Razor Ray's Last Ride Part Two of Four Parts Fiction By Dave "Phantom" Nichols with special thanks to Aaron Smith, whose actual nightmare inspired this story, and to the real-life road devil known as Razor Ray. Razor snapped back to the reality of the moment. He looked up at the cracked orange paint and the flaming letters, which proclaimed CYPHER'S CYCLES. The Panhead was still in the window whispering it's unholy promises to whoever happened by. Ray took a deep breath and walked in. The shop seemed to slump under its own weight. Damp boxes in the back seemed carefully designed to breed rats, cobwebs held mummified insect remains in an eternal embrace, and the air smelled of bad gas and urine. The shop's owner stepped into the front room from whatever hellish catacombs exist at the back of the building and smiled a shark's grin. "Knew you'd be back," he hissed. "I can always tell." Cypher licked his lips as Ray pulled out the wad of bills. A Cheshire cat smile washed across Ray's face, "Go ahead and count it if you like." The shop owner counted the first two grand before Razor interrupted him on purpose. "I'd like to see the paperwork now, if you don't mind." Cypher tucked the bills in his back pocket as Ray knew he would and made his troll-like way to the shop's grimy office, "Be right back, make yourself to home." Not only did Razor make himself to home; he reached around a dusty display case a nabbed a key ring adorned with a silver skull to go with his new bike. He patted the hidden pocket inside his vest, smiling at the five hundred dead presidents he had just stiffed Cypher out of. Rolling the chopper out into the sunlight caused a million tiny rainbows to reflect in the metalflake paint and explode in Razor's mind. Each one spoke to him saying, "I'll be good to you Ray, we're going to be great together." Touching the bike's tank was like running your hand over a woman's ass. Ray couldn't help but gasp as his body became aroused as if the scoot was a hot bitch. His hand touched the silver skull shifter and from his point of view he didn't notice the ruby eyes glowing in response. He glanced at the odometer on the tiny chromed speedo between the apes. She only had 13 miles on her clock. Razor opened the tank to discover a full tank of gas before priming the bike. Flicking the ignition switch to on, Ray turned out the petal and came down with one smooth kick. She coughed and then...nothing. Razor looked up to notice Cypher staring at him from the window of the shop. Suddenly behind Ray, the bike coughed again and then thunder erupted from the fishtails and echoed off industrial buildings. Down the street, a junkyard dog ran off with it's tail between it's legs. Ray turned around and stared at the bike, his mouth agape with wonder. It sat idling sweetly, it's steady loping rhythm saying, "let's go, let's go!" Razor looked back at Cypher but the troll had disappeared from the window. Ray sat down in the perfectly sculpted saddle. He felt invincible. As he clicked the bike into first with a solid "thunk" and blasted off towards the freeway, Louis Cypher placed a weathered CLOSED sign on his door and locked it. Much has been written about the love affair of man and machine and much has been speculated on about the strange feeling that overcomes a biker when piloting his sled. It is as if a heart is beating within the bike's metal breast and the machine is somehow alive; a vibrant beast chained to your will, doing your bidding. Some liken the experience to that of being a modern Minotaur , half-man, half-machine, and all the way alive! You have but to think your intent and the bike makes the move for you, incredibly fast, agile, and monstrous. All Razor knew was that he had never in all his 36 years of life on this planet felt more awake. Not even a double dose of his bro Buzzard's best crank could beat this stone cold rush. The Panhead became a blur in the afternoon traffic, slicing and splitting lanes like a meat ax through intestines. With every new mile on the bike's odometer, Ray felt stronger and more awake; a screaming demon on the devil's own ride. He took the off ramp onto San Fernando Road in Burbank and headed to one of his favorite watering holes. He knew a few of his brothers would be hangin' out, shooting pool, and eyein' tail. The Panhead slowed in front of the Whisky Bend and Ray turned off the ignition. The chromed jiffy stand seemed to spring out on its own in anticipation of its master's wishes. Razor grinned and leaned the bike over. He adjusted his narrow shades and listened to the hot motor tick, knowing that any biker in the joint would be walking out any minute at the sound of the bike pulling up. Sure enough, Red stepped to the door first, a pool cue in one hand and a beer in the other. Kane was right behind him. Both men's faces went slack at the sight of the long chop. Puzzled wonder turned to warm smiles as the bros scampered out of the tavern and attacked Ray in a pirate sandwich bear hug. "Holy shit, brother!" Kane laughed, "If this ain't one fine piece of iron!" The big man walked slowly around the bike admiring every custom inch of craftsmanship. Red still had a hold of Ray's cutoff. "Well, you said it was a righteous ride. Guess you'll want to lead the friggin' pack now." Pride bubbled up inside Ray like the nectar of the gods. He clicked a disc lock on the front PM rotor and sauntered into the bar feeling bigger than life. A small voice tugged at the back of Razor's mind. "Don't be long," it said. Four hours later, a dozen more bikes lined the sidewalk in front of the tavern. Inside, Ray was rattling off the punch line of his favorite joke, "So the snake says to the poor dyin' prospector, 'you knew I was a snake when you brought me in here!'" Red laughed out loud in his best imitation of a drunk Viking. Kane sat a few stools down, shaking his head. He had heard the story a few times too many. "I say that new scoot of yours needs a shake down cruise, bro," Kane rasped before downing another shot. Red tried to focus on Razor with only partial success. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely!" he slurred. "But don't you still have to stay within the county lines to honor your parole?" Ray took a long pull from his brew and gave the brothers his best dazzling smile. "The way I figure it, I've been a model parolee for ten gawd-damned months. I wanna go for a ride and my P.O. can eat me!" Ray stood up from his stool and it fell over behind him. "In fact, I feel like a nice long ride right now!" The bar erupted in ragged approval as Ray sauntered out into the night feeling powerful and, well...evil. The Panhead sat like a faithful steed, ever patient and awaiting his pleasure. Razor was fumbling with the lock on the front brake rotor when the bike's headlight came on... all by itself. "What the..." he stammered, jumping into a drunken fighting stance. "Who the fuck is fuckin' with my bike?" he hollered. No one answered Ray back from the darkness. The only sound was raucous laughter from inside the bar mixed with a George Jones tune on the juke box and the smack of pool balls hitting together. Ray stared hard at the bike. "Fuck it, let's ride!" he yelled, not noticing in his intoxicated state that the bike started itself. The night was a wild black beast and Ray was its lord and master. He felt more invincible than ever aboard the ruby Panhead. The pulse of the engine became his pulse, the thump of the pistons, the beating of his heart. Ray twisted the grip and the bike shot into the night, blasting down the sparse midnight freeway. The steady drone of the engine lured Razor into a half-waking, half-dreaming state. He imagined himself and the bike as one nocturnal predator, hunting some pathetic creature. A pathetic rabbit like Vickie to sink his fangs in. Razor imagined ripping out her throat and drinking her hot blood. He imagined gutting her and howling at the full moon. He imagined dark red blood like the color of his Panhead, smeared on her lily white ass. "Vickie IS a rabbit", he thought. "A pathetic little bunny and I'm the big bad wolf!" Ray laughed above the roar of the pipes. "Little pig, little pig....let me in!" he screamed with laughter. "Or I'll huff...and I'll PUFF..." Suddenly a blur of white flew in front of Ray like a ghost in the night. His eyes focused on a dull white, rumpled Chevy Nova that had wandered into his lane of traffic. Rather than panic, Ray's grin broadened into a vicious snarl, "Ahh, a sheep!" he hissed. The Panhead reacted before Ray could, dodging the car and gliding up next to the driver's side window. Razor smiled sweetly at the young blonde woman inside. She looked tragically hip with her too trendy haircut, her pathetic nose ring and shaved eyebrows. A cigarette dangled from her pouting mouth completing the effect of total brain death. The girl looked over at Ray with stoned blandness, her features morphing into something like half interest before settling into mild annoyance. Ray could see her mouth the words, "Fuck off!", offering a wimpy up-raised middle finger to the biker. At once the bike twisted under Razor's hands without his command and slammed into the driver's door. Sparks shot up from the crimson paint but the bike seemed completely undamaged. The car's door, on the other hand, looked like crumpled paper. "What the hell?" Ray managed as the bike prepared for another lunge. He was able to pull his right leg out of the way half a second before the Pan smashed into the door again. "Shit!" he screamed, "What is this?" The bike veered off again preparing to ram the car once more. The little lamb in the Nova tried to hold the wheel but the attack had come so suddenly that she had dropped her cigarette into her steamy little crotch. The burning sensation caused one hand to flail at her twat while the other fought for the wheel. The Panhead seemed to take advantage of the opening and lunged again as the ruby eyes on the chrome skull shifter glowed bright and the bike smashed into the car with rabid fury! More sparks lit up the night and metal groaned! Still the Panhead came away miraculously impervious to the assault. Part Three.... Back to Bandit's Fiction Page.... |
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