A bit of impulse writing a while back, when I was contemplating what else other than his job as a butler made Norman Burg a cool old guy.
For those of you WFB & 40k readers out there that don't know who Norman is, look up "The Big O." Alternatively, place Batman, Warlord-sized Titans, and noir mystery in a blender and set on high, and you get The Big O. Definitely a gem to watch if you have spare time.
It's a bit breezy today, but nothing too chilling as to dissuade a brave soul from a good ride.
At least, that is Norman's impression as he looks down the block from the corner of the deserted parking lot. Wind pinches his cheeks and his scarf flutters like a black flag at half mast, but he pays them little heed as he takes out his pocket watch and glances at the minute hand.
About time, he thinks, as a dark-brass motorcycle and sidecar veers around the far corner at maximum legal speed, tires squealing obediently as the rider guides it in a controlled drift to make the turn. Norman takes a half step back as rubber tears at asphalt, and watches in satisfaction as the bike decelerates vigorously and precisely. It rolls to a complete stop and splutters into idleness a mere foot in front of him.
Always rides excellently. Now if only her relationship with Master Smith would go just as smoothly!
He sniffs a bit, enjoying the smell of scorched polymers and engine exhaust as the rider steps off the seat, smoothes her skirt and methodically removes her helmet.
"Norman, just as you asked, I brought the Harley Davidson." Dorothy brushes the last of the dust out of her cardigan and blouse while her helmet balances on the sidecar. "I'm still mystified as to what you intend to do with it on your vacation day, however."
Norman harrumphs. "There's no real need to – "
VAARROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM VROOOOOM VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO –
A sudden din of a throng of engines cuts him off unceremoniously.
From the opposite end of the street, a score of black and red comets streak forward. Each resembles a supercharged, single-track frame of ramshackle scrap, mounting a hysterically gleeful rider. Whether said rider hangs on in terror for his life, or in the exuberance of a joyriding rush, none can say.
Merely mortal men would flinch from their passing when the cackling lead elements, a pair of white batwings and the words "EAVENZ DAEMONZ" emblazoned on their black leather jacket backs, careen by in a blaze of glory, missing the Harley by scant inches. Fortunately, Dorothy is an android, and Norman has credentials as a battle-butler; so with a merely curious glance from the former and a slight smile from the latter, the two watch the main body slam on their brakes, crude wheels defiling Paradigm City's virgin roads, until the whole formation comes to an ungainly halt before them.
Not that it does much for the noise level.
Engines idle and the bikers guffaw, slapping each other on their backs and pulling stationary engine revs and bike tricks. The largest biker, a clean-shaven ogre with a gold tusk thrust through his lips in the semblance of a fang, grins and waves at Norman what looks like a set of multi-pronged cyborg claws where his forearm would normally be.
"Ey Boss! Da boyz are ichin' ta go! Don't keepz 'em waitin' now!"
Norman smiles back and picks up his own helmet from the inside of the sidecar. He gives a curt nod to Dorothy.
"With any luck, this scene should answer your question to your satisfaction."
Dorothy shrugs, the fluid motion of her servos giving away her robotic identity.
"Forget I asked. Honestly, you and Roger possess such irrational concepts of recreation. I doubt I'll ever understand either of you in this life."
In contrast to her rude monotone, she waves politely from the sidewalk, then turns and walks away.
Smiling after her, Norman quickly mounts up and straps on his helmet, gesturing at the 'Eavenz Daemonz to get going. Which they do so, to the accompaniment of screaming tires, billowing exhaust clouds, and much whooping of delight.
Behind them, the brisk breeze streaming through Paradigm City picks up again.