More Wild Road Tales

“Wha?” Hacksaw said into the phone, dazed and half-awake. “Wind ’em up,” the voice on the other end barked so loud Hacksaw hadtohold the phone at arms length. “We’re splitting from the cantina atnoon. You’ve got three hours to be on time. This is your lastchance Hacksaw. Don’t fuck up or you’re out of the […]

Chet May stood at the door of the gas station casually sucking on aroot beer Slurpee as he watched the scene in the gas pump bay. There was nothingremarkable about it. All the players moved about in a practiced manner.Two black and white Riverside patrol cars were parked akimbo, doors flungopen, lights fluttering and reflecting

Tony the Tool sat in the gutter in front of his California bungalow. A couple weeks before, a community improvement group had painted the run-down rental, but it didn’t improve the condition of the junk rolling stock surrounding it. It was past 10 p.m. in the rundown neighborhood, but no one was going to call

(If you’re reading this, you’re either hallucinating on Tabasco tinted, mescaline tainted magic-mushrooms or, that mother fucker, Bandit, has shown that he has the literary balls to put this steamy saga on his web site. The slimy synopsis is as follows: Zeke the Splooty, our horny hero gets into mad mayhem and romping sex. He

I’ve been branded an outlaw.The posse has been chasing me for eight days now, and my rations are about gone – only a few bits of jerky and some stale biscuits remain!       This is all the result of mistaken identity on the part of the citizens of Los Cupelos de Sano, which is a town

      “Do you haf to ride to zees job?” The German Feminine asked.I noticed something in her eyes which was altogether rare in the world of Germans- emotion.      “Why?” I asked.      “I sink you should haf a stronger helmet. Perhaps a Deutsche(German) helmet.”      “Shiiiit,” I laughed as I headed to the garage to get El Diablo, the big twin

Los Angeles International AirportLos Angeles, CaliforniaI laid my H&K USP .45 on the counter at the check-in booth for TWA airlines. The attendant eyed me with wary disdain as he examined the gun to make sure it was unloaded. It’s completely legal to carry firearms underneath any commercial airliner and there was nothing he could

On the map it was to be seen as a small red square set flush against the Equator, for all the world like a scarlet kerchief hung up to dry on a line. That was how Terry Devine expressed it when he first located it in his old school Atlas, but he didn’t know then

Nobody knew Buzzard’s real name. There was a reason for this; if you had aname like Horace Hieronymous Toozfetz, you probably wouldn’t go aroundadvertising it either. Some people might say that it’s a bit of anoverreaction to become an outlaw biker just because your parents gave you aname you didn’t like. Of course, the people

Ace sat at a booth near the back of the bar and sipped his beer. The Midnite Club, a private club in the French quarter of New Orleans, was where he liked to go when he had to lay low. Right now, Ace was laying lower than a snake’s belly, at least until the heat

In the back woods of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, there is a small, winding road that does not appear on any map, and which few have ever traveled. It winds around over the tops of the hills, through lush groves scented by pine trees, where white-tailed deer leap gracefully over fallen logs and squirrels

Francis “Ace” Calhoun awoke with the fear, accompanied by guilt, which wasa bit odd. It wasn?t that Ace didn’t have plenty to feel guilty about. In his 32 years, he had been involved in as much debauchery as any 10 pimps or con men. He had slept with his best friend’s wife and his wife’s

I had ceased to trust El Cid after the knife incident in New Mexico. I had stress fractures forming in my brittle psyche. I could feel the paranoia drifting in through every pore that wasn’t already blocked with bug guts, salt, or 60-weight bike oil. Every access point-the nostrils, the ears, the parched tear ducts,

I had ceased to trust El Cid after the knife incident in New Mexico. I had stress fractures forming in my brittle psyche. I could feel the paranoia drifting in through every pore that wasn’t already blocked with bug guts, salt, or 60-weight bike oil. Every access point-the nostrils, the ears, the parched tear ducts,

Razor snapped back to the reality of the moment. He looked up at thecracked orange paint and the flaming letters, which proclaimed CYPHER’SCYCLES.The Panhead was still in the window whispering it’s unholy promises to whoever happened by. Ray took a deep breath and walked in.The shop seemed to slump under its own weight. Damp boxes

Ray pulled up to The Place and looked up at its weathered sign. Severalpick-up trucks and a rusted El Camino sat along side the little bar. Hestood up tall and proud from the scoot and sauntered into the bar like agunfighter looking for trouble.Vintage Conway Twitty assaulted Ray’s ears as his eyes adjusted to thedarkness.

Razor Ray opened a bloodshot eye and groaned. It wasn’t bad enough thathis three day-speed binge and Jack Black hangover made his head feel asif the points of a million stilettos were tapping on the inside of hisbrain pan. It wasn’t bad enough that the insides of his eyelids felt as ifthey were being eaten

The jukebox was playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird. The tempo was picking up, and Bo, a young biker/stranger in this small berg, reached out to pick up a little something himself. Linda Lou, a hot looking local number that regularly melted strangers, had been shaking her tits at him for the past two or three songs,

Wednesday night, Mick rolled his bobbed ’92 Dyna onto his table lift and pulled up a battered bar stool to begin checking the performance machine over from end to end. Mick was single, alone, and tired from a day deep in mud and sludge in the oil fields. He lived in a small industrial complex

It was just another boring day on the job, but at least it was Thursday, so he was over the hump. The security guard sat watching the monitors that were hooked into the perimeter surveillance system. There had been a few friends of the family coming and going, plus the pool man and gardeners, but

… they jumped in the cab of Bobby’s pickup, and peeled out of the lot and onto the coast highway, heading south. There was only one road to travel from town to town in the redwood region. The winding Pacific Coast Highway skirted along the sheer precipices high above the jagged, coastal landscape. Below, the

Stormin’ Norman slammed his mug on the bar. “Fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled, tossing the thick, empty beer glass against the mirror behind the bar. Both shattered instantly. Exploding shards of glass blanketed the bar, bartender, and barmaid. Norman was big and burly. Some called him Bear. He wore a fringed leather jacket with strips of

Sticky shards of beer bottle splashed against his face as Harrison rolled in the soiled sawdust to escape a worn, pointed cowboy boot. His troubled mind whirled. What was he doing diving towards the cigarette butt-strewn deck of the cowboy bar anyway?Less than a half hour before he pulled his ’78 Shovelhead up to the

He stepped into the chilly night, the clean air a welcomechange for his abused lungs after the stuffy confines of the tavern. To counter the shocking effects of pure oxygen, he fumbled in his jacketpocket for the crumpled pack of Luckys. He pulled out abent but unbroken smoke and fired up the Zippo lighter, revelingin