Nomad Ch. 01

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!"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS TRYING SHIT?"

"SIR, I'M.....ummm..."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE UMM? ARE YOU TELLING ME YOUR NAME IS UMM? YOUR FAGGOTY NAME ON THAT UNIFORM SAYS HARD-ON! ARE YOU TELLING ME YOUR NAME ISN'T HARD-ON? WELL IS IT?"

"SIR! NO SIR!"

"NO WHAT, MAGGOT? SPEAK UP?"

"SIR! IT'S NOT UMM, SIR!"

"THEN WHAT IS YOUR NAME MAGGOT?"

"SIR, THIS RECRUIT'S NAME IS HARDIN, SIR!"

"HARD-ON? IS THAT RIGHT?"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

"SO TELL ME, HARD-ON, AM I GIVING YOU WOOD?"

So began the life of Recruit Francis Casey "Hard-On" Hardin, USMC, Recruit Platoon 359, Parris Island.

~~&~~

September 24, 1980 (Huntsville, Texas)

Torque and Sweet Ray were knocking back a few when one of the prospects stuck in his head the clubhouse door and called out.

"Hey Torque, there's some guy outside says he needs to talk at ya."

Torque rose and glanced at Tiny behind the bar. The big guy gave him a level stare then moved toward the back room. With a nod to Ray he said, "Window." Without comment Ray moved to the bar, grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from behind it, then moved left to the widow furthest from the door. "OK bitch, looks like you get bar duty."

Leaving the prospect behind the bar, he moved to the door and stepped out into the sunlit parking lot. He saw the guy sitting in a pick-up. Mirror shades and a big stetson combined with the shadows of the interior of the cab made his features hard to make out until he got close enough to recognize him.

"What's up Wyatt Earp? Ain't this a little out o' yer territory?"

Ranger Jared Pascoe cooly stared down the biker from behind his mirrored shades. He saw a rough-looking white male, 5'6" and 170 lbs of corded steel. His small stature was far outweighed by the power that seemed to emanate from his very pores. Randall Bertram "Torque" Kincaide was well known as a roughneck, enforcer, drug and gun-runner, and killer. The last was only alluded to, as no charges had ever stuck. He was also the leader of the Houston chapter of the Perros Locos MC.

"Randy, I have something to ask you, and something to show you."

"Fuck off, Barney Fife! Talk to my lawyer!"

"Have it your way, Randy. I can wait, but I think you're gonna wanna hear me out."

The Texas Ranger lifted a biker's cut-off from the seat beside him. The back of the vest showed an outline that looked a lot like a Perros Locos patch. Turning it around to face forward Torque saw the small PLF-FPL patch (Perros Locos Forever - Forever Perros Locos), it was an exact replica of the one every patch-holder wore along with a name patch, Crazy Ed.

The biker's face went stone cold as his voice took on a cold and menacing edge, emphasizing each word.

"Where. Did. You. Get. That?"

The Ranger's lips barely cracked a hint of a smirk as he asked,

"You still want me to talk to your lawyer?"

The stolid biker just held his gaze...focused on the Texas lawman...waiting.

The Ranger's shades reflected the grim biker's face for a few moments before he responded to the question with one of his own.

"So Randy, you got any idea who'd be wanting to collect Perros Locos scalps?"

The Ranger fanned out several photographs. Each held the dead face of one of Torque's brothers.

~~&~~

March 1967, (Hiep Dup Valley, South of Danang, Republic of Vietnam)

Case was cleaning his weapons when Burns and Freeman came into the hooch. They were both obviously rattled, going on about the news that Captain Barnes and Sgt Blankenship got taken out by a booby trap on a routine patrol.

"Fuck man", said Burns, "I thought the Captain was supposed to rotate home already. Shit dude, he wasn't even supposed to be on the patrol schedule."

Freeman shook his head in bewilderment.

"Fuckin' gook motherfuckers!"

Case looked at the pair. His eyes were steely as they vented their feelings. Captain Barnes was well-liked. He was a good leader, a good man, and a solid force-recon marine with an outstanding record. Sgt. Blankenship was just as well respected, and had helped induct every member of their team into the harsh realities of warfare in Vietnam.

"The LT says we might just be changing our mission parameters, boys." Case spoke as soon as they wound down.

"Yeah?"

They both looked at their buddy, nonplussed.

"Changing to what?"

Case calmly replied.

"Hunters."

Their eyes widened and as his words filtered through each young Marine's anger, each man's face took on a predatory smile.

"FUCKIN' A!"

~~&~~

September 26, 1980 (Perros Locos Clubhouse, Huntsville, TX)

Torque called the meeting to order. Twenty-three patch holders were present. All other chapter members were accounted for. Apart from the five who were recently deceased, two were in Chicago on club business. One was in the hospital recovering from a crash, and another two were in Lubbock with the local chapter there. Three more were doing time.

"Listen Up!" All eyes were drawn to the front. "I know you guys all heard the news. It's true. Wrench, Taco and South Bend are dead. There was no word about the prospect that was with them, but the word is out, and when he is found, he is gonna be brought in. If you guys see him, don't fuck him up until I have a chance to talk at him. Got it?"

Fast Eddie spoke up, "Which prospect was it?"

"Early Bird" echoed around the room as everyone wanted to say or do something.

"If any of you guys has a photo of him, get it to me asap so I can see it gets floated out to the other chapters. I sent the best we could find, but it's a little grainy."

There were a few nods and mutters of assent.

"I know we're all pissed off that someone must've ambushed our exchange in Oklahoma. I know the Snowman and his crew are also looking for Birdie, as well as for any info on whoever pulled it off. Believe me, they are gonna be in a world of fuckin' hurt when we find 'em."

Torque's face took on a look of anger as he continued.

"But, what most of you don't know, is that early Tuesday morning, some fuckhead popped two more of our brothers in Pasadena. Crazy Ed and Cappy were ambushed on a back road near Banger's Bar. Their scooters were a tangled mess, and each had two slugs in the brain pan."

He paused as his eye made contact with each of his brothers,

"Just like the business in Oklahoma, whoever did the deed, cut off their patches."

His comment was followed by several minutes of uproar as the assorted bikers began speaking up.

"War?"

"That's crazy, why would anyone pick a fight with us?"

"Someone has a death wish."

"Do you think it was..."

"What about..."

As they all started speaking over each other, the members started to question which rival club would have the balls to go to war with PLMC. The general consensus seemed to indicate that it must be one of the big national or international clubs. After all, there was always friction when one large group of bad-asses came in contact with another. That was human nature. Greed, Power. Respect. Money. Each played a role in the tenuous relationship between large bands of tightly wound and violent men.

After letting them rant and argue for a while, he rapped the table with a lead pipe and called them back to order.

"Hang on guys, let's see if we can figure out what we are really looking at here. Whoever did this has a bone to pick with Perros Locos, but so far, it is looking like the beef is not with the national club, but with our chapter. Either that, or they are starting here before working their way north....or east."

Maybe I'm wrong about it, but until further notice I want everyone to hunker down. I'm not sayin' hide out as much as keep an eye out. Make sure nobody rides solo. If this is another MC we should see somethin' before too long."

"We need to start asking ourselves, who did we piss off, lately?"