Second Chance: Sky Pirate
By R. Richard
EXCERPT
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IDING MY NEWLY ACQUIRED Berrelli motorcycle, I
cruise the back roads, heading West.
Since I have the money I took from the criminal alien I terminated back
in Mervon, I don't need to worry about day to day expenses and I can take my
time. Thus, I stop from time to time at
likely looking biker bars along my route.
I have a bit of experience with biker bars from my past days of catching
bail jumpers.
Bikers like bikes, particularly big, fast
bikes. Bikers like girls, particularly
fast girls. Bikers do not like 'The
Heat,' as the police are none too fondly known in biker circles. Bikers also do not like the kind of tough, nasty
rider that they recognize in me. They
do, however, respect my kind of rider. I
will take respect over popularity any time.
During my stops at the biker bars I manage
to obtain food and drink, such as it is.
I also almost always manage to obtain a bed, with a biker girl, for the
night. I start by chatting with the
girls until I find one who is interested and who has her own place. I then suggest that I need to buy a bottle
from a package store and take the girl somewhere where we can be alone. The idea of a guy who has money and can just
buy a bottle of quality booze is very attractive for the average biker groupie
girl. The girl and I usually just ride
to a package store and then ride to her apartment and settle in for the
night. I have a place to sleep, with a
girl to keep me company. I also have a
place to shower and shave in the morning.
Of course, there is no trace for 'The Heat' to follow. (You may wonder how much intellectual
stimulation I get as a result of my encounters with biker girls. Actually, most of the biker girls have not
read the list of the 100 greatest books of all time. Actually, I doubt that some of them can
read. However, if they do not stimulate
my brain, there is another one of my organs they usually do a pretty good job
with.)
I almost never have a lot of trouble
obtaining a biker girl, despite the fact that she may have previously
associated with some of the mogs who normally hang around the biker bar. The kind of people who hang around biker bars
rarely have advanced college degrees.
However, they have a good working knowledge of the psychological
patterns of people like me. A rider can
always get another biker girl. Most
riders cannot get another life.
Over the course of time I arrive, more or
less at random, at the outskirts of Clenton.
Clenton is a city typical of the northeast continent. It is an industrial center, a trucking
center, and a shipping center (via the
As usual, I find the local long distance bus
station and put my Klemrov pistol and some of my cash and other possessions
into a locker. I don't need to advertise
that I ride armed, not even to a biker girl.
I also do not need to get rolled for a large chunk of cash.
I then ride my bike into the parking lot of
‘The Rider.’ ‘The Rider’ is a biker bar
in Zikon, a suburb just south of Clenton.
As is the custom, the good parking spots are reserved for local club members. I park and lock the Berrelli in a
well-lighted spot a way out from the bar.
I am not too worried about someone trying to steal my bike. Bikers do not, in general, have a lot of
faith in the legal system of our culture.
However, many bikers normally go heavily armed. Also, if a guy is caught stealing a bike, it
is not regarded as a capital crime. No,
a capital crime might get a guy executed after a legal trial and appeals to
higher courts. If bikers catch a guy
stealing a bike, they do not waste time on a trial and that sort of thing. What they do is form a sort of lynch mob.
I walk over to the front door of ‘The Rider’
and enter cautiously. Biker bars tend to
be a bit disorderly; frequently more than just a bit. ‘The Rider’ is no exception. There are the usual run of biker bums drinking
or playing cards or shooting pool or whatever.
There are also riders or riders and girls at tables. There is the usual biker chat going on, which
chat continues as they check out the new guy.
Bikers always do a wimp check on each new male rider. As usual, I pass the wimp check without the
need for physical verification.
One anus is making a real run at a tall,
blonde biker babe at the bar. He doesn't
seem to understand any part of no, not even hell no! 'Head-on hero' puts his arm around the babe's
shoulders as he slides onto the next stool.
The problem with the real friendly approach
is that it ties up one arm. The babe
pokes for his eyes with her off hand, which thrust he more or less blocks. She also hits him in what is usually referred
to politely as the groin area with a yawara.
A yawara is a little item, which looks like a small dumbbell. It is made of wood or metal and is a bit more
than a hand width high. The ends are not
rounded, but pointed. The guy is not
able to block the yawara and one end hits the guy where it is aimed.
The guy starts to curl up into a ball
because of the pain of the yawara blow.
I say starts to curl up because the babe then hits him with an Amazon
elbow to the face. The elbow launches
him into a backward dive and a tumble.
He ends up at my feet.
I stand there and say calmly to his
unconscious body, “Interesting approach.
However, I am really not looking for a boy. Why don’t you see if ‘The Heat’ are
interested, I understand they like boys.”
A motion to one side attracts my
attention. A biker has gotten up and is
swinging an old style motorcycle drive chain.
He starts past me toward the babe.
I say, “That chain is a dangerous weapon in
the hands of a strong man. What the hell
do you think you are going to do with it, boy?
You could hurt yourself.”
For some unknown reason I seem to have
offended the boy. He swings the chain
at me. He is a little off balance as he
has altered the direction of his movement from toward the bar to toward
me. I go under the sweep of the chain,
kick his feet out from under him, and break his arm over my knee with a nasty
audible snap. Then I just dump him on
top of the other casualty. I keep the
chain, which I continue to twirl as if I just might know how to use it. Actually, I do know how to use a chain and
no, I didn’t just read about it in a book.
I turn and say casually, “Babe, if you are
finished playing with the little boys, ‘The Man’ sent me to get you. Perhaps you forgot that you have a little
business deal to talk over with him.
‘The Man’ doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
She looks at me, then past me and scans the
room. Even if I couldn’t read minds, I
could still have felt the anger in the room.
No babe comes into a biker bar and just belts some guy. Hell, no guy just walks into a bike bar and
breaks some biker up. That is, no guy
but ‘The Enforcer.’ 'The Enforcer' works
for ‘The Man.’ Mess with ‘The Enforcer,’
mess with ‘The Man.’ Mess with ‘The
Man,’ you wind up dead or worse. Mess
with ‘The Enforcer,’ you wind up maimed.
The general evaluation of the situation is that it is likely a lose-lose
situation. The anger level in the bar
remains below the surface; if only just below the surface.
The blonde eyes me like a pile of stinking
garbage. She says, “Well did ‘The Man’
send his messenger boy just for little me?”
I look back at her with a very no nonsense
look and say, “Actually, my name is capital S capital I capital R, SIR! I spell it out slowly and deliberately. ‘The Man’ sent me because he figured that his
messenger would probably have to kill a couple of mogs to get to you. I get a lot of these kind of assignments. Would you like me to show you why?”
She says, “Oh, I'm just scared to death, SIR. However, your kind usually run in packs. I guess I will just have to go talk to ‘The
Man’. Oh yes, my name is Risha and I
will ride my own bike.”
I say, “’The Man’ doesn't much care how you
arrive, just as long as you arrive soon.
By the way, I ride a Berrelli 750 Sporto with a few improvements. If you try to outrun me, most likely you will
wind up with a nasty case of asphalt rash.
Seems to be going around these days.
You just can’t be too careful out on the road. You should really be careful, a girl with a
pretty face like yours.”
Risha glares at me and slowly starts to walk
toward the front door. I parallel her
course, doing a little fancy chain handling as I go. Despite the anger level, no one in the bar
sees fit to interfere. (The general
attitude seems to be: I mean, what the hell, ‘The Man’ will take care of her
worse than we can.)
We get outside. Risha is bristling. She turns and faces me, “All right, mister
tough guy, who the hell are you really?”
I lecture, “Well, I came to town to try to
earn a little money, maybe a lot of money.
When I see a lady, like yourself, sitting in a bar like ‘The Rider,’ I
say to myself either there is an insane hooker or there is a business woman trying
to find some help for a venture. Since
you didn’t want to sell what lover boy wants, I figure you are a business
woman. I showed you my resume back
there. Why don't we continue my job
interview somewhere where we can talk privately?”
Risha asks nastily, “How the hell do I know
that you aren't a cop?”
I say, a bit impatiently, “Did you ever see
‘The Heat’ just break some guy's arm and then walk away? Cops have to do the paperwork after an
incident. Think, lady!”
Risha looks me up and down and then says,
“Look ah . . . SIR, you are pretty good with the muscle. I am looking for skill, not muscle.”
(From Risha's mind, I get a clear picture of
a need for someone to provide the skill work for a major burglary.)
I say, “Well now, I have both skill and
muscle. I can plan the most efficient
entrance to, . . . situations. I can get
inside any building; no traces. I can
beat electronic surveillance systems. I
can deal with watchdogs, human or animal.
I can open any kind of office, . . . ah storage. I can plan a low risk exit. If there is trouble, well you have seen my
resume.”
Risha is suddenly afraid and says, “Well,
thanks, but I am not really interested.”
I lecture, “Risha, there are a number of
people, who make their living off of other people's taxes who are very
interested in my whereabouts. I need a
quick hit, lots of cash and a smooth, quiet exit. I don't need any trouble. If you had any real choice, you would not
have been in 'The Rider.' Quit wasting
your time and my time and let’s talk.”
Risha looks me up and down. “Let's go to another bar and talk.”
I say, a bit impatiently, “Risha, I just
told you that there are a number of people, who make their living off of other
people's taxes who are very interested in my whereabouts. I need to go to a private place, not a public
place. I am tough. I am strong.
I am vicious. I have one bad
weakness. I sleep every night I
can. When I am asleep, I am
vulnerable. I need a place to
sleep. We go to your place. We talk.
We plan. Then I sleep. You can do what the hell you want. We both get a little rich, maybe a lot
rich. I leave. You can do what the hell you want with your
half of the money. Clear?”
Risha looks me up and down again. “I don't like your whole damn attitude. However, I do need help. Let's go to my place and talk; just talk.” Risha emphasizes the last two words.