the smaller man gasped out an answer, "Thanks bro, it's good to be back"

The big man lifted him off the ground at arms length to examine his friend with a critical eye. "You doin' okay? Leg feelin' alright?"

Case looked up and smiled at the six and a half foot tall Mexican giant. "Ya Chuy, the leg feels fine. Put me down and tell me how's the farm holdin' up?"

"Está bien más o menos. Rain been spotty, pero el riego....um the irrigation... it is excellent so we are good."

By now the gate was open and Case drove through. As soon Chuy had the gate re-locked, he took off his hat and waved as if chasing a bee away. Case looked around again, but was unable to spot the lookouts. Chuy cranked the bike and Case followed him across a small clearing and down along another dirt trail that wound through the undergrowth until it reached a wide field of plants set up in evenly spaced rows beneath camouflage netting.

Parking beside Chuy's bike, they walked between a pair of greenhouses toward a small trailer that was situated near a shack containing two heavy duty diesel generators. They entered the shack and Case crossed over to a nearby stacked toolbox.

"It was working fine until last week" said a voice from the door. He turned at the voice and spotted a diminutive elf with a quick smile and a tight body. Her sky blue eyes twinkled as she slid in under Chuy's arm, snuggling against the large man and grinned. "I think it just quit because it missed your magic fingers, HC."

Case and Chuy both laughed at the remark.

"Ya think so, Cassie?" Case countered "I think maybe you might'a done it cuz you was missin' me."

Cassie gave him a wicked grin. "Why would I want a quarter pound hamburger when I've already got five pounds of tenderloin right here?" She placed her hand over Chuy's crotch.

"Ya know what they say, Cas." he smirked "Variety is the spice of life."

"Really?" she replied with a saucy grin, "Maybe there is a different reason everyone calls you Hard Case."

"We only call him that cuz he has the hardest skull any of us ever seen, mi querida. It is fact. Ask any who served with him. His skull... it is... how you say... numb! Everyone all the drill sergeants they call him the numb skull but it translate somehow into hard brain case!"

"Fuck, Chuy, enough with the Frito Bandito impression," Case laughed with his friends as he began tearing apart the generator.

~~&~~