Winning Run
The road stretched on forever; a black asphalt slash littered with yellow dashes amid the red soil of the Arizona outback. Route 47 was barren and silent.
A loud roar rang out, and a black motorcycle sped out onto the street, flying down the road. The rider sat tall in the seat of the bike, gripping the bars of the Harley-Davidson model motorcycle. Six feet tall-- not counting the long blonde hair worn spiked up--with confident blue-green eyes, he liked to think of himself as an American Badass.
He'd just returned from a tournament. A tournament which had given him a victory over twenty years in the making. Though he lived in across the country, in New York, he preferred his bike over trains and planes, especially the open roads like this.
He gunned the engine, the speedometer climbing to seventy miles an hour, when he looked up and noticed a massive semi truck ahead. Without a second thought, he sped up a little more, then passed up the giant truck. The driver of the semi leaned on the horn of the vehicle, yelling profanities at the roguish punk. The man on the motorcycle laughed to himself, as he pulled in front of the truck and sped away, imagining the shock the truck driver would experience is he knew who the 'punk' who had just cut him off was.
The patrol officer watched the biker as he soared down the street, shaking his head. He raised the radar gun and pointed it at the motorcycle, pulling the trigger just as the bike roared past. The officer glanced non-chalantly at the numbers on the display screen: 85 miles per hour.
"Another one bites the dust," the officer murmured, holstering the radar gun and starting up his police-issued motorcycle. A flip of a switch, and the police sirens wailed out as the lights began flashing. The officer pulled onto the street and chased the speeding bike down the road. He beckoned to the man in front of him to pull over, hearing the speeder shout, "Dammit!" as he obligingly pulled to the red clay soil shoulder of the road and killed the engine. The officer followed suit, stopping behind the large ebony Harley, but left the police lights on. He then strode over to the bike, a pen and a small pad of paper in one hand, then chuckled as he glanced at the rider.
"I know you," the cop murmured. The biker smiled, projecting an air of self confidence. "You're the fighter…Paul Phoenix, right?"
"That's me," Paul said, sticking his hand out. The officer shook hands with the renowned martial artist, then backed up a step.
"Now, you do know why I pulled you over," the officer continued.. Paul shook his head, a confused look marring his face.
"Can't say I do."
The police officer sighed. "You cut off the semi back there--"
Paul's eyes widened, and he dismounted his bike in shock. "WHAT?!"
"--then you were also going fifteen miles over the speed limit--"
"You've got to be shittin' me!"
The officer shook his head, then pulled out his paper, clicked the pen, and began writing out the ticket. Infuriated, Paul threw his arms up into the air.
"C'mon, you saw how slow that asshole was going! A damned snake could drive faster! Besides, I had to speed up to get past the damned truck, and there's no damn signs posted anywhere!" He kicked the dusty ground in anger. "Man, you said you know me! The whole world knows me! I'm a damned celebrity, and you're STILL writing me a ticket!"
The officer ignored Paul's whining and finished writing out the ticket. Paul watched as the cop wrote the last of it out, then ripped it off the pad, and he clapped a hand over his eyes irritably. "Dammit!"
The road stretched on forever; a black asphalt slash littered with yellow dashes amid the red soil of the Arizona outback. Route 47 was barren and silent.
A loud roar rang out, and a black motorcycle sped out onto the street, flying down the road. The rider sat tall in the seat of the bike, gripping the bars of the Harley-Davidson model motorcycle. Six feet tall-- not counting the long blonde hair worn spiked up--with confident blue-green eyes, he liked to think of himself as an American Badass.
He'd just returned from a tournament. A tournament which had given him a victory over twenty years in the making. Though he lived in across the country, in New York, he preferred his bike over trains and planes, especially the open roads like this.
He gunned the engine, the speedometer climbing to seventy miles an hour, when he looked up and noticed a massive semi truck ahead. Without a second thought, he sped up a little more, then passed up the giant truck. The driver of the semi leaned on the horn of the vehicle, yelling profanities at the roguish punk. The man on the motorcycle laughed to himself, as he pulled in front of the truck and sped away, imagining the shock the truck driver would experience is he knew who the 'punk' who had just cut him off was.
The patrol officer watched the biker as he soared down the street, shaking his head. He raised the radar gun and pointed it at the motorcycle, pulling the trigger just as the bike roared past. The officer glanced non-chalantly at the numbers on the display screen: 85 miles per hour.
"Another one bites the dust," the officer murmured, holstering the radar gun and starting up his police-issued motorcycle. A flip of a switch, and the police sirens wailed out as the lights began flashing. The officer pulled onto the street and chased the speeding bike down the road. He beckoned to the man in front of him to pull over, hearing the speeder shout, "Dammit!" as he obligingly pulled to the red clay soil shoulder of the road and killed the engine. The officer followed suit, stopping behind the large ebony Harley, but left the police lights on. He then strode over to the bike, a pen and a small pad of paper in one hand, then chuckled as he glanced at the rider.
"I know you," the cop murmured. The biker smiled, projecting an air of self confidence. "You're the fighter…Paul Phoenix, right?"
"That's me," Paul said, sticking his hand out. The officer shook hands with the renowned martial artist, then backed up a step.
"Now, you do know why I pulled you over," the officer continued.. Paul shook his head, a confused look marring his face.
"Can't say I do."
The police officer sighed. "You cut off the semi back there--"
Paul's eyes widened, and he dismounted his bike in shock. "WHAT?!"
"--then you were also going fifteen miles over the speed limit--"
"You've got to be shittin' me!"
The officer shook his head, then pulled out his paper, clicked the pen, and began writing out the ticket. Infuriated, Paul threw his arms up into the air.
"C'mon, you saw how slow that asshole was going! A damned snake could drive faster! Besides, I had to speed up to get past the damned truck, and there's no damn signs posted anywhere!" He kicked the dusty ground in anger. "Man, you said you know me! The whole world knows me! I'm a damned celebrity, and you're STILL writing me a ticket!"
The officer ignored Paul's whining and finished writing out the ticket. Paul watched as the cop wrote the last of it out, then ripped it off the pad, and he clapped a hand over his eyes irritably. "Dammit!"