As the sun began to tilt toward the west, Richard led his bearded old buddy to a spare parts warehouse he used to frequent. Using a crowbar, the two pryed off the double locks before throwing open the doors. Inside sat old machinery that Richard had meticulously preserved and maintained.
The old-timer walked in, his eyes falling upon a framed photo hanging on the wall: eight brothers-in-arms, with himself, a black man—standing right at the very front.
"Sigh~ You still got this hanging up?" the old-timer asked softly.
"Everyone else chose to leave that life behind, but yeah... I'm the only one who kept it. Takes me back to the days when the eight of us used to ride out and raise hell together." Richard stood with his hands on his hips.
"It ended a long time ago. Believe me~ There's plenty of folks far better equipped out there than us now. This engine..." The old man ran his palm gently over his classic engine block. "...reminds me of the times I used to drive around with my wife and kid."
Sunlight streamed through the glass, catching his face as a faint smirk formed on his lips. "Hmph."
"Like they say, the old rides we used to drive look like plain junk to the younger generation," the master mechanic told the bearded devil, before the two of them heaved the gleaming, polished engine out of the warehouse together.
Meanwhile, the pink-haired young rider was sitting in the pickup truck bed, eating instant noodles.
THUD!
The heavy weight of the engine landed right in the back, making his truck shake so hard his macaroni and cheese spilled all over the steering wheel.
"Eek! Ugh~ my macaroni and cheese~~!" He frantically tried to scoop it back into the plastic cup, but the sharp honk of the horn jolted him out of it.
BEEP! BEEP!
"Hit the gas, kid!" the master mechanic barked.
The youth slapped his own forehead and stomped on the accelerator. "Fuck! Screw it!"
Twelfth rule: An army marches on its stomach, sure but when duty calls, you ride on an empty stomach.
Country guitar tunes echoed throughout Richard's assembly shop. The three of them worked together to rebuild the silver-white motorcycle, laying down a fresh coat of paint and slapping on a custom decal featuring crossed rifles behind a bull skull. Next, they swapped out the old headlights, replacing the yellowish hue with a sharp, icy blue glow.
"♫ Woah! Guitars, Cadillacs, ♫"
The two middle-aged men bobbed their heads to the rhythm of the country track while wrenches turned. Even though the young street rider had never heard the song in his life, he tapped his fingers along to the beat, munching on a slice of pizza with his free hand.
The old man enlisted the pink-haired kid's help to assemble the new wheels, even though they hadn't even exchanged names yet.
"Hey, I still don't know your name, boy," the old man asked.
"Ben, sir," the innocent-looking youth replied politely.
"Benjamin. Good name. Who gave it to ya, dad or your ma?"
"Both. Honestly, I didn't wanna be out here doing this kind of work, but my mom got laid off three months ago. All because of those damn hassle-causing robots taking over everybody's jobs. Sigh~ it sucks that a sixteen-year-old like me has to step up."
"Things'll settle down eventually, kid. When stuff gets pushed too far, they gotta make adjustments."
"Yeah... So what's your name, pop?"
"Just call me 'Pop'. That's plenty. Sometimes knowing too much ain't worth the trouble." The bearded old devil patted the boy's shoulder.
The three spent half the day putting components together with their bare hands, relying as little as possible on high-tech automation because it made them feel like kids again. Grease and oil stains smeared all over their arms and legs.
In the middle of it all, the black old man clapped his master mechanic buddy on the back. "I want you to take this kid on as an apprentice, Richard. He's a good kid—the kind of youth society actually needs. Benjamin."
"Done. No problem," Richard replied. "From what I've seen, the kid actually knows how to use his hands, not like my former apprentice, who was all talk and no bite."
"Huh?!" Benjamin's jaw dropped. "R-Really?! You serious?!"
Richard shrugged with a smirk. "From experience, whenever my buddy speaks up, he means every word. He don't bullshit, kid."
"To tell ya the truth, boys with a good heart like yours are hard to come by nowadays," the old man chuckled warmly. "You're a damn role model in my book. Ha-ha-ha! Come on, let's toast to our new student!"
The old-timer walked over to the shop's display cabinet and pulled out a fine bottle of wine.
Seeing this, Richard brought out three wine glasses. "Half a glass for you, kid, 'cause sure shit, you ain't twenty."
"Ah... well, okay, that's fair enough." Benjamin held up his glass, watching the rich red wine pour into the bottom.
The old man refused a glass, grabbing the whole bottle instead and clinking it against their elegant stemware.
CLINK!
The three knocked back their drinks in a toast to newfound brotherhood.
When the little celebration wrapped up, the two old friends stepped aside to discuss the old-timer's final mission.
Thirteenth rule: Every good party's gotta come to an end eventually.
"Are you really sure about heading into that rat's nest?" Richard asked, his tone turning serious. "Mueller ain't what it used to be. They're buying up innocent lives for forced labor—desperate folks, the homeless... They force 'em down into underground factories to churn out black-market narcotics until they rot, kids included."
"I don't give a damn about all that. But what he stole from me is far beyond fixing."
"That's all in the past! You can't change what's done! You're gonna get yourself killed if you dare cross 'em!"
"What have I got left to lose?" The old man lit up a cigarette, a cold smirk playing on the corner of his lips.
The head mechanic sighed heavily, reaching over to grab a coil of rope. "I know there's no talking you out of it... Best of luck to you then. Do what you reckon is right." Richard handed the rope over to his old buddy. "Where are you heading after this?"
The old man took off his straw hat and looked up at the setting sun. "Tonight, I'm gonna pay T a little visit."
"You serious? That brain-addled gambling junkie?" Richard scoffed. "That guy's crazier than you are. He's liable to shoot you dead right in his own casino."
"Nah. Just wanna play a hand of poker with an old coworker, that's all. Hmph! Besides, I love pushing the buttons of hot-headed bastards."
The old man called out, "Hey! kid!"
Benjamin, who was standing a short distance away, turned around to listen.
"Reserve a spot for me in that race tomorrow, will ya? I'll be back."
The bearded old devil mounted his brand-new chopper and revved the engine to full power.
VROOM~~ BANG! BANG!
A fiery blast of blue-and-red exhaust flared from the pipes, accompanied by a thunderous roar that echoed across the entire garage. Benjamin nodded, giving a confident thumbs-up.
The old man's chopper whipped around in a tight 180-degree spin and blasted onto the suburban highway at speeds far surpassing anything it could do before.
The Rule That Ain't a Rule: When you get a new toy, you've gotta take it for a spin!
As he sped out of town, the old-timer spotted a group of riders lining up on the open stretch of road for a drag race. Just seconds after they launched off the line, the ground began to tremble beneath them, accompanied by a terrifying, thunderous roar surging from behind.
The silver-white chopper shot right through the middle of the road, forcing two of the racers to throttle down and swerve out of the way, their eyes wide in disbelief.
"Holy mother! It's a damn rocket!!"
Meanwhile, the old-timer raised a single eyebrow and twisted the throttle, accelerating into the desert sunset as he rode on toward the east.