Razor Ray opened a bloodshot eye and groaned. It wasn’t bad enough thathis three day-speed binge and Jack Black hangover made his head feel asif the points of a million stilettos were tapping on the inside of hisbrain pan. It wasn’t bad enough that the insides of his eyelids felt as ifthey were being eaten alive by leeches and his mouth tasted like a usedentrenching tool. No, the nightmare had been worse than all that. Ray likedto think of himself as being beyond such petty human emotions as guilt,yet the dream had jerked him about like a marionette with two brokenstrings.
In the dream he was riding off in the sunset on a blood-red Panhead, moneyin his pocket and a raven-haired bitch on the p-pad behind him. He roareddown a flaming highway toward his ol’ lady and laughed at her tears,laughed at her loyalty to him, laughed at her pathetic love for an outlawas he gunned the engine and rode over her whimpering bones. “Fuck!” hewheezed, and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. It hurt toturn his head but he did it anyway and stared at Vickie’s sweet form onlyhalf covered by the thin sheet. Why was he getting an attack of guilt now?He was fully aware that at one time or another in his illustrious careerhe had burned every bridge and shot every opportunity ever given to him.Yet he always seemed to come out smelling like the proverbial rose.
Ray had run the gamut of low-life betrayal during his 36 years. Just offthe top of his head, he had sold out solid brothers, stole dope, stole abro’s ol’ lady and then cheated on her. He once stabbed a dude in the gutsand took his bike just because he didn’t like the fucker’s looks. He hadspent half his adult life in one pen or another for bullshit petty crimes,feeling lucky that he skated on all the heavy beefs. He missed his mom’sfuneral while in the pen at Chino, and even once kicked a dog to death. Rayhad spent his life getting away with murder, so why was his consciencerearing a wagging finger now?
Vickie moaned seductively in her sleep. Ray shook his long mane of wavyblack hair, heading into the pisser. “Just take the bitch’s money and getthe fuck out,” he said to himself. “So what if the supposed loan she’sgiving me is every penny she had in her spaced-out little world?” By thetime the last drops of Jack Black-smelling urine hit the bowl, thoughts ofthe dream faded to nothing, like a vampire at dawn. Still, there wassomething that lingered in the back of his throbbing mind. Why was hefucking over another innocent? He stared vacantly at the prison tattoo onhis forearm baring the words “Ladies Love Outlaws.” Something was going tohappen, something bad; Razor felt it in every cell of his being. The echoof distant screams somewhere behind his eyes receded to purple shadows inthe back of his brain and a voice within him muttered…”lost souls.”
As quickly as the phantom thoughts entered Ray’s domain, they flew off againand he found himself searching the crevices of his morning mug in themirror. “Good morning you handsome devil,” he purred. Razor liked to thinkthat whatever dark forces were at work in his life had a bigger purposefor him. He was being saved for something really nasty.
Ray stood up tall and examined his muscular six-foot-five physique. Therewas pride in his sculpted features and dense black beard that called backto his family lineage in Russia’s Ukraine. It was a family tree thatstretched back to none other than Rasputin the Mad Monk. Razor grinned andstared at the hole where his front tooth used to be.
He was even proud of that since it was sacrificed during a brawl defending his club colors.
Picking up the partial plate from the sink, Ray admired the silverlightning bolts inset in his false tooth before putting it in his mouth.
Thoughts of the bike filled his mind as he made a quick breakfast offrosted flakes mixed with milk and a dollop of JD. Ray couldn’t wait tostart the Panhead up and hear the blast of its fishtails. It had takenhim nearly a month to sell Vickie on the idea of letting him “borrow” thedough he needed to buy THE bike, the ultimate fuckin’ chopper! Hecarefully counted the wad of hundreds one more time, chuckling to himselfat how easy it had been to give the girl the puppy dog eyes treatment.”Five thousand smackers,” Razor grinned and the silver bolts on his toothglinted in the morning light. Pulling on his cutoff, he peeled off fiveone-hundred-dollar bills and hid them in a secret pocket before placing therest of the money in his chain wallet. Then Ray took the two whitepearl-handled straight razors from a bed table and slipped them into thecustom pockets on either side of his leather vest designed for quick andlethal access. Vickie was still sleeping off the night of speed, booze,and lurid sex as Razor slammed the screen door. He smelled his finger,recalling where it had been and grinned big. Today was HIS day! Fuck baddreams and fuck guilt! He had the bitch’s money and his new ride awaitedhim.
Cypher’s Cycle squatted in the dense heat of the San Fernando Valley likea dog seeking shade. It had existed as long as any of the localsremembered and long before the current crop of border brothers moved inand declared turf. Its metal roof shimmered in the summer sun with a kindof defiance. Now blending in with the gang-torn surroundings of LosAngeles, the shop sat on a graffiti-strewn street marked with swelteringpalms that looked like giant baked weeds with drooping shoulders. In thegrimy shop’s window, the bike of Razor’s dreams patiently waited, a 1962Panhead chop job with a righteous rigid frame, gleaming chrome springerfront end, apehangers to the stars, and fishtail pipes that reached toglory. Ray walked toward the shop slowly, his black cowboy boots sizzlingon the frying-pan asphalt, savoring every second. He recalled the dayweeks earlier when he first set eyes on this two-wheeled wonder.
The shop had been full of flies that day. Actually, as Ray remembered it,he didn’t actually see any flies but rather heard their incessant buzzing.Cypher’s Cycle was piled high with the remains of motorcycles; theskeletons of a few riceburners hung from meat hooks as the carcass of amilitary WLA stared from socketless headlights. This was a slaughterhouseof deceased bikes and the shop’s overweight owner was its lord and master.Razor strolled by a stack of weathered Easyriders magazines from the’70s, picked up a rusty Bendix carburetor, and stroked a flamedMustang tank on his way to feast his eyes on THE bike. The Panhead dancedin the glare of the mid-day sun coming through dust-encrusted windows, bars ofshadow cast across it from the burglar bars outside.
The paint was dazzling dark red with a shimmering ripple effect that made you feel as though you were drowning.
The shop’s troll-like owner held court from a destroyed desk near the backof the ragtag display room, looked up from a skin rag called ShavedNurses, and took a flaccid stogie from his mouth with inhumanly longfingers. He eyed Razor in much the same way that a bird of prey sizes upits next victim. Ray stood respectfully in front of the Panhead and letevery glorious curve of its perfect metalwork burn into his brain. Thewicked red beast looked like it had just rolled out of some maniaccustomizer’s dream world. A suicide shifter was topped by a gleamingchrome skull, its eyes glinting red rubies. Upon closer inspection, theshimmering dark red paint of the tank, frame, and rear fender was more thecolor of dried blood and the rippling wave effect was actually an illusioncaused by meticulously intricate airbrush work beneath countless layers ofclear. Ray’s eyes focused deep beneath the outer layer of paint,down … down past the layers of pearl red to see the unholy visage ofhundreds, no thousands, of human faces, each captured in the twistingtorment of impossible torture beyond words … beyond description. “Lostsouls” he whispered in a sinister tone, as the mouths seemed to work soundlessly,screaming eternally, screaming relentlessly, screaming for a release thatwould never come.
“I can see you on this bike.” The shop owner’s words pulled Razor fromwithin the depths of the paint.
“Wha…what did you say, man?” Ray felt like he was stoned out of his minduntil the man shook his hand. He suddenly felt as though he had a handfulof dead dog and let go of the stranger’s hand. The shop’s owner justgrinned and Razor thought he saw the tips of needle-sharp teeth peek fromthe recesses of the his mouth.
“Name’s Lou,” the shop owner said. “You interested in the Pan? They suredon’t make ’em like that anymore, son, and I can tell you’d appreciate abike like that. Could say you were born to be on that bike.”
Razor just blinked for a timeless instant and finally found his tongue.”You got that right. How much you askin’?”
Lou rubbed his salt and pepper goatee, sizing Ray up one more time. “Fivegrand and she’s all yours.”
Ray smiled and saw Lou notice the twin bolts on his front tooth. The shopowner’s eyes narrowed with a look of appreciation. “Five grand. So tell meLou,” Ray drawled, “how do you stay in business sellin’ drop-dead gorgeousrides like this for five grand?”
The shop owner picked at his teeth with a very long and sharp fingernail.”Simple my friend,” the troll hissed. “I sell in volume.”
