Chapter 2: Calm Before the Storm

Date line: Baron's Head

As jaded as this land has forced me to be, from time to time some things still genuinely surprise me. Last evening as I entered a hole-in-the-desert bar with a parking lot full of motorcycles, the last thing I expected to be a part of was a religious experience. Religious is questionable, but the people I met were definitely an experience. I entered expecting a fight. Bikers are notoriously territorial, especially of their watering holes. After the come-on/grope session that has become sort of a tradition in these parts, I came up against something truly surprising. It wasn't the beer; I still haven't found an American beer that does not taste like watered down urine. It wasn't the food; it tasted like sawdust. It was a sermon about biking, complete with a congregation and the occasional 'amen'. The local gang leader, with the questionable name of 'Ben Polecat', which he surely wasn't born with, read me the holy writ of motor cycling. That writ is motorcycles, or more precisely, Corley Motors motorcycles. If I can remember his wording correctly 'A Corley has soul, any other bike is just a piece of metal.'

I find it fascinating that these people, who probably don't know what the Magna Carta is or when it was signed, or know the birth date of George Washington, were able to identify the year of my bike at a glance as well as give me a run down of the nationality of its parts, and a brief company history. It would not surprise me if they all had lap top computers with stock portfolios-with only one stock. After saying all this I must congratulate Corley Motors, not only for instilling such fierce customer loyalty, but for seemingly also creating a way of life.

Lara scanned over what she had just written before smiling briefly and uploading it to her editor in London. It wasn't a bad first draft. Her editor would probably axe half of it and send a mangled, unrecognizable version of it back to her tonight to 'correct'. She had learned not to take it personally. It was just that no one in the blasted newspaper community knew good writing if it bit them in the arse, that was all. She pushed her lap top computer away from her and lay back on the bed that she had been sitting cross legged on.

For a moment last evening she was sure that everything was going to break into violence. It wouldn't have been the first time. Perhaps she had been a bit flip with that biker and his hands, but she had always been a creature of the moment. Some things just felt right when they happened, like that did, consequences be damned. Despite what Mr. Polecat (surely he hadn't been born with that name) had said, she knew that she could have come out of the situation intact. She wasn't silly enough to start gunning down bikers in their own bar, but a show of force, of balls to coin the American term, was essential. If they didn't think that she was capable of drawing and using her guns then they would have walked all over her.

Still, all in all, the evening had passed peaceably enough. The leader, Polecat, had been tougher than she had expected. There was iron in that man. He had been through a great deal in his life, but still was calm enough to extend the peace. He had even offered to protect her, for a fee of course. It was sort of charming in a chauvinistic way. Still, there was something about the man. She was sure that they would meet again.

With a sigh she rolled out of the bed and into the shower, taking her gun belt in the washroom with her. She had learned that it was wise to be forearmed in this land-in fact in any land. Or to coin another American phrase 'your not paranoid when you know they're out to get you'.

Both weapons, Browning HP-35 Mk3's, were loaded with a round in the chamber. It was an act of questionable safety, but Lara cared for them well and did not often have the time to charge the weapons before using them.

She had ridden into the small town of Baron's Head late last evening, two hours after leaving the charming company of the Polecats. Currently she was the sole occupant of the 'Baron's Head Hotel'. The owner of the place, and apparently its only employee, was a feisty woman in her mid 40's named Flo whom Lara had taken a liking to immediately. The paint in her room was faded and cracked, the sheets were old, the sink and tub were rusty, and the hot water was temperamental at best. Still, it was luxurious compared to some of the hostels and dives that she had stayed in during the last few weeks.

After a short shower using the last of her herbal shampoo—the dry desert air was hell on her hair—Lara dressed in the same shorts and tank top that had gone with her to hell—or was that the depths of Atlantis?—and back. The were worn in a few places and had a few holes in them, but were comforting in their familiarity. She didn't plan to do any riding today, so the brief attire would do just fine. Lara had always been a sun worshipper and used strong sun block as a grudging concession to the severely depleted ozone layer. As she began the lengthy process of braiding her hair, she switched on the radio. It was playing a truly awful country song that had apparently been on the charts for a while. It was about a man who was happy about being the last man on Earth, because he could finally kiss his lady love. She shook her head in disgust. Only in America.

The sun was about ¼ of the way up as she walked downstairs. Flo was sitting behind the counter reading an E-zine. "Hey, honey," she called out in her thick Texas twang as she continued to recline against the counter. "I owe you a breakfast. I can make you some bacon and eggs."

Ugh. Americans ate too much grease. "Could I just have coffee and toast, please?" Lara asked politely as she surveyed the area. No other vehicles in the parking lot or the road, and no one else in the lobby.

"Sure, honey, if you like." Said Flo as she tossed the E-zine to the counter and moved to the door labelled 'Employee's only.' Flo had obviously been a beautiful lady once, but time and gravity had taken their toll. Her hair was an obviously artificial shade of red and Lara was sure that her cleavage was somewhat enhanced. She reeked of cheap perfume and wore far too much makeup. Still, she was a sweet lady behind those old tired eyes. Lara liked her. "I make great bacon and eggs, though." She called out.

Lara was still surveying the area through the main window. "No, thank you." She said absently as she watched a building that looked to be an auto garage. There were a number of bikes parked in front of the place.

Flo clucked as she went back into the kitchen. "Your loss, honey."

The town of Baron's Head looked even more tired and shabby by day light, and that was hard to do. It had looked pretty sad when she had first ridden in. Two out of three buildings were obviously abandoned. Any glass visible was cracked and covered in a steel cage. There were various forms of graffiti, some gang signatures (she recognized the Polecat's crest at one point) and others were just the results of restless youth. Street lights were bent and dented, or just removed entirely. There seemed to be no active trash removal system. Abandoned and stripped cars sat about, awaiting decent burial, vying for space with old boxes and newspapers. She reflected again on the sadness of it all as Flo came back into the room. "Breakfast's ready, honey. You'll have to come back here to get it though." She popped her head back into the kitchen.

For a moment Lara contrasted this to her pampered life with her father and smiled. In every way, except perhaps for the freshness of the bread, Lara far preferred this. It was more honest. She walked into the kitchen where Flo had turned what looked to have been the employee lounge into a small dining nook. Steaming coffee in a chipped mug sat next to some fresh toast and margarine. Flo sat on the other side of the table, drinking coffee and leaving lipstick smudges on the cup. She chatted about men, the desert, and men as Lara ate.

Lara spread what turned out to be soy-spread on her toast in silence, pleased that in this culinarily challenged corner of the world that they still couldn't screw up toasted bread. Butter, or even margarine would have been nice, though.

"I thought all you English types drank tea." Flo said around her coffee.

"I used to," said Lara as she sipped her coffee, "but I've been travelling for quite a number of years and have gotten quite hooked, I'm afraid. I find I need that jolt that coffee brings to get up in the morning." She a bite of toast. It tasted a bit old, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "I still drink tea in the afternoons, though."

"I ain't got none, honey. I hope you know that."

Lara smiled. "No worry, Flo. I brought my own supply."

The lady laughed. "You're real prepared." She paused and looked at Lara. "What's a broad like you doing here in Baron's Head anyway?"

Lara lifted her eye brows. "A broad like me?" The word didn't seem right coming from her mouth.

Flo didn't seem to notice. "Yah, like you. Gorgeous like a Holowood star, muscles like Miss Universe and armed like Rambo." Lara chuckled at the imagery. "You ride a Corley, but you don't look or act like a biker chick."

"And what do I act like?" Lara asked, amused. She sipped her coffee.

"Well, shoot, you know." She gestured with her hands. Unfortunately, she still held the coffee cup, which sloshed. Lara quickly moved her toast out of harms way.

"That accent, those manners. Like the queen or something."

"Well I'm not the queen. I used to be a Lord's daughter, but he disowned me."

Flo was shocked. "Disowned you? What the hell for?"

"Being armed like Rambo, muscled like Miss Universe and acting like Indiana Jones." Lara said with a straight face. "He felt it wasn't a proper way for a lady to act."

"No shit! What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm writing a series of articles about the New West. I look for what's interesting and dangerous."

"No shit!" Flo repeated.

"No shit." Lara agreed.

"Is that what your looking for in Baron's Head? Trouble?" She gave Lara a worried look.

"Yes, but I prefer to observe it from a distance when possible."

"About the only place in town that's anything is the local watering hole, The Horny Bull."

"Charming name." Lara commented.

"Yeah, well, anything interesting in this town's gonna happen there. If you want dangerous, that's the place, too. All the bikers hang out there, too. You might want to steer clear of them." Flo warned.

"I've met some." Lara informed her. "I think that I can handle them."

"You did, honey? Who?"

"The Polecats."

Flo cackled. "Ben?" Her voice was almost a shriek. "Now there is a hunk of man. Those shoulders, that jaw." Her eyes were bright. "I'll ride on his handlebars any time." She paused. "Shoot, honey, him and his gang are a bunch of pussy cats. They like to drive hard, get in a fight every now and then and growl a lot, but they are tame compared to some of the bad asses that ride in this desert. Why, shoot, there are some that would just as soon shoot you as look at you."

"I've met some of those types, too." Lara said quietly, thinking of the man she had sat beside two days ago. "Thank you for your concern, Flo, but I can take care of myself." Lara wiped her hands on a napkin and stood. "Thank you for breakfast, Flo. it was wonderful."

Flo snorted and shook her head. "It wasn't very much, honey. If you want to mess it up with the bad boys, go right ahead." She stood also and gathered up breakfast dishes. "Don't say old Flo didn't warn you." She began to turn away, but stopped. "But, honey?"

Lara paused and looked back. "Yes?"

"There is some new bruiser in town who is down right evil. Goes by the name of Gunny. They say he's truly bad-ass and is recruiting for some new gang. Stay clear of him, whatever you do." She turned away and placed the dishes in the sink.

"Thank you. I'll be careful."

Flo gave some sort of 'mm-hmm' as Lara left the kitchen. The garage across the street peaked her interest.

A name, 'Mike's', was spray painted over the door.