Revelation, 6:1 Who: Pollution, War, Famine, Death What: Armageddon Where: The Happy Porker Cafe, outskirts of Los Angeles When: Sunset Rating: PG Status: thread ; incomplete
The motorcycle was white, or at least, gave the appearance of having once been white. Now, it seemed to be coated by a light film of motor oil and dried egg[1]. If shone, even in the darkening day, and when the rider, a man dressed in dusty white leather, parked at the curb, the bike gave a shudder and released a small gush of motor oil into the gutter.
The rider stepped off the bike and glanced about, the thick shield of the helmet far too clouded to see the face underneath. His leather coat was white, though stained with grease and mud, and emblazoned on the back were the words HELL'S ANGELS. The man lifted his gloved hands and unbuckled his helmet. As it slid away, there was a gust of wind, blowing paper cups and cellophane wrappers and newspapers around his feet like happy children. For a moment, there was the impression of long white hair being shaken in the breeze, but the image blurred, like oil on the water, and when the wind died, it was a man with short, dirty blond locks, ashen skin, and pale eyes looking at the cafe.
"Guess I'm the first," he said to himself. There was a hint of a smile to his voice. It was right that he was first to arrive. That was how things were written.[2]
With a bit of a bounce in his gait, Pollution tucked the helmet under his arm, and stepped into the cafe to secure a table.
[1] Along the side of the bike, letters were visible. A 'W' and the beginnings of an 'A', as though some humor-minded individual had attempted to scrawl 'WASH ME' upon it. Where the 'A' trailed off was a splotch of something else, the color of old brick. Pollution didn't like anyone touching his things, particularly if it was to try and destroy the lovely messes they made. [2] Of course, everyone had thought it would be Pestilence filling this particular seat. Good old King James had never specified names, and after Pestilence had retired in 1936, muttering bitterly about penicillin, Pollution had been more than happy to fill the role.