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[color=304095][b]"That's right officer, I see it right now. A huge brawl, right in Aura Park. I think they've got a gun."[/b][/color]
BJ stood alone in a grimy phonebooth, twiddling the cord casually between his fingers.
[color=304095][b]"Thank you officer. Yes... Yes, that's correct."[/b][/color] He paused for a moment, spitting the black-and-yellow shell of a sunflower seed out of the bottom of his mask.
[color=304095][b]"Henry Bogg, sir. Thank you, yes. I'd be willing to write this officially, that's correct. I want a peaceful city [i]just like you[/i]."[/b][/color]

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Every bike had its own sound. Some sounded like lawn mowers, some sounded like smaller cars, and some sounded like chainsaws. BJ's was about as subtle as a pond-hopper. It was small, lightweight, and maneuverable, but it was loud as all hell. Fortunately for BJ, loudness was a part of the lifestyle. BJ didn't roll into Aura Park in the shadows, he announced his presence a block in advance. The park was made of cracking cement, with benches, water fountains, and handball courts covered in layers of cyan and magenta scribblings. At the center of the park was a fountain that had been dry for years, as if by some drought, and filled with a thin layer of trash and broken glass. Its color was a hotly contested issue that changed day to day with different tags and throw-ups, though currently, it stood out with a hot pink paintjob as opposed to BJ's clan's brilliant blue. Such was life.

He disengaged the motor with a turn of his key, and set the motorcycle on the side of the fountain, pulling a small brown bag out of his jacket and setting it inside of the fountain, hidden by the rim. With little else to do, Bj sat on the fountain's rim and pulled a small plastic packet out of his pocket, tearing it open and pulling out a Twizzler. He placed one end of the red confection into his mouth's mask hole, feeding it in a few inches before he was able to grab it with his teeth and begin pulling in bites.

After a few minutes and a half a pack of twizzlers, BJ heard an all-too familiar noise. [i]Razors[/i].

In the distance, BJ saw a crowd of nine or ten hooting and hollering, jumping up and shouting insults he was too far to decipher. In the middle was Gary, in all of his five feet and five inches of glory. He wore a yellow and pink Hawaiian shirt, with a black pair of sunglasses and white shorts. Surrounding him were eight or so flunkies in masks, mostly rhinos and gorillas. The kind of masks meatheads would pick. Two carried machetes, one carried a knife, and another -- a heavyset gorilla in a Bulls jersey -- brandished a meat cleaver.

None ran towards him, or even sped their pace. Instead, they flocked towards him slowly, trying to soak up as much swagger and machismo on their way. When they were about fifteen feet away, they collectively stopped behind Gary, who took the center stage.

"You've got a lot of chutzpah, Goat."

BJ said nothing in return, though he pulled a small blue bic out of his pocket, bringing it to the stub peeking out of his mask.

"Thought you quit."

BJ said nothing and leaned back, sliding his hands to the back edge of the rim, in a reclined position. He tossed the twizzler over his shoulder quickly, as to not give Gary enough time to see it [i]wasn't[/i] a cigarette. That wouldn't be part of the plan. BJ flicked the lighter a few times, giving him an almost campfire-light scowl in the darkness. 

"I hear you like to fight. You wanna fight my boys?"

BJ flicked the lighter again, pulling his hand back behind the fountain's rim where he sat, just above the bag he had pulled out. This time, he wasn't silent.

[color=304095][b]"Reckon I might."[/b][/color]

The bag was lit, and more importantly, the [i]wick[/i] was lit. In a flash of motion, BJ flicked his arm fowards, launching a wick-tipped wine bottle out of the bag as if he were skipping a rock. It landed at Gary's feet, shattering in an eruption of flames. Wasting no time, BJ hopped on the seat of his Triumph, clicking the key into ignition and taking off around the fountain's curve. He didn't have enough time to see if he was successful, but he heard that he was successful. Hell, he [i]smelled[/i] that he was successful. Fortunately, tonight was shrimp night, and not barbecue night. [i]That would've been too grim[/i], BJ thought as he sped out of the park. He heard the blazing fire rise, and the heat on his back. Over that, over [i]all[/i] of it, he heard screams.

Behind him, somewhere, he heard the sirens of a cop car pulling into Aura Park.
Right on time.