Interlude One
Yuma, California had been for a long time a ghost town. Which was strange since it appeared on most large maps of the country, and received a good amount of traffic on the interstate that skirted the town on its way to Mexico. But other than an old, dilapidated strip mall and a few restaurants - including the requisite McDonalds for every town in the United States - it was pretty much a collection of houses next to an interstate. The main reason the town never grew beyond this was because it is found in the middle of a desert. Beyond the city limits the barren, sun dried land stretches out to the horizon in all directions, which is the only reason the town still exists. Various aviation related companies used the local airport and surrounding airspace to do flight testing, since if they crashed there was almost zero chance that they would hit anything. But if they had ever decided to move to another location the town would have moved with them, since there was nothing else to keep it running. No other truly viable source existed. And it was here, at the almost deserted airport to the west of the town that a lone figure rode up on a motorcycle, and stopped in front of the entrance.
Stepping off his ride, the figure beat the dust off his scratched, oil stained knee length overcoat, to reveal underneath the brown coat of dirt the dark blue color of the coat. The figure groaned slightly once he saw the rips and tears the coat had accumulated since he had last dismounted over one hundred miles east in Santa Fe. He then removed his helmet, revealing a face almost as mud caked as his coat and drenched with sweat from the plus ninety degrees Farenheight noon temperatures. His hair, which had been pulled back in a short ponytail the last time he had stopped for a break, was now plastered against the back of his head by sweat and the padding of the helmet. He pulled a much used, almost blackened with dirt, handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face reasonably clean before stepping though the sliding doors into the cool, dark air-conditioned terminal. The figure walked up to the single desk that was open and placed his helmet on the counter, startling the agent who had been reading a book.
"Yes sir, how may I help you?" he asked, slightly taken aback by the state of the man in front of him. His face was slightly blue, as if he was suffering from very, very bad hypothermia or had been dunked in a vat of blue dye, and had a scar on his left cheek so large and unsightly that the surgery that created it had to have been done by a blind and raving drunk surgeon.
"The name's Lipsky," the man replied, exhaustedly. "I need on the next flight out of here and someone who wants to buy a motorcycle from me."
Yuma, California had been for a long time a ghost town. Which was strange since it appeared on most large maps of the country, and received a good amount of traffic on the interstate that skirted the town on its way to Mexico. But other than an old, dilapidated strip mall and a few restaurants - including the requisite McDonalds for every town in the United States - it was pretty much a collection of houses next to an interstate. The main reason the town never grew beyond this was because it is found in the middle of a desert. Beyond the city limits the barren, sun dried land stretches out to the horizon in all directions, which is the only reason the town still exists. Various aviation related companies used the local airport and surrounding airspace to do flight testing, since if they crashed there was almost zero chance that they would hit anything. But if they had ever decided to move to another location the town would have moved with them, since there was nothing else to keep it running. No other truly viable source existed. And it was here, at the almost deserted airport to the west of the town that a lone figure rode up on a motorcycle, and stopped in front of the entrance.
Stepping off his ride, the figure beat the dust off his scratched, oil stained knee length overcoat, to reveal underneath the brown coat of dirt the dark blue color of the coat. The figure groaned slightly once he saw the rips and tears the coat had accumulated since he had last dismounted over one hundred miles east in Santa Fe. He then removed his helmet, revealing a face almost as mud caked as his coat and drenched with sweat from the plus ninety degrees Farenheight noon temperatures. His hair, which had been pulled back in a short ponytail the last time he had stopped for a break, was now plastered against the back of his head by sweat and the padding of the helmet. He pulled a much used, almost blackened with dirt, handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face reasonably clean before stepping though the sliding doors into the cool, dark air-conditioned terminal. The figure walked up to the single desk that was open and placed his helmet on the counter, startling the agent who had been reading a book.
"Yes sir, how may I help you?" he asked, slightly taken aback by the state of the man in front of him. His face was slightly blue, as if he was suffering from very, very bad hypothermia or had been dunked in a vat of blue dye, and had a scar on his left cheek so large and unsightly that the surgery that created it had to have been done by a blind and raving drunk surgeon.
"The name's Lipsky," the man replied, exhaustedly. "I need on the next flight out of here and someone who wants to buy a motorcycle from me."