Excerpt for The Speed and the Fury by , available in its entirety at Smashwords



B.P. Kasik

Literary Works by the Author:

Used Zombies

The Gym

Fruit Beast

Dementia-13 Part-2

Generic Mystery


Aunts Aren’t Ladies!



Heavy Metal Scientology Aliens

The Speed and the Fury

Mystery Shopper Menace!

Dragon Mormon

The PDEMF! Series:

Please Don’t Eat My Face!

Man of Florida

Florida Strong!

The Derpa Derp Series:

Best Sellers

Generic Romance

Fast Breaks

Atonement Lost

Atonement Found

The Eric Roberts Series:

Eric Roberts: The True* Story

Eric Roberts 2: Acoustic Boogaloo

Eric Roberts 3: Lord of the Screen

Copyright © 2017 by B.P. Kasik. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America by me, B.P. Kasik

Cover image “Race Car” by CA-TV licensed under CC BY 2.0, cleverly modified by H.B. Kasik.

Author Photo by Cthulhu’s Librarian

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or used in a fictitious and satiric manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For my family.

And Dwayne Johnson.


When R.J. woke up and found someone harvesting his organs for the third time that week, he finally decided it was time to do something about it.

He shooed away the two amateur surgeons. They departed in a huff, frowning at him from behind stained surgical masks.

R.J. put a neon green bandage over the incomplete abdomen incision, wincing as he sat down at his computer.

He’d heard about cloning services. People normally used them for domestic labor, but maybe they could help him with his current predicament.

If he got a clone to lay in his bed for him, he could sleep in another room while the organ thieves bothered the clone instead. If R.J. couldn’t put a stop to the human organ black market, he could at least cut himself a break.

He looked up the company, Clone You, and found their local facility’s rates quite reasonable.

He’d have to work some extra hours at the office to pay for it, but he was willing to add to his consumer debt index for the moment.

He filled out the Clone You appointment form for the next day.

R.J. was pleased with their efficient website and customer service.

He bypassed his bed and slipped into the closet, shutting the door behind him. He wanted to make sure no more schmucks with scalpels bothered him while he slept for the remainder of the night.


Engine fumes and smoke from burning rubber tires filled the morning air outside his apartment.

R.J. was accustomed to this smoggy bouquet, but still didn’t care for it. Sore from a bad night’s sleep, he walked over to his double-parked oversized El Cid car and climbed up the stepladder to enter.

He looked upon the street next to his parking lot and saw four people drag racing their El Cids, doing drifts at the corner, crashing into each other, and spinning out. A crowd watched the race: guys in v-neck shirts and women in bikinis, cheering and swilling cans of Boffo. The streets in his neighborhood were a perpetual makeshift racetrack, with a perpetual rambunctious, screaming crowd.

Since they were out there all day, every day, R.J. wondered if the gauzy filter stretching across the sky blocked UV rays. If not, then every scantily clad woman in the crowd was playing skin cancer Russian roulette.

R.J. waited for a speeding car to pass before cutting through the road and sneaking out into a nearby street. The row of party people parted for him as he passed. He would sometimes join the races if he had time to kill before work, but not on a morning where he had a cloning facility appointment.

R.J.’s souped-up El Cid dragster was the most powerful in the neighborhood. Probably in the whole speed-obsessed, race-crazed city. He’d won it in a title-trading race from a deep-voiced big bald guy who always talked about his family. R.J. demolished every subsequent challenger who wanted to race for vehicle titles. And he was known as a bit of a local hero because he rarely made people actually give up their car titles when they lost to him.

His car, though mighty, wasn’t without its quirks. R.J. swore it talked to him every now and then. The air intake sounded like fragmented whispered words. That morning, he swore it was saying something about a “factory,” but his attention was diverted by explosions and gunfire in the distance as the crime wave continued endlessly crashing down on his nameless city. He wondered if the city ever had a name. He tried to remember a time when life was stable or predictable and had trouble thinking more than a few years back. It just felt like the world had always been this way.

He stopped at a red light and looked up at the assorted billboards hanging high and proud from the city’s tall buildings. Most people hated these things, but R.J. loved them. In fact, he dearly wanted to design and come up with slogans for them. He wanted to make art out of advertising and share his work with the public.

It was one of the only pure art forms left. Movies were just non-stop explosions and action sequences. There were no dramas or comedies anymore. No plots or stories allowed. It was to the point that if the action in a movie stopped for more than a few seconds, the audience would throw their rainbow-colored popcorn up at the screen. Even the popcorn was multicolored because people would get bored if they had to look at colorless corn.

“Cool car, man,” a nearby voice shouted, interrupting R.J.’s billboard ad reverie. “Be a shame for you to…lose it to me!”

R.J. looked over and saw a sneering mohawked guy sporting a three-thousand-dollar suit. He didn’t recognize him. He looked like one of the roving new wave bandit barbarian warriors from the endless desert highways outside the nameless city. Except for the suit. That didn’t fit the image. He was probably new in town—and to civilization—and looking to make a name for himself. Nothing made a reputation like taking down someone with the coolest car around.

R.J. listened carefully to the guy’s engine. It was a mid-range El Cid convertible. Looked nice on the outside, but not much horsepower behind it. Seemed every car was an El Cid these days. It was the only car company still manufacturing their vehicles in America. Their retail prices were the lowest on the market and they were renowned for their cheap repair costs. You just take your El Cid into any dealership and they could replace any part for just a few bucks.

Plus, people felt good driving them. After decades of decline, the El Cid symbolized American automotive rebirth. People were proud to buy an American automobile and cruise down American streets, cranking Def Leppard on their American stereo. (Def Leppard was an Irish band, but no one knew that. They sound American enough.)

But R.J.’s El Cid was very rare, only a handful ever produced. He took great care of it, washing and waxing it weekly, using premium gas, and keeping it out of the pile-ups that happened almost daily amid the flurry of car chases and robbery get-aways that flourished all through the nameless city.

The fancy-suited mohawked guy pointed to the road ahead, then pointed to R.J. and then to himself. That was an invitation to the racing game. It would be dishonorable to refuse. And R.J. wouldn’t say he had a need for speed, but he definitely wanted speed. He enjoyed it when he had it. And a little race wouldn’t delay his commute to Clone You too much. He noticed that the large cameras attached to all four corners of the block had turned toward them, expecting a good show. And he hated to disappoint an audience, whoever they may be.

Very tempting…

R.J. rolled down his window, so the guy wouldn’t have to shout again.

He still screamed, anyway. “You cut me off back there! For that, you must pay!”

R.J. had no memory of that. “Did I really?”

The guy frowned. “No, but we’re supposed to pretend to fight before we race, right?”

“Oh, of course.” R.J. noticed that people in town were always putting on a show and creating drama. He was guilty of that, himself. Made life more interesting. “It’s just that I’m on my way to an appointment, so I don’t really have time for a race right now.”

“Oh,” said the guy. “Even down the road for a couple blocks? We don’t have to race for titles, just…maybe loser has to lick the pavement?”

R.J. thought that over. “Sorry, no. I’ll be happy to race you another day. Just got someplace I gotta be right now.”

The mohawked man’s face softened. “Okay,” he pouted. Then shouted, “Then on another day, your ass is grass!”

“No, your ass is grass! And I’m the lawnmower!”

“Yo momma ugly!”

“My mother was a saint! Don’t you dare talk about my mother!”

They both smiled. R.J. didn’t really remember his mother, but he had to play along. The light turned green and they both slowly accelerated and drove along to their respective destinations.

It was not action-packed.


R.J. was impressed at the girth of the Clone You facility. A giant cube of a building downtown in the middle of an ocean of speeding, crashing cars. Surrounded by an assortment of identical high-rises full of crime lords, drug dealers, titans of industry, and well-bribed police officers.

They had plenty of parking in the circular parking lot up front, making for a nice, low-stress arrival.

Walking in, R.J. found the main lobby sleek and simple, not nearly as intimidating as the building. The receptionist up front was a perfectly normal-sized woman who said, “Welcome to our cloning facility. Do you have an appointment?”

R.J. nodded, gave her his name. Then she said, “Oh yes! Of course! Sorry I didn’t recognize you. Just one moment, please!”

He sat down in the waiting area, puzzled at her enthusiastic reaction.

In less than a minute, an executive in an all-white tuxedo with a white bow tie emerged and greeted R.J.

“So glad to have you here!” the man with impeccably smooth skin said. “What can we do for you today?”

“Uh...I’d like a clone.”

“Of course, of course! We can help you with that. Please, come back and have a look behind the curtain. We want you to feel comfortable and knowledgeable about your decision.”

R.J. smiled and followed the tuxedoed gentleman.

They passed room after room of oversized mechanical equipment. One of them had a giant glass cage with something resembling an oversized 3-D printer. R.J. lacked scientific knowledge, so it was all alien to him.

“I’m sure this is all very familiar for you,” said the tuxer.

“It is?”

“Yes. Wait, have you been here before?”


“Oh, never mind. Bit of a misunderstanding there.”


“Let’s move right along. We’ll need to take a small tissue sample here in this last room on the left. Once we have that, it’s just a matter of how many clones you’d like.”

“Only one, please.”

“Is that all? No spares?”

“No, I only need one.”

“Might I ask why you’re seeking a clone?”

“Surgeons are breaking into my room at night and trying to steal my organs and I figured I would put a clone in my bed so they would bother him instead of me.”

“An unusual case, but not entirely surprising. It bothers you to have these surgeons attempt to steal your organs?”

“It does. I don’t like it at all, to be completely honest.”

“Interesting. Illegal organ rings are on the darkest side of the black market. Law enforcement? Too scared to touch it. Or too busy. Crime rates have increased across the nation as the action level has picked up.”

“Yeah, the crime and action used to be fun. But now it feels like there’s just too much furious craziness out there and it’s all happening for no reason. I can’t even walk out my door without jaywalking through a street race anymore.”

“Yes, they’re becoming permanent fixtures, aren’t they?”

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