New York City was one of the most busy cities in the U.S., and that was precisely why Weiland had chosen to reside there. The streets and sidewalks, no matter
the time of day or night, was always packed with people. Anywhere you went you were sure to find some place interesting to spend time, to find work, or to take
a breather and find something to satisfy any craving you might have. And where there were people, there was garbage, junk, something they didn't want that
he could get his hands on and modify or use for something he was already working on. But today wasn't a day for dumpster-diving. Today, he was finishing up
a mod for a car and delivering it to a garage downtown, where he would then proceed to install it, test it out, and then later that night, go and watch the car
race illegally in a few side roads of New York City. It would be a great day.
After finishing the mod, which was fairly simple: he put it into a bubblewrap-lined box, closed and taped it up, and headed out. Although he had a full two or three bank accounts of money to spare, he lived in a second-rate apartment building near a more rough part of town. He liked the noise, and the excuse to try out a few new toys if the rough came his way. It usually didn't. Locking the door behind him, he skipped down the steps and started his treck of 6 blocks to the garage he was taking the mod to, whistling as he walked. It was a nice day out, sunny and warm, no wind, air full of toxic and invisble fumes, the birds singing; just the way he liked it.
As he passed the tavern that held the person who would forever change the course of his life (though he didn't know it), he contemplated a new experiment and then stopped dead in his tracks. Backing up, his head whipped to his left, eyes meeting with what was easily the most beautiful motorcycle he had ever seen. Of all vehicles, motorcycles were his favorite, and this beauty had his attention. Letting out a low whistle, he walked slowly around it, taking in every detail, giving it the silent but glorious praise it surely deserved. There were only a few small flaws that he could see. The glass covering the meters were all cracked in some places, there were a few scratches in the paint job, and the exhaust pipe looked like it had been hit with a baseball bat. That wouldn't do. A bike that magnificent must be kept in perfect condition. He shook his head at the fool who would let something like that happen to this bike.
He set the box containing the mod down beside him for a moment, then ran his fingers over the cracks in the glass. They disappeared immediately, sealing themselves shut and leaving no trace of their, hopefully, short-lived existance. He did the same to the scratches in the paint, which also disappeared. Then came the dent in the pipe. He placed a hand over this and pulled it back slowly. Like metal to a magnet, the dent filled out slowly, finishing with a metallic ding. Satisfied that the bike was it it's rightful and perfect condition, Weiland picked up the box, gave the bike one last, long glance, and continued on his way to the garage. He was going to be late.
After finishing the mod, which was fairly simple: he put it into a bubblewrap-lined box, closed and taped it up, and headed out. Although he had a full two or three bank accounts of money to spare, he lived in a second-rate apartment building near a more rough part of town. He liked the noise, and the excuse to try out a few new toys if the rough came his way. It usually didn't. Locking the door behind him, he skipped down the steps and started his treck of 6 blocks to the garage he was taking the mod to, whistling as he walked. It was a nice day out, sunny and warm, no wind, air full of toxic and invisble fumes, the birds singing; just the way he liked it.
As he passed the tavern that held the person who would forever change the course of his life (though he didn't know it), he contemplated a new experiment and then stopped dead in his tracks. Backing up, his head whipped to his left, eyes meeting with what was easily the most beautiful motorcycle he had ever seen. Of all vehicles, motorcycles were his favorite, and this beauty had his attention. Letting out a low whistle, he walked slowly around it, taking in every detail, giving it the silent but glorious praise it surely deserved. There were only a few small flaws that he could see. The glass covering the meters were all cracked in some places, there were a few scratches in the paint job, and the exhaust pipe looked like it had been hit with a baseball bat. That wouldn't do. A bike that magnificent must be kept in perfect condition. He shook his head at the fool who would let something like that happen to this bike.
He set the box containing the mod down beside him for a moment, then ran his fingers over the cracks in the glass. They disappeared immediately, sealing themselves shut and leaving no trace of their, hopefully, short-lived existance. He did the same to the scratches in the paint, which also disappeared. Then came the dent in the pipe. He placed a hand over this and pulled it back slowly. Like metal to a magnet, the dent filled out slowly, finishing with a metallic ding. Satisfied that the bike was it it's rightful and perfect condition, Weiland picked up the box, gave the bike one last, long glance, and continued on his way to the garage. He was going to be late.
