Hicksville Town, January 18, 2070
The faint, lonesome wail of a harmonica echoed from afar. A fifty-something-year-old geezer—bald-headed, sporting a bushy beard, and wearing leathery, sun-baked brown skin, sat on the open wooden porch under the shade of a dusty frontier saloon-style house. A weathered straw hat lay resting on the planks before him, waiting for spare coins from passersby.
"Blessings upon ye, good folks~ Any spare change for a poor soul? Oh, woah~ Yeah~~" he sang out amidst the barren desert outpost. "Pay a little dime to old Johnny~ and may the good Lord keep your soul alive~ Woo~!"
Clink!
A single coin dropped into his straw hat.
"Amen~~~ May the Almighty shine His glorious light upon your generous heart!"
"Go buy yourself a meal, old fart, and shut your trap for once!" a stout, middle-aged woman snapped in annoyance.
"Sure thing, ma'am~ I'll turn it down a notch~ Woah! Yes, sirree~!!" the old man drawled back with thick irony.
"Tsk!" She huffed and walked away, leaving the old man chuckling softly to himself.
After busking with his harmonica for a while longer, he spotted two motorcycles pulling up across the street in front of the local tavern. Two men in biker gear stepped off their rides, slicking back their hair before turning their attention toward the geezer playing his screeching harmonica.
"Hey! You handsome speed demons! Got a few pennies to spare for a poor old blind-eyed soul?" he hollered at the top of his lungs.
Hearing his call, the two bikers strode across the dusty street, stopping right before the begging old-timer. They glared down at him with menacing, heavy eyes.
"Hi-diddly-ho~ Hee-hee," the old man offered a wide, flash-white grin.
"Ha! Bwahaha!" Both bikers burst out laughing, amused by the beggar's antics.
One of the bikers crouched down, locking eyes with the old man. "You know, old man... folks around these parts don't carry life insurance."
"Oh boy! Tell me about it~ That's why I'm asking for pocket change to pay the premium! Hee-hee!" The old guy snatched up a bottle of booze and took a heavy swig, grinning ear to ear. Besided him sat a neat row of more than ten empty liquor bottles. "Heh-heh... don't mind me, just taking a little liquid courage... Hic!" He burped drunkenly, looking completely out of his mind from the booze.
Seeing his intoxicated state, the two bikers casually reached down and swiped a handful of coins right out of his straw hat.
"Ah! Hey now, don't go taking an old man's money~ That's a sin, you know?" The old man grabbed the thief's arm with a tight grip. "Please, don't..."
"Like I said, there ain't no life insurance around here! Especially for useless bums like you!" The second biker slammed his boot straight into the old man's face, forcing him to let go.
The townsfolk standing nearby merely watched from a distance as the helpless old beggar got kicked around. The old-timer looked up at the two men, revealing a deep scar carved above his left eye.
"My living money..." the scarred old man whimpered, begging for help.
In response, both bikers pulled back their jackets just enough to flash the handguns strapped to their waists.
"Dare us, why don't ya!" the two bikers barked, challenging the entire town. "Anyone here wanna play hero?! Real patriots like us ain't got room for weaklings, damn it! Everywhere you go, it's just worthless beggars asking for liquor money instead of getting a damn job. Pathetic!"
The old man went dead silent, standing up on his two feet. He turned his back with a look of quiet disappointment and bent over to pick something up.
Just as the two bikers were walking into the bar to order a drink, they heard something slicing through the wind at terrifying speed.
CRASH!
A glass liquor bottle shattered straight against the back of the first biker's head, knocking him face-first onto the ground. Seeing his partner down, the second biker whipped out his sidearm and fired blindly behind him.
But the old man was already gone.
"Come out, you son of a bitch! I'll blow your head wide open!!"
The townsfolk stood frozen, terrified out of their wits.
"What's the matter? Y'all scared of a gun? Heh!"
Little did the biker know, the villagers weren't afraid of his gun at all.
A sudden desert gust kicked up a blinding cloud of sand, forcing the young biker to rub his eyes furiously. "Damn it! I hate this place..."
"Then you shouldn't have crossed the line in the first place, kid," a rasping voice called out from the entrance of the town.
The young man whipped around, aiming his pistol through the hazy sandstorm. "Oh! You wanna do an old-school shit, huh?!" He cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger repeatedly into the dust veil.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Until his gun jammed tight, a spent casing wedging in the chamber.
"Shit! Fuck! Goddamn it!"
"Got yourself a nice piece, but you don't even know how to use it. Kids will be kids, I suppose. Hmph."
As the sand cloud cleared, the old man charged in, smashing a glass bottle across the biker's face.
CRASH!
The young man blocked the strike and countered with a left hook, but the old man ducked effortlessly, slamming his forehead straight into his opponent's nose, snapping the bone.
"Ooh, yeah!" The old guy raised his eyebrows in satisfaction, disarming the biker's weapon with practiced, lightning-fast precision. "A '54 Bennington, huh? No wonder it was so easy to clear. Heh."
He drove a hard right fist straight into the biker's solar plexus, forcing the young man down onto his knees, before following up with a left kick straight under his chin, knocking him out cold.
At that moment, the old man noticed the first biker regaining consciousness. He grabbed a horse-tethering rope, wrapped it around the biker's neck, and shoved his face straight into a trough of dirty water to teach him a lesson.
"So you thought I was really drunk, huh?! Let me wash that ugly mug of yours!"
"Gurgle-gurgle... Gasp!"
Taking the opportunity, the old man drove a brutal knee straight into the side of the biker's head, knocking him out cold. He then rifled through both victims' pockets, taking all their cash. Finally, he heaved both unconscious bikers up and tossed them into a pigpen caked in thick, stinking mud.
"No honor among thieves, they say. I'll just take my insurance money from you two bastards. Ptooey!" The old man spat into the pigpen, turned around, picked up his hat, and settled it back onto his head under the blistering sun.
He walked into the bar, which also served as the hotel lobby, and slapped a few coins onto the counter before the proprietor.
"My checkout fee for the room. And next time, make sure your staff cleans off those white stains on the bed. If I come back and find the previous guest's mess again, you and I are gonna have a very personal chat," the gap-toothed old man grinned sinisterly at the manager.
"Y-Yes, sir! Absolutely, Mr... Mr..." The manager stumbled over his words, trembling.
Hearing this, the old man tilted his head toward the wrinkled-face bulldog resting behind the bar counter. His sharp eyes flicked back toward the tavern owner.
"Mr. Hull," the fifty-something geezer announced his name like a legendary moniker.
"Y-Yes, Mr... H- Hull," the manager stammered, crossing himself in prayer to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
"Good." Leaving those final words, he strolled out of the bar and pulled his straw hat down low.
"Damn, it's scorching today..."
Bulldog picked up the jammed handgun left on the ground, fixing the mechanism with effortless ease. "Piece of cake." He tucked the gun into his waistband. "Guess I'll take this."
With his business concluded, he sauntered over to the parking area behind the hotel, where a gleaming chrome-silver motorcycle stood proudly.
"Hey there, baby. Time to ride."
The old man threw on a rugged brown leather vest and straddled the plush leather seat.
VROOM!
The engine roared like thunder against the desert sky before he smoothly backed the bike out. The rear wheel kicked up dirt as he accelerated onto the main highway, flanked by massive, towering red-rock mesas.
Passing a roadside sign that originally read 'Route 66', he rode past a fresh coat of spray paint scrawled across it: 'Challenge The Dominator'