He used to be a cop. A pretty good one. He'd wanted to be one since he was six. He'd bounced around from foster home to foster home. The only constant was TV. He loved watching cop shows. If asked what he wanted to be, Gates would say a police officer.

At 25, he was living the dream. He was a rising star in the Las Vegas Police department. The top brass said he was destined to be one of the greats. Rumors were that even the FBI wanted him.

He had a sixth sense for police work. He could walk into a room and get a hunch, tear open a wall and find a dead body. If a child went missing, he could find them. People were always amazed and some even called him Young Skywalker.

***

Whatever goes up must come down.

At 30, like humpty-dumpty, he had a great fall. Gates fell down hard. They found him in the desert with a chain wrapped around his neck, looking like road kill, barely alive.

He had saved a kidnapped girl but had been overtaken by a gang.

He laid in a coma for seven years. They said he'd never walk again. He was in excruciating pain; they kept him sedated. When morphine didn't work, there was Elvis. Music soothes the savage beats.

When word got out that Gates was conscious, his old friends from the LVPD came to visit, but they were quickly found out that young amicable Gates had dead and new bitter Gates was no in his place.

LIFE HAD FUCKED HIM OVER. It had taken away his life. He felt like a horse with its legs cut off -- useless.

Gates refused to let LIFE get the best of him. He pushed for three years and regained his ability to walk, but he was always in pain. The nerves had been damaged severely.

Gates had saved the daughter of Hotel tycoon Simon Leisure. Simon, forever grateful, put Gates up at one his hotels for as long as he liked.

When he was alone, he faced the BIG EMPTY--What was he going do with the rest of his life? His life was over. He thought about jumping off the balcony daily, but he refused to let LIFE beat him. He vowed revenge one way or another.

On his birthday he found a gift waiting for him in the hotel parking lot. He found a monstrosity of metal. A faded pink rust bucket with torn seats, smashed fenders, and broken doors. No windows, no roof, no wheels; but there was an engine and a transmission.

The mess of metal was covered in red sand and looked like it had been dug out of a pauper's grave somewhere in Red Rock Canyon. On the hood, there was an emblem that said Cadillac. Taped to the scrunched bumper was a note.

"It belonged to Elvis, now it's yours. Happy Birthday, Gates," signed Simon Leisure.

The demolished steel creature reminded him of himself. It looked as if the Cadillac had been mauled by a couple of semi-trucks then picked clean by vultures.

It had had its day in the sun. Another innocent victim chewed up by LIFE, thought Gates.

He threw himself into his work. Putting the Cadillac back together was like putting himself back together. As the Cadillac began to change for the better, so did he. He cleaned up, and no longer walked around looking like a homeless dude. Piece by piece, both Gates and Cadillac took shape.

When the Cadillac was finally restored, Gates took a second to admire it. Now he was ready to get his revenge on life.