The motorcycle was an Indian Scout. Che crouched by the back wheel and examined the bike intently, running his hands over the brushed metal in the same way a veteran trainer would pat a horse. His reverie was interrupted by the brash tones of the Salesman.

"Say! Uh, be careful with that cigar that chief. Gas tank's full y'know, we don't want any accid-"

Che fired a glance through an untidy fringe that silenced the salesman. If he were to ask what he felt later, he wouldn't have said he was intimidated, per se. The man wasn't particularly tall or well built, but he had something about him - some kind of intensity. He blew smoke through angrily flared nostrils and raised himself from his haunches. He gripped the cigar between forefinger and middle finger and removed it from clamped teeth. Pointing it at the salesman, he spoke in heavily accented English.

"You know something, amigo? I built my own motorcycle. A pushbike frame, with an engine strapped in. It was my baby, La Poderosa. 

Che rose an arm, bent at the elbow. With his other hand, still clutching the cigar, he pointed to a spot midway between his elbow and his palm.

"I ride it from Rosario, here. All the way through Ar-hen-tina, Peru, Bolivia, Venezuela. 5000 miles! And you, you gonna tell me like I know nothing about a motorcycle, like I'm some kind of idiota?

Che jammed the cigar back into his mouth and returned to his crouch, continuing his examination of the bike. The awkward silence stretched out between the two men before the Salesman, so used to empty conversation, nervously coughed and tried again.

"So mister, it's a unique choice - most people in New York prefer an automobile, is there any specific reason you're inquiring about the motorcycle?

"Oh yes," the response came absentmindedly, Guevara barely even looked up from the motorcycle, "I need it for my escape."

"Escape, sir? From what?"

For the first time, the Hispanic man dropped the humourless facade. Once again springing to his feet, he pushed his hair away from his eyes and fixed the salesman with a wolfish grin.

"I'm going to rob J.P. Morgan!"

Sat on a small empty oak beer cask sipping an ice tea at the rear of Henrique Bofont’s garage, The_Stig watches intently as a White Kite hurriedly tears the life from a small brown ground squirrel a hundred yards further down the hillside. He saw the small twitching movement of the squirrel slowly come to an abrupt end as the Kite sensed its quarry was completely his, and swooped low with its talons firmly gripping the soft fur of its prize and made for cover in a small olive grove.

At that moment he overheard voices coming from the front of the garage, followed by the unmistakable lumpy throb of a V twin engine. His gaze leaves the site of the olive grove and he smiles as he turns in the direction of the sound, spotting two men stood beside a Red Indian Scout.

The younger of the two sits astride the dark red thumper. The man obviously knew his bikes, casually flicking through the gearbox perfectly matching the revs to ensure a smooth transition. The_Stig walks towards the men, allowing his nasal passages a full dose of that most erotic of mechanical mixtures, petrol and oil.

 He looks at the man sat upon the cycle, recognising him instantly. His beard and carefree appearance offering a tantalising insight into what may, or may not be about to take place.

He circles the two smiling in appreciation of the life that was suddenly kicked into the huge metallic red beauty. “She’s nice……….very nice Che. You thinking of burning up a few miles or, maybe something else in mind?” He says as the two of them slowly raise their eyes in the direction of the garage owner………….

Perfect. That's just what I needed.

Setanta's excitement had gotten the better of him. He'd actually said that out loud, even though he wasn't talking to anyone. Composing himself again, he took in the dark surroundings he was in once more ensuring he was aware of all potential obstacles to his rapid escape. He then wondered why his inner monologue was describing what he'd just done in such oddly exact detail. He didn't have time to worry about that now though, he had to get moving.

Taking advantage of the strange looking guy in the helmet greeting the other two gentlemen, Setanta darted out the door of the outhouse he had been hiding in. So many questions still raced through his mind. What had happened the night before, why had he woken up in an outhouse, where were his pants gone, who was this Caius girl and why in the name of god did he have her name tattooed on his arse. These would all have to wait though, for now "Operation Find Pants" was his only priority.

As the hum of the Scouts engine filled the air, Setanta bolted out of the garage outhouse and made his bare ass way back towards home. Who knows, if the rest of his family were lucky he might even find a pair of pants along the way. He wasn't too worried though, for as the old saying goes "When life hands you lemons, see how many lemons you can fit in your mouth at the one time".

As Che saw his friend approaching, he let the motorcycle's engine chunter into an idle purr before swinging a leg over the teardrop shaped fuel tank to stand. Requesting that the salesman wheel the bike around the front and fill her up, he waited until the man was out of sight before he turned to his friend and immediate Boss.

"El Jefe! It is good to see you, mayn! I was just coming to find you, so this is an omen I think, no?"

As Che spoke, he saw what he first thought was the reflection of sunlight in The_Stig's helmet visor, it was blindingly bright. When his eyes had adjusted to the glare, he saw an image of what he thought was the palest man he'd ever seen; half naked and scurrying away in a crablike fashion.

"¡HIJO DE PUTA! Stig, did you see that gringo?!"

"What are you talking about, Che?"

"Ehhh, I don't know. I didn't have so much sleep this night, perhaps I see things. Is not important, anyway."

It was impossible to tell, but Guevara was almost certain The_Stig was staring at him with raised eyebrows and an incredulous expression. He tried to put the matter to one side - there were more important matters to discuss.

"I need three things mi amigo, and I know no one else in the city can do them as well as you. This bike, the scout, it's a beautiful thing. The fastest I ever saw, and unbelievable handling - but it has no suspension on the back; and I need this, and I know you can do this for me. Second, I need a box truck, I don't know the size exactly but for sure it has to be big enough to hold something the size of...say, a motorcycle. Third, I need two sets of clean license plates and a paint job for the motorcycle in two days."

Guevara fell silent as he allowed his family's Right Hand Man to digest the details of his request. After several seconds of silence he continued.

"Now, I know some of these things are a pain in the asshole, or else time-consuming, and I don't expect you to do this for free just because I work for you. In return for your help, I'm happy to help you too - your payment shall be the majority of the take when I rob the largest bank in these United States!"

The_Stig stands before Che listening to the shopping list and nods whilst removing a small booklet from his side pocket, thumbing through its contents.

He maintains his composure, as only The_Stig could as Che asks if he saw the pink, recently decorated naked arse of Setanta suddenly appear, then quickly disappear behind a dumpster. The_Stig never so much as winced. Anyone else would have been mortified by the amount of limp flesh cascading beneath those hips, dancing as it did in the hot Nebraska sunshine. But no, The_Stig is cool, he’s calm and he’s always collected, and maintains his stance flicking through the booklet and continues to nod as the shopping list is finally completed.

“I work for you. In return for your help, I'm happy to help you too………” says Che as he looks into the dark mirror like visor with eyes wide open and obviously expecting some sort of rebuke or dismissal.

The_Stig had vetoed proposals before from the Goomba. He had much to learn but felt that he was worth the investment, in time at least. His last project involved kidnapping the Mayor of New York and selling him to the Russians. Great on paper but it didn’t translate too well, hence the 3 ton of Rubles in the HQ basement currently valued at around $13.

This time however he was more than happy to oblige. It was time Che had his moment of glory and was elevated from the position he was currently in to that of a true mobster, a racketeer, an earner.

“Yes, I can do all that for you man………no problem whatsoever.”

“What! You mean…?”

“Aye, including the suspension, it’ll be my pleasure. I’ll even make sure it has hydraulic adjustable ride height. What timescale we thinking of here? Sometime soon I hope?”

“Yes, yes indeed……….soon yes. You’ll sort all those things for me? What like…….pay ferrit?”

“Aye, as I said, your RHM is a loving, caring sort………..take note. I’d love to help.”

“I can’t thank you enough marn. I mean, showing your confidence this way and paying out your own pocket and all.”

There was a slight pause as Che realised this may be a dream………

“What’s the catch mayn?”

“Oh no catch at all, not at all. Apart from the fact that I won’t be paying for it of course……you think I’m stupid or something? Oh no, I won’t be paying for it…………..this guy will…………”

He then opens the booklet and shows Che the page, which is in fact a photograph, one of many taken at the previous evenings “Fist of Fury and eat all you can” event at the notorious Peach Pit Club.

Che's gaze widens and a look of disbelief covers his face as he asks....

“Is that........?”

“Yes it is,” replied Stig…….”I bet you didn’t know he had one of them threaded on there……..right on the end too……..and look, completely shaven from head to foot. Setanta will pay well for these photos, he’ll be funding this little venture……”

The two men continue to peruse the contents of the book remarking as they do so;

“I didn’t know Raoul was that agile and at ease around live animals………..”

“I saw it done in Guam, but the chicken was tethered…………..”

“How on earth did BlackBetty manage to get the eight ball in there too?”

“If Curtis saw this he’d lock Ragnarok away for good…………”