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from Dark Biker by Jack Wolfe Frost


Brad fired up his Harley and felt that deep satisfaction between his legs. Dawn. Head west. He had no idea where he was headed after that. Away from this God-damn town. I've had enough. That was good enough reason. He lived by his bike, and if needed would die by it. After all, Hells Angels don’t care fuck for rules. As he picked up speed, eighty, ninety, a hundred mph, the wind blowing through his hair, he felt the sense of pure freedom he had missed. He looked up at the still deep bluish sky as he flew down the highway, still a few stars left, as dawn lightened the sky. He never even saw the truck that ran the intersection. Death was instant.

The trucker just kept on rolling, 'Born to be Wild' blasting from his stereo, oblivious to what had just happened. He just kept on rolling...


Brad woke up, unaware of where he was, or how he got here. A desert sprawled in all directions, and the sun was high.  Must be dreaming.  He tried to remember what must have happened last night. He assumed he’d got drunk and blacked out. The words 'We gotta get out of this place... if it's the last thing we ever do', an old song, ran through his head, sparking a memory. No. For once, he had gone to bed early – midnight or so, and he hadn't been drinking.  He'd packed up his meagre belongings in his messy apartment, ready to leave that town. If it's the last thing I ever do.  Try as he could, no memories came after that. How the Hell did I get here then? And where was here?

A more immediate concern came to mind. Water. His throat was already parched, and, dressed in his leathers, he was sweating buckets.  No way am I removing my leathers!  Of course, he had no water on him. Water was everywhere in New Jersey.  But this was not New Jersey.  He walked for a couple of miles; the scene before him was the same, hot desert in all directions.  His leather...

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