I sat in my favorite run-down bar, drinking water out of a beer bottle. A man walked up to me, pen and paper in hand.
"What do you want?" I asked, brows furrowed. "If this is about Juli-"
The reporter raised his hand, and shook his head. "I'm not interested in petty tabloid news."
My shoulders relaxed as I motioned for him to take a seat. "You got fifteen minutes?"
He accepted my offer. "You lost your father, brother, and best friend to tomorrow's death track, on the exact same bike. Why do you still insist on riding that death machine?"
I chuckled as I downed the bottle of water. "Y'know friend. I ain't too sure bout that myself. There's something about her... Her elegance, her beauty, her power. It pushes you. No other bike out there pulls out the devil inside like she does."
"Then abandon it! We haven't had a racer like you in years. Please, if only for tomorrow's track; switch to a safer bike."
My grip tightened. "Can't do that. None other can bring out the racer you all admire so much." I sighed, noticing he did not get it, and tried to explain the sensation. "As I sit, clutching her handlebars, I feel her heartbeat through my entire frame. She purrs, then growls; a warning to all who would dare challenge her. There is nothing in this world nor the next more powerful than she is, or as daring as I am. A partnership that goes beyond blood, bond, friendship is borne between us. Not of trust, but a desire to prove who's better."
He looked at me in confusion, but I smiled and stood up, patting his shoulder. "Come watch me tomorrow. We'll see who's better: the Pale Rider, or the Chariot of Death.
