Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Epilogue

“Whenever I smell asphalt, I think of Maureen. That’s the last sensation I had before I blacked out: the thick smell of asphalt. And the first thing I saw when I woke up was her face. She said she’d fix my bike. Free. No strings attached. I should have known then that things are never that simple. Yeah, when I think of Maureen, I think of two things: asphalt...and trouble.”

“Ripburger, you’re dumber than dirt!”

Malcolm Corley was not having a good day. First there was the shareholders’ meeting that evening, then there was the news media hounding him about “changes” at Corley Motors, and then...well, then there was Adrian Ripburger, the rather upstart vice-president of Corley Motors.

“Mr. Corley,” Ripburger said smoothly, trying to suppress a chuckle, “if you’d only listen to my plan, my vision...”

“I know your plan, Ripburger,” Corley snapped back. A sudden chill had come over the limo--and it wasn’t from the air conditioning. “You’re waitin’ for me to die so you can take over my company!”

Ripburger chuckled, knitting his thick black eyebrows together in expression of concern. “Oh, sir, that’s horrible! I am not waiting for you to die!” He tried to add a little compassion into his voice, but his high class, faintly cultured accent only made him sound cold and distant.

Corley sniffed. Can’t even talk English! Hmmph! He frowned and looked down at the man over his nose, doing his best to look intimidating--despite the fact that Ripburger was easily half a foot taller than him, even when seated. “You know I’ve never liked you, Rip...but you have business know-how and killer instincts that I respect!”

“Why, thank you, sir...”

“But this latest idea a’yours...” He shook his head, his frown deepening. “Ridin’ up to our shareholders’ meeting with a gang of bikers? Who do you think you’re foolin’?”

“The shareholders, sir,” Ripburger answered calmly, not missing a beat. “It’s good PR to be seen...hobnobbing with real Corley Motors customers.”

Corley scratched his gray hair. It had been black once, but then he’d met Ripburger. “What d’you know about our customers, Adrian? You’ve never even been on a bike!”

Ripburger, of course, had a response ready for everything. “Well, you know I’d be on one right now, sir, if it weren’t for my destabilizing inner-ear condition...” He pulled his long face into a perfect picture of depression. Corley wasn’t buying one second of it.

“Aw, your ears are fine! It’s what’s between them that scares me!”

Corley sat back, quite pleased with himself. It wasn’t every day he got the last word in on one of their arguments. He intended to savor the moment.

Maybe it would be a good day after all.

Ripburger, meanwhile, was distracted by a peculiar roaring noise. It appeared to be coming from behind them. Most likely it was the hover lifts--he’d have to remember to have them looked at the next time the limo went into the shop.

The biker gang was on top of them before they knew it--literally. Though most of them just went around either side of the limo, a few flashing obscene gestures as they went, one didn’t feel like going around. So he went over.

Flying wedges were dangerous, but this guy seemed to have all the skill--or all the luck--in the world. He executed a perfect jump up onto the back of the limo, then rode up and over the roof...and then landed hard on the hood, smashing the cherub hood ornament as he bounced back onto the road.

Ripburger watched the bikers ride off with a vaguely dazed expression, still trying to figure out exactly what had happened. But Malcolm Corley reacted immediately, rolling down the window and leaning out, trying to get a better view of them.

He knew that bike. One of the best model years of the post-war Corleys, she was, and it looked like she’d been well taken care of. Corley had no idea who those bikers were...but they suddenly made Ripburger’s plan seem a little more appetizing.

“Now there go some boys I could ride with!” he yelled to the driver. “Step on it! Let’s find out who they are!”

The Kickstand was one of those places people went when they had something they wanted to forget, usually by drinking themselves under a table. The Old West-style bar sat along Highway 9, exactly in the middle of nowhere and a good ride from the nearest town. People never stopped if they didn’t mean to--but then, people rarely stopped in the first place.

Despite that, though, there were more than a few ruts worn into the dirt outside--ruts made by the wheels of bikes. More specifically, the bikes were Corleys, well-kept and well-tuned. The same well-tuned bikes that were now parked beside the bar, their riders inside.

The Kickstand wasn’t just in the middle of nowhere--it was in the middle of Polecat territory.

The Polecats were more than happy to make themselves to home inside the bar, drinking, arm-wrestling, and piano-playing as long as they felt like it. Or until they all passed out, whichever came first.

But at the bar, two men weren’t carousing or otherwise causing as much noise as possible. The first, a tall black man named Darrel, was just watching the festivities with a worried air about him. He had to admit, the gang deserved a break--especially after that last caper back down the road, which had resulted in the issuing of a few warrants--but something about this didn’t sit quite right with him. Sighing, Darrel pushed himself away from the bar and turned to face the second man who wasn’t celebrating their latest stunts.

He was tall--taller than Darrel, even--with broad shoulders and a day’s worth of stubble on his strong, almost square jaw. He wore a leather jacket with the Polecats’ insignia on the back, a tan t-shirt that almost blended in with his skin, and a pair of khaki pants with patches on both knees. His thick eyebrows had knitted themselves together above his dark eyes. A piece of a gold angel’s wing was stuck in his faintly styled, more than a little windblown black hair.

“Hey, Ben?”

Ben didn’t take his eyes off his glass of whiskey. He’d ordered it twenty minutes ago and hadn’t taken a drink yet. Instead, he was staring at it. But he did offer Darrel a quiet “Hmm.”

“You know Ben,” Darrel continued, “we’re broke.” And, he wanted to add, if the law bothered to catch up with them, they wouldn’t be posting bail any time soon. Ben interrupted him with a glance his way and another tight-lipped response.

“Yeah?”

“And if some cash doesn’t come our way soon, we’re in big trouble.”

Ben only turned back to his shotglass with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “Relax. I have a feeling something’s coming our way.” His voice, which seemed to have been deepened and thickened by years spent out on the road, breathing exhaust and asphalt, remained calm and emotionless. “Something big.”

When the Corley limo pulled up in front of the Kickstand, it almost took up the entirety of the drive. It came to a stop with a quiet hiss and a settling of the hoverfans just as Corley turned to his business partner.

“Eh, you’d better stay out here, Rip.” He motioned to the Kickstand with a chuckle. “This place is ‘Bikers Only.’”

Ripburger had no objection to that, so Corley got out of the limo and, without hesitating, pushed the Kickstand’s door open. “All right,” he announced, grinning a little as everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him, “who’s the guy that drove over my car?”

Ben finally looked away from his shotglass, his eyes focusing on Corley.

Ripburger sighed, frowning at the Kickstand’s now-closed door. “What could possibly be taking so long?”

“Maybe Old Man Corley got himself in trouble,” Bolus suggested from the front passenger-side seat.

“Yeah,” the driver, Nestor, added. “Maybe they took the old guy out back and worked him over with a two-by-four!”

“Hmm...an appealing notion, but...improbable. More likely he’s boring them to death with some tale of the ‘glory days.’” Ripburger rolled his eyes and checked his pocketwatch. They were behind schedule. It looked as if he’d have to go inside after all.

Wonderful.

Ben hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time--his sides were practically aching. “But Malcolm,” he finally managed, “isn’t that illegal?”

Corley grinned and offered him a knowing look. “Not back then it wasn’t!” They both broke out laughing again.

Taking another drink of whiskey, Ben collected himself enough to ask, “So who do you ride with these days?”

“He rides with me,” a voice from the doorway answered. Ben looked over Corley’s shoulder and found himself looking at one Adrian Ripburger. Ripburger was standing straight and tall despite the cane he was using, and his long, expressionless face and neatly combed and parted gray hair didn’t fit in at all with the Kickstand’s usual clientele. Something about him--likely the fact that he was wearing a suit--didn’t sit well with Ben. “Although,” Ripburger continued smoothly, “I’m sure he’d much rather be riding with your little club.”

“I told you to wait out in the limo, Ripburger!” Corley snapped, not having any of it.

“I thought you might like some help with your sales pitch, sir,” he answered.

Ben jumped into the conversation with an annoyed, “Sales pitch?” He looked to Corley for an answer, but it was Ripburger who answered first.

“Yes,” he said, “we have come here today to offer you and your men employment. Mr. Corley requires an escort to the annual Corley Motors shareholders’ meeting.”

Ben’s hand tightened around his glass. “Does this look like an escort service to you?” he asked lowly.

Ripburger, either missing the dangerous tone in Ben’s voice or choosing to ignore it, simply continued with the pitch. “You would be well compensated for your time, of course.”

“Not interested.”

Ripburger took a look at their dingy surroundings and had to work hard to keep the sneer off his face. “It’s, ah, fairly obvious that you could use the money...”

Ben set his glass down and stood up slowly, though he continued to keep his back to Ripburger. “Listen,” he said, trying to spell it out for him, “I said we’re not for rent. The Polecats are not goons for hire.”

“Not even if it were...Malcolm Corley’s dying wish?”

That set Ben back on his heels, but Corley’s response was immediate. “RIPBURGER!” he bellowed, slamming his hand down on the bar so hard the wood almost splintered. “That does it! I’m gonna--”

“Hold on there, Malcolm,” Ben interrupted. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have in front of his gang. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to step outside with Mr. Ripburger for a little chat.” And punch him in the face, if necessary.

“Excellent idea,” Ripburger said, smiling faintly. Without waiting for Ben, he turned and limped out of the bar. He started around the Kickstand’s porch towards the back, but stopped along the way as the limo’s passenger side window rolled down just enough to reveal Bolus’s narrow eyes. Ripburger nodded to him, then continued on his way. Ben appeared a few seconds later and followed Ripburger back around the side of the bar.

He listened to the whole story with his arms folded across his chest, even though Ripburger made a compelling case that only seemed to get worse as he went on. Finally, he finished with a sad-sounding, “...and the doctor says he only has a few months to live.”

“That’s bad news for all of us,” Ben said, frowning. It was starting to seem like one rotten thing after another, these days. “He’s not just a nice guy...he’s also the last motorcycle maker in the country. What happens to Corley Motors if he dies?”

“Don’t worry,” Ripburger replied demurely, “I have a plan. And if you come to the shareholders’ meeting with us...you’ll find out what it is.”

Ben only shook his head again--he should’ve known that this would all circle back to the sales pitch. “No dice, Ripburger. The Polecats are not thugs for rent. If you want to buy muscle, you should go find the Rottwheelers.”

Ripburger sighed. “The old man says it’s the Polecats are nothing.”

“Then I guess it’ll have to be nothing,” Ben answered flatly.

“Hmm...” Ripburger raised his eyebrows. “And that’s your...last word?”

“That’s it.”

“Well, I’d like to make you just one final offer...”

The plank smashed into the back of Ben’s head before he even knew what was happening. He hit the ground hard and didn’t move. Ripburger pulled out his pocketwatch and checked it--this little incident was going to set them back an hour or so. He sighed, then looked at the two men who had snuck up behind Ben unawares.

“Bolus, take this coat and go get his motorcycle. We’ll have to tie up this little two hundred pound loose end.” He chuckled, poking Ben in the back with his cane. “It will need to look like an accident.”

Nestor and Bolus swiftly pulled Ben’s jacket off and heaved him into the nearby dumpster, slamming the lid shut. Bolus tugged Ben’s jacket on--it was a tight fit, especially around the waist--and fished around in the pockets until he came up with the keys to Ben’s bike. Then he disappeared around the front while Nestor headed back to the limo and Ripburger slowly made his way back to the Kickstand’s front door.

Meanwhile, life inside the bar had resumed its normal pace. Darrel was still standing apart from the other Polecats, though, this time listening to Corley’s side of the story. He had a feeling it was something he needed to know, something Ben would want to hear about when he got back.

“That stuffed shirt actually thinks I’ll leave him in control of Corley Motors when I go,” Corley told him, jerking a thumb towards the door. “Boy, is he in for a surprise!”

Darrel was about to ask exactly what Corley meant by that when a tall, dark-haired figure wearing a familiar leather jacket and riding Ben’s bike disappeared off down the road to the east, leaving a trail of dust behind him. Darrel and the rest of the Polecats watched him go.

“Hey! Where’s Ben goin’?” Darrel didn’t think his conversation with Ripburger could have gone that badly, and if something was up, Ben would’ve let the rest of them know.

Ripburger stepped into the doorframe and, smiling, calmly answered Darrel’s question. “Your colleague has decided to accept our generous offer after all. As a matter of fact, he’s gone on ahead to scout out the route.”

Darrel blinked. He didn’t think that Ben’s talk with Ripburger could’ve gone that well, either. “He did?”

“Well, then...” Corley jumped up from his seat, not giving Darrel a chance to ask Ripburger any more questions. “Let’s roll ‘em, boys!”

The Polecats looked to Darrel for confirmation. Darrel looked at Ripburger, then shook his head, sighing. If Ben had gone along with the plan, well, then it had to be on the level. And they did need the money. “All right, let’s go.”

They packed up and left as fast as they could, starting up their bikes and heading off down the road towards Corville. The limo prepared to follow afterwards, and even though Corley would rather have been in the thick of the gang, nothing could dampen his spirits today.

“Yaaa-hoo! Corville, here we come!”

Ben woke up with a lump on his head the size of your average grapefruit, a headache that made a hangover seem like nothing, and a banana peel on his face. Still, he had to admit that he’d slept in worse. And as dumpsters went, he’d also woken up in worse.

He twisted around in the dark, trying to orient himself and figure out which way was up. When he found it, he pushed on the lid, trying to get it open--but it held fast. Grumbling under his breath, Ben punched it--the rusty lock shattered and the lid popped right open with no small amount of noise. His headache objected to that and let him know exactly how it felt, under no uncertain terms.

Ben hopped out of the dumpster, none the worse for wear save for the lump on his head. He was definitely going to have to exchange strong words with Ripburger and whoever else he’d had helping him. But first it might be a good idea to find out what all had happened while he’d been napping.

When he walked around to the front of the Kickstand, somehow he wasn’t surprised to see that his bike was the only one in the lot. Well, he thought, I’ll just have to catch up to them...wherever they went. He started towards his bike, reaching for his keys as he went--and not finding them. Confused, he searched his other pockets, then the pocket where he usually kept them, and then he went back and sifted through part of the dumpster, just in case. No keys.

“Son of a...some joker took my keys.” I don’t like that.

Without his keys and short of hotwiring his own bike, there was only one place to go, and likely only one place his keys would be hiding--inside the bar. Of course, the door was closed and locked, but that didn’t slow him down one bit--he kicked the door wide open and walked inside.

The bar was empty save for Quohog, the bartender. A man about as wide as Ben was tall, with pierced ears, an oversized nose ring, and completely bald, Quohog had always reminded Ben of a weasel. For some reason, that comparison struck him as pretty accurate right about now.

Ben jerked a thumb towards the open door. “I, uh...fixed your door.” Quohog looked at the door and winced. “It was sticking.”

“Look,” Quohog said immediately, “I don’t want no trouble. Just leave me out of this mess.”

Ben did his best to ignore him as he kept walking towards the bar, surveying the empty room. No sign of his keys--but he had a feeling they were hiding somewhere behind the bar. “Looks like you’re out of customers.”

“Yeah, your gang took off with those...” He hesitated, as if picking his words carefully. “...those well-dressed gentlemen.” He shrugged, set down the glass he’d been polishing, and picked up another one. “So what’ll it be, Mac?”

“I’m looking for my keys.”

“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he answered--just a little too defensively for Ben’s tastes.

Ben glared at Quohog and told him, flat out, “I think you’re in on this whole bum deal.” What the bum deal consisted of, exactly, he wasn’t sure just yet--but he was sure he wouldn’t like it, whatever it was.

“Yeah?” Quohog asked, still on the defensive but sounding a little cockier now. “Well whaddya gonna do about it?”

At first, Ben didn’t have a response for that. Then, as Quohog set his glass down and reached for another one and began polishing it, the light glinted off his gold nose ring. Ben smirked--he had an idea.

“You know,” he said casually, “I’ve never liked nose rings.”

Quohog shrugged. “Me neither, but someone dared me.”

“You know what might look better on your nose?”

He didn’t even look up. “What?”

Ben reached out, grabbed hold of the nose ring, and slammed it down onto the bar with all the force he could muster. “The bar,” he growled, keeping a tight grip on the ring even when Quohog started thrashing around. If he tore a chunk out of his nose, that was his own damn fault. “Now don’t mess around with me.”

Quohog caved in without any further prompting. “All right, all right! I got your keys, but I don’t know nothin’!” He paused, then added, “They had guns! They told me to stall you as long as possible.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! I overheard them say somethin’ about an ambush up the road.”

“What else?”

“Nothing! Nothing!” He held Ben’s keys up in the air and waved them around. “Look, man. Here are your keys, all right?” He set them down on the bar, slowly. Ben let go of his nose ring to pick up the keys, and Quohog sprang away from the bar, rubbing his nose.

“Oh,” he said, “uh...” He hesitated for a second, as if unsure of whether or not to divulge any more information, but a dark look from Ben quickly made up his mind. “Someone did say something about killing you and makin’ it look like an accident.”

Ben thought about the lump on his head--nasty, but nothing that couldn’t heal itself in a day or two. “They didn’t do too good of a job there,” he said, pocketing his keys. But why ambush the Polecats? I’d better get moving.

He walked back outside, leaving Quohog to his empty bar and sore nose, and headed straight for his bike. As he put on his reflective goggles and kicked the bike into motion, he thought it was a lucky thing that Ripburger hadn’t touched his bike. Lucky for Ripburger, that was.

The bike flared to life with a loud, familiar roar. Ben grinned, gunned the engine, and took off in a cloud of dust, headed for Corville at top speed.

He hadn’t gone very far before he sighted a lone bike on the road. One glance as he approached told him all he needed to know--an old model bike with an oversized front wheel that looked as if it would be more at home on heavy construction equipment, the paint job peeling and rust starting to poke through in spots. Rottwheeler, Ben thought, shaking his head. The Rottwheelers were a tough, if not brainy bunch, who saw their bikes as nothing more than weapons and transport--they didn’t keep them particularly well-tuned, and their heavy front wheel kept them from reaching high cruising speeds.

Despite their limitations, however, the Rottwheelers were notoriously vicious when they traveled in packs. But a lone one--a lone one was nothing, especially for a Polecat.

This particular Rottwheeler, who was about as big as his front wheel and would’ve been completely bald if it wasn’t for his beard, seemed to be possessed of a little bit more brainpower than his friends. He noticed Ben’s approach just as Ben pulled up beside him, looked him up and down, and drew his conclusions.

“Hey! Ain’t you the A-number one Polecat honcho?”

Good conclusions, apparently. “Yeah, and you’re in my way.”

“Well, get used to it, bud! When the Rottwheelers hit the road, we own it!” He smirked, as cocky as if he were traveling with the rest of his gang rather than alone.

Ben sighed. There was no way this guy would just let him ride on by--if he was armed, it was likely he’d stab him in the back, instead--and besides, he was riding through Polecat territory. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to find his gang, he would’ve taken the time to teach the guy a lesson--but now just wasn’t the time. Switching to the pity tactic it was, then.

“Look, I’m serious. Someone’s ambushing the Polecats--”

Of course, he forgot that Rottwheelers didn’t know what pity was. The response he got was both immediate and embarrassing. “Someone’s ambushing the Polecats?” If he wasn’t so focused on Ben and the road, he would’ve clutched a hand to his bare chest and feigned a swoon. “Oh, heavens! What ever will we do?” Then he laughed, which only annoyed Ben even more.

“That does it.”

He accepted the challenge and offered one of his own. “Come on, kitty!”

Immediately, Ben swung his bike closer to the Rottwheeler, close enough to get within striking range--and, unfortunately, within range of the Rottwheeler’s fist, too.

The Rottwheeler struck first with an open-handed backwards slap aimed at Ben’s face. He hit only air, then tried again and made a clean hit on Ben’s jaw. Ben grunted and rolled with it, clenching his hand into a fist and lashing out at the Rottwheeler’s face. He managed to clobber him a good one, right upside the head.

As the Rottwheeler spat out some blood and part of a tooth, Ben picked up speed, forcing the Rottwheeler’s bike to work harder to keep up. It wasn’t in nearly as bad shape as he’d seen some of their bikes in, but it was bad enough that, the faster they went, the more he’d have to work to keep control of his bike. Ben’s bike, on the other hand, was built to handle these sorts of speeds with ease. He lashed out again with another punch, but didn’t hit anything more substantial than air.

“No,” the Rottwheeler corrected mockingly, “harder! Like this!” He aimed for another backhanded slap, this time right at Ben’s nose, but Ben was faster--he dropped some speed and let him slap the air where his nose used to be. Then, pushing the throttle hard, Ben roared in front of him and swung his bike right towards the Rottwheeler’s front wheel. The Rottwheeler swung his bike to the left in a frantic attempt to avoid the collision, and Ben pulled out of the feint with room to spare--and a punch, aimed straight at the Rottwheeler’s jaw. He hit home once, then twice, and then a third time, right to the Rottwheeler’s ugly, overgrown, and likely now-broken nose.

The combination of swerving so fast and trying to defend against the punches--and largely failing--took its toll on the Rottwheeler, and the broken nose was the last straw. He lost control of his bike and went flying backwards down the road, his bike skidding along a few paces behind him.

Ben, meanwhile, shook off the punches and continued down the road at full throttle. And then he couldn’t help himself--he just had to toss in a wheelie, just for the hell of it. The road was clear, the Polecats couldn’t be that far up ahead, and he’d catch up to them and get them out of whatever Ripburger was plotting, no problem.

And right about then was when the screws holding his front wheel to the front forks rattled, twisted, and came loose. The front wheel fell off and hit the highway with a sickening thunk, then bounced off into the desert. Ben couldn’t keep the look of surprise off his face.

He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip, doing his best to keep control of the bike--and keep the front end from crashing down into the asphalt. Deep down, he knew it was a losing fight; even he didn’t have the strength to ride like that for long. But if he could manage to slow it down, even a little, there was a chance the resulting wipeout wouldn’t be so bad.

Who the hell am I kidding? he thought, still fighting gravity. This was going to be bad all right, no matter which way he tried to think of it.

And, finally, the front forks slammed into the highway with a small shower of sparks that kept growing as the friction built up. Smoke and flames erupted as the forks twisted and warped completely out of their original shape--and it wasn’t long after that that his bike left the road completely, bouncing into the dirt and dust of the desert in a long trail of smoke and fire. Ben was thrown clear somewhere along the line and went bouncing off in another direction.

When he fought his way back to consciousness--almost--it could have been minutes or hours later. He really had no idea. All he knew was that his headache was easily twice as bad as it had been, he was bleeding from more places than he cared to think about, and more than a few things felt broken. He tried to keep his eyes open, knew that sleeping was likely no more than a death sentence at this point, but it was a losing battle.

“...I’d like to make you just one final offer...”

“...something about killing you and makin’ it look like an accident.”

“...one final offer...”

“...killing you...”

“...don’t worry, I have a plan...”

“...an accident.”

He finally forced his eyes open all the way, just to see how bad it was. It was bad, all right--he was covered in dirt and dust, and the one leg that he had a clear view of had a nasty rip in it that was threatening to bleed all over everything. And every time he tried to raise his head and look around, he found that he couldn’t. Something in his neck kept popping in protest, which he supposed was just as well--his head hurt too much to move, anyway. Doesn’t look good, Polecat.

“They had guns!”

“...Malcolm Corley’s dying wish...”

“...something about an ambush up the road...”

“...I have a plan...”

Despite all his mental warnings to himself to stay awake, the rest of him just couldn’t take it--he slipped out of consciousness for a long, long time.

When he came to again, it was sometime after twilight. He couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart--at least that was still working. But he’d lost a lot of blood from that gash in his leg, his head was still killing him, and he wasn’t inclined to move any time soon.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, watching his vision get blurrier and blurrier, before something different happened: the pounding of his heart was replaced by the sound of a car pulling up and screeching to a stop. A car door opened and then slammed shut. Someone ran up, loose sand crunching underneath their feet.

Then a flash went off.

Click.

Ben flinched, an automatic reflex, but he doubted if he had the strength to open his eyes again to see what was going on.

Click. Click.

“Man...this is gruesome!” The woman’s voice was so nasally and reminiscent of New Jersey that it registered in Ben’s mind even through the foggy haze. “My editor better print these in color!”

Click.

“Now I have to get you some help I suppose?” She sounded a little annoyed, a little put-upon. Ben didn’t bother with any more of a response than a low groan--not that he could manage anything better at the moment, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Ah, quit moanin’! I know someone around here who can fix anything.”

That was when Ben passed out. The last thing he remembered was the thick smell of asphalt.

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