September 21, 1980 (Near Turner Falls, Oklahoma)
Case studied them from the shadows. Three patch holders and a prospect, all proudly flying their colors as their Harleys rode in close formation, the four thundering motorcycles barely occupying as much space as a single car. The pairs split apart as they approached the lone vehicle parked at the scenic overlook, neatly surrounding the dusty pick-up.
Almost as one, the four engines shut down. The silence deafening as both doors opened on the truck and two men arose from inside. The occupants kept their hands visible as they waited for Wrench to approach them as dust began to settle around the scene.
Case knew Wrench. They had partied and ridden together from Dallas to Detroit just a few years ago. He remembered those good times now tainted by the stain that poisoned the air between them. He could taste that poison with each breath, and wondered at how each of the men standing there could appear so oblivious to the stench that engulfed the air between them. In fact, he almost expected the grizzled biker to look right at him so strong was the pull.
Taking his time, he waited while the truck's passenger led Wrench to the rear of the truck and allowed the biker to examine the contents of a tool box. The pair spoke a few words and with a nod, Wrench handed him a wrapped bundle from inside his waistband. As the man began counting the contents, Wrench waved the prospect over and handed him three packages, which he took back to each of the patch-holder's bikes and placed in their saddlebags. The lone watcher made note of the fact that the truck's driver kept his hands visible at all times while watching the two other bikers, who in turn stayed focused on the transaction going down while the prospect carried out his job.
The tense scene relaxed considerably when the Man behind the truck finished his count and smiled at Wrench, who returned the grin with a nod, then walked back to his own bike. The other two patch-holders waited until Wrench fired up his hog before mounting and starting their own. None of the participants in this little drama were aware when the first shot rang out. In fact, the loud noise of their engines completely muffled the noise until the fourth shot was fired. By this time, Wrench, both of his brothers and the driver of the truck were dead. The passenger of the pick-up tried to roll out the door, drawing his gun. Case's fifth shot took him in the forehead as he crouched beside the pick-up, looking around for a target.
The unarmed prospect was the last man standing in that killing ground. He leaned across his tank and tore out of the clearing and onto the road. Case watched him as he rode away like a bat out of hell. Rising cautiously, Case policed his brass, then stalked around the clearing, checking each body to ensure that none were breathing. Once he was satisfied, he drew his Ka-Bar and neatly removed the patches from the three bikers' vests, gathered the drugs and the cash, and faded into the trees like a ghost.
~~&~~
June 20, 1949 (Near De Kalb, Texas)
Case Hardin was born and raised in east Texas. His birth name was actually Francis Casey Hardin, He was named after a maternal uncle and an obscure baseball vagabond. Uncle Frank had died on Guadalcanal before Case was born. Casey Hardin played as a utility middle infielder for a dozen minor league teams before drifting off into obscurity shortly after learning Case's mom was pregnant. His last letter to her said he was heading to the Mexican League as a coach and would send her a ticket as soon as he settled in.
With a name like Francis, the boy had to learn how to defend himself at an early age. He was constantly bullied over his first few school years, but tenacity, agility, and quick hands soon earned him the nick-name of "Crazy Casey" as anyone who dared call him "Francis" found a diminutive buzz saw in his face. By the time he reached High School, even the newest teachers knew to call him by his middle name.
Growing up in the rough country east of Dallas,Texas, Case spent most of his free time in the woods. Hunting and fishing were his main hobbies, and sports held little interest for him. School was more of a hindrance than anything else, but he attended classes often enough to avoid serious issues for his mother. Having never married, and being an unwed mother in east Texas in the 1950s, life was hard for Marva Jean Perkins. That is to say, there was not so much a stigma as it was just difficult for her with no real skills and a child to raise.
Marva Jean cleaned houses, took in laundry, babysat children, sewed clothing, and performed dozens of other menial jobs to put food on the table. She was a staunch member of the New Hope Presbyterian Church, a member of the quilting circle, an assistant librarian at the small local library, and sang in the church choir. She took her only son with her to church every Sunday until he was 14. At that point Case told her he loved her deeply, but no longer wanted to attend.
She prayed for her son every night, but agreed that he was old enough to choose for himself.
She died in her sleep shortly after his 16th birthday.
After a lifetime of being a loner, Case was truly alone for the first time in his life.
~~&~~
September 22, 1980 (Pasadena, Texas)
Sitting on a stool in the shadows at the end of the bar, the lanky man nursed a beer while covertly watching the players at a nearby pool table. Two of them were the marks. Both were decent players and had pretty much alternated holding the table for the last couple hours. The other two were bikers who were acting drunker than they really were as they tried to hustle the marks. By his count, the bikers were down maybe 20 bucks at this point and they were about to set the hook. One of them was "arguing" with his bro trying to get him to agree to "one more game". The pair of marks were eager to play another match, and more than happy to up the stakes. Case knew it wouldn't be long now. He tossed two bucks on the counter and moved to the door, unnoticed.
Once he was outside, he spotted the pair of shovelheads under a light in the dive's parking lot. Approaching the nearest he saw a decal on the oil tank.
If you value your life
as much as I value this bike
DON'T FUCK WITH IT!
Walking away he left the parking lot and went around the corner where he found the pick-up he had arrived in. He figured he had about 30 minutes to get his bike and set everything up. He drove the truck to a storage garage and unlocked the wide door. Driving the truck inside he pushed his '63 Panhead out and locked it. Putting his leather jacket on against the night chill, he unfolded a denim vest and slipped it on.
The bike fired on the first kick and he smoothly pulled onto the street. Despite the muffled pipes, the deep thrumming of the powerful V-Twin shattered the quiet of the street.
He arrived at his lookout spot less than 40 minutes after leaving the bar. The two bikes were still parked under the lamp, and the only other lights were the bar's neon sign and a few beer logos in the windows. Being a weeknight, everything was quiet, apart from a little bleedover from the jukebox every time someone left the bar. His watch showed 0142 hrs. 18 minutes until closing time.
As the hour inched toward 2 a.m., he saw a police car do a slow roll by the club before continuing their regular weeknight patrol. Barring an emergency they should be by again in about 30 minutes.
Finally he saw the pair of bikers swagger out of the club laughing and arguing. No doubt they were trashing each other as they bragged of their own prowess as pool hustlers. The two marks came out right behind them. One made as if to approach them but his friend pulled him away, spoke to him intently, and coaxed him to their car. They drove off angrily, as the two bikers laughed and waved.
He cranked his bike and roared down the road toward the bar. Engine rumbling he passed the bar and shot his extended middle finger at the two astonished bikers. Knowing they would be close behind, he continued for a mile and just around a bend in the road he parked his bike and dismounted his idling machine, making sure it was off the road but visible.
He didn't have long to wait.
The pair were in a hurry and almost blew past him when they hit the slick coating of oil on the low curve, sending both bikes careening down the road in a scream of tearing metal.
Walking to the spot in the trees where the pair of tangled machines eventually came to rest, he took a moment to observe the bodies of the two bikers and verify that neither bike looked like it was going to burn. One man appeared to be breathing, the other looked dead. Just to make sure, he pulled a snub nose.22 pistol from his pocket, and put two shots into each of their brains.
Putting the gun back in his pocket, he drew his Kabar and knelt down to remove each of their patches.
Walking back to his own bike, he mounted up and rode away.
~~&~~
July, 1965 (Beaufort County, South Carolina)
Boot camp was a different world. Case had forged his birth certificate to enlist in the Marine Corps. His original intent was to join the army, but his uncle had been a Marine and his mother had loved him dearly, and told many stories to her only son about the hero who was his namesake. Enlisting was easy, there was a war and a draft on, they were struggling to enlist enough recruits, and they were apparently not too eager to examine the bona fides of anyone stupid enough to enlist. So off he went to see the world. His first stop was Parris Island.
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING MAGGOT?"
"SIR! ummmm.....I'm trying to...."
"SIR UMM? DO I LOOK LIKE A SIR UMM TO YOU MAGGOT?"
"SIR, NO SIR!"
