The Biker Wears a Mohawk

The Biker didn’t get a whole lot of respect from either the law-abiding townspeople or the other superheroes, but that was because none of them ever looked at the scoreboard Omsbudsman Morris had set up. His record was the best in the city after Blind Justice. Everyone saw him pedalling around town like a madman, terry-cloth cape belled out behind him like the wings of Nemesis, cheap polarized sunglasses covering his eyes, and just saw the seventeen year old punk underneath. Maybe if his bike had been nicer, instead of the cheap six-speed road bike that it was; maybe if he’d done more with the bike, fought with it, did tricks, or something. He didn’t — that wasn’t his style — but then he didn’t worry too much about respect, either. He didn’t follow the scoreboard, either, though he knew in a general way where he stood.

Mostly he just ran down criminals and kept the streets safe between 18th and 35th; between Hewitt and Rucker. In those 391 blocks he was uncontested, and not a little feared. The little kids loved him, and ran after his bike when he went zipping past, shouting his name. The older kids used to hassle him, throw rocks and worse things, but he ran a couple of them down and after that they left him alone. Nights, thugs and bullyboys trembled at the zizz of wheels on concrete; they didn’t run, though. They knew.