The Parable of the Good Biker

The wind parted his beard, pushing it against his face and making it flap on either side of his head. His long brown hair billowed from under his helmet like a cape. The growl of his bike's engine, and those of fifteen others surrounding him, filled his ears. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back. Staring along the empty road that fizzled in the distance, he narrowed his eyes. He revved, speeding ahead, snaking the yellow line. Bushes zipped by while large plateaus in the distance seemed to grow. He sat up, feeling the wind against his chest. He grinned. 

"Be careful, Paul!" Mike pulled up beside him. "You don't want to lose any of your--"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Paul shrugged him off, but he straightened out. Newbies. 

Paul pulled up behind Martha. He surveyed her thin waist, trying to hide beneath her leather jacket, and down her rounded hips. He purred thinking about the night ahead. No sooner has that thought crossed his mind when Mr. Hunk drove past, giving Paul a side dish of beefy thighs. Kind of like Peter's. He shook his head to get rid of that image. 

Staring over Simon's mountainous arms, something in the dust caught Paul's attention. He squinted ahead to see a bloody body left by the side of the road. The face was turned away. Cackling, Paul whipped out his pistol from under his jacket and pointed it the brown heap. But he didn't pull the trigger. Something felt off. He didn't realize he was slowing down until the air from the other bikes zipping by caught his attention. He looked ahead at his gang. But he could not get himself to engage the throttle, either. Cursing, he spun his bike around and pulled off. 

He kicked the stand and dismounted, fingering his pistol. He watched the body for any flash of metal, knife or gun. The dark chest rose and fell rapidly. Black hair was matted from where blood had dried and sand now stuck. The air was metallic. Gingerly, Paul grasped the shoulder and turned the person over. The man began shaking. The only material covering any part of his body was around the man's eyes. Paul tore it off, and they were wild, dilated, and red. The man licked his lips, trying to wet them enough to speak. Both of his legs were at weird angles, and there were multiple dark patches on his chest. There were no bags in the dirt or anything to give a clue as to the man's identity. 

The sound of a stampede grew louder until fifteen bikes circled the two men. "What the devil are you doing, Paul?" Martha asked. 

"He wants to help a Mexican." Simon jeered. 

"I could shoot him." Mike leveled his shotgun at the man on the ground. "Get rid of him so we can finish the drop."

"Wait!" Paul positioned himself between Mike and the man. He fingered his upper chest. "I'm going to take him somewhere." He didn't know why he was saying this. 

"Where?" Simon asked.

"There's a church up ahead. There must be someone there."

Martha rolled her eyes. "If you are going to play priest, then you are out of this run. Give your load to Mike, and he will get your share of the profit."

Paul glared but walked over to his bike, black against the light landscape. He opened the back and transferred the white bricks to Mike's. As quick as they had come, the gang was gone, shrinking and laughing into the distance ahead. 

"Well, then." Paul looked at the man in the dust, still shaking. "I'm out five grand thanks to you. I have no food, but I can give you this." He grabbed his flask and trickled some water into the man's lips. 

"Priest, priest." The man gasped. 

"Good try, but not anymore. Let's start with your name."

"Jesús."