The Death of a Giant

Chapter 6: The Old Mine Road

Surprisingly enough, there was an access to the Old Mine Roadthat led off the main highway I was riding.  TheOld Mine Road was just as I remember it from so many years earlier: decrepit, old, dangerous, and a breeding ground for pain, death, misery and woe.

This was the place for aimless bikers to cause trouble.  This was also a place for one to go looking for it.  I wasn’t looking to be the cause of anything today.  I simply wanted to be left alone.  Though, alone is where I never was.  Trouble came looking for me.  It came looking for me time and time again.  It seemed the whole road was pining for my death.  The rocks themselves silently screamed of vigilant justice.

What was it about the Polecats that drove Ripburger to use us to blame for the death of Malcolm Corley?  More importantly, what was in store for the future of Corley Motors now with Maureen in hiding and Rip in the pilot chair?  It’s more than easy to eliminate a simple biker gang, but it must be even easier to place the blame for an assassination on one.  Nobody would believe me or Antone.

Antone had found some bit of luck and made it to the Polecats’ safehouse.  The rest of them hadn’t been so lucky.  They pleaded innocent to Corley’s death and were still all sentenced to death.  The new, streamlined execution system allowed them a week rather than a few months or years on death row.  I had to prove their innocence in less than a week, now.  How could I come up with viable proof in under a week when it can take less than an hour to fry all ten members of my gang?

My calloused hands tightened around the brake grip as the road bent around a Cliffside.  I then noticed the long, flowing, white hair of my predecessor, Father Torque.  His head made that quick ninety-degree jerk that told me he knew I was coming and his eye caught mine.  He slowed.

“Father Torque,” I shouted above the hum of the twin bike motors.  We both slowed immensely to eliminate most of the chatter from the cylinders.

“Hey Ben, how’s my gang doing?”  His eyes were warm and comforting.  My breath caught in my throat when I noticed the clear oxygen tube snaking its way up his jacket and penetrating his nostrils.

“Not good, Father.  I came to talk to you.  But first…”  I motioned to the metal, flamethrower-esque tank affixed to his back.

“I guess those cigars finally caught up with me, Ben.  Thought I paid my dues already.  Lord works in mysterious ways, I suppose.  You don’t still smoke them, do you?”

“No.  Of course not, Father.”  The cigar in my jacket suddenly felt about fifty times heavier.  I changed the subject.  “Father, I need help.  Guidance, I suppose.  I think I’m in over my head, Father.”

“Cut the damn foreplay, son.  Get to the point.”

“Here it is:  the gang’s in prison.  Death Row.  I’m a wanted man.  Malcolm Corley is dead and the Polecats are being framed for his murder.  His only kid, a woman named Maureen, helped bring my bike back to life after an accident with nothing more to ask for other than the labor to find the parts I needed.  Now, this same woman who I once respected more than my own bike, fears me.  She is scared to death of me, Father.  Now I can’t get her.  I think she’s with the Vultures now.  Hell, Father, I’m lost.”

Father Torque’s eyes lost their warmth for a moment, “Ben?  Polecat legend?  Lost?  Impossible.  I don’t buy that for a minute.  Ben, you’re the strongest guy I’ve ever met.  You don’t get lost, Ben.  Not you.  You don’t get lost.  You’ve only lost yourself.”

“Lost myself?  What are you talking about, Torque?” I hated when he pulled that cryptic head-case bullshit.  The road led down a winding path between two huge cliff-side faces.  The sunlight disappeared.