Space Rocket Motorcycle

He roared into the office at thirty mph on his space rocket motorcycle. Office workers scattered before him; cubicles collapsed behind him. Utter devastation was left in his wake; lo, not even the water coolers or the coffee makers were left unscathed.

Ignoring all this, the driver watched office doors as they shot by. When he saw number twenty-four shoot past, the driver braked sharply, fishtailing the motorcycle into the next office down. The occupant, identified by the placard on his desk as Mr. Jones, seemed quite surprised to see a motorcycle crash through door, wall and window to stop just before his desk. The driver dismounted. Pushing his sunglasses up, he asked, "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Zhang," Mr. Jones replied. "I am your designated liason for today; and there is, you see a problem."

"One business quarter ago, we had in our employ a temporary contractor, identified as Aaron Westhouse. Prior to his postprofit termination, we believe that he indulged in noncommensurate inventory exchange - specifically, an empty folder for certain... essential documents. We require their return."

"And what will I get for this job?" Mr. Zhang asked coolly.

"Enough."

As Mr. Zhang swung back onto his motor-bike, Mr. Jones coughed, sharply. "Your means of transportation is a violation of standard transportation policy, contributing nonpositive revenue growth in an antisynergistic manner."

Mr. Zhang's response was to gun the motorcycle, activating the side-mounted rockets as he did so. Black smoke filled the room in the wake of his noisy departure. Mr. Jones reached down and placed a small fan onto his desk. As it cleared the smoke away, Mr. Jones set several folders in front of him. One of them was marked, ZHANG.


Mr. Zhang shot off the side of the interstate. Brakes screeching, he skid through two stoplights (motorists staring in astonishment) and onto the front lawn of a white suburban house. Dismounting smoothly, he armed the large pistol hanging at his belt and knocked.

A minute later, a short man opened the door. He looked up. He looked down. "Are you a solicitor?" he asked. "Because I have a sign in the yard..."

He looked out into the yard, currently occupied by Mr. Zhang's motorcycle.

"I am not a solicitor, Mr. Westhouse." Mr. Zhang answered.

"Well... come in, then," said Mr. Westhouse.

Mr. Westhouse seated himself in a kitchen chair. Mr. Zhang sat opposite him, hand hovering near his gun. "You took something from my client," he informed Mr. Westhouse.

"What? Who?" Mr. Westhouse asked.

"The plans for the company's internal defense network," Mr. Zhang told him, sliding a manilla folder onto the table. "You replaced it with this folder. They want me to trade it back."

"What?" Mr. Westhouse asked again. "I did not such thing... wait." He looked at the folder. "Oh, I see what they're trying to do."

"Let me tell you a story, Mr. Zhang. I worked for your employer for seven years. I was a contractor, but I'm talented enough that they extended the contract a year for six years in a row. I won awards for my work at that company - including the one that I took from them. A twenty-carat gold statue - "Decade's Best." With that under my belt, I wanted to move on to a permanent job - companies were throwing them at me! The company thought the award was theirs, and chose to keep it when I gave my two weeks notice. Maybe they were trying to coerce me to stay. I took the statue with me on the last day."

"I'll need to see the proof of this," Mr. Zhang said.

"Proof that I don't have something?" Mr. Westhouse asked. "You are a reasonable man. You understand why that's impossible."

Mr. Zhang looked Mr. Westhouse coldly in the eyes. Then he sighed and said, "All right."

He rose from the table. "I will return to them empty handed. But if I find that you double-crossed me, you will see how unreasonable I can be."

Mr. Westhouse said nothing. He went to the door and watched as Mr. Zhang gunned his engine and shot off, revealing the splintered remnants of his lawn sign in the process. Then he went back to the table and picked up the newspaper, looking at the real estate section. "Prices are low this time of year," he noted.
Mr. Zhang roared along the interstate, weaving between the SUVs and minivans that clogged the road. The wind blasted his unprotected face, weakened though it was by the gigantic front wheel. He passed a Ferrari, ignoring its angered honking, then noticed something: three Humvees were following him, driving at a speed even more dangerous for them than him. Mr. Zhang merged right; they followed him. He merged right again, trying to shake them in the slower traffic.

They gunned their engines and opened fire.

Mr. Zhang ducked low as the bullets flew around him. One punctured his bicycling scarf; another was deflected by his armored jacket. He looked at his watch - only three minutes more at seventy mph until he reached the company building. His pistol would be unlikely to deter assault-rifle wielding assailants - and they might puncture more than his scarf if he let them. With a grin, he flipped two switches on his dashboard - and the space rocket motorcycle surged forward, propelled by arcing lengths of fire. The SUVs followed.

Lesser motorists, intimidated, slowed and pulled to the right as Mr. Zhang and his pursuit raced down the interstate. Some were too slow; Mr. Zhang shot over their roofs, using them as improvised ramps. His pursuit smashed them aside. Mr. Zhang glanced behind often, gaging the distance he'd gained. Were he to use his rocket-jets continuously, he'd be far ahead; but he had limited fuel, and besides, even at one-hundred and ten mph, the wind felt like a razor on his face. He did not think he would be able to go any faster.

Two patrol cars lit their lights and sped onto the highway, accelerating even faster than the gunmen.

Mr. Zhang lit his rockets and went to one-hundred thirty mph.

Three minutes after he was first attacked, Mr. Zhang, pursued by a hail of bullets and six very angry highway patrolmen, shot off the edge of the interstate on a collision course with the office building headquartering the company of his employ. The parking lot was quite large; Mr. Zhang used this to his advantage, braking to spin around and then firing his rockets full thrust in a desperate attempt to avoid painful death by cubicle. Rockets blazing, brakes screeching, and scarf flying, Mr. Zhang shot backwards into the building, coming to a precarious halt just in front of Mr. Jones' desk.

He turned around and froze.

Three gunmen stood around Mr. Jones.

"We anticipated your betrayal," Mr. Jones told Mr. Zhang calmly. "You had shown signs in the past of behavior nonprioritizing shareholder value. Rigidity. Honor. Irrelevant, obsolete. We cannot allow any personnel to threaten our brand image - and don't touch that pistol."

Mr. Zhang brought his hands up slowly. Turning to look at his dashboard, he asked, "And what will you do about the police, and the gunmen?"

"The law can be ever so tiresome - regulations upon regulations, and no way to remove them. And the police take everything so literally!" Mr. Jones complained. "Thankfully, the mayor is a reasonable man. He is always willing to make the law flex a little, simplify things for everyone." He waited a moment. "Now, if that's all you wanted to know, you will dismount your 'bike' and come with your designated security personnel." He smiled - a rigid, forced smile. It suited him. "Remember, we work for the good of everyone!"

Mr. Zhang pushed down his sunglasses and flipped two switches on his dashboard.

Mr. Jones, his three gunmen, and the rest of the office complex disappeared behind him with the last of his rocket fuel. Mr. Zhang went straight up the side of the on-ramp from the parking lot, barely missing a sedan as he made the turn onto the interstate. The SUVs and police cars were long gone; probably off on their own chase.

Settling down to a sedate sixty mph, Mr. Zhang considered his future. Behind him, dwindling in the distance, the office building stood, gleaming like a black monolith. Within its windows, anyone might be watching him; but on his space rocket motorcycle, nothing could touch Mr. Zhang.