"In the advent of war, there is only action."
- Anonymous
Flying across a chilled desert dirt road is a helmeted man on a black motorcycle. With the physique of a body builder, and the leather gear of a rockstar, he leans himself forward on his vehicle's seat, his body tense as he pushes his motorcycle forward towards the hazy horizon. On his waist is a Walkman, connected to a pair of earbuds that extend like tendrils into his helmet, blaring W.A.S.P. like a death whistle.
Through the guitars that blanketed his ears pierced a loud twang. Jolting up and sickly swaying about, he forced his head around to see what happened. His bike began to slow down, puffs of dark smoke pluming from its exhaust, the ride coming to a pathetic halt. The man reacted with an irritated sigh. He paused his tape and struck his bike's kickstand with his heel, throwing himself off of it like he just got out of bed.
His feet slammed onto the ground, gashes leaking blood through tears on his pants. He stumbled a bit to the side, holding his right arm, which was riddled with deep slits that stung as sweat trickled into them. He grumbled, bent over, then straightened himself, slowly turning his head to his broken toy; he scowled. He took a step forward, and beneath his helmet, spoke in a quiet, brassy tone:
"Pizdets…"
With the aggression of a bear, he threw his leg into the side of his bike, causing it to fly across the road. As his foot slammed into the chassis, he cried out, grabbed it, and bounced around on his better foot. Eventually, he fell onto his behind with an 'Oomphf!' He shot back up, only to have his head spin and stomach churn. After faltering for a moment, he re-adjusted himself one last time. The man ripped his helmet off, viciously throwing it down. He paused his tape and walked back to his bike.
Now that his helmet was off, the man's blonde hair—which was teased high like a cluster of feathers—towered over everything else. As he approached his bike, his palm tree hair obstructed the sun, and only the peevish glow of his hazel eyes remained visible. Reflected back at him through his bike was his face, tattered with bruises and slashes that poured blood out like fountains. He eyed his motorcycle from above, bending down and wrapping his arms around it, lifting it back up with unnatural strength. Looking to his right, he saw only the heavy sun and a jagged plain of clay, all beneath an orange sky. He let out a sigh.
'Always an open road'… Yeah, and there's never a drink. I never watch what I wish for.
With only discipline propelling him forward, the man pushed his motorcycle along, forsaking his helmet. Part of him hoped that a critter of the Patagonian Desert would turn it into a new home, but that thought dissipated when he remembered how much hair gel filled his helmet like a jelly donut. Even if an animal came across the gel delight that was his biker helmet, they could probably make some sort of snack out of it. He chuckled at the thought.
As he continued his trek through the desert, a pit opened in his stomach. The more he looked around, at the desert, the sun, his bike, and himself, the more his resolve wavered. With each step, each injury tore wider; he was walking to his doom. Was that all he could do now? Could he only trudge further to his death? These thoughts awakened dark memories.
A hotel, a manic woman. A question, an answer. Money, then a wave goodnight. A church, a mob. Terrified children and furious men, begging and shouting. Above them, perched on wooden scaffolding, a large owl. A gunslinger pierces the owl's side with a soaring bullet. It falls, limp on the ground. Cheers erupt, a celebration occurs, but then an unholy miracle rears its head. The gunslinger saves the owl, letting it fly free. Gratitude turns to confusion, joy turns to rage, and the gunslinger is nearly slain. Only by the skin of his teeth does he escape, and only time knows when he will meet his fate.
His head held low, the biker flicks his tape back on, trying his best to distract himself from it all. Sludging across the desert with nowhere to reach, he lets pure instinct push him along, until nature takes him.
~
Over several kilometers, the desert slowly melted into a lush highland encased by icy mountains, slender trees abound. A smooth gradient of purples and reds now painted the sky in large strokes, wind whispering down the road. Further ahead, and farther than the human eye can see, the biker spots a tan man in a black trench coat and wide-brim fedora on the road's shoulder. He calmly paced about, speaking on a brick phone. Blinking frantically, the motorcyclist shakes his head.
Bozhe moy, my luck hasn't run out…! But, what's with the costume? Must be Halloween for them, their holidays are all backwards.
He desperately ran towards the hatted man, but the faster he ran, the further he walked away. This only irritated the motorcyclist even more, and a grumbling mess of Russian swears began to leak from his mouth. Now rushing as fast as he could at the man in the distance, he was still met with only his back. His motorcycle lagged behind him, and his wounds weighed him down. Eventually, the hatted man disappeared entirely, swallowed by the horizon. The biker rammed his feet into the ground, his jaw agape. He shook his head.
…Whoever invented luck should be shot.
Doubt plagued him again. If only, he thought, he could just lie down without the promise of death. His instincts would still not let him rest, and after slugging up the road, he was met with paradise: a run-down building to his left, with several locals outside, and a tall, concrete wall that stretched across hills in the distance. Right next to him was a sign that read: '¡Bienvenidos a Esquel!' with stylized dancers plastered around its text. He blinked. Although the massive wall confused him, his curiosity was not flaming. So, he inched himself to the left, and moseyed over to the shack.
Walking up to the shack, he spotted various adults on the building's porch, all holding drinks. Before them was a chicken being chased by a little boy through the grass, and several teenagers surrounding the scene. The chicken stopped in its tracks, screeching at the biker, and both the little boy and the teenagers turned and giggled. They waved at him, smiling with their teeth.
"¡Hola, gringo~!"
The biker snickered. While he wasn't looking to socialize all too much, he couldn't turn down any hospitality. He flashed them the peace sign and paused his tape, taking out his ear buds. He spoke to them in Spanish, cracking a faint smirk.
"That's 'Ruso', to you."
His accent caught the adults' attention, who looked at him with a mixture of confusion, disapproval, and fear. The children, though, laughed at the biker's joke, the adults only sharpening their gaze. One yelled over to the children:
"Kids, that's enough! Over here, now!"
Confused, the children turned around. They didn't say anything rude, so why was the adult mad? Hesitant, they complied, and they were taken to the side of the building. The biker's eyes followed them as they walked away, his ears twitching. He could barely make out what the group was being scolded for, only the word 'rojo' catching his ear. He shrugged and shook his head, continuing his approach to the structure. Letting his motorcycle rest on its fence, he was finally able to take his hands off of its handlebars, his fingerless gloves protecting his palms from being rubbed raw.
His bike immediately fell over, completely breaking apart on impact. The others jumped at the sound of the crash, looking over and staring. The motorcyclist scratched his head, sluggishly making his way inside. The building was a rustic bar, and behind the counter ahead, was a dark-skinned, chubby man with black, curly hair, and a handlebar mustache. He was preparing some food for his customers; some sitting on a couch to the left, and others at tables to the right. As the leathered biker made his way to the bar, the customers all stared at him blankly. The closer he got to the bar, the more noticeable the sound of marching music became, emanating from a radio against the back wall. It was faint, yet it stuck out like a sore thumb. He expected to hear something more 'festive.'
He plopped himself down onto one of the bar's seats, before being thrown back-and-forth as it violently spun about. Seconds later, the seat came to a stop, leaving him a bit spooked.
"Christ, got any idea who designed this place…? They forgot to bolt the chairs to the floor," he said, slouching over the counter.
The bartender, with his back turned, paused. He placed his utensils down, and slowly turned around, locking eyes with the biker. A bit thrown off by the bartender's silence, the man spoke again.
"What? Is it wrong to ask about bad infrastructure around here?"
"You people aren't welcome," the bartender said sternly, eyeing his wounds. "You won't find help here."
The biker chuckled. "You're original. All I'm looking for is food and drink, good sir. Not politics. Now, how about a tall glass of water, no? I'm thirsty."
The bartender leaned over the counter.
"Look, there's people around here who would want you dead if they saw or even heard you," he growled quietly. "It could be anyone here. Go."
The leathered man sighed. "No, you look–I said I wasn't here for politics, and I meant that whole-heartedly. What's so bad about just asking for some–"
He was interrupted by a loud swing at the front. Everyone glanced up, spotting a looming figure in the doorway. Silence permeated the air. As it lumbered towards the bar, boots clacking against the floor, the biker raised his eyebrow. It was the hatted man from earlier, who paid no mind to him at all. The man paused, only the sound of the radio piercing the quiet. Abruptly, he raised both his hands.
"Ignacio!" he shouted cheerfully at the bartender, with a smile across his face.
"Paulo!" the bartender shouted back, switching his demeanor entirely.
"How have you been, my friend?!" Paulo exclaimed. "I apologize dearly for hardly visiting you, work's always got me tied…Going back-and-forth and back-and-forth from São Paulo to here…Ay, it's almost killed me a couple of times!"
"Hey, no worries, Paulo…it's been getting crazier every day around here. Can't be as crazy as São Paulo, right?" Ignacio laughed.
"Right, nowhere's as crazy as São Paulo, not even Chicago or Moscow!" Paulo, too, laughed.
The biker chuckled and coughed. "'Moscow'? Try Kazan, you'll get your money's worth there, gaucho," he interjected.
Ignacio's eyes darted nervously. He tried his best to maintain a smile through gritted teeth. Paulo turned his head to the biker, took a seat, placed his arms on the counter, and looked directly at him.
"I don't have much of a reason to go to that Slavic hellscape. You seem to be in the same boat as me, momio–as far away from it as possible," Paulo paused for a moment, and proceeded to roar with laughter. Ignacio forced a laugh to ease his nerves. The biker just looked at him with a smirk.
"No, no, no, no!" Paulo continued, as he hollered with Ignacio. "I'm just playing with you, just playing! But, part of what I said is true, that place isn't much of a…cornerstone of societal progress. You can't blame me for preferring my home, now."
The biker yawned, shrugging, "I wouldn't get it…home, to me, is everywhere. You have to make do with what you're given."
"...right," Paulo dismissed. "Now, Ignacio, we'll catch up in a moment! I've got a few questions to ask our new friend here."
Ignacio's nerves were at an all-time high as a sense of foreboding filled the room. He hastily poured and slid over a glass of water to the biker, and quickly got back to work. The biker snatched the glass of water like a wild animal, and gulped it down as Paulo continued.
"How'd you end-up down here, mister momio? Fleeing the Red Army? You…certainly look like the rebellious type. I mean, look at all of that blood and all of those bruises, you must've killed a man out in the fields!"
The biker then slammed the glass back onto the counter, breaking it and causing a few others in the restaurant to jump. Ignacio glanced over and sighed with annoyance. As the cyclist wiped his face with his arm, the injuries on his face vanished. His posture became less meek, and more confident. He sat up in his seat and crossed his legs, looking at Paulo again.
"Far from the truth, actually…I'll say it again, everywhere's my home, but I was never interested in the army. Hey, maybe you could try it out and tell me how it goes!" He snickered.
Paulo's eyes squinted. The cuts, the gashes, the bruises… all of what ravaged the biker's face disappeared right before his very eyes. They closed like a reversing videotape.
Ignacio noticed how quiet things became, and became ever-increasingly worried, afraid to turn around to see what was going on. Paulo, though, continued to stare at the biker with a predatory gaze.
The biker felt his face. "Something on my face? I don't recall eating anything." He smirked.
Paulo slowly leaned forward.
"Your wounds…" he began. "They've disappeared. Did you do that?"
"Did I? All I know is that I feel better after finally getting some water. I wasn't expecting to exercise all day."
Paulo grew silent, nodding. The biker's eyes stayed fixed on Paulo. After some awkward silence, a smug expression formed on Paulo's face. He finally spoke aloud.
"Would…you mind coming with me, for a moment? There's something I think we should…talk about, mister. I promise you, it won't take long."
"What for, eh? You've been eyeing me up quite a bit. Found something you like?" The biker joked.
Paulo's pupils shrunk. That comment stabbed every nerve in his body with the sharpest blades, and his entire world became red. His nostrils flared, fists shook, and veins popped in his head. In an instant, he snapped from smug delight to unbridled rage.
"You… you sujo bicha!"
Paulo shot up and stood over the biker, shouting in his face. His heel knocked his seat over with a clang, and he slammed his fists onto the counter.
"Where do you get off spewing that kind of degeneracy around?! This isn't some goddamned playground for you fairy bastards!"
The leathered man blinked, but continued to smirk. Free water and entertainment for him.
"Isn't there any respect for the rest of us?! What gives you the right to drag us into your pathetic fantasies?! You'll be beat for this one day!"
Paulo snarled, and then spat in the biker's face. Ignacio and his customers all cowered, careful and silent in their movements. Paulo ranted and whirled about the restaurant, spinning outside as night fell. He spouted with even more rage in Portuguese.
"What a way with words he has…" Mumbled the biker, sneering as he wiped the spit off of his cheek. He flicked his wrist.
Ignacio flipped around and lunged at the leathered man, dropping his utensils. He grabbed his collar, and pulled him close to his face; a musty smell assaulting the biker's nostrils.
"Was some water not enough for you fucking leave?!" he hissed quietly, drenched in sweat. "Now look what you've done, it's–"
Another voice yelled out in Spanish from outside, fighting with Paulo's voice for dominance. The two voices went back and forth, the cries of a child sandwiched between the two. Ignacio's pupils dilated, his hands trembled, and his grip on the biker loosened. The biker raised an eyebrow and ripped himself away from Ignacio, his sneer slowly morphing into a small frown. He scoffed.
...Can't he find an ox to rave to?
The screams came to a sharp halt, then, as the sound of gunfire erupted through the windows. All in the restaurant yelped and gasped, Ignacio stumbling back in instinctive terror. Some of the customers covered their ears, while others looked out in horror; the biker, though, dropped his jaw and froze. Seconds later, Paulo crept back through the door, now sporting a cool demeanor. He slipped something back into his coat, and slowly turned his head around the room. Everybody stared in horror.
"I hope I wasn't…too disruptive, everyone. Temper is a beast I fight daily, you all should know," he smiled with arrogance. Paulo's eyes shifted to the biker now, his grin stretching out.
"And…I would like to give my most humble apologies to you, momio. I simply took your harmless little jab too far…it was all in good fun, wasn't it?"
The biker couldn't comprehend all that was happening. He remained frozen, and Paulo slowly approached him.
"How about we get back to where we were, eh? I'd still like for us to step outside, I haven't forgotten what I wanted to discuss with you." He snickered. "Come now, it won't be too long. We–"
A sharp, repetitive beeping sound tore through Paulo's trench coat then. He turned around, quickly unbuttoned it, and took out his phone. Extending out its antenna, he answered it. After a short pause, he smashes his phone's antenna down, putting it back into his trench coat. He spun around.
"Change of plans, momio. I have somewhere to be…you can never ignore the call of duty, you know. Adeus~!"
Paulo tipped his hat, and jolted out of the bar. This triggered the leathered man's reflexes to kick into full gear, his sense of reality returning. He got up, and dashed outside after Paulo, with Ignacio following shortly behind him.
"H-h-hey, hey! What in God's name do you think you're doing?!" Ignacio cried out to him.
The two ran outside, only to be met by the dead of night. All that remained outside were the faint buzzes of instincts and creaking of trees; the other locals had vanished along with Paulo. Then, however, weeping rang out from the dark. Ignacio and the biker looked frantically, trying to find where it was coming from. They dashed to the right side of the building—nothing. Then, blitzing over to the left, they found the children that greeted the biker earlier, huddled together, howling with grief. Ignacio walked over to the children and got their attention, parting them. Around the children were corpses of a woman and a small girl; a full magazine had shredded their innards. Ignacio yelped and stumbled back again, but the biker felt his gut ignite with fire. His muscles tensed, and his breath strained. The screams, the cries, the gunfire, that covert hand slide… There was no doubt– Paulo murdered these two in cold-blood.
"Ignacio." The biker huffed with soft aggression.
Ignacio shook his head and looked at the biker, his eyes swelling and lip quivering.
"Where does Paulo usually go when he leaves the bar?" Asked the leathered man sharply.
"Y-y-y you're… not going to go a-after him, right–"
"I'll ask again. Where does he go after he leaves the bar." He asserted.
The bartender grew quiet and staggered. He waddled over to the biker, getting close to his ear.
"L-listen, if I tell you and someone else like him hears, we're all dead!" Ignacio whispered. "You've done and said enough, you don't know a thing about what you're getting into!"
The biker turned his head, and eyed Ignacio with a fiery glare.
"...Then I'll find him myself. He'll be dead tonight."
He turned around and marched the other way. Ignacio stood there in absolute bewilderment. At this rate, there was nothing stopping the biker, he thought. If he ends up dead, they'll all be just more statistics. If he lives, then maybe they can act like none of this ever happened. Regardless, Ignacio noted, life goes on. He sighed, and went to go comfort the mourning children.