It’s Saturday night, and I’m looking for trouble. Shades. Scowl. Leather jacket in all the right places. If I saw me, I’d think “Whoa, this guy’s looking for trouble.” Pulling up to a bar, I effortlessly leap off my motorcycle, landing in a cool pose. My motorcycle skids off and crashes into a wall, bursting into flames. No worries—there’s more where that came from.

A neon sign blinks above me. Deckard’s Pub. Where all the scum trickle down to do whatever scum do. Mostly drink. But maybe something much scummier. Me? I’m just trying to clean up these streets. And these streets are wet with the stench of scum, except for where it’s burning because of my motorcycle.

At the entrance kiosk I shout, “Hey!” Everyone looks at me. “Which one of you lowlifes is looking for a figh—[PLEASE SCAN ID TO ENTER]—oh hold on (beep) [ID NOT RECOGNIZED] ugh wait (beep) [TOO MANY SCANS PLEASE SCAN EYE]stupid door hold on (beep) [EYE NOT RECOGNIZED] what are you talking about it’s my eye [SCAN FINGER] no I won’t [SCAN FINGER] I have gloves on and it’s [SCAN FINGER] too cold to [SCAN FINGER]fine! (beep) [TOO MANY ATTEMPTS. TRY AGAIN IN 1 HOUR]”

Everyone’s still staring at me. I take stock and realize that I didn’t even want to fight any of them that bad anyway. I grab the nearest motorcycle and ditch this crummy joint. A guy in the bar gets mad—turns out it’s his. He charges at me, but before he can catch me, I zoom off with a smirk and instantly crash into another wall. When the smoke clears, I’ve run off into the night.