The sun was only just rising above the Badlands of Utah, when the one they called Anarchy climbed off the sobbing woman and zipped up his pants. He looked at her husband, who was bound and gagged and forced to watch the whole thing.
“Why?” The woman sobbed, holding her arms over her bare chest, her knees meeting her breasts. Her face was red with a hot flush of tears.
Anarchy slung his jacket over his back and slid on his sunglasses. He was barely thirty and had many years of fun like this ahead of him. “Why?” He laughed, leaned toward her, and whispered into her ear. “Because I can.”
With one quick strike, he pushed her head into the wall so hard it split the plasterboard. Her head drooped, dazed, as she fell unconscious. Her husband uttered muffled yet agonized cries of outrage and disgust.
“Don’t take it personally,” Anarchy told him while picking up the nearby newspaper. He took the cigarette from behind his ear, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with his Zippo. The flame still alive, he touched it to the newspaper, which caught ablaze. “This was for my pleasure, not for your pain.”
On his way out of the apartment, he dropped the newspaper onto the kitchen table and turned on the stove. Gas hissed out like an angry snake, leaving him only a short window of time to get out of there.
Anarchy closed the door behind him, then crossed the street to his Harley Davidson, casually taking drags on his Marlboro. Behind him a thunder-like explosion shook the ground. People crossed the street in panic, running to aid whoever was inside.
The perfect way to start any day, Anarchy thought as his bike roared to life between his legs.
He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street and tore down the road, a whole world of anarchy ahead of him. His next stop?
San Francisco.