Scrapbooking

       Once upon a time, there was a biker at the North American Planes, known under the moniker of Lone Wolf. He’d gladly replace the “lone” part with anything else, but no biker unit was eager to accept him, for he was just a short, measly squirt. Five feet five barely, shoulders barely enough to squeeze a wolf’s head picture across the back of his leather jacket. And the helmet would dangle on his head like a pot on a pole if he didn’t pad it with foam rubber. Also, he loved booze. It was not mutual. Half a bottle would switch his senses off, and another half would knock out his body. And he was spending the inbetween to get into trouble, because he kept waking up at a police station, or in a trash bin, or… This time, he came to senses at a bar table, the same place he switched off, that’s fine, but in front of him, a bet written and signed by him lay on the table, and it said he had undertaken to bite through a bullet, lick his own waist, and call the chief of the most psycho gang around that he’s a cute chick. And if Lone Wolf failed to do all of that, his bettors, the second most psycho gang around, would help him with these and many other fun tasks. Lone Wolf grew sad and got drunk once again, this time in despair. When he woke up, he had another paper in front of him. Signed by him again. But this time it was a summon of a demon to sort out the mess. The contract was concocted pretty stupid, for three wishes only, and each point of the previous bet as a separate clause! Why didn’t he make a single clause for winning the bet, and use the remaining two for endless supply of booze and chicks? In return, he had undertaken to fulfil three unstated wishes of the demon. Well, at first Lone Wolf decided the contract was yet another prank of his boozing companions–they were sitting two tables away from him, winking at him and showing at the wall clock. And at that moment, the Big Bad Chief from the bet entered the bar. And before Lone Wolf could vanish in quiet, his jacket went apart at his back and let out a… a holy freaking beast. It failed to get out in whole, though; the biker’s back was not wide enough for a proper portal, so just a wolflike muzzle was sticking out, and a couple of clawed fingers. The demon (a real thing, duh!) called the Big Bad Chief a pretty chick and many other fancy names. All bartenders and patrons yelled and scattered, and the Chief fell off a chair, whipped out a handgun and emptied the full clip into that ugly snout. Demon was catching the bullets with teeth and cracking them like peanuts. Spitting the last one out, the demon licked its lips (reaching right down to the waist of his host), and asked about executing the contract. It was really for the best that Lone Wolf didn’t see what exactly was sticking out of him, he got away with a medium-sized shock rather than loose stool. He even managed to inquire about the wishes of the demon. The question put the hell dweller at a stand. It didn’t remember what it had wished for. It had been drunk as hell when his freakin’ booze companions framed it to answer yet another summon from the human world. Then both sides to the contract sat and pondered about the situation. That was when hangover caught up with Lone Wolf, together with an idea about the demon’s wish. All the personnel were away anyway, so Lone Wolf went to the other side of the bar counter and wracked his arms pouring all the bottles in row into the opened demonic maw. Whisky, tequila, beer, tabasco, soda… then he asked if he had guessed the wish right. The demon hickuped, belched, and then sent the contract to hell and said it will stay for free, without any conditions, since the human world is full of most wonderful beverages and fun. And they rolled across the great plains together ever after, and now bikers call Lone Wolf a Twin-Engined Alcomug.