[Tempus Fugit] Gaibrial Brannan

[grufflehead]

Gaibrial's fingers felt along the top of the workbench until they hit the wrench he needed. Head down in the engine bay of Mike Jones' pickup, he grabbed the tool and started tightening a bolt holding the front suspension arm in place. Once he was sure it was snug, he carefully pulled himself back out, taking care not to hit his head on the propped open bonnet.

He was wiping the worst of the grease off his hands when he heard the low growl of an engine and the rythmic *thump* *thump* *thump* deep bass beat from a serious stereo unit. The source of the noise soon appeared: a low slung, bright red saloon, custom rims glinting in the midday sun, with the windows down so the sound could permeate more than just the car's cabin.

'Great' he thought, 'a car load of bangers. Just what I need...'.

The car pulled to a stop and the music - what he guessed to be the latest rap - was turned down. The driver of the car slowly turned his head in Gaibrial's direction, and without removing his shades gave an almost imperceptible nod and said 'yo homes, you gonna take a look at my fanbelt; she be screaming like a bitch on rock'. Fist bumping the youth in the passenger seat, he waited for an answer to his question.

 

[Maidhc O Casain]

Steeling his will against the abrasiveness of one of the neighborhood's more obnoxious street punks, the big man deliberately pulled the hood of the truck closed, pushing it gently to catch the latch. "Hoi, Digger. Your lucky day . . . I just finished up here. Pull it in and I'll take a look."

He waited patiently as the callow youth rolled his machine into the bay and got out. "Safety first, Digger . . ." He indicated the chained off waiting area with a jerk of his head. "You can wait over there. I won't be sec."

 

[grufflehead]

The one named Digger said something to his companion, who got out of the car and casually strolled across the road and out of sight. He drove the car into the inspection bay, and hitching his low riding trousers up a little, got out of the car and swaggered over to the waiting area, where he took out his mobile phone and started sending messages to someone.

Gaibrial knew that while the youth was loud, obnoxious, and potentially dangerous to cross, he also had enough clout with his 'crew', the 4-0-2 Posse, that if Gaibrial kept him sweet, he'd earn a measure of respect, as well as cash for doing his job. He just had to swallow a little of his civic pride that the money almost certainly came from dealing drugs to kids from the local college.

As Digger had informed him, when he looked under the hood, it was indeed the fanbelt that needed replacing.