Chapter 1

Sometimes there are those rare occasions where you get to have the perfect smoke. There's nothing special about it, just another generic smoke in the pack, but everything about it just seems perfect. The taste is good, drags are smooth, and your body takes it in stride, making you feel relaxed. Something relaxing is exactly what I needed at that moment. I finally got off my hoop and unpacked the rest of my junk in my new dos, throwing it together into organized chaos. Of course, this place is in the middle of bum-fragging-egypt or otherwise known as Tulsa.

I'm no confederalist by any means; I just needed get out of Seattle. Things are just a little to hot right now to try to reside there. So here I sit out on the front porch of my small "ranch house", and let's not forget to mention small, but coming complete with a separate four car garage building out back didn't hurt. So, I'm having a well deserved and needed smoke, with nothing but boonies surrounding me. I can't knock it too much, no gun shots, no sirens, no constant traffic, no hustle and bustle, nothing. This deafening silence is about to drive me nagging fruts. I give it another two days. The only thing I can say is that the sky is a little clearer and the stars are shinning a bit brighter in the night's sky due to the lack of towering office complexes and arcologies.

I felt the rhythmic vibrations stroking my leg, generated from the secretary in my pocket. I casually whipped it out and gave it a glance as the display told me I had a new message. I opened up a channel and a two dimensional, non-descript, male face stared back at me as a very astute voice began rambling to me. "Hello, my name is R. Capulet. I represent an investment firm that wishes to offer you an opportunity to increase return yields on your investments through a variety of stocks and…". Oh great, another telemarketer I thought, but I stopped short of deleting it due to the name, R. Capulet. I zipped ahead to the mention of a contact number and fed it to the speed dial. A brief interlude transpired, then a response. Greeted by a clearing throat, a relatively familiar voice came across the line. "That was fast."

"So, Romeo, or should I say Mr. Capulet, how are you wanting to spend my hard earned Cred?"

"I actually called to verify your number to see if it is still legitimate, as well as, verify your account."

"Same number and same number."

"Very well, how do you wish the funds distributed?"

"Bi-weekly and vary the amounts every so often."

"Done and done, there will be a two percent surcharge per deposit, you understand."

"Whatever chummer, but I WILL be watching it."

"Understood, good evening to you sir."

"Later, Chummer."

Ah, good ol' Shakespeare, the epitome of formality. However, a near nova hot decker is hard to come by, let alone, be a chummer. No one would have ever figured to see a struggling Shakespearian actor become a decker. That and the fact the boy's a troll to boot. I tend to think he does it for publicity. Shakes always said that he felt discriminated when trying out for lead roles, due to his race. He has a point, but you think seeing a troll playing Macbeth or Julius Caesar would ever be accepted by the social elite? I think not. I guess you could say he opted for a broader audience by using the matrix as his stage. He runs the matrix under the handle the "Running Romeo", complete with an Elizabethan era dressed, tights wearing, foppish guy icon. He prides himself in his gentlemanly mannerisms and professionalism giving him that stylish edge and notoriety which is true to his nature as a performer. He is also my impromptu accountant, spreading my cred out so I always have a stipend to fall back on. That's the kind of relationships you build in the shadow biz.

22:40 is what the clock read on my secretary. I figured it was time for a drink and check out the club seen for a Thursday night. I gave the butt of my cancer stick a flick to the dirt, snagged my leather jacket from behind the door, checked the action, while chambering a round in my Predator III, and warmed up the bike. Word had it there was this seedy little dive called "The Last Resort" off of I-44 which was noted to be a biker's haunt of sorts. I figured what the hell. I gave my steed a gentle snap on the throttle and headed out.

I cruised on down the Broken Arrow Expressway, connected to the I-44 interchange, and took it to just shy of the Arkansas River. The exit more or less dumped me right in front of the Last Resort. The place was an old hotel built up to look like a castle. Rust marks stained the front wall where letters used to hang that read Camelot. I had to admit the owner either had a sense of humor or clever marketing scheme. About a dozen or so bikes lined the front drive, varying from Scorpions to Auroras. I rolled in nonchalantly and backed into a spot down the line. A pair of humans standing outside on the walk, dressed in street tough gear, watched me curiously as I made my way to the big oak double doors. The guys, in addition to, the lintel of the doors were both tagged with the picture of a psycho, rabid Chihuahua, gnawing on a motorcycle wheel. One of the local gangs I figured.

Stepping through the entryway I stumbled into a mixture of pool tables, shadowy corner booths, and blaring rave/dance music. The crowd was thin but much the same street dress, minus the blonde haired, blue eyed, Anglo babe who sported a Japanese school girl motif that oozed frag me, please! Under any other given circumstance I might have proposed a private tutoring, but never fool around with the squeeze of a ganger, chummer. I know from experience, trust me. The crew was a mixture meta-races. At least the bar was loaded. Sliding onto a bar stool, the balding, beer-bellied ork barkeep waddled down my way. I had him concoct me a seven and seven, which wasn't half bad. Obviously, it wasn't one of his more regularly ordered drinks. I leaned onto the bar; nursing my drink, the whole time feeling and knowing random eyes were bird dogging me from amongst the dancers and patrons.

As the blood slowly coursed its way into my alcohol stream I heard the thunder clap of an exhaust, rumble down the drive to a stop. It had to be a modified Viking, no doubt, probably with a bulky troll to go along with it. My assumptions were confirmed as the posse came through the doors. In the lead was an above averaged built, 2.1 meters tall, African-Anglo male in a slick black sleeveless shirt and leather pants attire. The man dripped power and authority in his motions as people seemed to peel off slowly in front of him as he strode in. No question, he was the leader. In tow followed a tank of an ork, grizzly and moderately scarred, more than likely a razor boy of some sort, possibly war chief. Behind him was a 2 meter thick, Aztlan troll, decked out like a luchador wrestler. Bringing up the rear was a petite young chica who was tiny compared to the rest, hovering around approximately 1.7 meters. The troll and the ork were both tagged with the insignia like the rest. The troop made their way to a table whose occupants decided to double time it to another before the leader got within a couple steps of it. While reality began to filter back into my senses, I tried to keep them in the corner of my eye.

The man in black called a few of the gangers over at random, they'd discuss something, and then he would dismiss them. As I inquiringly watched the proceedings from my left side, I failed to see the chica slink over on my right. She was thin but toned. Hair looked like it was dyed with acid, giving it a yellowish green hue. She sported a mid-rift top layered over with a true leather jacket; stone washed blue jeans, and steel toed boots. I gave her a once over as I met her eyes which were shaded heavily in black makeup around her lids and sockets with only the whites of her eyes piercing through the darkness of eye shadow and long hair. Even with all that, she still had a naturally friendly face to admire.

"Well… haven't seen you around here before," she crooned with a disarmingly sweet voice, "whatcha' doin' here?"

"Sort of new to town, thought I'd stop in and have a drink." I watched as her pupils seemed to dilate and I felt fixed upon them. It felt as if my brain itched as she continued. "Just a drink, huh? Nothing else? ". I tensed up a bit as I knew I was involved in some sort of mind rape. "I don't know, you tell me." I replied in the best nervously cool demeanor I could suck up. Her eyes returned to normal, she looked towards the bar, as she waved her hand in front of my face.

She signaled down to the bartender for another drink as she turned back towards me with a slightly embarrassed coy smile. "Sorry, hun. Just needed to be sure, I'd figured you'd rather get grilled by me than the other option…" she smiled, nodding over to the luchador. "Forget about it. I didn't realize whose turf it was, nor did I know this was a private club. If it would be better for me to take my meat elsewhere, I'll bail."

"Nah, you're whiz, meat. Just keep your nose clean 'round here. Besides you got a fan club waiting outside to talk to you."

I raised a curious eyebrow at that as she teasingly back pedaled, leading outside with an alluring finger. I became more concerned about my bike for a moment rather than possibly walking head long into some sort of ganger prank. I went along with whatever this little chica was getting me into. To my surprise I saw 3 of the gangers checking out my ride. She held the door for me till I got outside then with a subtle wave she shut the door behind me. Damn, I just been played, I hate it when that happens.

I glanced back over to the gawk and stare brigade who were still just that for now. I walked on down to my ride, stopping short to better assess the situation. A wiry elf was scanning my bike from front to rear, just ecstatic over every little detail. The two humans standing there with them decided to lose interest and took back their positions at the door. The elf didn't even avert his attention from the idol he had before him. "This ride yours, omae?"

"That all depends…."

He wiped his road grime covered hand on his pants and held out to me, not once looking away from the engine. "Th' name's Lanky, helluva a ride you got here, omae. An '02 Honda Shadow Saber 1100, am I right?"

"You know your bikes, chummer, Nate Hardgrove." I answered acknowledging his wisdom of motorcycles.

He rose slowly to his feet and it seemed all his joints snapped and popped like he'd been balled up for some time. "Yeah, I gotta admit, done some damn good work here. Been building up a '36 Scorpion myself, but finding a carb and heads is a slitch!"

"Been there, but they always turn up." I benignly responded, politely nudging him away, and mounted up on the bike. "Say, you know of any good cruise spot around this way?"

"Sure do, hit Memorial, Friday and Saturday nights, everyone knows that." And with that, I curtly nodded and decided to not press my luck, and hit the road running. I rode around taking the scenic route to be sure I had no tails, which luckily I didn't. As for now, it was back to the dos.