"Yeah, I dumped an FXR on the I-5 and the poor bitch slid right in front of oncoming traffic...Found out she was pregnant. Really loved that one..."


June 21st, 1993

The roar of the big trucks and the swishing of the smaller cars blazing down the freeway filled his ears and would have been calming, but they were out of place. He had been asleep, safe in his own bed, the cars from the road had never been this loud. He shifted slightly and instead of cool sheets under his hand, he felt the grit of the blacktop and the wet clumps of side-road sand, rough against his skin.

The weight on his head let him know he was still wearing his helmet. With slow movements, he reached up and unclipped it, shoving it off his head and letting it bounce against the road.

Everything hurt. He coughed, the movement pressing his cheek back to the cool blacktop.

He had had a dream, a wonderful dream, that he had been riding. His hands had gripped the handles as the sun played hide and seek with the oncoming rain clouds. The crisp smell of the spring air had tickled his nose and filled his lungs as trees and the tall grasses of the fields outside the city whipped passed him. Kate was a comforting weight at his back, and every time she squeezed her arms around his middle it brought a smile to his face.

Kate.

His eyes opened for the first time. It hadn't been a dream. He had been riding and it started to rain, and the semi cut him off and-

"Kate?" he said, his voice feeling like razor blades down his throat.

When she didn't answer, he knew something was wrong. A silence had fallen around him, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears, as he saw her body laying feet from him. Her helmet had fallen off, dark brown hair spilled to the side, blood flecked her perfectly pale temples and down her cheeks.

He knew. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he knew before he even went to her, she was dead.


January 1st, 1991. Somewhere in Southern California

He had met her on a Friday. A pretty calm day, where the world was relaxed in a way that he was not. How could he be? Alexander 'Tig' Trager was, how did they say, 'fresh off the boat', back from his service, he had made it. But, he wasn't concerned with doing it ever again.

The whiskey burned his throat, it was cheap but it was plentiful and he had no plans on stopping. He would take that pathetic government check and he would put it in the pocket of Captain Morgan and his entire crew.

"Hey, doll!" he said, raising his empty glass at a leggy blonde standing by the bar and shaking it slightly.

She gave him a scowl and turned her nose up and quickly walked back over to a different table to sit down with her small group of friends. Apparently, she didn't work here. Shit. He almost felt like an ass, but the feeling quickly went away and he contemplated getting up for a refill.

"Hey, if you're not using it, then get off." A gruff voice said from behind him.

Tig looked over his sun glasses at a large man. The man was obviously referring to the fact that he was sitting on the pool table. With a neck that seemed to thick for his face, and large, ape-like arms that dangled worthlessly at his sides, Tig knew if it came to blows, this asshole was toast. He hadn't had a good fight in awhile and just one look told him, this could be the itch he needed to scratch.

He put a cigarette between his lips and took his time lighting it. With a lazy hand, he pushed his glasses into his short, black hair. "But I am using it, man."

"Listen, pretty boy-"

"Pretty boy?" Tig said. His blue eyes flashed and he smiled. The second was one of his true talents, he could twist his lips, flash his teeth, in a way that made men run for the hills, and made women fall out of their skirts...or so he had been told. "I've been called lots of things, brother. But that?"

"Just move your ass, okay?" the ape-man said as he jerked a thumb back towards the bar.

Tig didn't like being told what to do. It was one of his weaknesses according to his higher-ups in uniform. They had tried to break him, get him to bend and take one in the ass for Uncle Sam, but he refused. He wasn't about to do it for some low life in some shitty, middle-of-no-where bar.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. His pulse evened out, breathing stayed calm, his subconscious entered that special place right before he spilled someone's blood on the pavement.

"Alright, one," the guy started to count. "Two."

"Three," Tig finished for him and pressed the lit end of his smoke into the man's forehead. He may have looked like an ape, but the bastard squealed like a pig. He brought his elbow down in the middle of the man's back as he doubled over and clutched his face. Tig shoved him to the side as one of his friends came at him at a run.

"Fucker!" he yelled and managed to land a solid right hook to Tig's cheek.

The prick was wearing rings and Tig knew there would be blood without even looking. As he fell back against the pool table, it screeched across the hardwood floor and a few patrons jumped out of the way. His hand landed in a puddle of beer as it knocked a glass over on the felt and his brief moment of mourning was cut short but another blow to his face. That did it.

With a growl, he headbutted the other man. Skull connected with skull and he gripped his shirt, jerking him towards him before he could fall and sunk his teeth into the man's ear. Tig dug his hands into his hair and shoulder, kept his neck at a ninety degree angle and didn't stop till he felt the skin split between his teeth.

"Fucking psycho!" the man stumbled back and the ape man was back on his feet, yelling, arms stretched out and headed for Tig's neck.

Tig met him head on, bringing a firm right hook into his gun and bringing his knee up to collide with his face as the man doubled over in pain. He reached back and grabbed one of the pool balls, twisting around until it connected with the ape-man's temple. The sound was sickening and he dropped like a brick.

Tig raised up and could feel the first drop of blood slide down his cheek. He reached for his beer and pulled up an empty bottle. Asshole had made him lose all of it on the felt of the pool table. He flung it lazily over his shoulder and grit his teeth when it smashed against the wall.

"You owe me a beer," he said, giving the man on the ground a kick. He didn't move. The fucker was out cold. He looked at the other man, still holding his bleeding ear and looking at Tig like he had rabies. "You gonna pay for it?"

The man just stood there, mouth open like a fish. Tig stooped and dug around in ape-man's pocket until he found his wallet and snatched a twenty-dollar bill from the main compartment. It'd have to do.

He heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked and he looked up just as the bartender and apparent owner of the place was pointing the barrel at his chest.

"Get out, Mister," he said, firmly. "I'll call the cops."

"They started it," Tig said, stuffing the money in his back pocket.

"Well, I'll finish it," the owner answered, jerking the end of the gun towards the door. "Get out."

"Gladly," Tig said, grabbing his leather jacket off the end of the pool table. "This place is a fuckin' dump, anyway, man."

The man with the ear, or well, lack thereof now, gave him a wide birth as he pushed through the double doors and onto the dark street. He pulled his packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, only to flip the top open and find it empty.

"God dammit," he cursed, tossing the box across the lot. He ran a hand through his short, black, hair and took a deep breath. It looked like he'd have to make a stop on the way home.

He threw his leg over his motorcycle and turned on the headlight. A deep glow lit up a small section of the dark parking lot as he kicked it to life and left the pathetic excuse for a pub in the dust.