The Revenant:

The road was dusty as they made their way north. Halfway to Vegas and about ten miles from hell, the heat penetrated their black leathers as the bikes road over melted tar, or what was considered Highway 93. It was hot enough in the Sonoran desert to literally melt the asphalt and distort the traffic markers.

At this point they had enough sand in their leathers and wished for an oasis in the middle of nowhere, a nice cool refreshing lake, if miracles could be used for such a thing.  They pulled up in front of the diner, and were greeted by a rusted truck born in the mid 80’s. Its color was somewhat blood red prime and somewhat rust, and lay dead with a flat tire welcoming them to their destination. Assorted Harley’s leaned against their stands, almost as if that small piece of metal was akin to atlas holding up the world. There was a swing set in the back, with one sad decrepit swing dangling lonely in the desert breeze. They heard nothing.

The diner consisted of a single-floored, white wooden square shaped building. The paint was graying in areas from losing its battle from the pounding sands brought up from the scorching desert winds. An American flag sagged on a pole, and what used to read “Rosies” above the entrance was barely noticeable. It was run down, old and still functional to whatever tourist may be desperate enough to stop here on the way to Las Vegas.

A gleaming black Pagani Zonda S was parked alone to the left of the building; assuring that the motorcycles, dirt and trucks remained in the lowest class of society. He knew without a doubt who that car belonged to. Pretensious shit.

“You goin in alone boss?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, I said I would.”

“We’ll be right here if you need us, just give a yell, or shoot a lightning bolt through his ass or something”

He chuckled as he stepped off his bike and made his way up the three stairs leading into the old diner.

He stood in the entrance and waited for the hostess to ask him if he wanted to sit at the bar or at a booth. The paint on the interior of the place used to be white, and was now a dull pus like yellow from old smoke and grease. The stools at the bar were empty save for two overweight men, hair sticking out their baseball caps, as they shoveled food like material into their waiting mouths. The booths were made of red pleather, two of them facing each other in rows by the windows facing the entrance to this purgatory.

There were scattered diners here and there, speaking in hushed tones, some not speaking at all.

The tinny sound of the Doobie Brothers played from a radio perched behind the bar, and the place smelled like last week’s drunk vomit. People looked into their plates of cheap grease, hoping to fill the hole left over from last night, whether it was too much alcohol or drugs, it’s hard to say. He looked around casually, trying to find his mark, as waitress’s refused to look him in the eye and avoided any type of contact with his personal space. He waited several more minutes to see if they were going to ask him to be seated or not, and decided he was on his own. Maybe it was the glasses, maybe it was the beard, he wasn’t sure.

He notices an attractive blond man sitting in a booth in the far right corner. That must be him, he decides walking towards his ill fated meeting. The man looks up and smiles. He was dressed in a three piece Armani suit, the gold from the Rolex casting a reflection on the table from the small bit of sun that tried to break through the grime of the window. His blue eyes were piercing, his chiseled face that appeared to be mid-thirties betrayed his true age of timeless.

“Really? Out of all the places you picked this one?” Joe asks him as he walks over and fits his body into the booth across from him.

Luke smiled sardonically and looked around. “What’s wrong with it?”