“Let’s go to a biker bar,” you say, cracking your knuckles “I kind of feel like goin’ somewhere where things
might get a little rough.”
“Ha, yeah, that doesn’t surprise me,” Jake says, “Still, the only one I know of is kind of far away...Well, I
guess I know one way to solve that problem,” he said, fiddling with the gun for a few moments before shooting
you.
When the beam dies back, you find that while all of the changes Jake had made earlier were mostly intact, he’d
simply changed the flavor--to rough biker thug, apparently. Looking down, the thuggish, almost skinhead like
gear you’d been wearing was gone, replaced by well worn leather chaps over mud crusted jeans. You didn’t have
a shirt on--just a leather vest covered with patches and badges from all the rides you’d been on...and
goodness, have you been on a lot of rides you realize. Hell, in the last fifty years--wait, fifty years?
You turn around and catch your reflection in a shop window, and see that, sure enough, you’re less ‘biker
thug’ and more ‘biker daddy’. Your hair and beard have grown out again, even longer than before, and are both
more grey than their original color, the mustache actually yellow from your years of cigar smoking. Still, you
look damn hot, and looking around, you notice that you can read again. “What, you didn’t want to keep me
illiterate?” you ask.
“Well, dumb is fun, but I think I’d rather have you be able to read the road signs,” Jake says, “Now come on,
let’s ride, daddy.”
“Ride what?” you ask, but your head fills in the details for you. Your hog, of course--the harley you’ve been
riding since your late twenties, when you’d finally saved up enough to buy one for yourself. It was your pride
and joy, and you worked tirelessly to keep it running as well as the day you bought it, although the years of
wear did show a bit. But hell, a bike ought to look like it’s been ridden, shouldn’t it? You walk over and
climb on, Jake getting on behind you--the bike creaking under your combined weights, but it rides like a
dream, and you follow his directions downtown and into the industrial docks, where you pull up in front of a
dive bar with a long line of bikes out front. You can hear the rowdy crowd from outside, but it sounds like
just the kind of bar this new you would enjoy, and before Jake can even get off the bike, you’re inside,
ordering a drink.
Sure enough, even though none of the guys have ever met you before, you’re the center of attention, regaling
them with stories of rides--surprising yourself with some of the details, and never entirely sure yourself
whether from moment to moment you’re telling the truth or lying through your teeth. Jake, on the other hand,
isn’t having nearly as good a time, with the attention off of him, and he’s sulking a little ways off,
drinking by himself, waiting for you to get tired of your tales and go home with him so the two of you can
fuck, finally. After three hours, he can’t take it anymore, and when you head for the bathroom to piss, he
follows you in, angry and more than a bit drunk.
“So, Mr. Popular, are you ready to go yet?” he asks you before you get to the urinal.
“Oh, hey Jake--I...I kinda forgot ya were here,” you say, a bit embarrassed, “I mean, I would, but a couple a
the guys were thinking of going on a night ride, and I was gonna join ‘em.”
“What, suddenly you don’t want to have sex with me? Is that is?”
“No dude, yer sexy as fuck, but, well, you know me and the open road. There’s plenty of time to fuck, don’t
you think?”
“No, I don’t know you and the open road,” Jake says, pulling out the gun, “And I’m fucking horny. II think
it’s time we made a few fucking changes here, how about that?”
You rush him before he can react, and without really knowing what you’re doing, you have his face slammed into
the wall, arm twisted behind his back, and you know that with a bit more torque, his shoulder will dislocate,
and more than that, you can break his arm. Dang, where the hell did you pick up this shit? Still, it’s kind
of...hot, taking control like this, and you growl into Jake’s ear, “No, that’s not how things are going to
fucking work anymore--got it? We’re going to play a new game. The name of the game is, ‘You do what I say, and
I don’t leave you broken and bloody on the bathroom floor,’ got it? Now, how do you unlock the gun?”
“I--I can just do it with my voice,” Jake says, obviously terrified enough to spill the beans.
“Then do it.”
“Slobifier--unlock. Password...uh...bikerpiggy...” he says, and blushes when he says it aloud.
The gun whirled for a moment and the lay still. You push Jake away and scoop up the device, looking it over.
Compared to motorcycle mechanics, the thing is a breeze to operate, and you have it dialed in to what you want
in a matter of moments, the barrel leveled at Jake.
“Come on man, what are you doing? I’m sorry, let’s just...calm down and talk this out, alright?”
“Nah, Jake, I don’t really feel like talking. I feel like making a few changes around here, starting with
you.”