Note from author: Hello! It's my first fanficiton! I am a sad boy! I hope you enjoy this first chapter. It's kind of jankey and weird to me. Any questions/comments/criticisms feel free to let me know. Also of note, the Biker Mice from Mars are not of my creation, etc. Do not bully.
CHAPTER 1: SHADOWS
It is a common saying that one cannot judge a book by it's cover. It's a simple phrase, really, but it tells an important fact that is far too often taken for granted: people are really complicated. And there are billions of them. Every person has his or her own little epic, a tale that spans a lifetime; there's some high points, there's some lows, and in all of them the protagonist dies. There is absolutely no way anyone can figure out someone else's totality just by looking at them, or gleaming enough information from a passing conversation at the gas station or methadone clinic. These are stories lived and told by these billions of people all over the world and beyond and at all times.
And they will all eventually die.
If anyone says that they are a good reader of people by first impression, they are probably full of shit.
Take, for example, Jason. Sleeping on a park bench at Rainbow Beach on the shores of Lake Michigan; his head tilted up and hanging over the backrest, his helmet still on, snoring-to anyone passing by he would appear as a rider taking an unintended nap while relaxing after a long night's solo cruise.
In reality he is a man on the downward slope of a severe nervous breakdown. He has been catapulting himself ever westward nonstop for two days, often at speeds in excess of what is considered 'reasonable'.
Most people tend to have their breakdowns in a rather sudden, dramatic fashion. Some drive their car off the bridge after spending 20 hours at the Best Buy fighting for the best deals on black friday, but then find out that the plasma screen TV they fought off several other angry soccer moms for has a crack in the screen. Others burn their houses down after they find out their significant other has been cheating on them with rest of the neighborhood. Others crap themselves while being tasered by the cops after demolishing most of the office because the vending machine failed to produce the kit-kat bar they paid $2.50 for.
Jason took a different approach. He methodically started to uncouple himself from reality. Over a 6-month period he sold his house and most of his belongings; walked out of his job with an electrical contractor that paid pretty well, bought an expensive motorcycle, strapped on his few remaining possessions and rode off. To put it succinctly: he disappeared.
And now he has awakened from a nightmare.
With a ragged gasp his eyes shot open. He sat up, ramrod straight and immediately calmed after realizing he was, in fact, not in Fallujah but somewhere slightly better, Chicago. In front of him on the ground lie his smartphone. The last thing he looked at before passing out was the latest news about the park. The top article read "Three Shot on South Shore". He stared impassively at the shore of Lake Michigan.
"Right."
He wasn't sure why he said that out loud, but with the exception of the gentle crashing of the waves, it was eerily quiet. He felt a need to break that silence.
He wasn't sure how long he had been out; it was still dark, so it couldn't have been for long. The time on the phone read 0430. Maybe an hour. He did not feel rested. Taking off his helmet, he placed it next to him on the bench and pulled a cigarette from the pack he kept in his jacket pocket and lit it. A steady gentle breeze pressed against his face. The temperature was warm, but mild. Clouds were beginning to cover the dark sky. It was going to rain soon.
After taking a long drag he turned to see if his motorcycle was still where he left it in the parking lot behind him. He was pleasantly surprised that it was. He felt less than pleased to see a cop car parked next to it.
Sergeant Pisarczyk has served twenty-four years as a beat cop in one of the roughest cities in America. In that time he has seen and done things that few can imagine, but one wouldn't really know that just by looking at the guy. In his late 40's, possibly early 50's, he stands at five foot 9. Overweight, his body is similar in shape to a pear. His once jet black hair has been slowly receding, now peppered with grey. His face a mix of pale white and a perpetual blush of red. A thick, heavy magnum-PI-esque moustache rests overbearingly under a stumpy upward-turning nose. His big bushy eyebrows settle on top of two brown eyes that appear to always be sweating.
He wears a groaning blue short-sleeve collared police shirt, it's buttons straining to contain the mass of flesh that years of distressing eating habits and beer have produced. A pair of solid black slacks wrap unbecomingly over his waist, pushing his gut upwards and over his trouser belt line in what could be called a tragic avalanche. In his totality, he resembles a dumpy sweaty pear with four short sticks poking out at uncomfortable angles.
To a passing observer, he would appear as an incompetent merely burning time on the pathway to retirement. In reality, Pisarczyk was an incredible cop. He is so good at his job that he has acquired the Cop Body, a physical condition brought on by being so good at apprehending suspects and solving problems without use of physical force that his body has atrophied into a mass of suet. He is a legend in his precinct.
Because of his Cop Body, he also learned another skill, the Cop Teleport. Instead of chasing down perps, he merely shows up at the right place and at the right time, phase shifting through time and space. Thief stealing a purse from an old lady? Pisarczyk would teleport ahead one block of the perpetrator's path, step out of an adjacent alley with taser in hand. Zap, bam, thank 'ya ma'am, just doin' my job. He was a man beloved in the community, he is always willing to lend a helping hand to anyone in need, as long as it didn't require too much movement.
Once again, first impressions...
However events over the last three years has strained his skills to their limit. On the day before last christmas the weather had changed from mild and cool, into a snowstorm that dumped almost seven feet raining ice meteorites larger than a pickup truck, with a single spot over the Limburger Tower experiencing sun and temperatures equivalent to the Bahamas.
He spent that holiday directing traffic and plow trucks to get needed supplies to a nearby orphanage.
Another time a green dude was blasting out swathes of the lower east side with what appeared to be a guitar. He spent what would have been his vacation doing an investigation, which was stopped immediately by the chief with no explanations given.
Two days ago a large airship had crashed into the Limburger tower a'la 9/11, collapsing the whole structure. Now he could add terrorist attacks on the list of strange calamities that had befallen his beloved city.
Of note, the Limburger Tower itself has been demolished and rebuilt about 40 times.
Months of raging gang battles between weirdos on dune buggies and a trio of bikers, coupled with the Limburger Corporation's demolition efforts, has rendered the lower east side into a ghost town. There's a wild rumor that has been spreading all over the city that Chi-town is actually under an alien invasion, and as silly as that rumor would have sounded a mere few years ago, the good cop is starting to actually believe it.
Exhibit A in his opinion were the bikers.
Those three bikers, he remembered, looked a little off. He had seen them in person riding through the streets at night or after the Limburger Tower had gone through its routine implosion and something just didn't seem right. For example why would three bikers wear fur coats in the middle of summer? And why were those fur coats skin tight? He could see their muscles bulging under the fabric. And he wasn't sure if it was an antennae on their bikes or something, but he felt certain that they had tails. Like a rat or something.
He has thought more than once of early retirement. Maybe move down south. Maybe he could get into that hobby of brewing his own beer. Maybe he could visit his wife more often…
...yeah...
...but never mind that, at the moment Pisarczyk was in a dilemma. He really didn't want to leave the patrol car to investigate the person sitting on the bench after normal park hours. Technically, the guy was breaking the law, he was trespassing. The park was closed and somehow he got in past the gate. He didn't seem to be doing anything else illegal. Other than sleeping, which is vagrancy. Pisarczyk didn't like that law, it seemed to do no real good other than pick on the homeless. But this guy doesn't seem homeless.
I mean, look at that freakin' bike! That thing has gotta be more expensive than a Harley!
It was an ominous looking machine. Two stubby handlebars sat over a teardrop tank and trellis frame stretching over a massive engine. A sport-bike like seat, turning upwards, hung in the air above the rear wheel which sported a massive tire, larger than those on his patrol car, and was connected by a single strut on one side. The front tire sat on a short rake, the rims resembled spinning blades. Stumpy exhaust tips tucked under the seat jutting upwards at an aggressive angle. The foot pedals rested forward, like a cruiser bike. The heads on the engine block were placed in a loose angle, a canted L shape, quite unlike the V-Twin of the old Harley Road King he used to ride on patrol in his younger days. It had an alien appearance unlike anything the sergeant had seen before. The words 'DUCATI' were painted on the side of the tank, only adding to his bewilderment.
Ducati made a cruiser? Huh.
It was solid black, like a shadow pulled from the lake and given form. Seeing it at night, it would make one believe that the monsters of fables were real, and they played in the dark.
Yup, that don't look cheap.
He began to look around for any sign or excuse not to leave the car. Leaving the car was always the problem, having played football throughout his youth, piled on with his years of neglect after joining the force has reduced his knees to powder. Any movement sitting to standing was a titanic struggle. Sure, he could go back to the desk and out of the streets, but all he'd do is eat and sleep more. And his coworkers would complain about the snoring.
Well, it may be the gate was already open. He probably just rode in after a long night to get some quick rest; prolly didn't mean to take a nap.
He noted the various bags tied to the tiny space behind the seat and on the tank, and the black rectangular case that stood upright, tied by bungee cords to the rear.
Looks like he's on a road trip, maybe.
He saw the lack of a license plate on the bike.
Aw jeez, now that's not good.
The biker had risen from his seat on the bench and made his way over the car.
If only he had his plates I wouldn't have to get out.
Officer Pisarczyk began to get out of the car with a complicated series of motions planned to reduce any unnecessary pressure on his knees. The process could best be described as watching an oblong water balloon rolling down a staircase. Empty boxes of hostess pies and ding dongs spilled out of the open door. Finally upright, the officer could now get a good look of the biker that stood before him.
He stood at or slightly above six feet. His frame, bulky with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He appeared to be in good shape, not quite athletic, but maybe at one point in his life he may have been. His skin was pale like a hospital corridor. His hair, a bright fire-red, cut short in a slight fade. On his face a red stubble. His nose, nostrils tucking slightly upward, rested upon a narrow bridge; a slight kink-bend at the septum indicating a past trauma. His eyes seemed to be slightly sorrowful in shape. Irises the color of malachite, like polished stones. He appeared young, probably late 20's, but some unknown stress and hardship has aged his appearance, the features of his face may have once been considered gentle have taken on a harsher tone.
He wore a black leather jacket. Two white horizontal stripes lay across his upper shoulders and across his back; plates of armor visible on his shoulders, back and elbows. Black jeans fitted tight over his legs, the cuffs rolled up one layer and sat on top of a pair of black harness boots. With his left hand he held a pair of armored black gloves with kevlar knuckles and a solid white Shoei helmet. In his right, a lit cigarette.
He approached the officer and placed his helmet over the throttle handgrip of the bike.
"Good morning, sir" his voice was cool and calm, a slight rasp indicated exhaustion.
"Well good morning to you, too." Pisarczyk voice was higher in pitch, with a jovial tone and overwhelming midwestern accent. "I see you were having a little nap there. A long night's ride?"
"Yeah, I didn't mean to pass out there, I saw the gate open and stopped in to check my map."
"You been riding far?"
"Yeah, from Baltimore."
Jason winced, almost imperceptibly.
A flood of harsh memories came to the fore. He remembered the procession. The Marine detail; six men carrying the casket of the youngest brother. A gentle rain poured over the small gathering in black. A mother, still in shock, receiving a folded flag. The crack of rifle fire. The disintegration of the family. The roots shriveling.
Baltimore. I ran from there. Left in the night. Fled a home that had become a mausoleum. Fled a past that was a perpetual funeral. What a pathetic thing.
"You okay there, bud, look like you seen a ghost"
"Y-yeah, sorry about that."
"Well I was wondering where you're from because I don't see a license plate on that there bike you got"
"Oh right, I got it in my backpack. It started falling off when I got to the city limits. A retaining nut had jiggled off." He pulled out the plate from a backpack he had strapped to the rear fairing.
"Alrighty. You got your license and registration there, too?"
"Yeah, in my wallet."
"So, uh, what's your name there my good man?"
"Jason. Jason McMahon."
"You, uh, related to that wrestler guy, vince?" He chuckled at his bad joke.
"Nope."
"Well, lemme help you get that license back on your bike there. It's no good riding around without that, I'm sure you know. I got some tools and stuff in the car here."
After a rather awkward few minutes of digging around mounds of empty cheetos bags and krispy kreme boxes Sgt. Pisarczyk found a couple of metric wrenches, and an extra screw and nut and some locktight. Jason promptly fixed the plate back on.
"Thanks for the help, officer, and sorry for the inconvenience."
"No probs young man. Everything checks out on my end in regards to your stuff all there, so you can go on ahead. You can't stay here, though, park's closed."
"Understood. What's the closest hotel from here?"
"We-ell, there's the Palace just over there" he pointed a sausage-link of a finger to the north. "But if you're not willing to spend beaucoup bucks you can just ride on over to the marriot on Marquette and Greenwood over yonder" he pointed vaguely in a more north-west direction.
"Alright, I'll just search for it in my maps." Jason pulled his phone from his pocket, twiddled around on it and, satisfied with his selection, pulled a black balaclava over his head-the graphic on it's face was of a human skull.
"That's a really friendly get up you got there. You goin' trick-or-treating?" the cop chuckled as he watched Jason put his helmet and gloves on and sat on his bike.
"Not quite. Keeps the dirt and smog out a bit." Also I think of death constantly.
With the flick of the engine on switch and press of the starter the bike roared to life and rumbled with a crackling idle.
"She sounds… angry."
Jason doesn't like to call things by a gender, it never sat right with him. Still, a compliment is a compliment.
"Thanks. You have a good morning, sir"
"Hey, before you leave, what's in that case right there?" Said the cop, indicating the rectangular black box.
"That's my saxophone." And with that and a wave, Jason peeled out of the parking lot and back on the streets, his motorcycle bellowing with a baleful howl.
Officer Pisarczyk watched him as he left the gate.
Now why for pete's sake would you take a saxophone on a road trip?
Jason rode through empty avenues. The only sounds he could hear was the rumble of his motorcycle's engine and his steady breathing. Chicago looked very different from the images of postcards and movies he had seen as a kid. The buildings were all dark strange ruined shapes. Potholes dotted the pavement. The only sources of light were the intermittent pools formed from the streetlamps and the arcing cone of his highbeam.
Alone, the road stretches
Straight to endless dark
Jason was calm when riding. It was one of the only things that made him comfortable. On the seat and in the turns he had no past, no future, he only had the present moment.
It grounded him.
It was only when he stopped that all the regrets, the recriminations and hopelessness resurfaced. It was only then he could feel the gnawing loneliness.
And it was all of these negative thoughts that put him on this path. He had burned every bridge, every connection to the life he had and he rocketed out of orbit. A meteorite loosed from gravity. A terrifying freedom.
And like a meteorite he was beginning to burn out on the atmosphere. The scant hours on the park bench were insufficient and exhaustion creeped into his careworn body. He needed a hotel room and a stiff drink.
A single headlight appeared further ahead of him.
As he approached he could see what appeared to be a man on a race red sportbike, a model and make he had never before seen. He had come to a stop in the middle of the road about thirty yards away. Jason began to feel an uncomfortableness one would have seeing a stranger alone on a dark and vacant path. He slowed his approach, and his unease began to turn to fear. Adrenaline began to course through his veins.
A sudden flash burst from the front fairing of the red bike. Pulled by instinct, Jason swerved left to right and could see a single missile pass him by mere inches. He could feel the heat from its exhaust. An explosion erupted behind him.
There was no time to think, only to react. Ripping his throttle back, he plowed straight ahead, his engine roaring like an uncaged wild beast. His front tire lifted as a wall of torque pressed against him.
The red sportbike rider was already in the middle of a rolling burning slide, trying to block Jason as he sped past. In that fleeting moment he was able to get a good look at his assailant through the tire smoke, and he was horrified.
The man wasn't really a man. It wore a pair of heavy black boots and tight blue jeans. A cross of drab green bandoliers braced it's bare chest; the body covered in slabs of muscle with a solid white coat of fur layered on top. A long bare tail flicked from his backside excitedly. It wore a helmet that was of an unusual shape, inside it Jason could see a long muzzle and angry eyes the color of blood opal.
"Did you miss me, punk?" spat the creature as it let loose with peels of manic laughter. His voice had a distinct nasal tone.
What the hell is going on here? THIS IS NOT NORMAL.
...He's wearing a scarf on his neck.
It was only a passing glance, but enough information was processed for Jason to make his fight or flight decision.
He chose flight.
As he sped away he glanced at his mirrors and could now see three headlights behind him.
I gotta get outta here or I am so fucked.
Jason began to fly through the empty streets, randomly taking turns down avenues in a desperate effort to lose his pursuers. The forward controls of his motorcycle were not conducive to this frantic style of riding, his footpegs and tucked kickstand scraped against the asphalt, shooting long trails of sparks as he fought for lean in the corners. Despite these physical constraints, Jason rode with skill, offsetting his limited angle with more power, drifting his bike to counterbalance, shifting and punishing and cursing the asphalt as he rode helter-skelter in defiance of gravity's law.
Suddenly he felt alone again. Another glance at the mirrors and he saw only darkness behind him. Raindrops began to gather on his visor as he slowed his roll. He moved an arm to feel if his luggage was still attached. The first thing he felt was the saxophone case.
Why did I bring that thing with me? He thought. Then he started to laugh.
It was a feeling of euphoria, the high of the adrenaline gave him a sensation of dizziness. For having escaped possible death he felt for a fleeting moment more alive than he had in yea-
"I found you."
It was the voice of that creature, only now it felt mere inches from his right ear.
Jason snapped his head to his right, and riding on the face of an office building was the creature, barreling towards him from above.
Are you KIDDING ME?
Jason ripped the throttle again, attempting to pull away. This time, however, he couldn't shake his hunter. The creature was on his tail and gaining. On every straight he couldn't pull away. On every turn he would take the creature would get closer. And with every inch the creature gained on him Jason's panic increased.
He is an excellent rider, he could have been one of the best he was often told.
He was wild when he was younger,
'King of the Streets' they called him
He rode hard for bragging rights
He could have gone pro
But life is the bone crusher
And now he runs out of time
Here he is thoroughly outclassed. The possibility of what would happen to him made his vain attempts to shake the creature all the more desperate.
Suddenly two other headlights lit up to his front, two other bikers. Their figures obscured in the light.
These must be his friends.
"Now, Throttle!" yelled the creature behind Jason.
A small explosion erupted in front of Jason as he attempted yet another swerve. The lights and display of his motorcycle switched off. His engine died as he was in mid turn going over sixty miles per hour. Without the motorcycle's power to counter gravity, all of the weight shifted straight down and Jason plummeted headfirst into the pavement.
POST SCRIPT: so that's the first chapter done. On a personal note I love music; it's a very effective means to set a mood or tone of anything—and for each chapter I would like to link to or post information on an artist who's music helped inspire me. For this chapter I choose the incredible song 'Shadows' by The Midnight, all their music is free to check out on YouTube or bandcamp, simply google the damn thing this website won't let me post links. Once again if you read to this point feel free to send any comments or criticisms my way. Thanks.