Sigrid could sense that it was time, once more, to hunt the foes of justice wherever they might hide.

"Be cool, Preston," he told himself. "Just be cool. No one suspects a thing."

It was in that moment, awaking after yet another Red Bull bender in yet another dumpster behind yet another strip mall, that Quincy realized that he had hit bottom harder than the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Quincy had no recollection of being forcibly removed from Uncle Jerry's Grab'n'go on Highway 10 for raiding the Red Bull early Wednesday morning until he saw the picture in the following day's local paper.

Not for the first time after a Red Bull bender, Quincy awoke in someone else's bed, wearing someone else's underwear, and lying next to a cat that, for the life of him, he could not recall having previously met.

Quincy couldn't help wondering if the reason he wanted a slug of cheap Irish whiskey first thing every morning was because of his deep, abiding sense of his own mortality, or if it was just due to his insatiable lust for the blood of his enemies.

Allen didn't think of it as "playing dead" so much as confronting the well-heeled and the anesthetized with the debilitating terror of existence.

Everyone on the mountain was stoked over Lacey's epic steeze.

Quincy always dreaded the morning after his Red Bull benders.

Eric experienced a white hot fury whenever he heard the term "rat race".

Irvin defied all who would use his reputation as an outlaw biker to tarnish his music.

Quincy realized too late that six Red Bulls was at least one too many.

It wasn't until the stomachache had fully taken hold that Terrance accepted he wouldn't get drunk on fresh muscadine.

Terrance, quietly envious of Irvin's free spirit, sought comfort in a plain cake donut and yearned for the smell of leather.

Irvin always knew he was born to ride.

Quote this with who you would be in Star Trek.