Practice, Practice

Micheal Peterson:

"Okay," I moan, rubbing my throbbing head, body, arms, and legs. "As the saying goes, 10th is the charm. Ouch."

Back in my hideout, the abandoned hotel, or to be more precise, in the abandoned hotel's underground parking lot, I am currently trying to figure out how to ride a motorcycle. Unfortunately, when I "brought" the motorcycle, I didn't have time to ask the salesperson how to ride it. Also, my only sources for instructions on how to ride come from Youtube videos, action movies, and games such as Grand Theft Auto.

"How do they make this look so easy," I ask. While I'm once again refueling my sportbike, the entire world around me slightly shaking. My legs feel uneasy, and before I know it, I fall to the ground.

"Ouch," I moan, my face against the stone ground.

Raising my head, I shake it and look at the gas can as it's hanging by its nose.

"Well, at least I didn't spill any gas."

Shaking my head again, I get up and rub my face. Once the world stops shaking, I pour the rest of the gas into the bike before setting it aside. Along with all the other empty gas cans.

"Okay," I start, breathing in and out. "Okay, you got this. You got this. Remember everything you learned in the last two days."

I make a mental list of everything I learned; the right handle is both the gas and the brake, the left handle is the clutch, do not forget to kick up the little stand, and a bunch of other stuff. I take in one last breath before starting her back up.

The engine roars to life, the bike vibrating as I pull back the handles, I start to slowly ride. At first, my two feet are doing most of the work. They push the bike along while I street.

"Okay. No bruises yet. I haven't fallen off. I haven't run into a wall or any of the pillars. Yet anyway."

The bike is starting to pick up speed and very soon, my feet can't keep up anymore.

"Here I go!"

While still not at full speed, my new bike is moving fast as I steer my way around the empty parking lot. Zipping and zapping past pillars, the pillars turning into white blurs, I rush right past one before turning and taking a sharp right. The turn almost knocks me off my bike, but I keep my grip on the handles and manage to do the turn. Skidding to a stop, I ease up on the handles and kick the stand down.

"Yeah," I cry, shooting my arms up. "Yeah! I did it! I did it! Oh my god! Oh my god. Everything still hurts."

Crying, moaning, and groaning as I throw my leg over my bike, I waddle like a penguin over to the stairs.

"Please still have ice bags," I beg, "Please still have ice bags. Oh please oh please still have some ice bags."

With the bottom of my foot hitting the first of the stone stair, every nerve in my body suddenly catches on fire.

"Ouch. Don't cry. Do not cry. Do not cry."

Brian Wane:

As I sit in front of my desktop computer, I reach for a bottle of water. Taking a sip, I put the bottle back.

"Was I a jerk," I ask myself, stopping for a second. Looking over what I've written, my mind somehow finds its way to Ash.

"It's stupid and dumb," Ash said. "It's not two peas in a pod, it's three. Three peas in a pod. Three peas that have been friends since elementary school."

As I think about Ash, I also start to think about Micheal.

"Micheal and I have been friends since elementary school," I think. "So why did I just leave him at Rocky?"

Rubbing my eyes, I then start to think about how the two didn't call me when I was in Nevada with my grandma.

"I mean, a quick hello wouldn't have been too much trouble, would it?"

My head is starting to hurt, my mind overflowing with the two forgetting about me versus the three of us being long-time friends. Since the moment Micheal introduced me to Ash, it had always been the three of us.

The headache only gets worst, it stops when I look up at my computer's screen.

"Hey," I say, looking at a picture someone had just posted online. The picture is of two girls, smiling and tapping cups of coffee together. I ignore the two girls and focus on the background. Directly behind them is a bank, and in front of the bank is a man with a motorcycle helmet. A man with a motorcycle helmet that I would recognize anywhere.

"Run-and-Gun," I say, slamming my hands down on my desk. "I found you. And to think, Micheal said social media is a waste of time."

I study the picture a little closer, looking at the name of the bank and the name on the girls' coffee cups before bringing up Google Maps.

"Okay, okay, okay," I say, "Coastal Coffee. Coastal Coffee. Where is there a Coastal Coffee directly across from a Bank of L.A.? There."

Finding what I think is the right one, I then grab my phone.

"Come on," I say, looking at the time the photo was taken. "Come on. Come on. Pick up. Pick up."

Micheal Peterson:

While laying down, covered from head to toes in bags of ice, my phone starts to go on, playing the Spectacular Spider-man's theme song. Reaching out for my phone, careful not to let any of the ice bags slip off, I answer.

"Hello?"

"Micheal," Brian screams through my phone. "Are you busy right now?"

Looking at myself, still covered in bags of ice, most of them more than halfway melted, I answer.

"I'm doing something, but I'm not exactly busy. What's up?"

"I think I just find Run-and-Gun."

"What," I scream, shooting up, all the bags falling off. As they fall, they hit the floor and open, spilling ice and water everywhere. "Aww."

"No, no, no," Brian says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything crazy. I'm just calling you to ask for a ride."

"I'm sorry," I say, stepping over the puddle. "What? What did you just say? I'm sorry, I think I just left my body for a second. Did you just call me and ask me if I could give you a ride to see Run-and-Gun, an armed and dangerous bank robber?"

"Yes."

"And you somehow figured out where he is."

"Yes, and if we don't move now, we'll miss him. By the way, I told you Facebook and Twitter aren't wastes of time."

"I never said they're waste of time. I said I just didn't want to be on them. I'm okay not knowing what's on people's minds. In fact, I am a big fan of secrecy."

"Well, I'm not. Anyway, I'll text you the location. Get here now."

Brian texts me the location, I shake off the aches and pains and run to grab my suit.

"I'm sorry about this Brian, but I'm afraid I can't pick you up. Thrill Rider had a bank appointment. And most likely a visit to the hospital afterward. It depends on his motorcycle riding skills."