“Carte blanche?”
“Carte blanche.”
“You got it Urbie,” grinned Mack Malten. The one-eyed gray biker, dressed in leather from vest to boots, mounted his long, chopped motorcycle. She had a new paint-job, a metallic purple which stood out among the blacks, reds, and silvers he courted as gang-leader. Felt fitting to that the pack’s leader should be the odd-hound-out.
Malten waved his mighty gloved hand, and on cue, the sea of machines revved up to a chainsaw roar. Their favorite punk Lita had just given them the go-ahead to do what they do best: thrash the shit out of a storefront. Though it wasn’t a grocery store, a specialty shop, or some niche pop-up.
Tonight they were fighting City Hall…technically speaking.
