“What good’s a reward if you ain’t around to spend it,” right? Yeah, I know why you’re here, Burton. Now you listen to me. If you had the ears God gave a walrus instead of two cauliflowers pinned to a pumpkin, and if you had a memory that didn’t wash itself out your SHITGO relief valve every time you made a left turn, you’d remember what I told you about your precious open road and that fat-assed Freightliner you’re so goddamned proud of, the one your ass apparently loves to kiss and give forth its precious bodily semisolids into.
How long do you expect to keep heading down those roads? Did you hear from the San Diegans what the state of I-5 is? Did you notice the rubble and destruction in your wake as you farted your way down Route 60? Have you seen the state of your rig? None of that shit is ever gonna get better. it’s all just getting worse by the day.
He says “material benefits.” Okay. Maybe surviving longer than another week isn’t material to Jack Burton, Jr. Maybe he just wants to outfit his truck with a zombie-launching trebuchet and write his name in spattered corpses on the chins of Mount Rushmore. Well, far be it from me to stop him.
Jane! Get over here.
That’s all very well and good for the Socialist Utopia we’re not actually living in right now. Everyone standing (or, to be honest, idling) here right now has lived a full decade of the apocalypse, both alone and in groups. You ask six of us what we think, you’ll get nine opinions. You’d have better luck herding cats, since cats will fit in a burlap sack. Not everyone here agrees with me about the long-term future of our world, let alone its short-term future, and I accept that. I believe I’m right, but I’m not gonna bust my ass proselytizing at you guys. You deserve to believe what your hearts and your eyes tell you, not accept received wisdom from some possibly hysterical convertible with a child to protect.
I asked you here, and you came… of your own free will. Any of you can leave of your own free will at any time… and you don’t need me to tell you that. You all have different strengths and weaknesses, and the more of you survive this mission, the more likely it is that my son and his father and I and as many as possible of you live to see a better life. I would try in vain to do it without you, though I’d much rather do it with you. But I will not presume to make you do it, nor will I tell you how to do it.
Jane, all the Drivers need mechanical help. Stretch knows it, and being 100% mechanical (and programmed by that sadistic fucker Fleetwood), he’ll ream us for every license plate his Recyclers’ Guild credential will allow. So our Scouts and Escorts and Mules need help from our Mechanics, and our Mechanics need protective services from the others. We cannot… we will not mandate how that works from on high. We’ll never get anywhere if the Scouts think the Mechanics are gouging them, while the Scouts are taking fire that otherwise would be landing on the Mechanics. Nor will any of us survive if the Mechanics start distrusting their Escorts… and their customers.
But they gotta hammer that out for themselves; they’ll never learn to trust each other if they’re forced to cooperate.
These are three difficult missions. We will face harder ones in the future… but we’ll also shoot some barrel-fish along the way. And maybe share some laughs. This is a trial by fire, and when we make it to the end… if we make it… we’ll have forged a bond that the Major would certainly recognize as strong and lifelong. Maybe we’ll part ways at Edwards. But if we get that far, every license plate in my considerable stash says that we won’t.
Jane, look at me. If you really, truly want us to succeed, you’re going to have to put yourself out there. It’s easy to sit back here and chirp “Mechanics should go here and Scouts should go there, and everyone’s gonna automatically cover each other’s bare bottoms, blah blah blah,” but these are grown-ass Drivers you’re talking to. They know what the score is, they can make their own decisions and forge their own alliances.
If you want to show how smart you are and whether that handbook of yours is worth the used Charmin it’s scribbled on, why don’t you take a handpicked crew down to the Navy Yard? You know this neighborhood better than I do, and I think you know exactly what kind of munitions are stockpiled there, as well as what we can actually use.
As for those of you like Mister Jack “What’s In It For Me?” Burton, Junior… I need you too much to give you my ass to kiss no matter how much you richly deserve it, and unlike some of you bastards, I’m not too uselessly proud to say so. If money is all that you love, then that’s what you’ll receive.
Twenty-five license plates to everyone who comes back from these missions alive and rolling under their own steam. Plus, another bonus: you guys already heard about potential salvage at the marina and the Navy Depot. Well, I happen to know of another stash inside the Skunkworks, very near where Stark kept his pet. And this expired Stark Industries employee badge of mine just might get you in there. And I expect you’ll like what you find.
So there it is, out in the open. These missions are all dangerous in different ways, but they will also be satisfyingly profitable for those of you who care. And if you help me get this goddamned rocket to Edwards AFB, you’ll find my gratitude knows NO bounds. You will profit heavily.
Even if you don’t come with me to Mars.
