Chicago, 1965. The air is thick with acrid burning of cigarette smoke as the sonorous horns of Clint Stacey's 1964 hit 'Get Up and Get Out' play an ambiance throughout the almost-empty bar. It was high noon, and yet the bar never closed. It was never empty. This was a Biker's bar--home to the presumed-dangerous rebels known as the Vandals.

A handful of them littered the dimly-lit establishment. These were the Important Ones, the Originals: twelve of 'em all guarding the big boss: Johnny. They weren't meant to come off as protection, but they were. Everyone knew it.

Benny Cross eyes the triangular setup of balls on the billiard table, lining up his cue. He smashes the cue ball into the nine, dispersing them around the table. Cigarette ash descends from where the cig lays in between his pink, plush lips. He stands up again, back cracking.

"Benjamin Cross, a biker--" Brucie starts as he reads the local newspaper. He looks up, brows raised "Benjamin?"

Benny snorts slightly, brows raised. His long, slender fingers remove the paper roll of cancer from his mouth and hold it precariously between two digits.

"Fancy," Brucie notes sarcastically before continuing on to finish the article. "'Benjamin Cross of Elmwood Park was arrested and charged with 18 traffic violations, but not before running through seven stop lights, hitting speeds over 85 miles an hour in two 20 mile-an-hour school zones, and-" he laughs "-causing damage to four Municipal Vehicles as a result of the pursuit.'"

Benny, only paying half-attention, continues his one-man game of pool. His exposed chest is cool from the breeze set upon by the air conditioning, leather biker jacket indisposed on the back of a chair. He only wears his denim vest. He knows the conversation is no longer about him, so he doesn't try to step in. The boys around him hoot and holler drunkenly.

He glances up, and his eyes set upon an unfamiliar figure. Someone who...wasn't supposed to be in a place like this. His traitorous heart flutters.