FEATURE REQUEST– Bandit, ya gotta do a feature on that stunning gal astride the Knuckle…. photographed by Jerry Southworth.

What a honey….. better still, put her on a plane…… she can be my new office mouse!

–Cheers….. Indian Joe

We understand the sinuous desires a special woman creates, especially Sarah. We reached out to Jerry Southworth, a master of the soft curvy imagery a woman provides. But her shots also reminded me of my past, during the Vietnam era. I was stationed on a heavy cruiser and owned a new stock 1969 XLCH. On a weekly basis, I rode from the San Diego Naval Base to Long Beach to get laid or die trying.

I had a serious predilection for women at the age of 20, like a heroin addict does for any taste of smack. While riding along the coast, my mind would often wander to the softer side of life. I would glance in a sedan, while blazing past, hoping for a bright smile, glistening eyes or an exposed cleavage. My mind wandered off the winding road to somewhere she was waiting for me.

While nailing the throttle, I starred through dark glasses at the open freeway and thought about finding some girl like Sarah, broke down alongside the freeway, wearing too-short shorts over legs so supple and soft. My imagination would ramble to her side, her soft alluring smile touching my heart, my tools fixing her car and her invitation to follow her home.

My mind spinning with imagery of a warm brunette angel with a warm gaze and skin so soft it could make a grown man cry. She offered me a chilled Corona, and a slice of fresh lime, and then disappeared into the back of the house. I was as comfortable as a baby in his mother’s arms as I kicked off my boots and enjoyed the warm summer sun slicing through open windows into her warm abode. Then I heard that voice, warm enough to melt frozen tundra, call me to the back yard…

It’s all apart of the biker blues. We’re alone on the road, unable to converse or share a soft seat with the fairer sex. A brother on the open road is lured into a sense of sunlight seduction by only his exhaust note, the confidence his mechanical contraption offers, and the wind whistling around his ears. That’s when the blues hit home. The mind is left to the wildest imaginative thoughts of women, the future, business, fights, you name it.

Often this song would come to mind from the Four Tops in the ’60s.

Ask The Lonely lyrics

(Written by William Stevenson, Ivy Jo Hunter)

 

Just ask the lonely
When you feel
That you can make it all alone
Remember no one is big enough
To go it all alone

Just ask the lonely
They know the hurting pain
Of losing the love
You can never regain
Just ask the lonely
The young and foolish
Who laugh at love and slowly run away
Confident and sure that fate
Will bring another love their way

But ask the lonely
How vainly a heart can yearn
For losing a love
That will never return

Just ask the lonely
Just ask the lonely
Just ask the lonely

They’ll tell you a story of sadness
A story too hard to believe
They’ll tell you
The lonliest one is me

Just ask the lonely
Just ask the lonely
Just ask the lonely
Ask me, I’m the lonliest one of all

Back then, my mind was often sucked toward the sexual escapades I wasn’t having. I was stuck off the coast of Vietnam seven months of the year, blasting the coast and ducking return fire. Then I was sequestered on a base 120 miles from home most of rest of the year. Naturally, when I could fly away for a couple of days, I peeled like a lost dog toward the hometown.

Fortunately, a brunette waited for me. She had the smile of an angel and boobs most whores only dream about. But there was more. She contained the sexual prowess of an entire harem and the sensual desires of 50 women locked in a women’s prison. Yet, she was as good and as pure as freshly fallen snow.

Unfortunately, my young outlaw spirit didn’t allow me to stay. My punishment was a string of no-account broads and too many lonely nights on desolate freeways looking into dark car windows for another angel. If you find one, respect her. They’re hard to come by.

It was one of those lonely Saturday nights in Ventura when I met this girl at Oil Can Charlie’s Bar. We were all alone when she smiled at me, and offered to close the bar early if I’d take her for a ride into the Ojai hillside. I was alone at the time, living in seaside middle-class Oxnard. I didn’t know a soul, steered clear of the clubs, and wandered the back streets looking for love.

Her big amber eyes and bright smile were like a Christmas-wrapped Lionel locomotive to a ghetto kid on Xmas morning. I couldn’t believe my eyes or my trembling ears behind my scruffy beard. I was just a dirty biker in a strange town, alone as an illegal immigrant with only a backpack scrambling across the border west of Nogales, Mexico, hoping to find a new life past the Sierrita Mountains south of Tucson, before the border patrol or some gang caught up with him.

I speculated if the blonde Scandinavian goddess was some club president’s ol’ lady. I didn’t know anyone, but when she smiled, it didn’t matter. Then she turned to close the cash register, and the slope of her tits caught my eye. If the entire Oxnard Carnales Chapter stormed the saloon with guns blazing, I didn’t care; I was a happy man for the first time in months.

I looked around inside the dark bar, wondering if I might find Rod Sterling sitting in the corner sipping port. He’d look up at me from his dark corner and whisper, “Welcome to the Twilight Zone.” The bar was still empty.

She came around the bar, and I slipped off the barstool to meet her. She was just right for my 6’5″ size, slightly large and voluptuous in all the right places. I still couldn’t believe it. She was cute, her teeth were even and ivory white. Her eyes didn’t contain that crack-whore distant glint. Her complexion was smooth and when she pressed her buxom mountains against my chest, I knew instantly they were real, and I kissed her. She didn’t have the pungent breath of a smoker and her lips were like a hot acetylene torch to a birthday candle.

“Can I play one more song, before we leave?” she whispered in my ear, followed by her moist tongue. What the fuck was I gonna say? I just nodded and she strolled toward the jukebox. My eyes followed the gentle curve of her ass like a starving kitty following a brimming bowl of fresh milk.

She gently pressed a couple of buttons on the flashy face, adding a pink hue to the curve of her breast and plump cheeks. The jukebox shifted gears with a clink and a clank, then out rolled Jerry Butler – For Your Precious Love:

 

Your precious love
Means more to me
Than any love could ever be
For when I wanted you
I was so lonely and so blue
For that’s what love will do

And darling, I’m
(I’m so surprised)
Oh, when I first realized
(I realized)
That a-you were fooling me

And darling
They say that our love won’t grow
But I just wanna tell them
That they don’t know-oh-ho

For as long
As you’re in love with me
Our love will grow wider
Deeper than any sea

And of all the things that I want
In this whole wide world
Is just for you to say
That you’ll be my girl

And
(Wanting you)
Wanting you
(Oh-ooh, I’m lonely and blue)
I’m so-whoa, lonely
(That’s what love will do)

My mind was awash with desire. My heart pulsed with fresh untouched adrenalin, as she gathered her riding gear and shut off the lights. She rode! Amazing. She donned a gnarled leather jacket and weathered gloves. I was lulled into a biker’s wistful nirvana, wrapped in one of the best R&B love tunes ever to melt the airways, as we strolled hand-in-hand into the parking lot.

I fully expected a gun-totting ex, in an alcoholic rage. Instead, she straddled a Honda four custom and we raced into the night. Miracles do happen.

Click here to Check out BikernetMetric.com, and the feature on this Cafe Honda four.

It was one of those lonely Saturday nights in Ventura when I met this girl at Oil Can Charlie’s Bar. We were all alone when she smiled at me, and offered to close the bar early if I’d take her for a ride into the Ojai hillside. I was alone at the time, living in seaside middle-class Oxnard. I didn’t know a soul, steered clear of the clubs, and wandered the back streets looking for love.

Her big amber eyes and bright smile were like a Christmas-wrapped Lionel locomotive to a ghetto kid on Xmas morning. I couldn’t believe my eyes or my trembling ears behind my scruffy beard. I was just a dirty biker in a strange town, alone as an illegal immigrant with only a backpack scrambling across the border west of Nogales, Mexico, hoping to find a new life past the Sierrita Mountains south of Tucson, before the border patrol or some gang caught up with him.

I speculated if the blonde Scandinavian goddess was some club president’s ol’ lady. I didn’t know anyone, but when she smiled, it didn’t matter. Then she turned to close the cash register, and the slope of her tits caught my eye. If the entire Oxnard Carnales Chapter stormed the saloon with guns blazing, I didn’t care; I was a happy man for the first time in months.

I looked around inside the dark bar, wondering if I might find Rod Sterling sitting in the corner sipping port. He’d look up at me from his dark corner and whisper, “Welcome to the Twilight Zone.” The bar was still empty.

She came around the bar, and I slipped off the barstool to meet her. She was just right for my 6’5″ size, slightly large and voluptuous in all the right places. I still couldn’t believe it. She was cute, her teeth were even and ivory white. Her eyes didn’t contain that crack-whore distant glint. Her complexion was smooth and when she pressed her buxom mountains against my chest, I knew instantly they were real, and I kissed her. She didn’t have the pungent breath of a smoker and her lips were like a hot acetylene torch to a birthday candle.

“Can I play one more song, before we leave?” she whispered in my ear, followed by her moist tongue. What the fuck was I gonna say? I just nodded and she strolled toward the jukebox. My eyes followed the gentle curve of her ass like a starving kitty following a brimming bowl of fresh milk.

She gently pressed a couple of buttons on the flashy face, adding a pink hue to the curve of her breast and plump cheeks. The jukebox shifted gears with a clink and a clank, then out rolled Jerry Butler – For Your Precious Love:

 

Your precious love
Means more to me
Than any love could ever be
For when I wanted you
I was so lonely and so blue
For that’s what love will do

And darling, I’m
(I’m so surprised)
Oh, when I first realized
(I realized)
That a-you were fooling me

And darling
They say that our love won’t grow
But I just wanna tell them
That they don’t know-oh-ho

For as long
As you’re in love with me
Our love will grow wider
Deeper than any sea

And of all the things that I want
In this whole wide world
Is just for you to say
That you’ll be my girl

And
(Wanting you)
Wanting you
(Oh-ooh, I’m lonely and blue)
I’m so-whoa, lonely
(That’s what love will do)

My mind was awash with desire. My heart pulsed with fresh untouched adrenalin, as she gathered her riding gear and shut off the lights. She rode! Amazing. She donned a gnarled leather jacket and weathered gloves. I was lulled into a biker’s wistful nirvana, wrapped in one of the best R&B love tunes ever to melt the airways, as we strolled hand-in-hand into the parking lot.

I fully expected a gun-totting ex, in an alcoholic rage. Instead, she straddled a Honda four custom and we raced into the night. Miracles do happen.

Click here to Check out BikernetMetric.com, and the feature on this Cafe Honda four.

The spray blasts hits high as a long slim gray “Cigarette“ rushes across the Mediterranean Sea close to Ibiza, the sunny island of easy living and beautiful people. The powerful offshore-boat thunders along the coastline, cutting the view into halves along the line of the horizon, dividing the scenery into sky and sea, leaving a white trace of wild water and sharp edged waves. The German custombike-masterbuilder Klaus Hülsmann, chief engineer and holder of Hardcore Cycles Essen, Germany, is impressed and overwhelmed by the sheer power and beauty of this water-rocket.

Later, back in Germany all these feelings return as he looks through the pictures of this day. He instantly decides to build a bike that shows the spirit of this powerful ocean-machine. For a couple of days he collects parts and designs, does some scribbles on paper and screen and then starts planning a bike that draws close to the Cigarette boat shape and expression.

The project-bike Offshore is born. Because Klaus is a very close friend of Marcus Walz from Walz Hardcore Cycles and a main cooperator. The base of the style is a best known Le Mans frame, dragstyle by Walz WHC. To have a bike as exclusive as the offshore-boat he chose new wheels, so new they don’t even have a name.

Volker Prior of Speedpoint Germany just finished manufacturing of a pair of rims. The name now is, “New Wheels.” The rims are 3-parted, ready to fit a 280 rear-rubber and a 130 in front. The WHC-frontend is equipped with a Öhlins-interior, the single-side swing is cushioned by a Legend Air sytem.

Okay, a bike like this is not made for extreme cornering, but in looong turns and on the dragstrip it performs like hell. The Twin Cam has enough power to punch the rider’s ass. The Beringer brakes make sure that he will be able to anchor wherever and whenever he wants within short distances.

Model Carka decided to drop anchor next to the bike. She was a little excited to have the opportunity to pose with this brutal ride. Stunned by the cost of approx. 80.000 USD, for this power-machine she first almost didn’t dare to touch this distinct pile of steel. But shortly after making the first contact she felt comfortable on the low seat and having the mean gray steel between her bare legs and next to her fun-center.

It was a fine day in our studio, and all of us gave our best – just to please you. But remember: smoking can cause diseases, but these Cigarettes just causes satisfaction.

Hardcore Cycles Essen
Weidkamp 234
D-45356 Essen
Germany
049-201-4698522
www.hardcorecycles-essen.de

Technische Daten “Offshore”

Motor: HD Twin Cam 1540 ccm
Vergaser : Mikuni HSR 42
Auspuff: Krümmer Paul Yaffee Phantom, Töpfe HCE- Eigenbau
Luftfilter: Roland Sands Velocitiy Stack
Rahmen: Santee Starrahmen
Getriebe: 5-Gang OEM
Primär: NH Power 2,5″ Belt
Primärdeckel: HCE
Gabel: HCE, Brücken Bad Boys Cycles
Rad hinten: 10,5×18 Speedpoint “New Wheel” 3-teilig mit 280/35-18
Rad vorne: 4×18 Speedpoint New Wheel 3-teilig mit 130/60-18
Bremse vorne: Beringer 2 x 6-Kolben mit Beringer 12,5″ Scheibe Aerotech
Bremse hinten: 2×2-Kolben mit PM-Perimeter- Scheibenring

Tank: WHC long
Lenker: V-Team, Riser BBC
Rasten: HCE
Heckteil: HCE
Öl-Tank: HCE
Elektrik: HCE
Sitz: Ankert
Griffe: HCE
Armaturen: HCE
Lackierung: HCE, Design Matze

The spray blasts hits high as a long slim gray “Cigarette“ rushes across the Mediterranean Sea close to Ibiza, the sunny island of easy living and beautiful people. The powerful offshore-boat thunders along the coastline, cutting the view into halves along the line of the horizon, dividing the scenery into sky and sea, leaving a white trace of wild water and sharp edged waves. The German custombike-masterbuilder Klaus Hülsmann, chief engineer and holder of Hardcore Cycles Essen, Germany, is impressed and overwhelmed by the sheer power and beauty of this water-rocket.

Later, back in Germany all these feelings return as he looks through the pictures of this day. He instantly decides to build a bike that shows the spirit of this powerful ocean-machine. For a couple of days he collects parts and designs, does some scribbles on paper and screen and then starts planning a bike that draws close to the Cigarette boat shape and expression.

The project-bike Offshore is born. Because Klaus is a very close friend of Marcus Walz from Walz Hardcore Cycles and a main cooperator. The base of the style is a best known Le Mans frame, dragstyle by Walz WHC. To have a bike as exclusive as the offshore-boat he chose new wheels, so new they don’t even have a name.

Volker Prior of Speedpoint Germany just finished manufacturing of a pair of rims. The name now is, “New Wheels.” The rims are 3-parted, ready to fit a 280 rear-rubber and a 130 in front. The WHC-frontend is equipped with a Öhlins-interior, the single-side swing is cushioned by a Legend Air sytem.

Okay, a bike like this is not made for extreme cornering, but in looong turns and on the dragstrip it performs like hell. The Twin Cam has enough power to punch the rider’s ass. The Beringer brakes make sure that he will be able to anchor wherever and whenever he wants within short distances.

Model Carka decided to drop anchor next to the bike. She was a little excited to have the opportunity to pose with this brutal ride. Stunned by the cost of approx. 80.000 USD, for this power-machine she first almost didn’t dare to touch this distinct pile of steel. But shortly after making the first contact she felt comfortable on the low seat and having the mean gray steel between her bare legs and next to her fun-center.

It was a fine day in our studio, and all of us gave our best – just to please you. But remember: smoking can cause diseases, but these Cigarettes just causes satisfaction.

Hardcore Cycles Essen
Weidkamp 234
D-45356 Essen
Germany
049-201-4698522
www.hardcorecycles-essen.de

Technische Daten “Offshore”

Motor: HD Twin Cam 1540 ccm
Vergaser : Mikuni HSR 42
Auspuff: Krümmer Paul Yaffee Phantom, Töpfe HCE- Eigenbau
Luftfilter: Roland Sands Velocitiy Stack
Rahmen: Santee Starrahmen
Getriebe: 5-Gang OEM
Primär: NH Power 2,5″ Belt
Primärdeckel: HCE
Gabel: HCE, Brücken Bad Boys Cycles
Rad hinten: 10,5×18 Speedpoint “New Wheel” 3-teilig mit 280/35-18
Rad vorne: 4×18 Speedpoint New Wheel 3-teilig mit 130/60-18
Bremse vorne: Beringer 2 x 6-Kolben mit Beringer 12,5″ Scheibe Aerotech
Bremse hinten: 2×2-Kolben mit PM-Perimeter- Scheibenring

Tank: WHC long
Lenker: V-Team, Riser BBC
Rasten: HCE
Heckteil: HCE
Öl-Tank: HCE
Elektrik: HCE
Sitz: Ankert
Griffe: HCE
Armaturen: HCE
Lackierung: HCE, Design Matze

Throughout our lives we all have firsts, be it our first real ride, a first true love or even our first tattoo! I have been very fortunate to have my photos and words appear in a few national magazines a time or two, mainly just motorcycles and girls. These images are different; being the primary subject is not the motorcycle but the model, a first. Add to that not just a model, but also a tattooed model, the lovely Miss Misery, another first. And if all of that were not enough, this was also my first International feature thanks to the fine folks at Skin Deep Magazine over in the UK!

Not bad for someone who needs help remembering which way to point the camera from time to time. Now onto the important stuff, namely Ms. Jennifer Wilder pictured here, or as she’s known by in the real world, Miss Misery. As you may have noticed, there are a variety of backgrounds (please refer back to 1st tattoo shoot). I figured I ought to show off a few more of the tattoos.

Seems the “Devil” (Kent, from Lucky Devil Metal Works–Houston) discovered Miss Misery while he was stumbling around the Black Hills of Sturgis. Having a weakness for sexy tattooed ladies, the Devil asked if she would mind posing for some pics with Trouble the little white Shovelhead.

Being a fan of fine custom-built machinery, be it a nice bike or hot rod, she agreed, so they headed off to the outskirts of town to grab some images. While taking a few pictures and enjoying a cold adult beverage, or three, Kent learned that not only is this sexy lady from Texas, she is from a city a little south of Houston. Now if that don’t beat all, thousands of beautiful, sexy women roaming around the Black Hills & the Devil finds him a neighborhood Texas girl!

Miss Misery, at the time, was the shop manager for Abstract Art Tattoo’s in Clear Lake City, Texas, as well as being a tattoo apprentice, when she was not keeping the shop running and headed in the right direction. And while she has worked in the tattoo industry for the past ten years, Jennifer, I mean Miss Misery got her first tattoo some 13 years ago. While I personally don’t think anyone gets their first tattoo and says, “I love this shit,” and heads out to consume her body with ink, at some point, she as well as thousands of others, reached that milestone and began her quest and never looked back. Miss Misery is 80% covered and while I cannot verify this fact, that puts her at the top of list of ladies in this great state concerning coverage.

The majority of work as been completed by four artists, Johnny “Mudbug” Williams and Justin Guillory both from Abstract Art, as well as Angel Pitre and Jodi Griffin, with most of her ink being traditional art work including pin-up girls, hot rods, and Sailor Jerry art work. I did not get any images of the back piece as it is on going and she wanted to wait until it is completed to show it off.

There is one other tattoo I did not get a picture of but is worth mentioning, seems while Miss Misery was enjoying the festivities in the Black Hills she happened to run into Billy Lane of Choppers Inc. fame, who of course was nice enough to stop and chat, take a few pictures and sign an autograph or two. Being as this young lady did not have any paper on her at the time, she just got him to autograph her! Which he was more then happy to do, after parting ways she promptly made her way back to their base of operations and had the aforementioned signature rendered permanent.

Figured I ought to mention a thing or two about the fine little Shovelhead, “Trouble.” Kent Weeks, aka the Devil, and owner of Lucky Devil Metal Works (LDMW) in Houston, Texas built it. This little Shovel graced the pages of Street Chopper back in April of ’07, so that’s why it might be rattling your cobweb infested minds.

LDMW kicked opened the doors back in December of 2000 and has been producing some excellent quality rides ever since. Lucky Devil’s rides have graced the pages of BIKERNET.COM, Hot Bike, Street Chopper, Easyriders and Biker magazine numerous times. Not only that, but the Devil is a licensed motorcycle manufacture here in the state of Texas, and Mrs. Devil is the distributor for these fine rides with Trouble being one of four licensed production models manufactured by the devil. So whether your needs are a full blown ground up custom, a really clean production bike, or maybe your just looking to modify your current ride, Lucky Devil Metal Works can take care of your needs!

Remember if you are ever in Texas stop by the devils shop and have a cold beer, although Miss Misery has taken her sexy self up north, you can still check her out via the World Wide Web for Miss Misery on My Space. Her display name is Miss Misery Loves Company.

Lucky Devil Metal Works can be found at www.luckydevilmetalworks.com and hell if for some reason you want to see more of my stuff. I am also on the WWW now at RFR Photos.com; it is a work in progress though!

Till next time,
–Rigid Frame Richard

Click to see more from Lucky Devil

Throughout our lives we all have firsts, be it our first real ride, a first true love or even our first tattoo! I have been very fortunate to have my photos and words appear in a few national magazines a time or two, mainly just motorcycles and girls. These images are different; being the primary subject is not the motorcycle but the model, a first. Add to that not just a model, but also a tattooed model, the lovely Miss Misery, another first. And if all of that were not enough, this was also my first International feature thanks to the fine folks at Skin Deep Magazine over in the UK!

Not bad for someone who needs help remembering which way to point the camera from time to time. Now onto the important stuff, namely Ms. Jennifer Wilder pictured here, or as she’s known by in the real world, Miss Misery. As you may have noticed, there are a variety of backgrounds (please refer back to 1st tattoo shoot). I figured I ought to show off a few more of the tattoos.

Seems the “Devil” (Kent, from Lucky Devil Metal Works–Houston) discovered Miss Misery while he was stumbling around the Black Hills of Sturgis. Having a weakness for sexy tattooed ladies, the Devil asked if she would mind posing for some pics with Trouble the little white Shovelhead.

Being a fan of fine custom-built machinery, be it a nice bike or hot rod, she agreed, so they headed off to the outskirts of town to grab some images. While taking a few pictures and enjoying a cold adult beverage, or three, Kent learned that not only is this sexy lady from Texas, she is from a city a little south of Houston. Now if that don’t beat all, thousands of beautiful, sexy women roaming around the Black Hills & the Devil finds him a neighborhood Texas girl!

Miss Misery, at the time, was the shop manager for Abstract Art Tattoo’s in Clear Lake City, Texas, as well as being a tattoo apprentice, when she was not keeping the shop running and headed in the right direction. And while she has worked in the tattoo industry for the past ten years, Jennifer, I mean Miss Misery got her first tattoo some 13 years ago. While I personally don’t think anyone gets their first tattoo and says, “I love this shit,” and heads out to consume her body with ink, at some point, she as well as thousands of others, reached that milestone and began her quest and never looked back. Miss Misery is 80% covered and while I cannot verify this fact, that puts her at the top of list of ladies in this great state concerning coverage.

The majority of work as been completed by four artists, Johnny “Mudbug” Williams and Justin Guillory both from Abstract Art, as well as Angel Pitre and Jodi Griffin, with most of her ink being traditional art work including pin-up girls, hot rods, and Sailor Jerry art work. I did not get any images of the back piece as it is on going and she wanted to wait until it is completed to show it off.

There is one other tattoo I did not get a picture of but is worth mentioning, seems while Miss Misery was enjoying the festivities in the Black Hills she happened to run into Billy Lane of Choppers Inc. fame, who of course was nice enough to stop and chat, take a few pictures and sign an autograph or two. Being as this young lady did not have any paper on her at the time, she just got him to autograph her! Which he was more then happy to do, after parting ways she promptly made her way back to their base of operations and had the aforementioned signature rendered permanent.

Figured I ought to mention a thing or two about the fine little Shovelhead, “Trouble.” Kent Weeks, aka the Devil, and owner of Lucky Devil Metal Works (LDMW) in Houston, Texas built it. This little Shovel graced the pages of Street Chopper back in April of ’07, so that’s why it might be rattling your cobweb infested minds.

LDMW kicked opened the doors back in December of 2000 and has been producing some excellent quality rides ever since. Lucky Devil’s rides have graced the pages of BIKERNET.COM, Hot Bike, Street Chopper, Easyriders and Biker magazine numerous times. Not only that, but the Devil is a licensed motorcycle manufacture here in the state of Texas, and Mrs. Devil is the distributor for these fine rides with Trouble being one of four licensed production models manufactured by the devil. So whether your needs are a full blown ground up custom, a really clean production bike, or maybe your just looking to modify your current ride, Lucky Devil Metal Works can take care of your needs!

Remember if you are ever in Texas stop by the devils shop and have a cold beer, although Miss Misery has taken her sexy self up north, you can still check her out via the World Wide Web for Miss Misery on My Space. Her display name is Miss Misery Loves Company.

Lucky Devil Metal Works can be found at www.luckydevilmetalworks.com and hell if for some reason you want to see more of my stuff. I am also on the WWW now at RFR Photos.com; it is a work in progress though!

Till next time,
–Rigid Frame Richard

Click to see more from Lucky Devil

In Chapter 49, Sheila’s pimp returned to the Cantina to collect his property, but it didn’t work out as he planned. On a crisp harbor night, his thugs were surrounded in the darkened parking lot and sent down the road by the well-trained Cantina Security Crew.

“This isn’t the end,” Dwight, the big black drug dealer spat as his crew backed into their flashy vehicles and departed the parking lot.

“I knew she would lead to more trouble,” Marko said as he turned on the outdoor lights and studied the perimeter of the Cantina lot. The crew handled security during this live drill perfectly, but what about the next time? That was New Year?s Eve. A month had passed and another year was in full swing.

The bad economic mixture and political upheaval in Washington spawned a dark cloud over the country and it filtered like forest fire smoke into a log cabin. Folks drank and pounded the bar with frustrated fists. Times were uncertain, but the girls bounced around the Cantina like cheerleaders at a playoff game, doing their best to keep the furious fans pumped up. Cinderella distracted the crew from Sheila’s previous plight with drugs, but Marko didn’t trust her or her presence in the restaurant/bar.

Drug dealing was gone from the premises. There were no shiny cars in the parking lot, no limousines or pimped-out big black guys wearing too many gold chains lingering around the Cantina making deals. Sheila moved in with another clean and sober girl and signed up for a computer class at the local community college, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She never could.

She showed up at work one afternoon sporting a new tattoo. It was some sort of unfinished serpent slithering around her slender upper arm. Destined to be some devilish armband, it was covered in Neosporin ointment, clear plastic food wrap and medical tape. It was still in its outlined form but Marko lifted her arm and examined the slippery uncolored snake’s tongue that slithered out from between two razor-sharp fangs.

It was as if the gypsy woman turned over the wrong tarot card and it turned up disaster. Marko yanked the tender arm and pulled Sheila to face him. Her buttery blue eyes were clear as she batted them tenderly at him.

“Are you using?” Marko asked, his blue-gray eyes boring into hers.

“No, nothing,” she blithered.

“No pain killers during this,” he said lifting her arm abruptly. “I hope you’re not running your mouth in public.”

“No,” Sheila said. “I just took some Tylenol.”

“You know the rule,” Marko returned quickly. “If you fuck up or get caught using, you’re on the streets.” Heavy drugs were verboten in the Cantina.

She nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Where did you get this?” Marko asked softening his approach.

“Union Tattoo in Wilmington,” Sheila responded, and Marko cut her loose.

Sheila’s gaze danced away from Marko’s harsh glare. He never trusted anything to do with her, her past, her addictions, or her mouth. Bandit was too soft with women. He saw goodness in the worst cases. Marko watched for any sign of machination in women. He didn’t trust their knifing ways.

She was warned, and took on a somber countenance as she moved around the Cantina. Marko moved into the shadow of his security regime and watched. As the night wore, on he asked some of the bikers who roamed into the Cantina about Union Tattoo.

“It’s over by the Longshoremen’s hall,” Frankie said while mopping the galley slick tile deck.

“It’s okay,” Buster said. “I’ve been there. I don’t think anyone sells drugs around there.”

“Big five runs that place,” Clay said. “He’s a family man trying to make a living. There’s no foot traffic in that town behind the harbor. It’s dismal over there.”

As the evening closed, the Cantina shut, and a few Pedro riders fired up their bikes and rolled down the quiet streets for home or to find an open coffee shop. Marko took Nyla aside.

“I need to know the next time Sheila is headed to that tattoo parlor in Wilmington,” Marko said.

“Sure, Marko,” Nyla said in her gleeful tone. “I’ll find out.”

***

About a week later, during shift change, just after a hearty rain over the Los Angeles Harbor, Nyla approached Marko.

“She has an appointment tomorrow afternoon,” Nyla said. “She’s been trying to recruit someone to go with her. She wanted one of us to hold her hand and keep her company.”

“I don’t want anyone to go with her,” Marko said. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

For the last couple of days, when the sun broke over the harbor and dried the streets, Marko rode to Wilmington. He traversed the streets and familiarized himself with the dark area behind the harbor. It was one of the smaller harbor towns crammed between Long Beach and San Pedro on the east and west, and bordered by Carson and Torrance on the north. South was the harbor and Terminal Island. Once home to the Long Beach Naval Shipyard and still the home of the federal prison, the island was rapidly becoming a container parking lot of cranes and docks.

Wilmington was as flat as any land-filled area. It once housed a canal, which was long gone. Most of Wilmington was zoned M-4 for manufacturing, with only two commercial streets, Broad and Avalon. It was basically a 90-degree grid of streets running toward the port or parallel to it.

Wilmington housed the only two strip joints in the region. There was another one just over the border in Long Beach, near West Coast Choppers. These joints, and the Long Beach blues clubs were Dwight’s territory.

He was the pimp/drug dealer for the region. He fed everyone in town drugs and women, from the cops to the low-lifes. He was the Man, and he felt it with impunity. He lived and breathed the street existence. Life was all about deals with cocaine and speed, and street respect. That meant he could pick on you, but you better show respect, or he would take care of it. It was the oldest extortion line in the bully book, but he played it daily on the streets of Long Beach and Wilmington. The mayor of Los Angeles lived in San Pedro. Dwight steered clear of the coastal community passed the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

Marko rode his stretched-out black FXR toward Wilmington past the Harbor Division of the Los Angeles Police Department headquarters on Harry Bridges Boulevard. He parked his bike behind the Maya Restaurant and walked inside to grab a bite and watch the Union Tattoo Parlor. It was a block down, and the sun was fading quickly as the Saturday clock ticked close to 5:00 on a winter afternoon. The full moon danced into the royal blue sky like a beacon to the werewolves of life.

Marko ordered a cactus and avocado chicken burrito, with a verde sauce poured over the massive plate of food. After he ordered, he stepped to the window and looked down the street. It was cluttered with longshoremen parking their cars in lots and along the narrow streets and walking briskly to the hall to check on jobs. In a corner of the main parking lot, a number of black brothers operated a makeshift barbeque, but they didn’t just serve ribs. Longshoremen could munch on a tasty sauce-soaked sandwich, buy drugs, or pay for a blowjob from a harbor streetwalker.

The action took place in the open under an open awning next to a picnic table. The girls giggled and follow customers to their cars. In 45 minutes, thousands of union dockworkers came from all over the Southbay to pick up jobs, and then they returned home to Long Beach, San Pedro, Carson or even Palos Verdes Point before returning to the harbor for their shift. It’s a strange tradition, and Marko watch the area become cluttered with activity, then virtually empty and desolate as the sun went down.

He watched as Sheila rolled up on the ’69 XLCH and parked it out front of Union Tattoo. She seemed light on her feet as she bounced inside the shop. Marko stepped out the front door of the Maya Restaurant and could hear Sheila’s mouth running as the tattoo parlor door shut. He scratched the back of his head and stepped back inside to finish his hearty burrito and drink a Corona. He had no preconception as to the evening’s outcome.

The sun set and the moon was beginning to turn the night indigo blue as Marko departed the closing restaurant and moved to his second darkened vantage point across the street. He moved quietly and stealthily. No one saw him or knew where he went, but he had a visual over everything.

Sheila bobbed into the tattoo parlor, gleefully anxious to have her skin art completed. A counter separated the waiting area from the tattoo operation cubicles. Day of the Dead art hung from the walls along with tattoo flash. Books of tat customer photos lined the counter.

“Hey,” Sheila buzzed from the waiting area. “Where’s the action. It’s Saturday night, party time. Bandit’s place is too somber for me. I need some lively action.”

Big Five poked his head above the divider. “Hang on,” he said, “I’ll be just a minute. Have a seat.”

“I can’t,” Sheila spat. “It’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”

Two other girls sat in the waiting area, quietly watching Sheila’s every move. One of the girls was hot to the core, with long nylon-encased legs slithering from fuck-me spiked heels to a minnie skirt that left little to the imagination. Her waist was two-hands narrow and her massive boobs bubbled over her tight leather top.

“Hey sister,” she said in a tone like warm maple syrup poured from a glass jug. “What do you have in mind for tonight?”

Sheila turned and eyed the two strippers dressed to the nines and getting primed for Saturday Night. Sheila’s bright blue eyes lit up like a kid spotting Santa on his porch.

“It’s been so long,” she said and moved between the two tarts. “What’s up ladies?”

“What do you have in mind?” the sister said and uncrossed her legs seductively, then crossed them again. Sheila watched and jiggled her store bought boobs, as if to say, “I can play.”

The other girl was also hot, but shorter and not so flamboyant. She got up from the couch.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

“Save some powder for me,” the sister said and placed her hand on Sheila’s thigh.

The other girl made her way to the back and the restroom.

“I’m Christy,” the sista told Sheila. “What’s your name?”

“Sheila,” she said and extended her hand.

Christy took her hand and placed it on her boob. Sheila rolled toward her and they kissed. It was like electricity flashing through her body. She immediately felt wet.

“Are you getting a tat?” Christy asked shoving her hand under Sheila’s blouse and playing with her boobs. “We could have so much fun.”

“Big five is supposed to finish my snake,” Sheila gasped as Christy twisted one of her nipples and licked her lips.

“Do you need a pain killer?” Christy. “Or you could just think about me licking your pussy. Could you hang on for that?”

Christie ran her hand over Sheila’s boobs and down her tummy. She unbuckled her belt and popped open the button on the top of her denims. Before Sheila could think, the girl’s long fingers were playing with her clit, while Sheila watched Christy’s massive boobs jiggle, nearly exploding from her snug leather halter.

Suddenly the other girl reappeared.

“We gotta go,” she said abruptly and snapped her cell phone closed. “Maybe you could come down to Show Girls in Long Beach when you’re done.”

Sheila didn’t know whether to climax or die.

“We need you girls at the Cantina,” Sheila said.

“It’s off limits,” Christie said, getting to her feet in one fluid, sex-filled motion. She turned, leaned over, kissed Sheila, and pulled one of her boobs free. “Care for a taste?”

Sheila scooted forward in her chair and surrounded this soft torpedo with her fiery hands. She gingerly leaned forward and engulfed Christy’s nipple in her mouth and kissed for all she was worth.

“This ain’t right,” she muttered, as she relinquished the mound of softness. It was returned to its leather prison and the girls strolled out of the parlor.

“We’ll be waiting for you, baby,” Christy said as her bubble-butt departed.

Sheila sat back as if the rug of life was suddenly pulled out from under her. Big Five stood at the back of the parlor watching in amazement.

“I don’t know what those whores were doing here,” he said. “They didn’t want tats.”

“I don’t care,” Sheila said.

“You don’t know them?” Big Five asked. “They seemed to know you.”

Marko watched from across the wide boulevard and thought to himself, life is all about choices.

Sheila sauntered to the back of the parlor, set her jacket on the chair and sat in the old ’50s dental chair.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Big Five asked as he prepped her for his craft.

Sheila was suddenly quiet. She usually bubbled with effusive enthusiasm and couldn’t keep her trap shut.

“They tried to give me pain killers,” she said.

“Do you need ’em,” Big Five said. Tats ran up his neck as if a spider weaving a web up and old abandoned wall.

“I don’t know,” Sheila said. “I mean I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You’re clean and sober, right,” Big Five said.

“Yeah,” Sheila said. “I have been for four months.”

“Are you being tested?” Big Five asked as he poured colorful hues of inks is small disposable cups.

“I don’t know those girls,” Sheila said. “Why would they test me?”

“Maybe he knows,” Big Five said motioning toward the big plate glass window at the front of his shop.

A massive stretched limo pulled up and out stepped a giant of a black man dressed for the town in a white suit adorned with too many gold chains. His fingers glittered with diamond-encrusted rings, and his smile was as broad as a Cadillac grill, sporting a flashy gold tooth.

Sheila sat abruptly upright. “I get it.”

Dwight strolled into the parlor with another massive football sized giant following.

“Hey, baby,” Dwight said, and unbuttoned his coat.

“Hey, Dwight,” Sheila said.

“You’re in my territory, sweetie,” Dwight said, “and you owe me.”

“What do I owe you?” Sheila asked. She was alone in Wilmas, a dirt poor harbor berg. She had none of the Cantina family around.

“You owe me a couple of grand and a half-dozen blow-jobs, bitch.” Dwight lost his comforting air. He didn’t talk to women, he told women. “You made a choice coming to this part of town. You’re going to come with me after he’s done with your tat. You know the drill. When you pay me back, you can go work for anyone, but ya gotta pay your debt.”

Sheila slumped back into her chair as if someone let the air out of her tire. “I suppose you’re right.” She knew there was no way to pay this debt and escape.

“You goddamn right I’m right,” Dwight said, standing over her. He ran his big hand up her thigh and pushed it down between her legs. “Christy made you hot. There’s a lot of fun to be had on my side of town.”

Big Five flipped on his tattoo gun, and the buzzing broke the thick threatening air in the room.

“I need to get to work, sir,” Big Five said and leaned towards Sheila’s light-skinned arm. He pulled her soft limb close. Almost cradling it, he felt the tension in her muscles.

“How long will this take?” Dwight snapped at Big Five.

Big Five didn’t look up. He didn’t want to mess with the harbor town bully.

“Just an hour,” he said.

“I’ll be back,” Dwight said, and laid a 100-buck bill on the counter. On top of the bill rested a short vial filled with cocaine. “This should help with my baby’s art project. Treat her right and I’ll send you some business from time to time.”

“Thanks,” Big Five said and touched Sheila’s arm with the three-needle color set.

She jumped. She couldn’t relax. Her hands fidgeted.

“Take it easy,” Big Five said as the limousine sped away. “Let’s take a break. I’ll get you something to drink.”

He wandered to the front door of his shop and looked out at the empty street.

“Is this your motorcycle?” he asked. “It’s a classic.”

“It’s sorta mine,” Sheila said trying to take stock of her situation. “Bandit gave it to me after he cleaned me up. I was a mess. The Cantina has been my first real home.”

“What happens to the bike if you leave with that gangster?” Big Five asked.

“I suppose Bandit would send someone to pick it up,” Sheila said.

“Do you want something to drink,” Big Five said opening his fridge. “I’ve got waters, beer, or Jack Daniels. You know, life is all about choices. The choice you make today may change your life forever.”

“Yeah,” Sheila said, “and I’ve made some damn bad ones.”

“Seems you’ve got a basket of ’em flyin’ at you tonight,” Big Five said and pulled out a bottle of Arrowhead water and set it next to the fifty of whiskey.

Sheila could feel her skin beginning to crawl. She survived four months on the strict wagon, and she was proud of every day, but she was beginning to feel the vibrations of addiction creeping back. Temptation was driven to the surface by bouts of depression, and caused her defense mechanisms to founder. She was beginning to hunger for a shot of tequila, or something stronger. She knew one single blast would free her from the doldrums, but she was keenly aware of the downside.

She could feel herself grinding her teeth.

“We’re burnin’ daylight,” Big Five said. “The big guy will return soon.”

Sheila’s moist palms dripped with sweat. She looked toward the street, at the counter and the clear glass vile. She pondered the bottle of water and the fifth of Jack Daniels.

“That’s a damn fine motorcycle,” Big Five said and wandered to the front door.

He opened it to admire the classic lines, the root beer metallic paint, and traditional shape of the Sportster tank. Sheila could see the XLCH, magneto, kick-only bike glistening under the streetlights. That motorcycle meant so much to her. It gave her power to go wherever she wanted. It was the tool to her fight from addiction. It represented wealth, freedom, strength, and self-confidence.

Sheila stepped out of the chair. She moved to the counter like a lost rodent trying to decide whether to stay in its crib or chase the garbage truck. She picked up the vial and it buzzed in her palm, the crystalline powder dancing in the glass container. She threw it hard into a porcelain sink, shattering it.

“I better get the fuck out of here,” Sheila said. She grabbed the bottle of water and took a long swig.

The limo screeched to a stop and bumped the 1969 XLCH. It teetered and Sheila burst out the door to catch it.

“You’re not going to need that fuckin’ thing where you’re going,” Dwight said, exiting the rear door of the limo. “I hate bikers.”

The massive driver jumped out of the black stretch and reached into his jacket. Dwight grabbed Sheila, who was struggling to hoist her motorcycle, and yanked her onto the sidewalk.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Dwight snapped. “Come on!”

He pulled her toward the open limo door, when a crack filled the air, and his driver went down with a bullet in his left calf.

Marko stepped out of the shadows. He always remained calm, as if he knew all the chapters of life by heart, or all the cards in the deck, and which player had what cards. He walked deliberately across the street to the downed bodyguard and removed his weapon. Then helped him into the drivers seat.

“This man will need to see a doctor within a half hour,” Marko said, then rounded the car, righted the motorcycle, kicked the stand down, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Dwight let go of Sheila with one hand and reached into his flashy jacket.

“Choices,” Marko said. “That’s a bad one. Before the weapon leaves the holster, you’ll be dead. You have other choices to make if you want to live and prosper.”

“Fuck you, biker; this is my town,” Dwight said and wrapped his big fat hand around the ivory pistol grip of a polished stainless steel, Colt 357 Magnum.

Marko, trained constantly with Richard Bustillo, who trained with Bruce Lee. As smooth as silk and as fast as a rattlesnake’s tongue, he pulled and aimed his Glock 30, subcompact semi-automatic 45-caliper pistol.

“We’ve dealt with you on two other occasions,” Marko said moving directly at Dwight with the weapon pointed between his eyes. “This is the last time we deal with you. You have a choice and less than ten seconds. First, let the girl go or you’re dead in five. Then we are going to deal with your future, man-to-man.”

Marko’s powder blue eyes never left Dwight’s. Dwight knew, instinctively and accurately, that if he flinched he was dead. Marko was less than a yard away. The clock was ticking.

“Okay,” Dwight said. Simultaneously he removed his hand from white satin jacked and let go of Sheila. Big Five stepped in and retrieved the girl, pulling her into the shop.

Dwight was a badass from way back. He was in his mid 40s and ran the streets for two decades. He knew how to judge a man’s skill level and his bravado. Plus he had the cojones of three big men. Big Five returned to the sidewalk as Marko set the Glock safety and tossed him the weapon.

“Thanks brother, she passed,” Marko said.

“I’m glad she did,” Big Five said as the weapon floated through the air and Dwight made a move.

Dwight flicked his right wrist and out popped a long stiletto knife. The blade glimmering in the night sliced like wire through cheese in Marko’s direction. Marko weighed as least 100 pounds less than the big man and was maybe three inches shorter, but Marko did not step back. He stepped just slightly to the side and pushed the flailing weapon passed him with his left and lifted the man’s fist with his right, driving the knife back at Dwight and into his throat.

Marko stepped closer, driving the knife to its polished hilt.

“I told you this was the last time we dealt with you,” Marko said. “Your choice, pal.”

Marko shoved the dying man inside the open limo door.

“Drive,” he said and shut the door.

In Chapter 49, Sheila’s pimp returned to the Cantina to collect his property, but it didn’t work out as he planned. On a crisp harbor night, his thugs were surrounded in the darkened parking lot and sent down the road by the well-trained Cantina Security Crew.

“This isn’t the end,” Dwight, the big black drug dealer spat as his crew backed into their flashy vehicles and departed the parking lot.

“I knew she would lead to more trouble,” Marko said as he turned on the outdoor lights and studied the perimeter of the Cantina lot. The crew handled security during this live drill perfectly, but what about the next time? That was New Year?s Eve. A month had passed and another year was in full swing.

The bad economic mixture and political upheaval in Washington spawned a dark cloud over the country and it filtered like forest fire smoke into a log cabin. Folks drank and pounded the bar with frustrated fists. Times were uncertain, but the girls bounced around the Cantina like cheerleaders at a playoff game, doing their best to keep the furious fans pumped up. Cinderella distracted the crew from Sheila’s previous plight with drugs, but Marko didn’t trust her or her presence in the restaurant/bar.

Drug dealing was gone from the premises. There were no shiny cars in the parking lot, no limousines or pimped-out big black guys wearing too many gold chains lingering around the Cantina making deals. Sheila moved in with another clean and sober girl and signed up for a computer class at the local community college, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She never could.

She showed up at work one afternoon sporting a new tattoo. It was some sort of unfinished serpent slithering around her slender upper arm. Destined to be some devilish armband, it was covered in Neosporin ointment, clear plastic food wrap and medical tape. It was still in its outlined form but Marko lifted her arm and examined the slippery uncolored snake’s tongue that slithered out from between two razor-sharp fangs.

It was as if the gypsy woman turned over the wrong tarot card and it turned up disaster. Marko yanked the tender arm and pulled Sheila to face him. Her buttery blue eyes were clear as she batted them tenderly at him.

“Are you using?” Marko asked, his blue-gray eyes boring into hers.

“No, nothing,” she blithered.

“No pain killers during this,” he said lifting her arm abruptly. “I hope you’re not running your mouth in public.”

“No,” Sheila said. “I just took some Tylenol.”

“You know the rule,” Marko returned quickly. “If you fuck up or get caught using, you’re on the streets.” Heavy drugs were verboten in the Cantina.

She nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Where did you get this?” Marko asked softening his approach.

“Union Tattoo in Wilmington,” Sheila responded, and Marko cut her loose.

Sheila’s gaze danced away from Marko’s harsh glare. He never trusted anything to do with her, her past, her addictions, or her mouth. Bandit was too soft with women. He saw goodness in the worst cases. Marko watched for any sign of machination in women. He didn’t trust their knifing ways.

She was warned, and took on a somber countenance as she moved around the Cantina. Marko moved into the shadow of his security regime and watched. As the night wore, on he asked some of the bikers who roamed into the Cantina about Union Tattoo.

“It’s over by the Longshoremen’s hall,” Frankie said while mopping the galley slick tile deck.

“It’s okay,” Buster said. “I’ve been there. I don’t think anyone sells drugs around there.”

“Big five runs that place,” Clay said. “He’s a family man trying to make a living. There’s no foot traffic in that town behind the harbor. It’s dismal over there.”

As the evening closed, the Cantina shut, and a few Pedro riders fired up their bikes and rolled down the quiet streets for home or to find an open coffee shop. Marko took Nyla aside.

“I need to know the next time Sheila is headed to that tattoo parlor in Wilmington,” Marko said.

“Sure, Marko,” Nyla said in her gleeful tone. “I’ll find out.”

***

About a week later, during shift change, just after a hearty rain over the Los Angeles Harbor, Nyla approached Marko.

“She has an appointment tomorrow afternoon,” Nyla said. “She’s been trying to recruit someone to go with her. She wanted one of us to hold her hand and keep her company.”

“I don’t want anyone to go with her,” Marko said. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

For the last couple of days, when the sun broke over the harbor and dried the streets, Marko rode to Wilmington. He traversed the streets and familiarized himself with the dark area behind the harbor. It was one of the smaller harbor towns crammed between Long Beach and San Pedro on the east and west, and bordered by Carson and Torrance on the north. South was the harbor and Terminal Island. Once home to the Long Beach Naval Shipyard and still the home of the federal prison, the island was rapidly becoming a container parking lot of cranes and docks.

Wilmington was as flat as any land-filled area. It once housed a canal, which was long gone. Most of Wilmington was zoned M-4 for manufacturing, with only two commercial streets, Broad and Avalon. It was basically a 90-degree grid of streets running toward the port or parallel to it.

Wilmington housed the only two strip joints in the region. There was another one just over the border in Long Beach, near West Coast Choppers. These joints, and the Long Beach blues clubs were Dwight’s territory.

He was the pimp/drug dealer for the region. He fed everyone in town drugs and women, from the cops to the low-lifes. He was the Man, and he felt it with impunity. He lived and breathed the street existence. Life was all about deals with cocaine and speed, and street respect. That meant he could pick on you, but you better show respect, or he would take care of it. It was the oldest extortion line in the bully book, but he played it daily on the streets of Long Beach and Wilmington. The mayor of Los Angeles lived in San Pedro. Dwight steered clear of the coastal community passed the Vincent Thomas Bridge.

Marko rode his stretched-out black FXR toward Wilmington past the Harbor Division of the Los Angeles Police Department headquarters on Harry Bridges Boulevard. He parked his bike behind the Maya Restaurant and walked inside to grab a bite and watch the Union Tattoo Parlor. It was a block down, and the sun was fading quickly as the Saturday clock ticked close to 5:00 on a winter afternoon. The full moon danced into the royal blue sky like a beacon to the werewolves of life.

Marko ordered a cactus and avocado chicken burrito, with a verde sauce poured over the massive plate of food. After he ordered, he stepped to the window and looked down the street. It was cluttered with longshoremen parking their cars in lots and along the narrow streets and walking briskly to the hall to check on jobs. In a corner of the main parking lot, a number of black brothers operated a makeshift barbeque, but they didn’t just serve ribs. Longshoremen could munch on a tasty sauce-soaked sandwich, buy drugs, or pay for a blowjob from a harbor streetwalker.

The action took place in the open under an open awning next to a picnic table. The girls giggled and follow customers to their cars. In 45 minutes, thousands of union dockworkers came from all over the Southbay to pick up jobs, and then they returned home to Long Beach, San Pedro, Carson or even Palos Verdes Point before returning to the harbor for their shift. It’s a strange tradition, and Marko watch the area become cluttered with activity, then virtually empty and desolate as the sun went down.

He watched as Sheila rolled up on the ’69 XLCH and parked it out front of Union Tattoo. She seemed light on her feet as she bounced inside the shop. Marko stepped out the front door of the Maya Restaurant and could hear Sheila’s mouth running as the tattoo parlor door shut. He scratched the back of his head and stepped back inside to finish his hearty burrito and drink a Corona. He had no preconception as to the evening’s outcome.

The sun set and the moon was beginning to turn the night indigo blue as Marko departed the closing restaurant and moved to his second darkened vantage point across the street. He moved quietly and stealthily. No one saw him or knew where he went, but he had a visual over everything.

Sheila bobbed into the tattoo parlor, gleefully anxious to have her skin art completed. A counter separated the waiting area from the tattoo operation cubicles. Day of the Dead art hung from the walls along with tattoo flash. Books of tat customer photos lined the counter.

“Hey,” Sheila buzzed from the waiting area. “Where’s the action. It’s Saturday night, party time. Bandit’s place is too somber for me. I need some lively action.”

Big Five poked his head above the divider. “Hang on,” he said, “I’ll be just a minute. Have a seat.”

“I can’t,” Sheila spat. “It’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”

Two other girls sat in the waiting area, quietly watching Sheila’s every move. One of the girls was hot to the core, with long nylon-encased legs slithering from fuck-me spiked heels to a minnie skirt that left little to the imagination. Her waist was two-hands narrow and her massive boobs bubbled over her tight leather top.

“Hey sister,” she said in a tone like warm maple syrup poured from a glass jug. “What do you have in mind for tonight?”

Sheila turned and eyed the two strippers dressed to the nines and getting primed for Saturday Night. Sheila’s bright blue eyes lit up like a kid spotting Santa on his porch.

“It’s been so long,” she said and moved between the two tarts. “What’s up ladies?”

“What do you have in mind?” the sister said and uncrossed her legs seductively, then crossed them again. Sheila watched and jiggled her store bought boobs, as if to say, “I can play.”

The other girl was also hot, but shorter and not so flamboyant. She got up from the couch.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

“Save some powder for me,” the sister said and placed her hand on Sheila’s thigh.

The other girl made her way to the back and the restroom.

“I’m Christy,” the sista told Sheila. “What’s your name?”

“Sheila,” she said and extended her hand.

Christy took her hand and placed it on her boob. Sheila rolled toward her and they kissed. It was like electricity flashing through her body. She immediately felt wet.

“Are you getting a tat?” Christy asked shoving her hand under Sheila’s blouse and playing with her boobs. “We could have so much fun.”

“Big five is supposed to finish my snake,” Sheila gasped as Christy twisted one of her nipples and licked her lips.

“Do you need a pain killer?” Christy. “Or you could just think about me licking your pussy. Could you hang on for that?”

Christie ran her hand over Sheila’s boobs and down her tummy. She unbuckled her belt and popped open the button on the top of her denims. Before Sheila could think, the girl’s long fingers were playing with her clit, while Sheila watched Christy’s massive boobs jiggle, nearly exploding from her snug leather halter.

Suddenly the other girl reappeared.

“We gotta go,” she said abruptly and snapped her cell phone closed. “Maybe you could come down to Show Girls in Long Beach when you’re done.”

Sheila didn’t know whether to climax or die.

“We need you girls at the Cantina,” Sheila said.

“It’s off limits,” Christie said, getting to her feet in one fluid, sex-filled motion. She turned, leaned over, kissed Sheila, and pulled one of her boobs free. “Care for a taste?”

Sheila scooted forward in her chair and surrounded this soft torpedo with her fiery hands. She gingerly leaned forward and engulfed Christy’s nipple in her mouth and kissed for all she was worth.

“This ain’t right,” she muttered, as she relinquished the mound of softness. It was returned to its leather prison and the girls strolled out of the parlor.

“We’ll be waiting for you, baby,” Christy said as her bubble-butt departed.

Sheila sat back as if the rug of life was suddenly pulled out from under her. Big Five stood at the back of the parlor watching in amazement.

“I don’t know what those whores were doing here,” he said. “They didn’t want tats.”

“I don’t care,” Sheila said.

“You don’t know them?” Big Five asked. “They seemed to know you.”

Marko watched from across the wide boulevard and thought to himself, life is all about choices.

Sheila sauntered to the back of the parlor, set her jacket on the chair and sat in the old ’50s dental chair.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Big Five asked as he prepped her for his craft.

Sheila was suddenly quiet. She usually bubbled with effusive enthusiasm and couldn’t keep her trap shut.

“They tried to give me pain killers,” she said.

“Do you need ’em,” Big Five said. Tats ran up his neck as if a spider weaving a web up and old abandoned wall.

“I don’t know,” Sheila said. “I mean I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You’re clean and sober, right,” Big Five said.

“Yeah,” Sheila said. “I have been for four months.”

“Are you being tested?” Big Five asked as he poured colorful hues of inks is small disposable cups.

“I don’t know those girls,” Sheila said. “Why would they test me?”

“Maybe he knows,” Big Five said motioning toward the big plate glass window at the front of his shop.

A massive stretched limo pulled up and out stepped a giant of a black man dressed for the town in a white suit adorned with too many gold chains. His fingers glittered with diamond-encrusted rings, and his smile was as broad as a Cadillac grill, sporting a flashy gold tooth.

Sheila sat abruptly upright. “I get it.”

Dwight strolled into the parlor with another massive football sized giant following.

“Hey, baby,” Dwight said, and unbuttoned his coat.

“Hey, Dwight,” Sheila said.

“You’re in my territory, sweetie,” Dwight said, “and you owe me.”

“What do I owe you?” Sheila asked. She was alone in Wilmas, a dirt poor harbor berg. She had none of the Cantina family around.

“You owe me a couple of grand and a half-dozen blow-jobs, bitch.” Dwight lost his comforting air. He didn’t talk to women, he told women. “You made a choice coming to this part of town. You’re going to come with me after he’s done with your tat. You know the drill. When you pay me back, you can go work for anyone, but ya gotta pay your debt.”

Sheila slumped back into her chair as if someone let the air out of her tire. “I suppose you’re right.” She knew there was no way to pay this debt and escape.

“You goddamn right I’m right,” Dwight said, standing over her. He ran his big hand up her thigh and pushed it down between her legs. “Christy made you hot. There’s a lot of fun to be had on my side of town.”

Big Five flipped on his tattoo gun, and the buzzing broke the thick threatening air in the room.

“I need to get to work, sir,” Big Five said and leaned towards Sheila’s light-skinned arm. He pulled her soft limb close. Almost cradling it, he felt the tension in her muscles.

“How long will this take?” Dwight snapped at Big Five.

Big Five didn’t look up. He didn’t want to mess with the harbor town bully.

“Just an hour,” he said.

“I’ll be back,” Dwight said, and laid a 100-buck bill on the counter. On top of the bill rested a short vial filled with cocaine. “This should help with my baby’s art project. Treat her right and I’ll send you some business from time to time.”

“Thanks,” Big Five said and touched Sheila’s arm with the three-needle color set.

She jumped. She couldn’t relax. Her hands fidgeted.

“Take it easy,” Big Five said as the limousine sped away. “Let’s take a break. I’ll get you something to drink.”

He wandered to the front door of his shop and looked out at the empty street.

“Is this your motorcycle?” he asked. “It’s a classic.”

“It’s sorta mine,” Sheila said trying to take stock of her situation. “Bandit gave it to me after he cleaned me up. I was a mess. The Cantina has been my first real home.”

“What happens to the bike if you leave with that gangster?” Big Five asked.

“I suppose Bandit would send someone to pick it up,” Sheila said.

“Do you want something to drink,” Big Five said opening his fridge. “I’ve got waters, beer, or Jack Daniels. You know, life is all about choices. The choice you make today may change your life forever.”

“Yeah,” Sheila said, “and I’ve made some damn bad ones.”

“Seems you’ve got a basket of ’em flyin’ at you tonight,” Big Five said and pulled out a bottle of Arrowhead water and set it next to the fifty of whiskey.

Sheila could feel her skin beginning to crawl. She survived four months on the strict wagon, and she was proud of every day, but she was beginning to feel the vibrations of addiction creeping back. Temptation was driven to the surface by bouts of depression, and caused her defense mechanisms to founder. She was beginning to hunger for a shot of tequila, or something stronger. She knew one single blast would free her from the doldrums, but she was keenly aware of the downside.

She could feel herself grinding her teeth.

“We’re burnin’ daylight,” Big Five said. “The big guy will return soon.”

Sheila’s moist palms dripped with sweat. She looked toward the street, at the counter and the clear glass vile. She pondered the bottle of water and the fifth of Jack Daniels.

“That’s a damn fine motorcycle,” Big Five said and wandered to the front door.

He opened it to admire the classic lines, the root beer metallic paint, and traditional shape of the Sportster tank. Sheila could see the XLCH, magneto, kick-only bike glistening under the streetlights. That motorcycle meant so much to her. It gave her power to go wherever she wanted. It was the tool to her fight from addiction. It represented wealth, freedom, strength, and self-confidence.

Sheila stepped out of the chair. She moved to the counter like a lost rodent trying to decide whether to stay in its crib or chase the garbage truck. She picked up the vial and it buzzed in her palm, the crystalline powder dancing in the glass container. She threw it hard into a porcelain sink, shattering it.

“I better get the fuck out of here,” Sheila said. She grabbed the bottle of water and took a long swig.

The limo screeched to a stop and bumped the 1969 XLCH. It teetered and Sheila burst out the door to catch it.

“You’re not going to need that fuckin’ thing where you’re going,” Dwight said, exiting the rear door of the limo. “I hate bikers.”

The massive driver jumped out of the black stretch and reached into his jacket. Dwight grabbed Sheila, who was struggling to hoist her motorcycle, and yanked her onto the sidewalk.

“Enough of this bullshit,” Dwight snapped. “Come on!”

He pulled her toward the open limo door, when a crack filled the air, and his driver went down with a bullet in his left calf.

Marko stepped out of the shadows. He always remained calm, as if he knew all the chapters of life by heart, or all the cards in the deck, and which player had what cards. He walked deliberately across the street to the downed bodyguard and removed his weapon. Then helped him into the drivers seat.

“This man will need to see a doctor within a half hour,” Marko said, then rounded the car, righted the motorcycle, kicked the stand down, and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Dwight let go of Sheila with one hand and reached into his flashy jacket.

“Choices,” Marko said. “That’s a bad one. Before the weapon leaves the holster, you’ll be dead. You have other choices to make if you want to live and prosper.”

“Fuck you, biker; this is my town,” Dwight said and wrapped his big fat hand around the ivory pistol grip of a polished stainless steel, Colt 357 Magnum.

Marko, trained constantly with Richard Bustillo, who trained with Bruce Lee. As smooth as silk and as fast as a rattlesnake’s tongue, he pulled and aimed his Glock 30, subcompact semi-automatic 45-caliper pistol.

“We’ve dealt with you on two other occasions,” Marko said moving directly at Dwight with the weapon pointed between his eyes. “This is the last time we deal with you. You have a choice and less than ten seconds. First, let the girl go or you’re dead in five. Then we are going to deal with your future, man-to-man.”

Marko’s powder blue eyes never left Dwight’s. Dwight knew, instinctively and accurately, that if he flinched he was dead. Marko was less than a yard away. The clock was ticking.

“Okay,” Dwight said. Simultaneously he removed his hand from white satin jacked and let go of Sheila. Big Five stepped in and retrieved the girl, pulling her into the shop.

Dwight was a badass from way back. He was in his mid 40s and ran the streets for two decades. He knew how to judge a man’s skill level and his bravado. Plus he had the cojones of three big men. Big Five returned to the sidewalk as Marko set the Glock safety and tossed him the weapon.

“Thanks brother, she passed,” Marko said.

“I’m glad she did,” Big Five said as the weapon floated through the air and Dwight made a move.

Dwight flicked his right wrist and out popped a long stiletto knife. The blade glimmering in the night sliced like wire through cheese in Marko’s direction. Marko weighed as least 100 pounds less than the big man and was maybe three inches shorter, but Marko did not step back. He stepped just slightly to the side and pushed the flailing weapon passed him with his left and lifted the man’s fist with his right, driving the knife back at Dwight and into his throat.

Marko stepped closer, driving the knife to its polished hilt.

“I told you this was the last time we dealt with you,” Marko said. “Your choice, pal.”

Marko shoved the dying man inside the open limo door.

“Drive,” he said and shut the door.

Saxon motorcycles launched five years ago, just as the custom motorcycle market softened, but what the fuck did it matter? They knew the code. Most of the team made their livings in the construction industry. They understood they were building motorcycles for sex, not for profit. If they were in the business of building something to make money, they would have manufactured toasters.

So now it’s five years later and they’re still rolling strong with dealers in Perth, Australia and several dealers in the European nation. “We’re Euro Three vehicle approved,” Dustin Petty, the 24 year old boss told me. “They are completely stock bikes in Europe, approved for financing and insurance.”

So, why have they been hiding out for the last couple of years? Because they can, goddamnit! They’re aware of the economic woes in the states, so they spent their time redeveloping their dealer network and fighting with banks for better buyer credit and loans. “It’s tough when someone has the down payment, but can’t find a reasonable loan,” Dustin said.

But did they give up, hell no. They’ve improved their line-up, and developed two new rigid models honestly priced at below 20,000 bucks. This new Henchman with a glide front end, an S&S stroker motor and a complete Rivera Primo drive line will roll into the streets for $18,800, and their Whip retails for $19,900 out the door. You can’t buy the parts to build a bike with Brembo brakes, S&S ignition, top of the line wiring and electronics with Duetch connectors for this price. Plus these bastards have a full one-year warranty.

How do they do it? Who cares as long as we can get our hands on a Henchman and ride outta Casa Grande, Arizona (where their plant is located) into the desert, with a pint of Tequila stuffed in our jeans heading west to Gila Bend, then due south toward Rocky Point, 100 miles south of the border. Somewhere along the line you roll into the parking lot outside Bandit’s Cantina and pick up Stephanie.

You can find her on the Arizona Cover Girls web site, or playing it fast and loose at Phoenix lingerie nights at local clubs, or dial up RIDE21.com. She’s a model, if you know what I mean. She’ll straddle that made in America rear fender with her own hand tooled leather P-pad, with promises of ready to party naked girlfriends splashing in the warm Baja California waters at Rocky Point.

You can imagine what Dustin Petty said when his dad, the main boss of Saxon offered him a job running the Saxon plant 15 months ago. “Hell yes,” he said. Who cares about the economy, the fuckin’ thievin’ banking system or AIG? The sun is hot, the girls are hotter, and the Saxon models run like bats outta hell, come with extended warranties, accessories are available, and if you want something radical, they build the Javelin, 9.5 feet long, with a 300 rear and a drop seat you can ride to the Mardi Gras, drop acid and never come back.

I’ll take Stephanie, a wad of cash and one of the nine models Saxon builds over a 9-to-5 any day. Fuck ’em all; the pirates of Wall Street, the government earmark maniacs, and over-paid bureaucrats who want to regulate everything. This is still a free country in the desert, with a woman, a full tank of gas and an open road.

Hey, those are Bikernet Bandanas…

2009 Saxon Henchman Bio

New for 2009, the Henchman from Saxon Motorcycle, Co. is a stunning combination of Retro styling and high quality components. Available to the consumer at just $18,800 with a 41mm telescopic front end, or $19,500 with a springer front end, the Henchman cuts no corners. All Henchman come with an S&S 96ci black finished engine, S&S ignition system, Rivera Primo 6-Speed Transmission and clutch, Brembo brakes, as well as 18in x 200mm rear and 21in x 2.15 front wheels wrapped in Metzler rubber – STANDARD!

What you expect in a quality made American custom is what you see, and what you see is what you get, all for just $18,800. The Henchman also comes standard with Saxon Motorcycle, Co.’s 1-Year factory warranty.

The Henchman is also available to European customers in a fully compliant EURO 3 whole vehicle approved format.

For California customers, the Henchman is also available with a 2009 CARB approved 100ci package from S&S.

Brand new for 2009, The Henchman combines retro styling and top quality components at an unbeatable value.

EURO 3 Compliant
Base MSRP: $18,800

Warranty – 1 Year
Dry Weight – 510 lbs

Engine – S&S OHV 45 deg V-Twin
Displacement – 96 ci 1573cc
Bore & Stroke – 3-5/8 x 4-5/8
Compression Ratio – 10.1 to 1
Fuel System – S&S Super E Carburetor
Fuel Capacity – 3.25 gal
Oil Capacity – 3 qts

Transmission – Rivera Primo 6-Speed LSD
Primary Drive – Chain
Final Drive – Chain
Frame Stretch – 0” downtube, 1 3/4” backbone
Rake – 35 deg neck
Seat Height – 26”
Rear Suspension – Rigid
Front Suspension – Springer or 41mm Telescopic

Wheelbase – 67”
Total Length – 88”
Front Brake – Brembo 4-Piston
Rear Brake – Brembo 2-Piston

Front tire – 21” x 2.15”
Rear Tire – 200mm x 18”
Ignition – S&S Electronic
Charging Output – 32 amps
Battery – 270 cca
Speedometer – Digital with Integrated Tach