King Bear
League Member
In history, we find groups of people that come together not for safety or shelter, but for domination. The Turks. The Persians. The Greeks. And so on. One group, from the island of Fiji, had been together for hundreds of years – maybe more. This group of people were known throughout Fiji and the South Pacific simply as ‘TUI’, meaning KING. I, too, was born on the island of Fiji. My name is David Tui. I am ‘The King.’
A small one-stop diner on the outskirts of the Neveda desert sits in the dust clouds of passers by as a big rig pulls out onto Route 66. Tumbleweeds and cactus can be seen off in the distance, being thrown about any which way but down. A large cluster of tumbleweeds begin to blow all over the highway, sitting idle on the yellow lines.
As the tumbleweed is sitting, it begins to shake uncontrollably. Beginning to bounce around, it seems like, the tumbleweed blows off to the side of the road just as a masterpiece of a motorcycle comes ripping over the ridge, glistening under the sun’s shining light. On top is a rider dressed in mirrored aviators, a black t-shirt and blue jeans.
As the clapping thunder of the Harley neared the walls of the diner it began to echoed and shake the frame. A man in his car got out and ran inside, avoiding the dust and noise the best he could. The rider shut off his bike, straddling it into a secure spot and pulling out the kickstand. He looked around, scrunching his face together to help block the sun’s light. His large frame was deceiving on a bike, hiding his muscles and broad shoulders.
The double doors flapped behind the rider as he stood in the doorway, scanning the bar for a spot. Slowly pacing over to the bar, he pulled out a stool and slumped down in it while keeping his eyes on the barkeep.
“Tequila. And I’m lookin’ for a friend’a mine,” cracked the raspy voice of the stranger. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the activity behind him cautiously. “Goes by the Shark.”
“De Chark? Never heard of him, mang” said the bartender in a Hispanic accent, shaking his head no while he poured a glass of Tequila. The barkeep then went to cleaning glasses. He lifted his head, looking out the door. “There’s another bar down de road about forty-five miles. Maybe that’s where you’re friend is.”
The rider leaned in, removing his sunglasses to reveal a stern glare. He held up a matchbook with the name of the One-stop Diner on the front. He continued to stare at the small man. “Oh, did I say he was my friend? That’s my mistake.”
The rider pushed the bartender backward into the bottles of liquor and beer, smashing them and creating a mess. He pushed two men as he made his way out the door, throwing back on his sunglasses and trying to see into the blowing sandstorm. Then, he spotted something approaching him.
“You’ve got a lot of balls showin’ up out here kid,” called out a taller man, wearing a suit in the middle of the desert.
“You’ve got a lot less brains to try and **** me over like that. I’m here to make sure you remember that,” said the rider, who was now circling up the suit, who was most likely the Shark.
“Hey pal, business is business. You’ll understand someday.” After that snide remark, the suit found the rider’s fist inside his cheek. With a swift move, the suit was in an arm-bar that Dan Severn would bust a nut over.
“You’re forgetting which business I’m in, cocksucker.” With a jerk, the pop and snap of the tendons and joints in the Shark’s arm ripped, tore, and ultimately – got ****ed up. The rider stepped backward, seeing the reflection of the Shark flailing on the ground in agony in his sunglasses, the camera does not need to view the suit. The rider turned around, leaving the Shark on the ground and roiling around. KA-CHIK
The rider stopped in his tracks, realizing more sooner than later just exactly what that noise was. He rotated a bit, in which his sunglasses saw the reflection of the Shark holding his Glock 9, pointed directly at the rider. A smirk spread across the dark-skinned mystery biker’s face.
“You don’t get it! Business is business! You don’t **** with the ratings! You’re not the champ anymore, got it!? Over and done with. You got screwed, so what kid!? You’re just some fresh fish in this game, with nothing to offer!” The Shark had inched his way closer to the rider, waving the gun around wildly as he clutched the other arm to his side. Wincing every inch he moved, the Shark was a bit deluded from all of the anguish.
The rider then dropped down, sweeping the legs out from underneath the Shark – sending the Glock out into the middle of the dirt parking lot. The rider now had a hold of the other arm.
“No, no! Please! I-I-I’ll fix it! Please, let me fix it!” Another jerk, crackle, snap, and a pop later and the Shark was once again floundering about on the ground, almost as if he were dying. Both arms looked unhinged and detached. The rider stood, once again, except this time threw in some solid boots for good measure.
I’m the King.
BuzzBuzzBuzz. The rider removed a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open to read a message:
‘KING- get 2 LA. NFW v3.0.’
A small one-stop diner on the outskirts of the Neveda desert sits in the dust clouds of passers by as a big rig pulls out onto Route 66. Tumbleweeds and cactus can be seen off in the distance, being thrown about any which way but down. A large cluster of tumbleweeds begin to blow all over the highway, sitting idle on the yellow lines.
As the tumbleweed is sitting, it begins to shake uncontrollably. Beginning to bounce around, it seems like, the tumbleweed blows off to the side of the road just as a masterpiece of a motorcycle comes ripping over the ridge, glistening under the sun’s shining light. On top is a rider dressed in mirrored aviators, a black t-shirt and blue jeans.
As the clapping thunder of the Harley neared the walls of the diner it began to echoed and shake the frame. A man in his car got out and ran inside, avoiding the dust and noise the best he could. The rider shut off his bike, straddling it into a secure spot and pulling out the kickstand. He looked around, scrunching his face together to help block the sun’s light. His large frame was deceiving on a bike, hiding his muscles and broad shoulders.
The double doors flapped behind the rider as he stood in the doorway, scanning the bar for a spot. Slowly pacing over to the bar, he pulled out a stool and slumped down in it while keeping his eyes on the barkeep.
“Tequila. And I’m lookin’ for a friend’a mine,” cracked the raspy voice of the stranger. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the activity behind him cautiously. “Goes by the Shark.”
“De Chark? Never heard of him, mang” said the bartender in a Hispanic accent, shaking his head no while he poured a glass of Tequila. The barkeep then went to cleaning glasses. He lifted his head, looking out the door. “There’s another bar down de road about forty-five miles. Maybe that’s where you’re friend is.”
The rider leaned in, removing his sunglasses to reveal a stern glare. He held up a matchbook with the name of the One-stop Diner on the front. He continued to stare at the small man. “Oh, did I say he was my friend? That’s my mistake.”
The rider pushed the bartender backward into the bottles of liquor and beer, smashing them and creating a mess. He pushed two men as he made his way out the door, throwing back on his sunglasses and trying to see into the blowing sandstorm. Then, he spotted something approaching him.
“You’ve got a lot of balls showin’ up out here kid,” called out a taller man, wearing a suit in the middle of the desert.
“You’ve got a lot less brains to try and **** me over like that. I’m here to make sure you remember that,” said the rider, who was now circling up the suit, who was most likely the Shark.
“Hey pal, business is business. You’ll understand someday.” After that snide remark, the suit found the rider’s fist inside his cheek. With a swift move, the suit was in an arm-bar that Dan Severn would bust a nut over.
“You’re forgetting which business I’m in, cocksucker.” With a jerk, the pop and snap of the tendons and joints in the Shark’s arm ripped, tore, and ultimately – got ****ed up. The rider stepped backward, seeing the reflection of the Shark flailing on the ground in agony in his sunglasses, the camera does not need to view the suit. The rider turned around, leaving the Shark on the ground and roiling around. KA-CHIK
The rider stopped in his tracks, realizing more sooner than later just exactly what that noise was. He rotated a bit, in which his sunglasses saw the reflection of the Shark holding his Glock 9, pointed directly at the rider. A smirk spread across the dark-skinned mystery biker’s face.
“You don’t get it! Business is business! You don’t **** with the ratings! You’re not the champ anymore, got it!? Over and done with. You got screwed, so what kid!? You’re just some fresh fish in this game, with nothing to offer!” The Shark had inched his way closer to the rider, waving the gun around wildly as he clutched the other arm to his side. Wincing every inch he moved, the Shark was a bit deluded from all of the anguish.
The rider then dropped down, sweeping the legs out from underneath the Shark – sending the Glock out into the middle of the dirt parking lot. The rider now had a hold of the other arm.
“No, no! Please! I-I-I’ll fix it! Please, let me fix it!” Another jerk, crackle, snap, and a pop later and the Shark was once again floundering about on the ground, almost as if he were dying. Both arms looked unhinged and detached. The rider stood, once again, except this time threw in some solid boots for good measure.
I’m the King.
BuzzBuzzBuzz. The rider removed a cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open to read a message:
‘KING- get 2 LA. NFW v3.0.’