“Carte blanche?”
“Carte blanche.”
“You got it Urbie,” grinned Mack Malten. The one-eyed gray biker, dressed in leather from vest to boots, mounted his long, chopped motorcycle. She had a new paint-job, a metallic purple which stood out among the blacks, reds, and silvers he courted as gang-leader. Felt fitting to that the pack’s leader should be the odd-hound-out.
Malten waved his mighty gloved hand, and on cue, the sea of machines revved up to a chainsaw roar. Their favorite punk Lita had just given them the go-ahead to do what they do best: thrash the shit out of a storefront. Though it wasn’t a grocery store, a specialty shop, or some niche pop-up.
Tonight they were fighting City Hall…technically speaking.
Into the cobalt blue of the night they rode, knuckles wrapped in chains, guns holstered, the gang forming a knife’s edge as they cut clean through the fog and mist. They tore into their destination, a shabby-looking brick building, with all their casual might. Breaking windows, beating down doors, taking chunks out the side; all usual angles of attack.
Once they had gotten in, though, Malten had his mission.
The mountainous gray wolf kicked in every door in the joint, waiting for security, thugs, pedestrians, or the off-chance of catching a chairman with a mistress riding his rocket. And each time, with each smash of his harness boot against the solid hard wood, he was met with the same, peculiar sight; nothing. The building was completely unoccupied. While he missed the thrill of roughing-up an asshole, he didn’t give into the insanity or his pent-up aggressions. He just kept kicking in doors until he found the room he was after.
Black-tiled on all sides and housing a solid wall of servers. And these servers were what Lita wanted nixed. Easier said than done, for the second anyone stepped too close, a bolt of electricity came ripping right for them.
“Whaddya think, Mack?” asked the scruffy tan biker he had for backup.
There were all manner of creative ways to take care of the threat. Mirrors to deflect these energy rays, using the threshold as cover while taking pot shots, aiming for where the beam came from.
However, this was Mack Malten. And Mack Malten was a simple hound.
“Dynamite, Steed.” he barked, and a fat red stick of the stuff was in his mitts, fuse lit and rolled towards the base of the servers. “E’ER’ONE OUT THE HOUSE!” he barked over the radio as the gang leapt upon their iron horses and rode on into the evening’s blue once more. An evening blue cut by a white-hot flash, and the orange flames of a target destroyed.
When Lita was radioed the results, and could confirm the signals the server farm sent went cold, she had but one final request. “Ditch the boys, Mackie, and get yo ass down to the den. You gotta reward to collect.”
He waved the gang on, broke away, and booked it straight for the Urban Avenger’s sanctum. Midnight rides like these had been happening for a few weeks now, and they always ended the same; in the arms of that mad little chick with the bloody Bug and the insatiable itch. It was a damn good deal as far as he could tell, and one that kept all parties involved pleased. The thugs got their rocks off on the destruction, and Mack got his with the best damn broad he’d ever had. Every midnight turned the city of Haven into a biker’s paradise.
“Here’s hoping the music don’t stop,” he smirked, revving his chopper up and thundering off into the fog.