- Krieg, The Wanderer
T H E 'C Y C L E
Max was once just a boy, cruising on his bike through every inch of the streets of his neighborhood, ringing his bell as the adrenaline seeped out of his eyes whilst the force of the plummeting wind caught him off-guard. Mother had not taken it lightly. He had come home beaten up, skin scraped off the asphalt since his jeans had been ripped to smithereens. The street did not care for his safety and neither had he. Mother was angry, but the wanderer did not listen. Mother would always yap, and he would only be absent. Father was never there since he had grown a preference for staying over with Anne, the neighbor that lived at least two streets from their house. Max would eavesdrop on them, but he’d only hear a ruckus beyond the walls from the exterior—he never managed to pinpoint the origin of it until he told mother and she burst into a waterfall of tears. After mother found out about Father’s whereabouts, she was never the same. That ruckus became to be known as an affair of the wild. Anne was a slut, mother told Max, and mother wasn’t, even if mother had boys come over for orgies while Max attempted to study. He did not understand. Silence accompanied him. Every time the ruckus resumed, he went to the garage, plopped the bike unto the floor from the wall’s hinges and rode off into the streets to meet the asphalt once more. Freedom was what he felt.
Max never went to school because he adored the streets and their endless road. Eventually so, he became a professional biker and took up the dangerous sport of motorsports at the age of fifteen in Munich, Germany. In a matter of weeks, he became well-known and acquired a variety of prizes that endowed him with the capabilities of moving forward. A patronage ultimately grasped unto him at seventeen. Naturally excited for his future, he immediately visited his mother to inform her, only to find her convulsing on the floor surrounded by a multitude of cocks, semen and heroin, lots of it. Shock and awe couldn’t describe her. Mother was never a slut. He bolted for his room, grabbed his backpack, a meal, his pillows and sheets, his favored toy, and fled the scene. Father had been shot dead by Anne after he had been caught with Bella, the other whore.
His parents were never more. His mind understood nothing, yet it had seen it all: moans, blood, gunshots and drugs. A plain of cacophony, an allegiance with death and a deal with the gentleman—it was the only chance. The day after, he was in the gentleman’s car, eager and nervous, frightened by the gaze of a man that only knew of money and success.
“You’re young and proud, kid” he muttered amidst breaths of smoke.
Max was silent.
“I’ll make you young, proud and rich, trust me,” the man then added as the car departed from the neighborhood with his bike and few belongings in the trunk. With zero expectations, he only nodded.
Leaving Munich wasn’t an easy task for Max, but he trusted this man with his life. Money came out of his mouth each time he spoke, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Once they were in Berlin, it all changed again. At eighteen years now, Max was forced into a life of fame. Every weekend, he rode for Germany’s best motorsport sponsor—Germany’s Gears. Every win meant a party and a couple thousand Euros accompanied with women, alcohol and drugs. At twenty-one, he fit into the big leagues and got into racing with motorbikes. It was a whole other world now. Racing was dangerous for the young one, who was now deemed to be Krieg, for he was fire and a war to be reckoned with, a silent soul that had been molded by the violent life of fame and adrenaline.
Race after race, he defeated the best and toppled the weak, skyrocketing to the mountain of success in only a few months. Then, the deal came to be. A contract worth over one million euros launched itself unto Krieg. He could not deny it. Accepting it, he was informed that he had to compete in Berlin’s motorbike racing cup. If he won it, he would be crowned the best. A task worthy of his appraisal, he took it in his arms and prepared his mind for it and its dire exhaustion. Weeks of practice ensued, and the day arrived.
It was a morning; the sun was only so high at eleven o’clock as it shone above all twenty-four racers. The track was ample and circular, and its curves were menacing. Every bike hummed and purred under the heat of the summer of 1989. Then, the silence, the echo of the crowd and the gunshot. TAH! All bikes followed it, roaring in unison with Krieg in the lead. It was only two laps and one chance for victory. Curve after curve, he persisted, marking lap number one, locked for the finish line. He did not swerve, he did not hesitate, but alas, the bike gave in and halted, mechanism damaged and rendered futile. He was flung forward and unto the asphalt he knew so well up to the date. On impact, he broke a few ribs, his helmet smacked the inside of his head and he rolled and rolled and rolled until he stopped by the edge of the track, feeling the soaring competitors by him, vision blurry, savoring the sour taste of defeat and blood, stung by a pain too abysmal to comprehend. The scream shadowed him and the ambulances rung, rushing to the scene. His bike, Obscüra, was but a pile of junk and debris, dispersed all over the track and its laterals. He reached for it as if it were his mother, but was immobilized by the presence of shock and the arrival of a respirator gifted by the nearest paramedic.
His vision soon faded and dimmed the light of the morning sunlight, blackened by his unconsciousness. Hours passed and he awoke on a comfortable, white bed with a neck collar restraint next to an empty chair and a briefcase. His eyes were shooting everywhere as he was gasping for air, anxious and overwhelmed by the situation. He could feel his body and move it, but he was in too much agony to respond with it. Suddenly, the door was flung open and the gentleman came in, concerned and preoccupied. He was solemn with his arms crossed over his chest as he approached Krieg with each perpetually resounding step.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Krieg. You blew it. You had one chance. Just one. And you blew it.” Unraveling his arms, the gentleman took out a sheet of paper—the contract itself, signed in blood by Krieg. He ripped it apart and threw it in the trash. “I wish the best recovery,” he muttered, smashing his fist over Krieg’s left, instantly placing a palm to muffle his shriek. With a vile smile, the gentleman departed and abandoned the racer, leaving him to his doom as he once more blackened out from the immense aching.
A year passed. Krieg was in slums of Germany, fucking sluts for five euros and having his cock blown for another ten euros every day. He submerged himself into the life of alcoholic and a brute, carrying on with his limb until he was approached by an individual that went by the name of Brienne, a woman of character and might. She stunk of profession and money as well.
“Get the fuck away from me, I already got my cock blown,” he uttered, throwing a bottle at her feet.
With an inquisitive look, she neared him more.
“Are you fucking deaf?,” his accent thick with German. “Get the fuck away!” Just as he was about to push her from his way, she stopped him and whispered to him words that he’d never forget.
“I can help you kill Sigismund.”
He was blank for a moment. Was she talking about the bastard?
Only a nod was needed.
Fast-forward a few days and Krieg found himself well-clothed and in peak condition, dressed to impress and armed with a sawed-off. He was in the reception area of a hotel, standing behind a desk that only attended those that arrived. His limp had gotten better with the treatment offered by the woman known now as Broomhilde. The area was lush with luxury, occupied by many representatives of wealth and advantage. Krieg only had eyes for one, however— the man that had just waltzed into the building with the same briefcase in hand. With his head lowered, he waited to strike.
Sigismund rung the bell, just like Krieg had rung his as a boy and, after three seconds, he raised his gaze to meet the gentleman’s. Silence was beautiful once more.
“Regards from your friend,” he said before he raised the sawed-off and permitted led to be let loose. His face was blown to shit, and blood decorated the marble floor with its enchanting crimson.
From that day and onward, he was known as The Wanderer. Krieg had been used for a great cause. He was indebted to this woman, but he did not even know why she had come to him. He had been aided by her, but for what? The reason was bigger than what it sounded—a favor. It was much more than that and he could not fathomably envision it. He was gifted a new bike, a new life and a new profession. He belonged to her, but he did not understand why. Krieg was transformed by this woman to a new degree. The murder had been covered-up and the police had been bribed. The woman trained him to walk with his limp and even cured it to the extent of seeming as if he had never had a limp to begin with.
Sooner than later, he found out the woman was in-love with Krieg, a love that had never meant to be, but came to be. The two set-off to ride together. Yet, she proved to be too poisonous and harmful for the man. Now, in 2018, they go back and forth, loving and hating each other, using themselves as tools of war and money when convenience arrives.
The Wanderer; Asphalt Eater; Hired Gun; Brother of Wilhelm
Rider, homeless; 44 years of age.
6'3", Spheres of Lightened Bark
Darkened strands of hair, German.
O B S C Ü R A
"I only hear Her."
M E R C Y
"It's mercy if you die quick."
T H E O L D E R S I B L I N G
Krieg is family of Heinrich Schultz. They were both separated at birth. Heinrich remained with their biological parents were Kreig was handed to a secondary family thought to be responsible. Thus, Krieg's real name is Maximiliam Krieg Schultz. The two do not know about each other's whereabouts, but both are aware of their existence.
Maximilian K. Schultz & Heinrich W. Schultz