News of his death oozed along the roads.

A miserable cuss with a reputation that blew packs to pieces before he kitted up.  He's coming!... and bowels released, tires flattened and helmets cracked.  

Meanness shot out his elbows, legs charring and scarring the fools and foolish.

That unleashed tongue!  Forever snapping, snarling, shredding.  Offensive and vulgar. 

He was the devil, the hated one.

Gone.

No one cared.  Not at all.

By the time I tracked him down, I was tired.  Tired of searching for this wretchedness.  My funds and curiosity were just about out and I was ready to pack it in and head home.  It was a miracle really.  I mean, who was I to set out on such a stupid adventure?  It's not like I'm a spy.  It's not like I'm super smart.  I have no training in such things.  I just wondered if it was all true.  Could someone really be as ferocious and vile as the reputation he'd left behind?  I didn't even know why I had to know.  But, I did.  I had to know, which meant I had to get to know this man.  Would he bite?  Would he strike?  Maybe he would lure me some place of his choosing and drive an ax through the center my beating heart.  All these questions...

... and I was speechless, jaw flapping in the wind.  

How can I help you?  

Unexpected words to say the least.  I don't know what I had expected, but it wasn't that.  The kindness in his aged voice, like honey.  Gooey and warming.  Deep creases wrapped around his smiling eyes.  SMILING!?????????  What in the world was happening.  I stood back, still speechless.  The address was right, the last name proudly painted above the withered porch was bright and clear.  This was it, and he was him, and I was spinning.

I could hear the words as clear as I could see the spattered green tattoo above his left wrist.  The legend was that he'd crashed and lost a race.  How many times had I rolled my eyes at this story?  He'd lost a race and in his anger driven straight to Chuck's.  Chuck was a felon.  Nobody knew what he'd done, just that he'd done time.  While doing time, he'd learned a skill and supported himself - if you could call it that - defacing peoples bodies was what it looked like to me.  There was no way to call it art, even though he pranced around fancying himself as Warhol 2.  Anyway, sweaty and bloody he comes in yelling Anger!  Anger!  Anger! All caps Chuck, and make it scary.  Well, Chuck did his best, no talent and all.  He could barely spell.  But, he was a pro and dedicated to his craft and he dutifully carved A-G-N-E-R. Could it be more obvious?  Wake up Todd.  This is him, Agner.