The town of Rivendale is a peaceful little village on the border between the first settlement and the badlands. The people lived a life devoid of some amenities, but they were happy. After all, since mankind migrated to planet UrFace over one thousand years ago, they are lucky to be able to make a living at all. Humans adapt, however, and do so quite well. It is on this slightly overcast and cool morning that the inhabitants of Rivendale would have an unusual and rude awakening.
The bellowing staccato of a powerful 10,000cc 12-cylinder machine rumbled through the sleepy village at lightning speed. It was built by a personal engineer out of parts salvaged from the long-dead space-faring citizenry, known now as the Settlers. Residents dove for cover and cowered at its presence. They did so because this unmistakeable earth-shattering noise could signify only one thing. This was the coming of none other than...
"Balls." The intimidating man on the massive motorcycle narrated for himself. "Balls Steelface." He introduced himself further. "I'm the big shot around these parts, you dig? Me and ol' Crusher here," Balls patted his bike. "We been together a long time. People come to me for the jobs they don't got the balls to do themselves."
He eventually pulled into a dusty saloon. The reddish soil flew from the force of the exhaust. He let the roar die down, then dismounted the metal stallion. No need to tie it down or bother with keys. "This baby starts and stops when I want her to. Nobody's fool enough to try and take her from me. If you think you can, you gotta earn her respect. I'll let her go without a fight if you got the bigger pair. And let me tell you, it's the pair in your heart that truly matters."
With every step, his black biker cleats kicked up more of the soil. He took off his aviators and put them in the breast pocket of his leather vest, revealing an eyepatch on the left eye and an enclosed scouter in place of the right. Besides a pair of worn denim jeans, and a 5-gallon hat that he left on the bike, he also wore a stiff belt with a variety of tools of the trade.
Balls looked at the sign on the outside of the saloon; it read 'Dusty Devil'. He would enter casually, without fear or worry. He continued to speak to the 4th wall. "That's just for work. Back at base, I'm always afraid of being too cool or worried that my balls are too huge. Sometimes, I have nightmares where they become so big that I gotta fight them myself. A fate worse than death."
The barkeep shot a glance at the newcomer during that inner monologue. A good keep always knows who comes in and out of his pub. It took a second for the realization to sink in. The noise outside, the size and style of this man, the unmitigated aura. He dropped the glass he was wiping. "I-I-It's him!"
The patrons all turned their heads and went pale. "I don't believe it..."
"W-What's he doing here?"
"Who's he after now?"
"I smell trouble..."
Balls wasted no more time as he stated his business to everyone in the room. "I'm looking for a slimy weasel who thought he could get away from my client's audits."
There was silence. Many were still in shock at this man's presence.
"Now look here, fellas." Balls continued. "This ain't personal. Just business. I only want to find this guy here and bring him back to face the music." He held up a large photograph of a disheveled, portly middle-aged man with a large bald spot at the center of his scalp.
The barkeep was the first to speak. He had the information, and the sooner he said something, the sooner they would be left alone. "I-I know. I know who that is. He came by here yesterday for a pint. He was very nervous. I think he's staying at the motel a few miles down the road. If you're fast you can still catch him."
"That's all I need." Balls went up to the bar and raised his hand, bringing it down with great speed.
"AIEEEEEE!" The barkeep cowered behind the bar.
"Thanks for the tip. Keep the change." Balls put his aviators back on and exited the saloon. He had left a small shard of Gilver as payment for the information.
Outside, he nonchalantly mounted his beloved bike. "Come on, Crusher. We got ourselves a bounty to catch."
Balls was an hour into another stretch of lonely road. There weren't too many natural resources on UrFace, at least not those that were easily accessible. The road was simply a well-worn track across the salt flats. At last, he came across the motel the barkeep spoke of.
"A few miles my ass." Balls' cigar was just a stub at this point. He had expected to smoke it all the way back if not for the incorrect distance quoted. "This scum-sucker better be here or I'll be pissed."
He entered the reception area which, for a motel in the middle of nowhere on a hostile barren planet, wasn't all that bad. At least the dead things had been brought out back before they stunk up the place. Not that Balls cared. He was only there for one thing.
"You seen this ugly mug around here, pal?" He slammed the photo down on the desk, controlling his force so as not to break it.
The tender didn't bother looking up from his newspaper. "Can't say that I have." He licked his index finger and turned the page.
Balls slammed the desk once more, without as much care.
The tender fell to the ground amidst the broken pieces and scrounged for his glasses. Finally finding them, he got a good look at this rough customer and suddenly got a little friendlier. "B-b-but if I did, he'd b-be in room 201."
Balls tossed a larger shard of Gilver at the tender. "That's for the desk."
The tender reluctantly took it. "Kind s-sir, this is too much for a mere desk."
"The extra's for cleaning up this dump. Now shut the hell up." Balls left without another word.
When he reached room 201, he gave this wanted man the courtesy he gave all other bounty targets: A chance to surrender. He casually opened the door and rolled a flash-bang grenade inside. He closed the door again and leaned against it, taking one last puff on the cigar. "Mmm... Earthy blend."
FLASH! BANG!
A scream permeated the air. It was woman's cry. A lesser bounty hunter would have rushed in there afraid that they got the wrong target. Balls knew better.
He rushed in there, kicking the door down. He passed by the prostitute on the bed who was still disoriented. Barging into the bathroom, he found his target hiding behind the compost toilet. "Gotcha, motherfucker."
"P-please, have mercy! Mercy! What did I do? Who's paying you I-I'll double, triple it! I'll pay whatever you want!" The bounty's name was unimportant. He would be dealt with soon.
"Pay me, huh?" Balls tells it like it is. "You see, I run a reputable business. Something you're not familiar with according to my client. That's why you went and got on his bad side. Now, you're on my bad side." Everything comes full circle on this planet, a lesson that was about to be taught again.
"N-No... PLEA-!" In a desperate attempt to escape, the portly man fell over and knocked himself out on the edge of the wooden toilet box.
Balls picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder. "Too easy." He passed by the prostitute again, now recovered. "Sorry about flashin' and bangin' ya earlier. What's your name?"
"Candy." She twirled her hair and looked him over.
"All right, follow me." Balls' Crusher didn't have enough room for all of them, at least not yet. He kicked a lever opposite of the gear shift. "It ain't the most comfortable seat, but I got the steel to get behind this wheel."
Suddenly, the Crusher became the Rod. 4 wheels split from 2, all 12 cylinders re-arranged and exposed, gleaming under the twin suns, and a body wide enough to accommodate the largest Goretusk this side of the badlands.
Balls dumped the bounty in the back seat and addressed the girl. "Come on, baby. Get on my Rod."
"Um, don't you mean in, sir?" The prostitute giggled.
Balls pulled out his aviators again. "You don't get in the Rod. The Rod..." He put them on. "...Gets in you." He cranked up the radio to some Motorhead and they drove off into the distance. It was time to collect some G's for the trouble.
