[h3]Arizona[/h3]


[b]Yucca
4:10 PM[/b]

Little Walter was fuming. The gas tank of his chopper had a giant scratch all the way down it, ruining the black finish he had worked so hard to keep immaculate. He sighed as he looked at it. Compared to the others, he'd gotten off easy. Otter's hog had its back wheel warped, the ape hangers on Curly Joe's bike were so concave they touched.

Walter had been relaxing at the bar in the clubhouse, polishing off the first beer to start the day, when he heard that god awful crashing noise outside. He and Pagan were the first two out, looking on in horror at the site of their wrecked bikes. A black car with a rag top sped off from the clubhouse back towards town. He managed to catch a glimpse of a man's dark head of hair behind the wheel of the car.

It took a few minutes to get the rest of the guys up, some of them still hungover from the night before. As soon as the damage to their bikes were mentioned they were wide awake. Now Walter and the rest were surveying the damage. Pagan looked the saddest of them all. But that was to be expected. His chopper had the most damage to it. The only thing to do to it would be to gut the engine out and start over with a new frame. Even now Pagan squatted over his bike, trying his best to hide his tears.

What the fuck was going on, Walter thought to himself. They were Highway Rangers, not Girl Scouts. The meanest, baddest sons of bitches this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. They didn't cry. They made people cry.

"Corporal Paige," Walter snapped. The whole group turned to look at him. Real names were rarely used, and their ranks from the war were used only when shit got serious. It had its effect, as Pagan stood at attention. His eyes were red, but there was no trace of tears.

"Do you want to get mad, or do you want to get even?" Walter asked.

Pagan's voice cracked as he spoke. "Even, Sergeant Hill."

"Good." Walter spat on the ground. "Anybody who got their bike totaled, double up with someone else. Won't hurt you to ride bitch for a little bit. Anybody else, if your bike is ride-able then ride it. We're going to find the son of bitch who did this. For every scratch, that's a cut on his chest. For every dent, that's a bone we break. For every bike he destroyed, that's a finger we cut off. Let's go."

The gang let out whoops and cheers as they started to mount their bikes. Four of the bikers climbed on to the back seat of one of their counterparts. Walter let Pagan ride on the back of his. He started his up with a roar and looked at the others.

"Hey, hey, hey," Walter called out over the noise of the engines. "I was born a rebel, down in Dixie on a Sunday morning."

"One foot in the grave, one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel," the rest of the group called back.

Walter let out a rebel yell and hit the gas, the bike spinning in the gravel a few seconds before it roared across the parking lot and onto the highway towards town. Pagan held on tightly as the rest of the gang following behind him in formation.


---


[b]4:23 PM[/b]


Johnny Leggario was only one of two customers in Mabel's Diner. He sat at the counter and nursed a cup of coffee while a burly man in overalls slurped down a bowl of chill. The chill was advertised on the sign out front of Mabel's as the best in the state. Johnny had no desire for food at the moment. He only bought the coffee so they wouldn't try to give him grief about loitering. Even now, the bony looking waitress at the far end of the counter watched him warily, hoping he'd buy something else. She was probably the titular Mabel.

He was really here for the payphone at the back near the corner booths. It'd cost almost a buck to place all the calls he'd needed. From Sun City, to Phoenix, back to Sun City, and then Phoenix one more time. He was waiting for one last call from Phoenix to close up his business. Kick in the dime for the cup of coffee and he'd be out a dollar and five cents for this little endeavor.

The idea came to him after he hauled ass away from the Highway Rangers' clubhouse. He needed to do more than penny ante shit like smacking into their bikes. He needed real muscle. So far the state was powerless to do anything about these rednecks who were terrorizing a town, terrorizing this half of the state pretty much. Yucca had no standing police force since it wasn't an incorporated town. Either through bribery or sympathy, the autonomous Mohave County Sheriff's Department seemed to turn a blind eye to it all. With no state police force, Arizona had no real means to actively stomp these bastards out. But then he started thinking about Arizona's old west past and it hit him like a bolt of lighting.

The payphone began to ring. Johnny stood up, ignoring the looks from the man eating chili and the waitress, and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"This is Johnny."

"Mr. Leggario? This is Governor Steiss."

"Pleasure to talk to you, governor."

"Wish I could say the goddamn same," he spat. "I don't know who the hell you are, but half the State House and almost all my major donators seem to know you."

"I have a lot of friends," Johnny said nonchalantly. "Friends with influence and money."

"Well, it's because of those friends I am allowing this half-crazed idea. It also helps that another chapter of these biker gangs got into some deep shit in Nevada and the federal government is thinking of intervening. So doing this makes me look good, like I'm getting out in front of the issue. Johnny, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"Not in Arizona."

"Goddammit... I guess that'll work. You raising your right hand?"

"Sure am," he lied.

"Do you swear to uphold the laws and Constitution of both the United States of America, and the state of Arizona?"

"I do," he lied again.

"Then by the power invested in me by the people of the state of Arizona, I declare you an Arizona Ranger. A courier will be sending you paperwork and identification shortly. Don't make me look bad."

Just like that the line went dead. Johnny smiled to himself as he put the phone back on the hook. The Arizona Rangers had been disbanded after the territory had been declared a US state in 1909. Like their counterparts in Texas, they had a broad mandate to stop crimes across the state.

And now Johnny was the first Ranger in over fifty years. He could hear Frenchie already laughing about it when he found out. A wop cowboy, he would say with tears in his eyes. What's your name, Johnny, The Ragu Kid?! Johnny laughed to himself as he walked by the counter, placing a quarter beside the empty coffee cup he had used,and kept walking outside. He crossed the dirt parking lot towards his car and stopped as he heard the sound of approaching motorcycle engines. Johnny quickly walked across the parking lot to his convertible and opened the trunk of his car. He came out with a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun.