"Almost Green"

"Friday Night Fire Fight"

Countless brawls.

Countless towns.

Experience out the wazoo.

Born nowhere, from no one, serving nothing, the plague scourges the land, digging trenches wherever it goes with hundreds of rubber-plated excavators of unlawful misery.

Shiny.

Loud.

These excavators wail out in feral glory, ruling the unruly, gathering gazes and gasps of both awe and fear. Eight hundred pounds of pure, warm steel to each of them, a couple more sitting atop, with some more swimming ‘round their stomachs in whiskey. Ready for anything - showdown, shootout, too free to care.

Freedom is all they want. Freedom is all they have.

The wind on their back, the smell of overheating ori-rock powered engines all up in their nostrils. Nothing quite compares to the warm stench of rock-cancer inducing fumes in the early hours of the morning.

Thousands of souls, all of them wicked. Too wicked for their homeland, too free for what’s supposedly the most inclusive government on Terra. Inclusive my ass, don’t ask them about all the Sarkaz slavery bullshit.

Riding down the trail of weather-cataclysms, hence the name that graces their leather backs and wrists, splattered in ink - The Catastrophe Riders, the (originium) gasoline-drinking fiends from the west! The terror-sowing reapers of Columbia, the burdenbeast-less riders of the apocalypse that was yet to come.

Violent posers on bikes.

Hailing from far, far away, their dusty trails eventually led them down to the monumental crawling carcass that was the mobile city of Lungmen. Riddled with crime, incompetent authorities that care more about personal matters than the good of the everyday man, corruption and cheap imports, it seemed like the perfect place to hang around for a while.

So they did.

A couple hundred men and women it took, making the drive down from the homeland into the elusive mud-paddling giant. Turns out catastrophes aren’t as friendly to the Catastrophe Riders as one might’ve initially thought.

Yet, they made it. Raiding liquor stores, overtaking old warehouses, moving from place to place each day like the nomads they were, causing mayhem and chaos all throughout.

They didn’t care about any sort of authority ruling over the city. Not the fluffy, silk robe wearing clown in charge of the high-rise, fancy, stock-calculating ballrooms, nor the old rat bastard responsible for keeping the garbage eating, oripathy having slum dogs at bay.

They answered to no one but the great Mother Nature far beyond the sky.

And so was their life. Moving from place to place, messing with these and those people, hanging around here and there, never gathering any major trouble…

… At least up until a certain point.

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