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!
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.
“No, I ain’t coming for you!” he sighed. “In, yes. For, no.” She snorted a laugh, head still on his chiseled white chest, his hand still rubbing her side.
“That’s just y’all’s crew name anyhow.” the biker smiled. “If I had to arrest every band and girl gang named ‘Raider This, Raider That, Raider X,’ I wouldn’t have a fan left in the stands. Or a killer like you with a mean glass-bottle hand. Besides, think of all the fun you’d be missing out on.”
The tall white hound stole another kiss from before dropping one last bomb on her. “Alright, you talked me into it. One ride, back of the bike, your ass strapped to mine. That bad bitch of a hog can tear your face off itchu ain’t ready.”
The metalhead wolves flew out the one-story shack and dove onto Rory’s chopped Harley. The sun rose faintly into the desert sky, red light glistening across the chopped Harley’s silverish steel.
“Damn, didn’t realize we’d been at it that long.” the gray chick sighed, wrapping the back strap around her.
“Hey, time flies and all that good shit,” snickered Rory, bucking the strap around his waist. “Hell, flew so fast I didn’t catch your name.”
“Roxie.” she smiled.
Rory shook his head. “Original.”
He kicked the starter pedal down, fired up the twin-Vs beneath him and cruised right off into the sunrise. No helmet, no gloves, just a leather strap keeping his date from sliding off, not that he worried with how close she clung to him.
“First time biking!?” he hollered over the throbbing engine.
“YEAH!” Roxie smiled.
“Nervous!?”
“YEAH!” The yell was a bit more exasperated, Rory already shifting and revving his metallic beast into the upper double digits.
“GOOD!” the white biker grinned, “THAT’S WHERE THE FUN’S AT!”
He opened his silver steed wide, the monstrous bike launching back on its rear wheels, engine bellowing its high-octane cry. He felt the heels of Roxie’s work boots dig into his sides as all fours were wrapped tight around him.
“Keep them booties tight,” he teased. “She got more where that came from.”
He let his Harley down but kept the pace. His eyes darted about, making sure the coast was clear before slapping the handlebars’ sides and rocketing ahead, pushing 200. He could feel his lemur of a date still clinging to him, claws beginning to pierce the skin beneath his fur. Not that he gave a shit; the “pain” inflicted by Roxie’s fear melted into a pleasured growl from her man as he kept pushing the Harley. Higher and higher the needle climbed, faster and faster the wheels spun, and the engine hammered. He was beginning to regret not wearing his shades, but the adrenaline high was immense. He let out a deep, sonorous howl and cocked his head towards his girl.
“You got shit in their God gave ya, now use it, bitch!”
For the short, shaggy gray, black hair dancing in the wind, it started as a feral growl before erupting into a shrill shriek of a howl. Rory laughed heartily at the display before easing on the brakes and slowing to a stop.
He kicked the Harley’s stand down, arms folded over the handle bars like a poster he once posed for, and waited. The sun hadn’t climbed much higher, and the winds were unusually calm. Roxie was never answered when she asked “what’s up,” the white biker remained locked on the horizon, staring in all directions. When she asked for the umpteenth time, Rory sighed.
“I was waiting for a fucker to kill.” he growled. “And there ain’a bastard in sight.”
She began to shrink behind him, a sinking feeling in the groupie’s gut that there might be a few more screws loose in her rock god than she realized. He pulled out both long Colt’s Dragoons and fired into the hills, hoping to shake someone out of their boots or into a real gone duel. Again, no one showed. When he felt the chick shiver against his bare back, he holstered the mighty revolvers and flashed a knowing smile.
“But I’m glad I get a morning off from this horseshit.” he winked. “Where you live?”
“Pad’s over in Glenmore,” she grinned, before melting back behind him. “Me and the girls hang out there working on stuff…I’m outta my depth, though, ain’t I?”
“Hey, just cuz you gotta nice pussy don’t mean you are one.” he teased. “You got brass balls coming on a hog like this one. Your pretty little face should melted after we hit 300.” He nipped at her some more. “Least you kept that muzzle on tight for me.”
“How the fuck you do this for a livin’ is beyond me.” Roxie sighed, both arms wrapped tight around the biker.
“Hey now,” Rory grinned. “Freewheelin’ for the law ain’t that bad. Diff between it and gangs is there ain’t a lotta friendly fire. Diff between it and riding lone-star is she ain’t as lonely. Only thing better than it is having a babe like you in the back.”
“Guess I oughta take in the last ride then, huh?” she sighed, gray snout resting on his shoulder.
Before firing the engine back up, Rory spun round and looked her dead in the eyes. It was a crazy glower that melted into her own. “You think I’m dumb enough to let a gal like you slip through these fat fingers!? You bet your pert ass it ain’t the last time! Tighten my cap for me, and let’s boogie out.”
She sat stunned for a second, as if the thought of any real relationship hadn’t crossed her mind. Once the shock dissipated, Roxie bit a strip of Rory’s maroon bandanna cap and tugged at it. Once the knot was tightened, she gave it a kiss of approval. “And that’s why!” Rory chuckled. “You’s a freewheeler yaself and ya didn’t even know it ‘til tonight.”
He kicked the starter down, and opened the Harley up, silver steed howling on into the new day. She liked being called a freewheeler by Rory, even when she finally realized it was slang for psycho. But then again, her newfound lover was a bit off the rocker. And as for herself, Roxie still had a mean glass-bottle hand, and managed quite few mosh-pit doozies at the shows she attended. But all the blood and chaos was worth it, when over the thunderous guitars, roaring bass, and Gatling-gun percussion, came the banshee cry of “THERE’S MY BITCH” by a certain white-furred biker killing his kit on stage.