Author's Note: Big Al and Doreen are completely different characters and model types than the way they appear (or will appear) in my other fanfiction.
A rivulet of water streamed from Red's hose, slowly filling the vase in which he'd arranged the remnants of Tia's rejected bouquet. He agonized at the sight of the crushed, bruised petals and the bent stems.
"I'm sorry I tore you from your roots, my beauties. I'd have never done so had I known that wretch would mistreat you so." He straightened a stem, only to have it bend to the side again. "I should have abided by that old saying, 'Cast not ye pearls before tractors.' She wouldn't have appreciated true beauty anyway." Red finished filling the vase and set it by a window, through which the first rays of sunlight were shining.
"Alas, my efforts to preserve you are in vain, for you'll inevitably die," he sighed, bemoaning the fate of his plants. His eyes gazed out at the town, where few cars were stirring. You may find yourselves in good company, for a lot of lives may end before this is over.
It was easy to occupy his usual space at Flo's at lunchtime and behave as though nothing had happened the previous night, for Red was genuinely tired and didn't find it difficult to appear only half-interested in the talk around him. He watched the aqua-colored café owner hustle to satisfy her customers, grumbling about her incredibly rude waitresses who, it seemed, had skipped town without giving the customary two weeks' notice.
"Doc says they left their apartment a trashed mess," she said with disapproval to anyone within earshot as she poured warm breakfast oil in Red's mug. "I doubt they saw fit to pay their rent anyway. Will I ever have words for them if they dare to return and collect their last paychecks."
Inwardly smirking, Red sipped the oil, then almost involuntarily spat it over the pavement before him. The former showcar must have been distracted, for he had never been served such an awful, bitter drink. He beckoned Flo over with a wave of his ladder, visibly annoyed and perhaps emboldened by the events of last night.
"Flo, this oil isn't up to your usual standards. It tastes burnt, like it was low-grade. I wouldn't tout this as the 'finest fuel in fifty states.' It tastes like it was scraped from the bottom of the barrel." She stared at him and then at the mess she'd have to scrub off the ground, unable in her state of shock to think of a reply to his cruel words.
"Hey! Who died and made you a restaurant critic?" growled Ramone testily. He was on edge because he'd been roused by his wife before the crack of dawn to help open the café for breakfast, and the lack of sleep was wearing on him. "You just leave my wife alone, man. You've got a complaint about her fuel, you take it up with me, understand?"
Red eyed the lowrider. Taking it up with him sounded like an excellent idea, but one that, as always, could wait.
Back at the firehouse, he watched the lowrider cruising wearily back to his body shop. Narrowing his eyes in disgust, Red vowed to confront Ramone later about his threatening outburst. The firetruck kept it to himself, but he had long harbored malcontent for Ramone, as the lowrider had never hesitated to poke fun at him for becoming emotional about something that others would simply brush off.
Red wheeled around the firehouse, checking on the wilting flowers and straightening a framed portrait on the wall. Realizing what he was touching, he smiled at the faded image of himself and his former comrade, and whisked some dust off the small tarnished plaque beneath the photo. Big Red and Big Al, Radiator Spring Fire Department 1990.
Ah yes, Big Al. The confident grin on the face of the larger truck stood in contrast to the meeker smile playing across Red's face. The pumper and ladder trucks had been close friends, but whether they worked together to combat a brush fire or save one of Main Street's landmark businesses from hungry flames, Al inevitably received accolades for his heroics while younger and smaller Red was thanked for helping him, at best. It hadn't taken long for the more experienced firetruck to start bragging of his accomplishments, leaving the rookie firetruck even farther behind in his shadow.
And the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Pity Al had drank so much that night he fought the small blaze in the courthouse above the fire station. Never mind that it had merely been a smoking air conditioner, but the townsfolk had been so grateful that he'd saved their precious town center that they'd fallen all over themselves congratulating him and buying him drinks. Red had accompanied him to a deep, scummy pond far from town to refill his tank, and waited as Al restocked, still boasting of his extraordinary firefighting skills.
"Did you see the way I put out that fire and sshpared the courthouse papers sitting on the table right by it?" Al slurred, making it hard for Red to tell whether he was more swollen from pride or the water he'd taken in. "That's professional firefighting for you. I'm so precise."
"Sshtill," he continued, "I couldn't help but notice you were left without anything to do, Little Red." His partner fumed, for nothing incited his rage more than that hated nickname. "Maybe this town isn't big enough for two firetrucks. You should find yourself a smaller place and be the star of their department. I'm sure they have the occasional smoking ashtray or trash can fire for you to throw a bucket of water on." His cruel laugh shattered the silence at the pond, causing frogs to dive from sight.
Red lost no time in shoving him brutally forward, and the inebriated, bloated truck plunged beneath the murky surface of the pond.
Big Al had been right. There was only room for one firetruck in Radiator Springs, and Red had held that honor ever since. Al had been the first vehicle Red had found it necessary to send to the hereafter, and indeed only one other had driven him to kill again, until he'd taken care of the twins. A few years after Big Al's mysterious disappearance from town, an attractive flatbed hauler had arrived and inexplicably chosen to stay around. Doreen and Red found themselves mutually attracted to each other, and for a few months Red had been so happy that all ill thoughts of harming others had left his mind. All that changed the day he came upon her flirting shamelessly with Mater.
It was 1995…Doreen frowned at Red as they stood parked near the long-closed Midway Inn outside town.
"So what if I did talk to Mater? It's a free country and it's not like you and I are engaged or anything," she said indignantly, trying to keep her balance. She'd only had the single drink that Red had offered her, and the desert was cooling off after sunset, so she wasn't sure why she was suddenly feeling so dizzy, as though she had heatstroke.
"I heard it all, Doreen. You told Mater you would leave me for him. It's over for us, or should I say for you."
"Back off, Red. I mean it." Eager to escape anywhere she could, Doreen shoved the motel's flimsy door aside and barely made it inside before the ancient floorboards beneath her gave way, sending her hurtling into the basement. She never had time to shriek. Red peered in, seeing that he didn't need to do anything else other than push the walls down.
Red had to give himself credit, he'd been incredibly efficient at hiding the bodies. Unless someone excavated the site where the inn had once stood, they were unlikely to discover the truck resting in the basement, buried by the debris of the building that age had seemingly caused to collapse on itself.
"I never did pay Mater back for his role in that," he reminded himself. The lowrider and the tow truck both occupied his thoughts as he allowed himself the luxury of sleep.