Ten Years

Ten years is a lot of time. Ten years of a crazed hell caused by a scrawny daredevil and a big Norse amigo whose only motto was 'live till it hurts!' Ten years since they started pulling wilder and wilder stunts. Ten years that had led up to this moment.

Dead Man's Drop. Every town had one, and if they didn't they knew where they could find one nearby or how to fake it. It was a staple of the American Landscape, just like drive-thru and suburbia. Adrenalin junkies and stoners, lovers and parents all knew where to go when the time to catch some thrills or stop others.

It wasn't the first time Kick Buttowski had taken Dead Man's Drop. That had been ten years ago, when his best friend Gunther was trying to impress a girl. Or was it the time he battled his older brother. Too many crashes, trips to the hospital, and broken helmets in ten years meant it was hard to remember. But it didn't really matter. Whatever method that Kick had used that first time was nothing compared to what he was about to do. It. Would. Be. Awesome!

The Drop was shorter than he remembered, but ten years will do that. Ten years, and a few more feet of height, because no one called Kick Buttowski a shrimp. The years had brought more than a growth spurt though. He'd changed the jumpsuit too, leaving behind the white and red of his childhood for the black and chrome of a man. He sat astride his modified dirt bike, that he'd built by hand to his precise specifications, for maximum speed and handling.

The crowd was gathered around, like always. Some were cheering the daredevil come back to Meadowbrook, back from college for the summer and ready to kick off the break with a blast from the past that would sound throughout the suburb. He kicked the bike on, letting the engine roar like a lion and announce his supremacy to the cheers of former classmates and the next round of kids growing up on the streets down below.

Gunther was there, looking nervous and worried, like always. He'd changed too, from a fat little blonde kid to someone who looked worthy of his Norse heritage. A giant of a man, no longer fat, but ripped with muscles earned with sweat and tears, after too many jabs about his weight in high school. Long blonde hair pulled into a tail down his back and bared to the sun, he'd grown a beard and rough hands from helping to build so many machines and ramps for his friend.

Kick gunned the bike engine and raised his hands to the sky, snapping the international hand sign of badass stunts and rock and roll. "Chimichanga!" He roared, drowning out the engine in a fit of nostalgia. The crowd went wild and screamed as he gripped the handlebars, popped a wheelie, spun the bike three-sixty, and shot over the edge of the cliff to dive between ragged spikes of rock, cliffs, edges, and legend.

Because he was Kick Buttowski!

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Kendall sighed as she drove down the streets back to her old home. College was over, a bachelors under her belt and a masters next year. She'd worked hard, like she had since she was a little girl. The work had gotten harder though, forcing her to push aside things in her bookish way that most girls went wild over. Boys, makeup, dating, the entertainment industry. Well, not so much the last one, because beyond a weakness for sappy romantic movies, she'd never gotten that into Hollywood.

Still, the suburbs were nice, she guessed. To be honest, she hated them, all the conformity and blandness. Kendall might not be one to buck the system, being more interested in her books, but four years at university had taught her a lot about social oppression and gender inequalities, and suburbia was just another part of that. So even as the little girl in her was happy to be home, the woman inside raged against the inequality and social injustices she saw around her.

A rock made a popping sound on her window and she scowled, flipping her long blonde hair back. Then another sounded, and another, and another. She slowed down, looking around to see where they were coming from and gradually looked up the rock wall beside her that was Dead Man's Drop.

Just in time to hear the ungodly roar of an engine as is screamed at her car. Kendall screamed, her hands clutching the wheel as she slammed on the brakes out of instinct. The sound of metal slamming into metal, grinding and shearing with screams of metallic agony rent the air. A blur of black and chrome shot past her front window as the bike curled around the fender and twisted her small car around like a top.

Kendall kept hearing someone screaming, or two someones, she couldn't be sure. It sounded deep, masculine, and in agony, but at the same time high, feminine, and scared. Her throat hurt, felt raw, like someone had rubbed the inside with something harsh and bitter. Detached, she realized her knuckles were so white she could see the bones. Her hands hurt, but it didn't mean anything to her.

Then everything went dark, to the sounds of screams, a car horn, and the rumbling of two engines that clung to the last life they would ever have.

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Gunther had never been so scared in his life. He'd know since he was a kid that this would happen. Without even looking, he knew what he'd find. Every crash, every accident, and every trip to the emergence room, he'd been there, waiting to hear that this would be the one his best friend wouldn't be coming back from.

People had screamed as they watched the accident, watch the bike crumple up like a child's toy, watch the car swerve into a ditch, watched Kick Buttowski, suburban legend fly through the air like a cannon ball and smash into a tree.

Gunther didn't even think. He threw himself bodily off the edge of the cliff and slid down, muscles straining has he clawed and kicked his way around or through obstacles to get to his friend, ponytail streaming out behind him. He felt the cuts and scrapes as a distant thing. Not even the bone jarring thump that came when his feet hit concrete. He just pushed up and raced over to his friend.

He'd been studying medicine as a "hobby" for the last five years, praying he'd never have to use it like this. The motions were smooth, routine, even as he whipped out his cell phone and called an ambulance. Kick might have been gone for a few years, but the local emergency room knew him on better than a first name basis. Kick was alive, but Gunther didn't dare move him. That was for professionals. At least he wasn't bleeding all over the place, but Gunther knew better than to take that as a good sign. Internal bleeding could be far, far worse.