The Smokin' Hog Bar & Grill at the southern end of Moab's short Main Street was dark, hazy, and crowded with lounging leather-clad (or half-clad—many were shirtless) bikers. Conversations were short and shouted, for the most part, because of the high-decibel juke box that played nonstop and the hissing, clinking, and clanking short order grill behind the scuffed Formica serving counter.

A pie-wedge of glaring sunlight appeared, grew, shrank, and disappeared when Lou's recent watchdog, Sailor, stumbled in through the rough planked front door. At first glance, he appeared to have recently emerged from a den of hungry lions. He shuffled across the floor, through layers of empty peanut shells, and collapsed onto a stool at the counter, beside a huge, mean looking biker called Snake.

"Durn, Sailor!" Snake teased. "How many of 'em was they?"

"Millions!" Sailor growled, his head hanging low. "They was bitin' and buzzin', and I was slappin' and scratchin'." Then he looked up into his friend's face. "Snake, I believe Lou O'Malley saved my life!"

Snake nodded, and a sheen of sentiment coated his eyes. "Ain't that just like 'er, though," he mused. Then, in some alarm, he grabbed Sailor's shoulder. "Where is she?"

"Takin' a nap," answered Sailor, and then began to fold his arms into a pillow on the counter. As he lowered his head and closed his eyes, he continued, "Light's no good this time a day. Dang, them pills the drug store sold me is puttin' my lights out. I reckon it's your watch now, mate."

Snake watched Sailor until manly snores announced sleep had arrived, then he patted Sailor on the head and rose to leave. "You rest, partner. Ol' Snake will look after the little lady. And no stinkin' Buddy the Blade better show his tattooed backside aroun' here if he knows what's good for him!"

Sailor snored in appreciation.

Snake acknowledged the snore with a nod, then left the bar.

Meanwhile, at Nichols' Bed & Breakfast, Lou piled her gear by the door of her room, removed her hiking boots, and stretched out on the bed. The last thing she saw before dropping off to sleep was the PhotoWorld magazine on her bedside table: "Land of Incomparable Images."

At the Moab Ramada Inn, Randall emerged from the doors labeled "Registration." He looked dirtier, hairier, and wearier than he had a few hours before. He was frustrated, and finding Jap sitting on the running board of Randall's van didn't help.

"Buzz off, 'buddy,'" Randall snapped.

"Why don't you give up," Jap drawled lazily, leaning against the door of the van. "You been to every motel in town. You ain't gonna find where she's stayin'."

"And where's that?"

Jap waggled a chiding finger at him. "Nice try, Buddy."

"I'm curious," said Randall. "How did you and your gang persuade everybody in town not to talk to me?"

Jap smiled. "We didn't persuade nobody, man. Look at yourself. You look worse than us!"

Randall angled and stooped to view his face in the van's side mirror. Yuck. "Well, how am I supposed to get a shower and shave when no motel in town will talk to me, much less rent me a room!"

Jap left his seat on the running board and stood behind Randall. "Why don't you just turn this buggy around and ride your asphalt right on back to Las Vegas, Buddy." Then, WHACK, he decked Randall from behind with a sucker punch.

Randall went down, rolled, and came right back up again, lunging for Jap.

They fought and scrambled.

Randall yanked Jap's leather vest off his shoulders, trapping his upper arms and revealing resplendent geisha tattooed on Jap's chest. Both men froze.

"She did that, didn't she," Randall surmised.

Jap pulled the front of his vest together to prevent Randall's ogling his precious geisha. "I said, take your tattooed backside back to Las Vegas!"

"I came in from Los Angeles, not Las Vegas! And, why is everybody talking about my backside, all of a sudden?"

Jap took advantage of the fatigue Randall had accumulated over the past twenty-four restless hours, and he sucker punched Randall again. Whack! Whack! Whack! Then Jap opened the van door and with one finger, tipped Randall toward the vehicle.

Thump! The unconscious, lacerated Randall landed across the front seat of the van.

Jap got himself together, dismissed Randall as a done deal, started his massive Yamaha XVZ 13T, and rumbled away.

Only a few minutes later, Jap entered the Smokin' Hog Bar & Grill, his boots crunching on peanut shells as he crossed to a table where a hirsute man called Mule was dozing with his size nineteen triple-E feet on the tabletop.

Jap sat down and slapped the table hard enough to make Mule's feet bounce. Mule woke and slowly lifted his head. Half-closed eyes peered at Jap from a small opening between Mule's unibrow and the mustache/beard that formed one mass of fur covering his face, neck, and most of his chest.

"Hey, Mule!" Jap said. "I just left Buddy the Blade kayoed in his van over at the Ramada. Somebody needs to get over there before he wakes up."

Mule cranked his bulk slowly out of the chair. "I'm on it," a foghorn voice boomed from within the beard. "What's he carryin'?"

"Lots of attitude, but I didn't spot no weapons. Maybe they call him 'the Blade' for some other reason. I'm starved. Where's Lou?"

"Should be waking up from a nap out at Nichols' place before long now. Snake's with her."

Jap nodded. Mule headed for the door, and Jap waved to get the attention of the waitress.

~o~~o~~o~

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Thanks for reading, voting, and especially commenting.  Come on back next Wednesday for Chapter 26, SATURDAY NIGHT. See you then.