RIDING 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 Lazania River). It is not a cultural center, unless you are one of the kind who count bowling as a cultural pursuit. There is an old saying, "Have a good time in Clenton, . . . nobody ever has, but who knows?"
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.