A shadowy motorcyclist rode into this sleepy little desert down along the Interstate. Normally you would find such transients on this route out in the middle of nowhere and this guy appeared to be no different. He looked semi-thuggish if he wasn't wearing a modular helmet but his jacket, boots, and his gloves gave away he was as badass as you can expect from a biker. He was in no motorcycle club (99% or 1%) but he gave away that we was not to be fucked with. He had a knife and gun and a bulletproof vest to protect himself but he also his bare fists to show that he wasn't to be fucked with. His Harley, a low-riding standard model in red and black, was sure to attract attention when he pulled up to the gas station on the intersection of the Interstate and the access road. He'd been there before to get gas, drinks, and even a bite to eat at the small but decent diner next door. Nobody asked where he got the money and he wouldn't answer. Good thing he was quiet. After he did his gas and drink routine, he settled into the diner's counter and ate his typical lunch. Hashbrowns with chili, onions, cheese, and ham and a nice helping of water and coffee. Perfect for this guy since he never needed to work. He had all the money he could get. Didn't bother him that he was lonely. He had many girls ride with him and none were perfect. They were too bitchy for his taste. So that with his luck, he was nice to the waitress that served him. She looked young but old enough to be with. Naive too from the look of it. He didn't pay much attention to her anyways. Just left her a nice tip when he was done and got back out to finalize things before riding off. Or so he thought.