Dead Header

Crane was the kind of guy who didn’t belong anywhere, especially not in San Francisco. Tall, gaunt, with bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in years, he stumbled through life like a drunk after last call.

His music teaching job was a cruel joke—barely enough to cover the whiskey that kept him upright most days. He hated the kids, hated their squeaky voices, hated how clean they were. The city? That was even worse. San Francisco wasn’t the Golden Gate and sea breeze bullshit they sold to tourists. It was a sewer. Streets filled with druggies, cracked-out drunks, and scumbags like Crane, all trying to outlive their misery one bottle at a time.

His apartment was a dump above a bar, where roaches didn’t just crawl—they made themselves at home. The floorboards creaked like an old man’s knees, the walls were paper-thin, and you could hear the rats chewing through the drywall at night. The smell was a cocktail of stale piss, sweat, and booze. But Crane didn’t care. The city didn’t give a fuck about you, so why should he? At least it was a roof over his head.

Then there was Tina. Blonde, stacked, with legs that didn’t quit. One night, Crane saw her at the bar, tight dress hugging her in all the right places, lips painted red like the devil. She had that look in her eye, one that women get when they’ve had enough of playing nice and want something filthy to happen. Crane slid next to her, his drink sloshing out of the glass. He didn’t give a damn.

She was slumming it, hooking up with Boner—big, dumb, and oblivious. Boner was the type who spent more time flexing in the mirror than noticing how Tina’s eyes wandered. Crane saw it, saw the way she was getting bored, restless. He figured if he played his cards right, he could slip between her and Boner’s stupidity, maybe get her in bed for a night or two. It wasn’t love—Crane didn’t believe in love. Love was just another word for fucking until done.

He caught Tina one night at the bar, dressed in something tight that screamed trouble. She sat alone, a drink in hand, lips painted blood red, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Crane slid onto the stool next to her, breath thick with whiskey and bad decisions.

“You wanna fuck tonight, Tina?” he muttered, his cracked lips pulling into a grin.

She didn’t even look at him at first–just stared at her glass. Then she slowly turned her gaze to him, her eyes cold. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, Crane? Just another washed-up loser in a city full of ’em.”

Crane chuckled, taking a long swig. “Maybe. But I’m the kind of loser who knows how to make you forget about Boner for a night. Maybe two, if you play nice.”

Tina looked him up and down like she was sizing up roadkill. “You’re disgusting.”

Crane leaned in, his hand sliding under the table, fingers tracing her thigh. “Disgusting works, baby. Boner’s too busy checking himself out to know what to do with a woman like you.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t sweet. It was a sharp, cold laugh, cutting through the bar noise. “You’re pathetic. But maybe that’s what I need right now—something pathetic.”

Crane grinned wider–feeling that familiar thrill. He knew he had her. In San Francisco, all it took was the right mix of booze and bad choices. A few more drinks, a few more dirty words, and she’d be in his bed, clawing at the sheets while he did his best to remind her what it felt like to be alive, even if just for a few hours.

She barely survived the pounding, giving her sea legs for the next three days. Her snatch ached, unsure if it was the trauma or the desire for more punishment from the little prick with the turkey neck gobbler between his thighs.
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But then there were the stories. Every dive bar had them. Some guys in the bar would ramble on about “the Rider.” Some crazy bastard on a bike, tearing through the streets late at night, faceless, headless—whatever the fuck that meant. Crane didn’t buy it. Just more bullshit to scare off the junkies and drunks.

Crane was stumbling back through the alleys, way too many shots of bourbon swimming in his head, when he heard a low, guttural growl of an engine, cutting through the silence like a knife. He stopped, squinting through the dim light of the streetlamps, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.

That’s when he saw it.

A bike. Big, black, and roaring through the alley like a beast. The Rider in all black, leather jacket, boots, the whole deal. But there was no face. No fucking head. Just the bike and the body, coming straight for him.

“Fuck off,” Crane slurred, rubbing his eyes, but the biker kept coming. The roar got louder, closer, rattling in his bones.

Crane’s legs went weak. He stumbled, swore, and tried to run, but his body wasn’t having it. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, tripping over his own feet, scrambling like a rat in a cage. The engine roared, deafening now, closing in, gunning straight for him like his sorry ass was in trouble.

He hit the ground hard, palms scraping the pavement, blood mixing with the grime. “No! No, no, no…” he muttered, trying to get up, but his legs were jelly. He could feel it now—the biker right behind him. The shadows stretched long, swallowing him whole.

Then everything went dark.

Come morning, Crane’s room was empty. He was gone. No one gave a damn. Tina? She didn’t notice. Boner kept being Boner. San Francisco didn’t care. It never did. The streets were still full of junkies, drunks, and losers like Crane, waiting for their turn to get swallowed by the city.

And the Rider—it was still out there, tearing through the alleys, looking for the next poor bastard who thought he could outrun the inevitable.