Freewheeling

A Slice of Life From "Madskins" Armstrong, Off the Clock...

Bit early for this, innit? For those not in the know, I have a few backup formats here on Substack. Whenever I get a jolt of inspiration, I whip up a QUICK BYTE, micro-fiction meant to burn the idea off. When I’ve loused up the schedule, I whip up an EMERGENCY RATION to make up for lost time.

This one’s a louse-up, but with good reason.

There’s a certain item I want to run FREE on Friday 11/15, but I owe those lovely patrons of the Force at least 3 paid-sub stories this month. So today’s the paywalled story, and tomorrow the surprise. Hope you dig both!

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The house rocked as they rolled on the floor, bodies held tight. From the outside, it sounded like screaming blue murder. From the inside, it was merely the tall, muscled body of Rory Armstrong bedding a groupie. The white-furred biker cackled like a witch as the short, shaggy haired gray wrapped around him like an upturned cat on a branch. He always dug these kinds of catches, provided they didn’t come prepacked with a stiletto switchblade and manifesto.

Fortunately, all she dug was his drumming.

They could’ve gone until the house was off its foundations, but once the two-hound triathlon was over, it was over. Rory helped her off the floor, onto the couch, and back into her clothes, the 20-something fan playful as ever.

“Watchup to tomorrow?” she smiled, slipping back into her leather jacket.

“Work unfortunately,” he sighed. “Ain’t nothing like wasting shitbags for the man.” He slipped back into his tall black boots and dropped his black pant legs over top. “Probably stuck hunting a raider pack.”

The gray gal went dead silent, and her eyes grew fearful.