(No "action" in this one, FYI)
This one bro, he'd just gotten a ticket for pissing on the side of the road. Of all things. Nowhere near here, but I've got that kind of luck. So I hold my water, and set about distracting myself with the scenery.
It's a great piece of road, the bike's running like a champ, full moon and lots of stars, and it's just warm enough...
I've got a couple changes of clothes in my saddlebags, and nowhere in particular to be. A whole week.
All I need right now is a roadhouse, but I'll settle for a gas station.
Hell, I'll take a tree.
A few miles later, what I get is a big ol' pole barn...
No, when I get closer it's definitely bigger than I thought. An old factory? Too far out from anywhere or anything else - so I figure it's like an old place to store walnuts or something.
The asphalt's all cracked up, though. Big weeds. This place hasn't been used for anything for a while...
There's not anything like a streetlight for as far as the eye can see, but I figure why not go all the way, play it safe. Rounding the side of the building, the moonlight catches some old paint. It's faded. Could be a headdress - Indian chief, or something. There's something about that logo... but it won't quite come. I putt on behind and toe it into neutral, roll it up on the stand.
Whip it out - aaaaahhhhh. I get myself a smoke goin' with my free hand, and look out back. That's better. Miles of nuthin' -
My bike stalls. Oh, great. I tuck myself back in, look over my shoulder...
Hands clamp around my upper arms -
"'Sup, ace?"
I whip around -
Nothing. There's nobody there.
Somebody's still got ahold of me.
And there's no... body I can see. This is just like -
"Oh, fuuhhhcccccckk," I shout, all disgusted, as the situation hits home.
The voice thinks that's pretty damn funny.
My gloves are layin' over the handlebars - No. Now wait a minute...
I still got my half-gloves on. Those are some other gloves, with fingers... Curled around the grips.
More hands latch on to my wrists, and start to wrestle my arms behind my back.
"No, c'mon now -," I stammer, leaning away -
Hard clamps take hold of both knees. From behind. I buckle, and yell something like "Owwwwwwhoaaaaaooooo..."
"Are you for real?" the voice taunts, real happy-like. He sounds... stoned. Surfer, maybe. Wasted. "Or am I making you up?"
"What the fuc-"
Twenty feet away, a door swings open.
The hands that are locked on to my knees are killin' me. I see 'em, jet-black against my jeans, stuck like leeches.
And there's light! Lights on, in there.
The kickstand springs up, and my sled starts to roll backwards slowly.
That's definitely my cue. I leap around, kick, try to squat down.
Big ol' fingers close tight around my arm. Both arms -
I don't see the bodies. This would take, what, four guys at least. Right? Their gloves I can see easy enough, but no arms. That voice, but nobody else ar-
Up! Off the ground. Just a little. More fingers are curled under my belt, at each hip. By kicking I can touch the pavement, but I can't get a bite on it.
"Well, well. In ya go," says a lower voice, with a threatening snicker. "Lessee what we got here, Stoker."
"10-4," the first voice drawls. "Hey, bro. Dropped something."
A glove brings my smoke, and presses hard on my lips 'til I take it. By this time, my bike's rolling through the doorway. I spread my limbs out as best I can, trying to buy a little time here, figure out how this is hap-
Quick as anything, they turn me ninety degrees and slip right on in. Warehouse?
The door slams. I'm looking at my ride. Stupid, maybe, but that's my ticket outa here. A glove lets go of the clutch-grip and pops the kickstand. My bike rocks a little, but stays up.
"Worried about his hog, most of all. The real deal," the low voice says quietly.
"Thatsa four," the other says, with a happy snort.
My belt is let go, suddenly. I almost go down, 'cause of the damn pinching behind my knees does me in. And I look up -
Big sacks. Boxes. Lights overhead. The windows must be blacked out -
And about, oh, fifteen feet from my bike, there's a huge pile of... feathers.
I do not believe my fuckin' luck.
And there's more gloves.
No people.
Just... gloves. One pair by the feathers, holding a sack in mid-air. Two more, farther off to the right, near some rickety stairs. Another pair, ambling on over, is about level with my chest.
Alright, what's the fuckin' deal here? I picture myself saying. Trying to get my voice back from wherever it's stuck. Where are the hidden cameras?
But my mouth won't work. I'm busy tryin' to believe what I see. All those feathers. That's bad enough. But the icing on the fuckin' cake is the gloves, movin' all by themselves. I dread to think what's in the boxes -
Metal, sliding behind me...
A crash bar, blocking the door. That glove gets done, and catches a padlock tossed to it by another.
The click is really loud.
My knees are let go. Whew. I grunt, stamp my heel, then the other, and kick smoke out of my nose. Forgot all about the cigarette, there... I try to turn, move my arms, but whoever's got me ain't havin' any part of that.
"What the hell do we have here?" a gravelly voice says.
"How far'ja hunt to land this here dog-turd?," a loud voice demands.
"Ain't gonna believe it," the surfer crows. "Oh man. Oh man."
"Hel-lo." My head swivels. A woman's voice, not old... low and tasty. From the stairs. "Rutter, what about his knees? Are they okay?"
Low to the ground, a low hum - which turns into a snarl. And then, some really scary laughter.
Several of the voices chuckle at that.
"Awright."
"Unbelievable."
"Let's not jump to any conclusions, boys. Trespassing, Player? B&E? Or did one of you just hitch a ride home from the truck stop?"
The surfer jumps in. "He decided to cruise around, to the back -"
"And take a leak," the low voice says, deadpan.
Silence.
Then they burst out laughing. Yee-haaah.
The voice that worries me the most is that low-to-the-ground... animal thing. It sounds psycho. Or something.
"That was a moto-siccle?" the loud voice says. "I reckoned you boys was playin' around with the compressor again -"
Here they come - too many gloves, floating over from the stairs. I try to rear back, but I'm stuck -
One of 'em grabs my cigarette. "Now, guys, I'm surprised at you. You know the rules. No smoking in here. It's... a fire hazard."
"Wh- oh yeah. Haw. Smoke-free."
"Hoo hoo."
"You damn... betcha."
"Oh, no," I bark, really set to panic now. They woudn't.
The cigarette gets chucked toward the door. The locked, barred door.
Look, I really don't wanna do this, sorry about pissing out there, just open the door and I'll be out of your hair in ten seconds...
But I can't say get the words out.
I know better.
"Check out that expression." The gravelly voice, suggesting something heavy. He's on to me.
"Just thinkin' that myself, Trainer," the babe says. "Great minds. Hey, Gigger... now why do you suppose he's not lookin' confused enough?"
"Uh... you mean, he - Well, let's jes' see! Help him outa that jacket! Make him feel right at home!" the loud guy blares.
The gloves holding me wrestle it off, tossing it next to my bike. They keep their distance. For now. I see where this is going, though.
Another hush falls over 'em. That's not encouraging at all...
I stand here - jeans, chaps, boots, tight t-shirt. And half-gloves.
This is not the kinda crowd I want studying my tats, no fuckin' w-
The wild animal-voice starts to squeal. And all the others roar.
"I don't believe it -"
"Wow."
"No virgin here -"
"Quite a collection."
"He's been down a time or two, hasn't he?" the woman-voice says. "Howlin'. I wonder if he's ever paid for a tattoo. Great artwork."
"Well-lll, Driver, I'm thinkin' he has a secret... that's funnier than hell. A big ol' weakness despite the tough-guy biker duds," and the low voice dissolves into some easy hooting.
"Looks like we got ourselves... a mascot," the gravelly voice chuckles.
"Re-search material," the cracker roars.
Closer to my ear, the surfer says, "Damn. Did you pick the wrong place to pull off and piss, bruddah."
31jan01