He sat alone at a booth watching the bar. A beer bottle, coated in perspiration sat before him, like an obedient hound. His eyes flicked along the bar looking for a likely mark, someone who fit the 'type' perfectly. It was the only way to make it work.

He sighed in frustration. It was nearing midnight and he hadn't found the right kind of poor sap yet.

He wanted it. Fuck. He needed it. The thrill. The rush. He loved finding the perfect mark. It wasn't anything perverse or sexual. It was just good, clean fun. The kind that left him with a high that lasted almost all week. Sweet, precious time he savored and languished in as much as he could.

He took a deep breath through his nose and let the long sigh out over the top of his beer. Thirty more minutes and he'd give it up for the night. Find some kind of solace in a woman's cunt. He was charming, suave, enticing. It could, would happen, almost without effort. However, this, this was different, a different kind of solace.

He scanned the bar again and sat up sharply. There, just next to the vivacious blonde in the green dress, was his mark. He could, fuck, he would have her without a thought, but for them them to be next to one another was sheer fortune. The man was perfect! No more than five foot seven with shoulder's stooped by hours of soul-crushing office labor. The mark's dishwater blonde hair hung in lank waves over his skull. His eyes held the sunken look of an office flunky but there, just barely, had the snap, the fire of one last good throw down. His eyes scanned the mark's cheap suit, undoubtedly the best he could buy as a bottom-of-the-heap accountant or whatever the fuck he was.

He sighed deeply; this was exactly what he needed. He took one last pull from his beer, wincing, it had warmed while he waited. When he rose to his feet, a few people cautiously noted it. Over six feet tall, dressed in a biker's leathers, he cut an imposing figure. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder and pushed his knuckles on his chin, enjoying the satisfying click of his joints. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms like a boxer prepping for a fight. It was go time.

His boots thudded solidly on the concrete floor as he strode to his mark at the bar. The sharp tang of wet concrete tickled his nose as he wondered why a little man like his mark would possibly visit this kind of bar.

Kubla Khan's, despite is high and fancy sounding name, was a dirty biker bar sixteen miles south of the main drag. Its cavernous expanses held many a woman whose beauty was measureless to man, but it remained a dirty biker bar.

"Damn, a dude like you should be able to find whatever he pleasures," another leather clad, dirty man said to him as he passed. The man didn't want trouble; he merely wanted to pay his respect to a fellow badass as he passed by on his way to conquest.

"White Mare," he told the bartender, knowing that the man knew how to mix it just right. Neither man made eye contact during the exchange of money for booze, knowing better than to disrupt such a beautiful ritual as drink with petty details like human interaction.

He sidled up to his mark as he took a long pull from his drink, deliberately bumping his arm.