For someone who can remain sober even after a thousand shots, drowning his sorrow proved to be a difficult task.  Why did he interfere with something that had nothing to do with him?  Why did he follow the man?  Why was he acting like a stalker?  Thinking about his actions, he became frustrated with himself.  What frustrated him more was that he did not the reason for his actions.  He let out a sigh before downing another glass.

After having had enough, he exited the bar and headed to where his motorcycle was parked in the back alley.  There, he was greeted by a group of rough looking men.  He was not in a good mood so he decided to ignore them but, they blocked his path and surrounded him.

"Heard you took care of some of our young ones," one of the men spoke.  "So we've come to return the favour."

Without warning, the men advanced on him, attacking with the weapons in their hands.  He was not fazed by their number nor their weapons.  He easily evaded their attacks, even managing to snatch the weapons from their owners and turning it against them.  The men soon realised that he was not an easy target like they had thought.

"Looks like you have some skill," one of the men commented.  "Who are you?"

He did not answer.  Instead, he gripped the metal pole in his hand and charged at them.  He showed no hesitation or mercy as he struck at his opponent, spilling their blood and knocking them to the ground.

"You don't know who you're messing with!" one of the men warned, hoping to intimidate him but to no avail.

He struck him down like the others before tossing the metal pole aside.  He then got on his motorcycle and took off, leaving behind the bloody mess he had created.

The streets were bustling with people the next day.  As the man sat at his stall, minding his own business as usual, a group of men approached his way.  He was not aware of their presence until he heard one of them speak.

"Smash everything!" he heard a voice say.

Before he could wonder what was going on, he was pulled up by the collar of his shirt and shoved roughly aside.  He fell to the ground, dropping his walking stick in the process.  That was when he realised that he was the target.  He could hear them smashing his stall but there was nothing he could do.  The nearby stall owners were too frightened to intervene, allowing the men to do what they liked.

After awhile, the smashing and breaking sounds came to a stop.  As he desperately searched the ground with his hands for his walking stick, he felt someone grab him by the collar of his shirt.

"Who is he?" the man questioned him.

He shook his head in confusion.  "I don't-"

Before he could finish his sentence, he felt a sharp pain as a fist landed in the side of his jaw.  The impact was so hard that his lip split, drawing blood and the dark sunglasses fell from his face.

"Don't tell me you don't know," said the man angrily.  "Who is he?"

He shook his head again.  "I really don't know," he pleaded.

"Why would he help you?" the man asked.  "Unless he's tired of living."

He remained silent.  Though he knew that the rider had good intentions and he appreciated the help, he also knew the repercussions of the rider's actions.  He was dealt several blows to the stomach before the men finally stopped.

"This isn't over."