Throughout history, from the fluorescent skyline of Paradiso to villages of clay huts, men have found ways to rise above their peers. Most proved they deserved allegiance because their skills, in whatever regard, were unmatched. Many were fierce chieftains and warlords, who earned fear and respect as the number of decorative skulls lining their abode grew. Others were servants to their people, handing out bread and washing the feet of the ill, surrounded by loyal followers by virtue of their kindness. Some, even still, were simply blessed with magnetically charismatic personalities. Whether or not he knew it, Rush happened to be all four. He was easily the best rider. The Headhunter most unafraid of death. An older brother to each member.
Somehow, the best singer. Like many of his songs, the one Rush currently sang made next to no sense, though the Headhunters sang along all the same. They were too drunk on bloodshed to care.
Parties at
The Cave, the Headhunters' uninspiredly named base of operations, were great spectacles of chaos among the gang
long before Rush had risen to power, though he certainly hadn't done a thing to curtail the practice. Flaming oil drums cast shadows on the glowstick-splattered walls, clashing against the green-and-yellow oily projection of the liquid light show taking place. Within the graffiti'd and thoroughly gutted interior of what had once been a water treatment facility, motorcycles tore up and down the hallways, doing donuts around crowds of raving gangsters. Rush stood atop a pile of trash in front of the liquid light projection, holding a lit molotov cocktail in one hand and a pistol in the other as he sang, with a thrusting sway to his hips somewhere between Elvis Presley's signature shuffle and onset Parkinson's. A dancer, Rush was not. Aside from his shiny red helmet, a mask that might as well have been a face, he wore a black and silver racing suit, overshadowed by a tremendous sequined
mink coat that could only be described as "Excessive".
This party was to celebrate that day's heist at the Synthi-Fur store in Diamond Heights, and so Rush took his lion's share with the fanciest coat, whether or not it made him look more like a great furry moth than like a proper gangster. Then again, there was very little that was
proper about Rush.
The Cave was filled with Headhunters and their associates and friends, nearly a hundred grubby looking youths from the ages of ten to twenty in total, dancing among the iron rafters, tossing empty bottles of soda and beer into the tepid tanks of green sludge lining the room's four corners, and rubbing a concoction they called Kamikaze --
Neon, Sturmstaub, and smokeless gunpowder -- into small cuts on their arms. Several Headhunters danced around the trash mountain Rush stood atop, one of many veritable termite's mounds of smashed electronics, tires, soiled paper, and pulpy grey plastics that were halfway through their decomposition cycle, all singing along as best they could. Without a word of warning, Rush flung his cocktail into the air, high above the heads of his fellow gang members. He fired two shots, the first missing and ricocheting off of the ceiling, and the second shattering the molotov, raining fire and glass onto the surrounding area like a savage fireworks show. Like most of his reckless antics, this was met with applause. It was an eerie sight to see. A single masked figure atop a flaming heap of trash, surrounded by enraptured children and teenagers with neon spraypainted pistols, cast against a bright psychedelic projection. Those who didn't know the words to his song -- a vast majority of the Headhunters -- simply sang the open syllables, muddling the song with a slurred, cacophonous harmony. Something tribal about it seemed appropriate for such a primal hideout as theirs.
"Boss," A squeaky, rasped cough of a voice spoke up,
"You are on fire." A short Headhunter no older than fourteen pointed to the train of Rush's magnificent coat, which sure enough, had been caught alight by his celebratory explosion moments earlier. Rush stopped his singing, turning around to examine the fire burning away at the fur trim of his coat.
"You are right." Rush said through his helmet.
"Rush is on fire!" He threw back his head and cheered, firing another two bullets into the air, met with another round of applause from his captivated audience. Rush dropped his pistol, pulling his arms out of the oversized coat before spinning it over his head like a matador. He threw the smoldering coat the the Headhunters below unceremoniously, who caught it with reaching arms like concertgoers hoping to catch a guitar pick from
the pope.
"Here you are. New blanket. You welcome." Rush squatted and slid down his trash hill, his attention having been completely broken from the song he had been singing, and the pistol he had essentially thrown out. His mind was now blank, and like all the times his mind had gone blank, it had defaulted back to one thing.
Speed.
With a wave of his hand, Rush dismissed the Headhunters following him, signalling that he was to be left alone while they continued celebrating. It was too hot to return to Diamond Heights, and too rainy to piss about in the Lower. Plus, cops would be looking for the Headhunters tonight, so rolling with the gang would only bring about much-unwanted attention. The list of reasons Rush used to justify going out for a solo-ride were endless, but in truth, only one of them mattered. Rush wanted to go faster than he could leading a bunch of bat-swinging hoodlums doing wheelies on bikes half as well-maintained as his. Faster than the fastest of them, times ten. The streets hadn't named him Rush for no reason. He entered a short hallway to a staircase, stepping over passed-out Headhunters who had partied too hard. Rush remembered his first beer, too. He made his way up the stairs, skipping every other step and pulling himself up the handrail has he had a hundred times before, and made his way to the sole locked on the third floor. Rush's room.
It was small, but that was how Rush liked it. Concrete walls and a concrete floor, with the only painting being of a mural of the African continent above Rush's bed. For its lack of comforts, the room stayed warm in the cold winters Rush had grown a boyhood hatred for, and was easy to fill up with decorations -- Namely, tall wooden shields, spears, centerfolds, fake potted plants, and taxidermy so poorly maintained that even moths avoided their ghastly remains. At the end of the room opposite the door was a large, circular bed, with no sheets or cover to speak of. Instead, there was a single pillow, a leopard skin patterned comforter, and a bright red motorcycle. A sagging indentation in the side of the bed made a track in the memory foam from the many times where Rush had ridden it straight to bed, where a lover might await their partner to return to bed. In a way, it was. On one side of the room was a laptop with a thoroughly cracked screen, connected to three humming servers. The other side, obviously, was where Rush put his stuffed lion. He hoisted the motorcycle off of his bed by the handlebars, pressing the ignition with a turn of a key.
He made a quick check of the things he needed to leave the Cave. Keys? He had just put them in the motorcycle. Shoes? He took a quick look down, giving himself a satisfied nod. Piece? Rush smacked his helmet as if to put his face in his palm. Silly Rush. He had thrown that pistol into the trash pile during the party. He looked around for a moment, scrambling around his filthy, trash-strewn room for another pistol. His lion, as always, brandished a machine gun that had hung over his neck with a strap, but he couldn't really cruise with a kalishnikov. The machine gun was really there for any prospective raids. A sudden memory jolted him, and he hopped onto his bed and reached under his pillow, finding the familiar grip of his favorite pistol. The
Gold one. He tucked it comfortably into his waistband, and hopped on his bike, rolling slowly out of his room to close the door. He didn't think the Headhunters would snoop in his room, but they were kids, after all. Kids were curious. Rush peeled out of the hallway like a flaming bat out of hell, making his way down the staircase with a rumble. The Headhunters he walked over had moved by then -- thankfully, as nothing dampened a party like squished kids in the stairs -- and so he turned out of the staircase, revving his engine through the crowd of partygoers and out of the Cave, straight into the stormy outside world.
