It’s hot out, the way August in Texas tends to be, with very little moisture. The air above the grey cement is wet, a wavy mirage on the edge of the horizon. There’s but one cloud in the too-blue sky; it must not have gotten the no-work-today memo.

The gasoline fumes are almost as oppressive as the heat, but almost really has no bearing on reality, not unless we’re talking horseshoes or hand grenades, and right now we’re just talking the heat. The high today is supposed to be 107 degrees Fahrenheit, but for the time being the temperature is hovering just over 100. Once it’s over around 98 degrees, does it really matter how hot it is? It’s going to unpleasant outside regardless of your choice of clothing.

Looking at the man who’s just dismounted a motorcycle in front of one of the two pumps at the small gas station, you could easily describe his choice in clothing as inappropriate for this weather. His leather jacket is zipped up to his chin, the exposed flesh of his neck protected by a thick, brown beard. His jeans are torn at the knees and faded nearly white, or maybe they had been white originally and faded almost-blue after so many washes with darker pairs. It was impossible to tell. His aviators sat on his crooked nose in a bent-out-of-shape way that allowed both mirrored lenses to cover his eyes. His boots were scuffed and brown, probably of the working-man’s variety and not the chic motorcycle style that guys who have never ridden like to wear. Because of the cut of his jeans, though, you couldn’t be sure just what kind of boots they were.

He pulled a wallet out of the back pocket with his right hand; he placed the left arm protectively around his torso, mimicking how wearing a sling might impact its movement. Jumping through all the necessary hoops of paying for gas with a credit card, he turned away from the pump again to remove the cap from the gas tank of the bike. It was green, the gas tank, and not exactly clean. There was a layer of dust relaxing on top of the green paint, and the body of a mosquito unfortunate enough not to have gotten out of the way was smeared down the clutch side. With the gas cap removed, he pressed the middle-octane button and pulled the hose from the pump, placing the nozzle over the open gas tank. As he did, a white SUV pulled into the gas station, taking the only other available pump.

Wes—the biker now watching the driver of the SUV—didn’t start the process of filling his motorcycle with needed gas. Left arm still curled around his chest, he recognized the look of the middle-aged man now exiting the large vehicle. It was a look of joy, of friendship, of comradery.

“She’s a beaut!” the man called out to Wes, even though they were standing less than five feet from each other.

“Thanks,” Wes growled, turning back to the task at hand, not wanting to have this particular conversation.

“What size is she?” the man persisted.

Wes changed position again, still holding the nozzle without pouring anything. The man was bald though he hadn’t accepted it yet, still allowing what was left of his greying hair to halo around his head. Wes knew his own hair was thinning, but had promised himself he would never let himself do what the SUV owner had done. He had promised himself a lot of things, though, promises he had been unable to keep. That thought awakened his left shoulder, the pain going from a dull ache to sharp and hot.

“750,” he answered in his same non-conversational tone. This time he poured the gas, looking down to make sure he didn’t overfill the tank.

“Nice! A little hot to be riding, though, isn’t it?”

This was the part of the conversation Wes didn’t want to be a part of. The older man would say he owns a Harley, some custom built monstrosity that had cost him a pretty penny, that his wife hated it. He’d go on to say that he rode most weekends between the months of April and September, provided it wasn’t raining or too hot, and that there was nothing like it. The brotherhood of the bike some riders called it, this pseudo-friendship that every person on a motorcycle claimed to believe in.

Wes thought it was bullshit.

“Not all of us have air-conditioned vehicles,” he replied, his voice sharp and quiet, somehow both a whisper and a yell. He resumed putting gas into the tank.

“Well there’s still nothing like it!” the man replied cheerily.

A love of the open road from the back of a steel horse was the only thing the two of them even remotely had in common, this full-time biker and this weekend warrior. Wes’s smile was cheap and sarcastic as he considered the man’s words, knowing that the SUV owner had no real concept of the road, probably had no real concept of freedom. He shut the nozzle off when his tank was full, the four gallons costing him less than ten dollars.

“Yeah, I own a Harley,” the older man continued, even though Wes had given no indication he cared. “An old school Fat Boy if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it.”

Wes wanted to hit the road again, continue this cathartic ride through the blistering heat, but his shoulder hurt too much to allow him to work the clutch. He was stuck in the shade of this gas station until he could trust the injured limb to not give out on the road. Hopefully the other man would leave him be soon.

“You been riding long?”

Silence was too much to ask for apparently.

“About a decade now.”

“Very cool! I’ve only been riding for about two years, but I just absolutely love it.”

“Most people do.”

“Let me ask you: what do you do if it’s raining?”

“I stay in or I walk. Or I ride. Don’t have much choice.”

“That’s dedication, brother.”

“It’s life.”

The nozzle clicked, indicating the SUV was full, and the older man replaced the hose at the pump. Maybe he would drive away now, taking his too-clean vehicle and his purse-lipped wife in the front seat with him. That would require luck Wes just didn’t possess. See the gunshot wound in his left shoulder.

“Well, the Misses and I are going to grab a quick bite to eat inside. Why don’t you join us?”

A sigh was Wes’s first response, one full of annoyance and guilt. The older man didn’t wait for more of an answer, just hopped behind the wheel and pulled into a parking spot in front of the station. That was when Wes noticed the Trump/Pence bumper sticker on the back of the SUV. His shoulder burned all the deeper staring at it.

“Sure,” he breathed, the heat of the day masking his growing anger.

“Do you mind if I ask about your arm?” the older man asked as he got out of his vehicle, his wife’s door shutting about the same as his question landed in Wes’s ear.

“I got shot a month ago,” the biker answered, wanting to vent the truth on this fucking piece of suburban trash.

“Shot!?”

“Did I stutter?” Wes had taken a step forward, the toes of his boots touching the older man’s boat shoes, his mirrored lenses providing no emotion for the SUV owner to discern. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Y-yes,” the older man said, his face visibly paler than it had been a moment ago.

“I apologize,” Wes mocked, using his right hand to remove his sunglasses, his brown eyes glaring down into the older man’s blue. “But I’d like to tell you a quick story if you don’t mind.”

The older man didn’t respond and Wes didn’t back off, though the man’s wife was now watching the exchange, her own facial expression neutral behind her bug-lens sunglasses.

“I was at a bar with some friends of mine a month ago, just a typical night out. We were laughing, we were drinking, we were having a great time. Now, one of my friends—Tanner—is gay. Not exactly an important detail, but it’s necessary for this story. You following so far?”

The owner of the SUV nodded.

“Good. This friend of mine, you see, went back inside to get himself another drink. We didn’t think anything of it. Except ten minutes go by and he still hasn’t returned. We give it another five minutes, and Tanner comes stumbling back outside holding one side of his face. He gets to the table and has one nasty bruise forming over his right eye. His bottom lip is split. Looking back to the bar, we all see three guys pissing themselves laughing. Do I strike you as the kind of person who sits back while something like that goes on?”

“N-no.”

“I’m not. So I stroll over, all casual like. I intend to be cordial, but as I approach I notice the goddamn SS bolts on one of the bastards’ necks. He’s fucking proud of himself, and my eyes get real hard and real mean. You do know what SS bolts are, don’t you? Where they come from? What they mean?”

“I don’t kn-know.”

Grabbing the older man’s shirt with his right hand, taking pains not to dislodge his left arm, Wes dragged the man to the back of his car, only letting him go to point at the bumper sticker.

“Your boys there made skinheads and other pieces of Nazi shit think it’s okay to walk around in public brandishing their racism and homophobia. So you should know what SS bolts are.

“Now, my fists are clenched tight when I get to these three guys still laughing their asses off. It’s really easy to figure out which one actually hit Tanner—he’s got blood on his knuckles. So I swing for him first. Since the idiots are standing in the doorway, it’s easy to hit one without getting surrounded. He goes down, hard, and I’m smiling now because it’s been too long since I’ve caved some fucker’s face in. But I got him in the sweet spot, right where the jaw connects to the rest of the skull, and he’s out.

“The other two don’t take too kindly to this, and the asshole with the SS bolts charges at me. Lowering my shoulder, it isn’t hard to flip him over. I crushed his windpipe with my boot. He’s still in the hospital, breathing out of an artificial lung.”

The man’s wife has been yelling since Wes hauled him to behind the SUV, but there’s nobody else at the gas station aside from the pimply high schooler working the register. No way that kid is coming outside to deal with this, and even if he did, one look at Wes and he’d turn tail and run.

“It’s this third guy that proves the entire group is cowardly. Attacking Tanner with fists is one thing; they assumed he wouldn’t put up a fight, and even if he did, three against one are terrible odds. Tanner was smart to walk away. Me…I’ve never been too bright. This third guy though pulls a goddamn piece, his hand shaking like some Parkinson’s ridden patient. Even if he pulls the trigger, it isn’t going to be a very precise or accurate shot. I’m still smiling as he backs farther into the bar, people screaming that he’s got a gun.

“Something inside spooks him, because he turns his attention away from his two dropped friends and me. So I do what any badass in this situation would do: I charge. His wits come back a little too late and he squeezes once, that single shot tearing a hole through my shoulder. It isn’t enough to stop my inertia, though, and I barrel through him, taking him right to the ground, removing most of his teeth with my right hand.

“As you would expect, the cops get called. Here’s my biggest issue with conservative fucks such as yourself: you think you have a right to kill others in self-defense. This guy thought that also, after he had assaulted my friend, after he had seen me beat the ever loving shit out of his. Apparently, according to you assholes, if you’re losing a fight you have a right to pull a fucking trigger. My warning would be make sure that shot kills whoever has been kicking your ass.”

Wes hauls the older man up and throws him into the back windshield of the SUV, all with one arm. It’s obvious that the biker is enjoying himself, his smile full and genuine. He puts his sunglasses back on.

“The four of us get arrested, though all three of them are taken to the hospital instead of jail. Even though I have a bullet wound in my shoulder, I get placed in holding first. The coward with the gun did claim self-defense through his ruined mouth as they gurneyed him into the ambulance. After two hours in jail, where they got my statement, they took me to the hospital. I honestly expected a trial and a prison sentence.

“They took everyone’s statements though: the three Nazi fucks’; mine; Tanner’s and the rest of our friends’; bar goers’; even the bartenders’. After they get all of that information, guess who gets to walk free with no criminal charges pending or filed?”

“Y-y-you?” the older man sobs.

“Damn right,” Wes seethes, his teeth clenched and his breath hot. “Turns out your little friends don’t have a god given right to blow holes in others just because they’re losing a fight.”

Wes lets the older man go, flips off his still screaming wife, and walks back to his motorcycle. Weekend warriors are not true bikers, not in his mind. They wouldn’t be willing to take a bullet for a friend or for what they believe in.

“So long as that bumper sticker is still on your SUV,” Wes called back after his bike is started, “you’re no better than those assholes I put in the hospital.”

Finally straightening his left arm out, Wes pulled the clutch in before gunning the throttle. Hitting the concrete street harder than he hit those Nazis, Wes aimed to become part of the mirage the heat had created.