Part 2 - Crescent Moon - Tezcatlipoca
The Harley tore up the road like metal thunder and the wind tugged at her black leather vest.
Pitbull. That name had stuck, for a number of reasons, and she revelled in it. It wasn't so much that she insisted being called by it, but a few people had called her by her real name and quickly lost the front row of their teeth.
The Fat Boy gave a roaring growl between her legs and took to the highway like an iron, jet-black war horse, with chrome in it's mane and flames flinging from it's nostrils. The vicious glare of the Mexican sun was slowly settling behind her, and with its last strength, threw javelins of afternoon heat into her back.
A shrill whistle sounded next to her and she turned to look, the raven black hair that fell to meet her shoulderblades shaking like a lion's mane in the wind.
Beside her, her travelling companion, a tall, muscular biker who proudly went by the name of Sex Machine, nodded towards an exit coming up off the highway. She nodded back and turned the bike in massive grace, and the machine howled like a deep-throated banshee.
* * *
"Closest bar. Hope you don't mind." he said as the engine gurgled to a pressing silence in front of the club.
"To hell with me if I would. I ain't squeamish, you know." she retorted, looking up at the bright neon signs of the Titty Twister. Flames shot up in some perverse beat to the wiry man in front, yelling out his advertisement. "Sounds like a fun place." she added with a grin. "Never been here before."
"What, do I look like I frequent it?"
"Never said that."
Pitbull shot an icy glare at the man with the microphone as she entered. He reaked of a particularily revolting blend of sweat and tequila. It was enough to curdle a corpse.
"Hey, sure, we got your kinda pussy, too, chica!" he flashed a broken-toothed grin. "Can't accuse us of being intolerant, eh? Haw!"
Her fist itched to be clenched and sink halfway down his throat, but Sex Machine gave her a hard nudge to continue inside. Grumbling, she obliged, and the announcer went back to his business.
"You want pussy? Do we have deals for you!" he called out to the arriving truckers and bikers in the parking lot. "We got fresh un's, young un's, old un's, any color, any age, any price! Come on in, come on in! We got the cheapest pussy in all of Mexico! What's to loose? We--"
The entrance door faded out of hearing range at some point after the specific offers for sado-maso enthusiasts, but Pitbull wasn't really listening - she was grinning in twisted pleasure at two seperate bar brawls that had broken out even while they were coming in. As far as she gathered, one was spawned by a scratch on one of the Kawasakis outside and the other by a drunk arguement over which trucker delivered the best frozen dough to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.
She barely ducked as a half-empty bottle of cheap beer came flying her way.
"--the fuck--?!"
Her pleased grin contorted into an angry visage as she moved to join the fray. On the first step something jerked her back to where she started.
"For God's sake, cool off. There's a free table." Sex Machine told her as he held one hand in firm grip around the iron chain attached to the spiked collar around her neck.
"I should really take this collar off." she mumbled, but her complaint was lost under the shouts from the brawls, and the raspy singing of the band.
On second observation, the inside of the Twister was perhaps the climax of all positive and negative experiences a run-down strip joint as it was could bring. Of course there were the lights, and the music, and the brawls, all of which exploded to her senses to their full intensity, but the darkness that lay thick on the atmosphere was nearly threatening. It was the stench, if there was such a thing, alcohol-drenched breath and foul gases filling up the hall like a sulphurous mist, and there was that sickening perversity in the air, stinking of sex gone stale and stupid.
Feeling the hairs on her neck stand on end, she threw herself into one of the chairs which visibly ached under the impact. She didn't pay it anymore mind and just leaned back, threw her head up, staring at the ceiling.
One of the strippers dug her white stilletto heels into the wood as she stepped over to strut her stuff at the drooling request of a man across, whose part of the table was already littered with emptied beer bottles and whiskey glasses. Pitbull snorted briefly, while Sex Machine merely shrugged and glanced up to watch the dance free of charge.
There was an odd tattoo of some Aztec hieroglyph on the stripper's left thigh, but Pitbull couldn't quite make out what it was decipting. Some snake. She shrugged and watched the girl writhe to the music, the thin white loincloth trembling with every movement. Pitbull shot a few glances at Machine as she watched.
"Say, Machine --"
He rolled his eyes and interrupted before she could continue.
"No, I don't think she's better than you."
"How d-- I mean. Just checking." she answered in an embarassed sort of matter-of-fact tone.
"There's more to fucking life than lap dancing. Jesus."
"All right already."
She went back to watching the convulsing body of the dancer. She was paranoid, true, but on the other hand, if you're touring the highways of Mexico and have more people who want to stab you than Caesar did, a little of the old "They're all out to get me" attitude isn't a bad thing to have.
* * *
The drunk who had ordered the dancer passed out after a few more screwdrivers, and the stripper stepped away to the next table. The amount of brawl fights had risen to a solid six in various corners and at a few tables. Pitbull watched them unfold in shallow interest. Who cared what started the fight? The point was that there was a fight, meaning, there was a chance to spread a reputation and to bash someone's skull in without getting into an awful lot of trouble.
"Excuse me for a moment." she muttered into Sex Machine's direction as she got up.
"What pissed you off this time?"
She paused, then beckoned one of the waitresses over.
The girl, propably barely 16, nodded at her.
"Does the band take requests?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"No, sorry."
Pitbull briefly turned back to Machine and flashed a 'there you go' shrug before pushing past the reasonably perplexed waitress towards a particularily bloody fight near the back doors. A huge biker wearing a tethered black leather coat and a set of particularily nasty-looking brass knuckles was pounding away at a smaller man in a green baseball cap and a coffee-stained "I Love NY" T-shirt.
She stood near the brawl for a few seconds, considering, then proceeded to tap the tall biker on the shoulder. The brute turned briefly.
"Hey you."
"Uhh?"
"Are you the one with the yellow and blue trike that parks up front?"
The biker nodded, stupidly but still annoyed.
The next thing he experienced was a fist flying straight into his nose and breaking it in two places. The cracking was veiled by the roar of the rock music blasting from the stage.
"That's for cutting me off near the gas station, brickface."
The man recovered, baring his teeth. A loathing snarl gurgled from his throat and nose.
"You're going to pay for this, bitch."
"Oooh, he can talk in full sentences."
Nothing came after that - only the man attacking in a mighty roar, crashing his fist into the table as she dodged. A strange sort of grin slipped over her face. The night was finally getting interesting...
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