An Island Girl Meets Agent Zebra
By Robin Technologies |
Oh Jesus! I awaken at the crack of noon after a weekend of sexual experimentations, the kind only a seasoned physician like myself could even perform, on South Beach, an area in desperate need of all acts desperate, a depraved hairnet of bums and models and naked trollops from Poland posing as decent citizens and then this, this whining, sniveling plea lobbed from that whatever it is— one assmes a house, a residence, a living quarters of some sort— that enormous hayloft you call 8-ball Marble Factory, and oh fuck… The pressure. My work is never done.
Is it not enough that I pushed that squeaking heap of red scrap iron you called a motorcycle and Jessica Jamison (wasn‘t that his name?) called a Red Ball Chopper (it certainly didn’t chop any vegetables or cabbage, at least if it had it would have been of some utility), all around with your very large ass crushing down, making the chore only greater, enduring your horrendous cursing and swearing all the way to Sturgis? Is it not enough that I introduced you to the very love of your (to God’s ears) abbreviated life, the kindly and unceremoniously defrocked (you hell hound) Sin Wu? I’d beg your pardon, but what weight would your pardon carry in the Court of Morality? It would only doom me to more total voltage in the electric chair of man.
Fie! Fiddlesticks! And I’m spent. I surrender. I collapse upon folding knee and relent to your endless nagging. Even great men have limits. Let me just stop the whole Profit Making Machine and scribble out some unintelligible rant, some slander against Nature and common sense (and perhaps grammar), to satiate your ugly craving for my drek, that I might return to my cigar and enjoy my goddamned rum! I fled to the farthest tropical point on the map, my beloved Miami, to escape just this type of assault, yet the assaults only doubled. Mother…
Dear god, Bandit, the strain you cause me! The agonies. Both testicles have collapsed, did you know that? The simple, pointed agonises. Was it not you who introduced me to the daft, effeminate Steve Bohnhead of Hot Rods & Pink Boys magazine? Is it Prim-media or Primedia, never got that straight. That crazed loon who did then hack and butcher and neutralize (Musn’t offend the readers, Jim, we could lose subscription or advertising dollars!) every single word I wrote after your hasty exit—which I’m sure had nothing to do with the gossipy fondling you allegedly performed on your secretary who now bears your violent larva. Fiend. And was it not you who further introduced me to that Cuban idiot, braying, lying, drunkard Puerto Rican twit, Edwardo Twatta of Fort Living Room or Lauderdale or Hell-and-Gone, a man so crass, so lacking in taste and style that he wears clamped tightly in his bed-bug-packed navel a gold-plated ring and half shirts specifically Customized to show off said niggardly ornament? A man who builds motorcycles (can you call a stationary object a motorcycle, or would it simply be furniture?) adorned shamelessly with airbrushed montages of lightening bolts and dramatic whores and twirling sombreoes? I curse your indebted soul.
Did you read Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, as I recommended at our last lunch? Really a good read. Make a point of it. It will rearrange your molecules. And why not rearrange them, considering the random order that ruthless cunt Fortuna flung them in? Certainly couldn’t do any harm. Marquis De Sade isn't bad, either. It's dirty. You know the French; filthy sodomites and they do it with such nerve, such arrogance. A frog can have her finger up your ass and still carry on a perfectly normal conversation about global warming or some other unimportant trifle, ice caps collapsing and crushing polar bears to death, diddle-diddle, seals eating sailors alive, diddle-thrust.
Which leads me to the core of this pleasant writing. The whore. The Yankee dingbat, photos of whom you dared to infect my Christian Household with… our Father, who art in Sturgis, etc., etc. You ask me to rate this island catwoman? Well, allow me. One can almost hear the smart snapping of the rubber gloves as they are pulled tight and released. Ahhh, kindly lassy, come to the Zebra and let’s have a look at you. Oh now isn’t that cute? She’s shy.
Please! I need only to look at this chops-licking hussy to see what you’re trying to pull. You think by draping this Bruce, this man, this cocked cock, this brute, over a flashy motorcycle that my weakness for fast iron and filed-down engine block numbers would overwhelm me and that I’d pen some sugary love letter to this boar hog? How dare you. After all that we’ve been through. Oh sure, were he a she, of course, I’d say something that rhymed, something that pulp-culture fatmen like what’s-his-ass who runs Thundering Mountains Blackhawks up in Love-Land Colofucko (why do these names escape me so, must be the Miami heat) (Thunder Mountaineers Blackbeans?) Pheffer, I can’t remember, but that’s all besides the point. The point is this, sure, she’s a beauty. But why all the clothes? Huh?! Got Steve Bohnhead working for you now? Did he worry that some fagosexual bolt-on chrome tweaker living with granny might be put off his feed of cheap beer and June bugs by a shot of a girl with her essence clearly visible? Don’t we all have sisters? Don’t send me these women buried in swimsuits and other mountains of cheap polyester. I once knew a French woman named Ester. What a kitten. Met her on the Rue de Clichy. Red light glamor queen who said cute things in English that didn’t make sense and bit if you didn’t tip well enough. That’s back when the frogs still used the Franc to buy their pussy and had a little national pride left, before the Euro, before the cops started carrying squirt guns. Now Paris is a seething vermin trap crammed to the rafters with Muslim nutters busy building bombs out of anything under the rented kitchen sink. And don’t dare shank one of the swarthy Allah-humping geeks, it’s taboo.
Sure, send her over. I’ll have a look at her. I’ll give her a name and a place by the pool at the Republic of Literature. You remember litearture, don’t you? That idiotic process of using the lost English language to communicate with a nation of flatlined viewers? God, why am I doing this? Tears roll down my girlish, rosy cheeks. Fuck this, man, you’re setting me up. I’m armed, fucker. Armed to the teeth. I can make a water charge out of my colostomy bag, an inch of det cord and a blasting cap from WWI. So away with thee. Ruptured deviant! You sicken me. I bet you captured that helpless virgin tied to that motorcycle with rock candy and a puppy.
Oops, must run, that’s the delivery man and it’s Rum and Cigars day. Got a great new connection in Habanna. Outstanding new Corona leaf. They grind up American tourists Fidel captures sneaking in through Mexico and fertilize the leaf with communist piss and bat shit. No smoother smoke. Really.
Dear god, the population of women in this house is out of control. Can they breed, women, among each other, I mean? Do you want some women, Bandit? Because I have plenty. Dozens. I’m looking to get rid of a few of the older ones. They’re getting some odometer, if you know what I mean.
You forgot my birthday. Maybe you should send me that Jamaican chick in the photo. I’ve got room. And she’s reeeeeeeeeal pretty. I think it’s love at first sight. Does she speak or is she mute? I could make a wonderful swingarm out of her pelvis.
–Special Agent Zebra
The Republic of Literature, Miami
She Slipped Under His Skin
By Robin Technologies |
Editor’s Note: I started on this fiction, then a brother sent me these shots of this blonde and the two were destined to be together. Let me know what you think.–Bandit
The smell of Wild Turkey mixed with the scent of steamy, spicy, oriental chili, as it boiled on Iron Buffalo’s single apartment stove. He sipped the drink as he stirred the vegetables and steak-chunks concoction and thought about his two-month wild, wanton relationship. Everything sizzled.
Iron Buffalo stumbled into her lovely-self on a brisk Saturday morning in a near-empty gym on the outskirts of San Jose, California. A loner, he worked for Custom Chrome, lifted weights and tinkered with his only major possession, a hot rod chopper. She jogged on a squeaking treadmill alone for an hour while listening to an I-pod. Iron Buffalo suited up, stretched and warmed up undetected by the dazzling, bobbing, blue eyes staring out to the street beyond, overshadowed by large sprawling pine trees.
Iron Buffalo noticed her shapely form immediately. She was blond and although her hair was rubber-band-restricted he discerned a full, naturally wavy golden mane. Her striking features glowed and her body would melt battleships. Every voluptuous curve ranked on the double-digit scale. She was in fantastic shape, with defined arms and thighs, but she still held onto natural womanly softness. Her gorgeous facial features screamed to Iron Buffalo, “Outta your league.”
Iron Buffalo wasn’t a slouch, bad looking or uneducated. He served his country in Iraq recently, graduated with an associate degree on line, while in the field, but he had a record, a haunting drug problem and a nowhere history. He tried to ignore the quivering vixen while pushing weights in Sam’s Iron Pile Gym. It wasn’t a Baileys or World Gym and he wondered what the hell she was doing in the sweat stained, rusting cast iron torture chamber.
His name came from bikers who recognized his size and American Indian Heritage. He was tall and 240 pounds. His hair was long and dark, and his face was naturally tanned and scared from years of fights and drug deals gone sour.
Just six months prior, Iron Buffalo faced six years in the pen for a violent drug-induced fight. He hit bottom hard and struggled. If he went away to prison, his life could have taken a turn for the hubs of hell. He knew he was on the brink of disaster and reached out. He tried Christian Biker clubs but was suspicious of their intend. He wasn’t a religious man, but he needed a path to the positive side of the tracks. The brothers showed him his first glimmer of hope, but he struggled for a code he could believe in, and he recognized how fragile his life had become.
He burned through his workout like a steroid pumped Pitbull. Working out was one guiding light. Every workout was positive for his mental and physical wellbeing. Sweat poured from every orifice as he slammed through easy-bar curls, dumbbell curls, and incline bell curls. Four sets and four exercises per muscle group was his dictated formula for strength and growth. Then he hit triceps with dips, cable pulls, rope pulls and dumbbell extensions over his head. He panted like a racehorse after the final lap.
Nearly finished with a two-hour workout, he noted a change in the morning air. Suddenly there was a shift in the noise level. He turned abruptly. She was gone, like a flowering blossom blown away by an errant gust of wind. He snatched his soaked-sweat towel and headed to the drinking fountain. He guzzled the cool water, as if he was a lost French Foreign Legion soldier stumbling into a water bound oasis.
Suddenly a shadow cast a darker haze over the stainless steel fountain and Iron Buffalo stood up, face to face with the sweating goddess in skin-tight spandex. Her heavy breathing caused her massive bolt-ons to reach for Iron Buffalo’s chest like two magnetic torpedo.
“Can I have a drink?” She panted.
Iron Buffalo suddenly couldn’t tell if he was sweating from the workout or from the awkwardness caused by her close proximity and the heat radiating from her lascivious form. His mind whirled with numerous cocky retorts, but he calmed himself, bowed slightly, while maintaining eye contact, and stepped back without a word.
“Thank you,” she said and bent over the fountain.
That did it. Her ass was more perfect than a ripe peach. His Zen-like composure evaporated. “Hold on,” he said, grabbed her elbow and spun her around. He pushed her back against the gym bulletin board wall, scattered with event posters and flyers. “You’re a knockout!” Iron Buffalo said. “You know it and so do I. I’m attracted, and I’m aware it’s an enticing first impression, but a damn strong one. Let’s cut the bullshit. Are you available?”
He freed her and she stepped away from the cold concrete, staring into Iron Buffalo’s dark stony eyes, eyeball to eyeball. Nose to nose they stared as if dueling radar scanners searching and evaluating every sense, flinch, twitch and sound. An aura like a blanket surrounded them as they mentally tested the visual and auditory waters.
All senses shifted from investigation to attraction, as if a magnetic field was energized. At 5’7” she rocked on her heals slightly and her crimson cheeks rose and ruby lips reached for Iron Buffalo’s. He kissed her gently, without embrace, as if still searching. Their lips met but with a level of respect and tenderness that surpassed simple lust, and a connection was made.
“Saturday night?” She said.
“That’ll be fine,” Iron Buffalo responded.
She turned to the cork bulletin board at her back and snatched one tassel off a cut flier housing a series of printed numbers. Their eyes met once more. This time she bowed ever so slightly with respect, handed him the slip of paper, turned and disappeared into the women’s locker room. He looked at the slip of paper and the flier, April, Personal Trainer. “Okay,” he thought, “her connection to the gym made sense.”
A chill ran up Iron Buffalo’s spine as he stirred the spicy soup and thought about the wild, provocative weeks that followed. Just the thought of her pegged his lust meter. The notion of spending time with her made his watch spin double- time. She slipped delicately under his skin and was lodged against his heart.
Iron Buffalo’s phone rang right on their preset call schedule for a quick bite at her home, a drink and a full night of nakedness consuming one another.
“Yep?” Iron Buffalo said.
“Honey,” April said.
Iron Buffalo immediately detected hesitancy in her voice, a lack of lustful exuberance.
“Yes, baby,” Iron Buffalo, responded.
“I can’t see you tonight,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I just can’t …”
Iron Buffalo noted the lack of upbeat harmony and joy in her tone, then something in the background. It was harsh, like a violent snap from a leather whip. Was it a voice? Something quivered in his spine, like a bad ground on a motorcycle starting circuit. A connection was missed or something or someone interfered.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
“Please,” she said and hung up.
That did it. Iron Buffalo noted pleading in the word. He chugged the tumbler of whiskey and slammed it on the counter. He turned off the gas flame under the dented pan and jogged to his room. He quickly suited in riding gear and readied for the road in five minutes. Panic welled up inside. She was his path to a better life. In a physical form she was more radiant than field of blossoming sun flowers. Her nature, poise and drive gave him peace, direction and hope.
Iron Buffalo snatched a decade old leather vest, slipped on Gussett Jeans, old cowboy boots and a sweatshirt. He grabbed his bike key, cell phone, KD night shades, a .32 caliber Wather PPK, deerskin gloves and a shorty helmet, crawled out the back apartment window and ran for the garage. Yanking open his garage door, the Paughco springer and framed chopper sat center stage, as if a riot shotgun in the middle of a gun cabinet. It was ready and so was he.
April lived just off the freeway in the industrial side of town under a noisy martial arts dojo, Nikko’s Jujitsu, in an old clothing manufacturing plant, turned lofts. She resided comfortably, for three years in a loft divided building, except for the nightly wail of kids and adult classes pounding on training bags. The deep thumping connected to exuberant squeals filled each evening. Other than the crushing sound of train metal wheels against cast iron tracks, the deafing air horns and thunder-like, powerful rumble of locomotives, no sound permeated her ‘20s concrete at night other than the reassuring gangs of martial arts students hammering mats and bags for all they were worth.
At 10:00 the weary students filed out to their cars and returned to semi-conductor suburbia and she was alone, except for the occasional drug deal or car being stripped by street gangs and left for dead on the unlit industrial streets.
Her industrial hovel, where she sculpted clay, made ceramics and studied art, contained two entrances. An industrial roll-up steel door rattled its tin existence every time she pushed the remote button in her car. Apart from the steel security the accordion door afforded, she had a standard workshop sized steel sheeted door, she rarely used, except to occasionally step outside to water two giant ceramic pots housing Birds of Paradise plants. They rarely bloomed in the concrete and exhaust-fume-filled atmosphere, but they added color and life to the otherwise gray surroundings.
Occasionally martial arts students stood on the curb shooting the shit before and after class. One in particular, Jade, made lascivious remarks about April’s tight fitted form as she bent over the pots to feed them plant food and water. The other students grinned and nodded as her narrow waist lifted her tightly contained hourglass ass and her large pendulous boobs dangled seductively.
He watched her intently for weeks, monitoring her single living conditions and sweet demeanor. He remained that evening and picked the rusty lock to her front door while class resumed upstairs.
Jade was 19 years old, part Samoan and 250 pounds at only 5’7”. As a kid he was ridiculed as an obese Suma wrestler until violence became a way of leveling the playing field. Taunters were attacked blindly after school and beat half-to- death with two-by-fours and clubs. The harassment ended, but so did any prospects of friendship and dates never materialized. Without social skills and with the reputation of an insanely violent postal worker, he was deprived of most human contact except for disparaging teachers who were duty-forced to confront him with his poor academic scores.
An anti-social with pent-up hormones, he trained hard, but lacked poise and integrity in his moves. He slipped his wide lumbering bulk into April’s loft wearing his training ghee and sandals. He wandered around her pottery kiln and spinning table, to a covered sculpture keeping the clay moist. He unveiled it and witnessed her likeness of the man she loved. The bust was striking and the Samoan sneered at the form, similar to the biker he once witnessed follow April into the studio.
Then he heard the industrial door shake, then rattle its opening procedure. He ducked into April’s kitchen uncertain of his next move. He caught her completely off guard, carrying a bag of groceries. Lashing his brown heavy-cotton workout belt around her tender neck. He yanked her completely off her feet, spewing groceries and canned goods around the concrete deck. He slapped her violently before she could regain composure. Almost losing consciousness, she fought to stay awake. He tore at her flimsy workout shirt and ripped it away from her performance bra. Her breast heaved against the resilient fabric and pushed at the top hem. The soft area around her left eye immediately swelled to form a purple black eye.
“Not a word,” he said panting and staring angrily into her baby blue eyes. He threatened to hit her again and she succumbed.
Her cell phone vibrated across the painted concrete deck. “I need to make a call, or he’ll come,” She said quivering.
“Tell him not tonight,” Jade said and spit in her face. “You’re mine tonight.”
Iron Buffalo’s cell phone blinked. One text message was indicated on the screen. No one sent him text messages… Options, point to read and he pressed the button. “Help,” clicked onto the screen in a split second, like the arming trigger on a two-ton bomb.
Before he was concerned, suddenly he fumed with terror. He flipped the petcock to “on,” snapped the choke to “On,” turned on the ignition with a small brass key, and prayed for one kick. It took three. He spit on the concrete deck and straddled the rumbling, 93-inch S&S Shovelhead engine coupled to the rear wheels with a Rev Tech Transmission. The front end bounced as he rolled through the water-filled gutter into the street and nailed the throttle. He flew toward the 101 Freeway. He peeled through a yellow to red traffic light and hit the on- ramp at 75 mph.
Jade whipped April unmercifully, fondling her body, but he was young and inexperienced, which enraged him even more. She pleaded to use the bathroom, where she texted Iron Buffalo. She promised to teach Jade the sexual ropes and he simmered, but his world was filled with mistrust, uncertainties and insecurity.
When she came out of the bathroom he slapped her again, knocking her to the floor. He pushed and prodded her to the bedroom, gagged her and lashed her violently to the bed. He tore her clothes away.
April lived on the other side of San Jose, where the freeway split and the asphalt was cracked from 20 years of construction and abuse. Traffic backed up as soon as Iron Buffalo sped into the concrete lanes. The rigid framed motorcycle was set up for splitting lanes with narrowed TT bars and tall risers. The aluminum XR 750 gas tank was narrow and so were the exhaust. He screamed into the maze of taillights and exhaust fumes as if it was a log term parking lot outside the San Francisco airport. He ground his teeth as he peeled past 10 mph, 2000 pound steel cars at 75 mph as if he was flying through an empty sweeping tunnel in Zion National Park. He didn’t care. He needed to be at her side as much as she needed him.
His mind swam with visions of April’s silken thighs during weeks of constant love-making. Her smile swelled his heart and waves of golden locks, he loved to smell like a bed of blooming roses, filled his thoughts. She glued his life together like a mission from god. He never felt so alive, loved and cared for. She never discussed an ex, a bad former boss or an abusive parent.
Iron Buffalo pulled on the throttle like a madman on horseback yanking on the reins of a hungry horse while being chased by the law. A Jap compact edged into his narrow path between lanes, in an attempt to change lanes, and Iron Buffalo stood on his Brembo brakes. The 500-pound steel chopper set his Avon tires on fire, squealing the pain and anguish tearing at his heart, and the compact jolted back into his or her lane. Without a passing sneer he snatched his Mikuni carb throttle open once more and blasted like a man possessed between cars.
Several drivers pulled right and left in their lanes to allow the motorcyclist safe passage. He usually acknowledged the courtesy with a wave, but not this bleary night. The vast San Jose freeway contained a maze of treacherous, threatening obstacles in a stretch of unrelenting construction threatening never to end. Jammed interchanges, concrete super structures, heavy equipment, barriers, closed off ramps, temporary warning signs, non-existent emergency lanes and crap from bay area squalor laying alongside the road, lined the turbulent lanes. San Jose resided at the southern junction to a 10-million-strong mid-California Bay Area community. He faced the coming interchange of Highway 101, the 280, 680 and 880 freeways.
A mid-sixties Plymouth swerved recklessly into the number two-lane and unleashed a 30 mph steel hubcap. It spun from its iron home and dropped smack onto the abrasive concrete below with a terrible clang. Cars swerved and Iron Buffalo considered slowing, but nailed it instead. His mission was love, burning desire and terror. No fuckin’ hubcap was going to stop him. It spit sparks, darting along the rough asphalt like a drunk on a unicycle.
Iron Buffalo focused on the cars on either side for aberrant behavior, panic or treacherous evasive maneuvers. The kids playing grabass in the sedan swerved as if they might attempt to chase their missing wheel cover.
Iron Buffalo tucked in, ground his teeth with unrelenting determination and approached the rattling steel disk narrowing his already treacherous pathway to her side. His handmade shotgun pipes were mounted high for optimum ground clearance but his lightening-hole drilled, 75 mph, foot peg caught the stainless dancing cap and launched it against the Plymouth’s quarter-panel. The roar of the chopper coupled with the searing noise of the tin plate against the side of the car was deafening and then Iron Buffalo escaped, about to enter even more evil freeway intersections ahead. He needed to cross four, bumper-to-bumper lanes and switch freeways and he needed to move fast.
No woman ever treated Iron Buffalo like April. Since they met at the gym she was at his side when he needed her week after week. She supported his every effort. She was driven, clean, had class, quality and was sexy beyond his wildest imagination. For the first time in his life he found someone who understood the Code of the West, the meaning of life and contained a sexual chemistry that melted the paint off the bedroom walls. There was no way Iron Buffalo would loose that sensation for two seconds. He was determined to treat her with the respect of kings, the love of god and the tenderness of a pussycat. Every time she entered his space he glowed like a kid on Christmas day receiving his first bicycle. His fingertips were delighted every second they danced along her wrist or over her sumptuous boobs. He couldn’t get enough of her. He sat close at restaurants, pulled her close in a car and dreaded being separated at the gym.
In his mind he knew it wouldn’t last. In his heart he prayed it would. He had been around long enough to understand the infatuation addiction and how it turned to love or hate. He knew ultimately the chemistry would wane and become respect or the relationship would fade.
The Shovelhead wasn’t fancy, no chrome or deep candy paint, but it ran like a jack rabbit with a shotgun pointed its direction, and it was built to fight any road obstacle. It was 93 inches of bare bones, a pirate’s saber. As he found his first opening and peeled across the number two-lane, his gloved hands hung tight to the bars. Then he slithered between number two and three lanes. His unwritten rule called for lane splitting only between the fast lane and number two. Other lanes were more dangerous. Folks moved toward off ramps on the right. It meant dancing along the border of 18-wheeler territory, narrowing his lane space. Attempting to split lanes between a massive Humvee and an 18-wheeled truck, alongside trailer- wheels, as tall as his rattling aluminum gas tank, was shear suicide, but Iron Buffalo ducked the sprawling Humvee’s stainless mirror and kept his throttle pressed on 80 mph.
He counted the miles. He was less than five minutes from April’s side, yet every second was uncertain. The California sun set reducing visibility. His single 4-inch diameter headlight dueled with thousands of taillights and construction zone spotlights unsuccessfully and vibrated to the rhythm of the rugged road surface and the springer front end. He had ¼-mile to weave through two more congested lanes onto the 680 Freeway. Cars and trucks jockeyed for position, changing lanes and weaving for their place in the world of asphalt.
“The Bastards,” Iron Buffalo muttered over the thundering roar of his chopper reverberating off the surrounding steel. Just ahead in the dim evening light silhouettes a cell phone jabbering woman in a Cadillac Escalade changed lanes without signaling, into the path of a Yellow Freight semi hauling two 40- foot loaded containers. Truck brakes squeeled, trailer brakes lit up and all 18-wheels spewed smoked. Even at 35 mph the truck lurched and jack-knifed. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air as the surrounding passenger vehicle pilots panicked.
Iron Buffalo spotted a fleeting opening at the back of the screaming trailer and leaned right. One black Mustang skidded sideways. The Yellow Freight shipping cab rear-ended the Cadillac and havoc ensued. Iron Buffalo aimed the 21-inch front wheel off the freeway toward the emergency lane and went for it. Cars skidded to avoid the accident in progress and Iron Buffalo ran for the border.
He peeled onto the shoulder nearly launching him from the seat in the dip separating the active lanes from the asphalt safety zone scattered with debris. The 500-pound motorcycle careened through the rubble and dust into a hill of slippery ice plant. He drug his right cowboy boot, holding tight to the bars and yanking the motorcycle back towards the asphalt terror. Onlookers watched the rear tire dig in, sliding to the right, and spitting moist particles of the ivy like succulent into the sky. Partial traction regained, he slipped towards the freeway and onto the overpass.
Iron Buffalo’s brain was ablaze with images of April’s tenderness, mixed with anger and fear. His eyes were crimson with adrenaline and intensity, as he ran along the filthy emergency lane, bouncing back into the right lane toward the next off ramp. His concern became rage laced with the challenge of asphalt torment. A siren wailed behind him, but he didn’t bother inspecting his vibrating rearview mirror. He kept going. One off ramp to go…
He flew up the familiar escape ramp at 80 mph, ignored the red light at the intersection and turned left. He knew the turn onto the overpass, but not at that extreme speed. He leaned for all he was worth. The rigid frame was raked to 35 degrees and the 9-inch over front-end housed 3 extra degrees in the trees. He leaned hard, but it wasn’t enough. He purposely built in plentiful ground clearance, but his kickstand drug sending a shower of sparks to the stern.
The overpass was under construction and bordered by massive portable 4-foot concrete barriers. His trusty careening sword neared the edge. If he impacted the tons of concrete, it wouldn’t budge but launch him over to the school of metal sharks below. He pushed down at the bars like a flat track racer. The kickstand screamed at the coarse pavement, but gave way to the desires of the chassis.
His unprotected front engine pulley was next as he neared the apex of the corner and survived the turn. Two intersection lights and a right turn lay ahead and he’d be at her side.
Ten long minutes passed as Jade tortured the whimpering girl, them climbed on top of her and pulled the gag aside to smash his fat lips against her tender flesh. Then he heard something in the distance. The loft contained no noise insulation or even a rug to absorb sound. The crack of the motorcycle sounded like a freedom train in the distance.
“He’s coming,” Jade screamed and whipped her with the tightly stitched belt and she screamed loud for the first time.
The scream reverberated off the concrete walls of the dojo, as if the fire alarm sounded. The students froze. Several noted that one violent student was missing. Others knew who lived directly below and the master knew both. He made one simple, but very direct jesture.
With each intersection the noise increased as the thundering motorcycle gained speed and gobbled distance. Iron Buffalo flew down the desolate industrial street surrounded by concrete buildings. At over 100 miles per hour he blasted through the first intersection and in a spilt second veered around and old homeless women pushing a packed rusting grocery cart across the next street.
He nailed the brakes as his turn approached and slid on smoking tires for a block before he turned on C Street. The dark street was lit only by the second story dojo lights, but it was teaming with martial arts students in pure white ghees. They formed an open path to April’s front door as they heard the thundering motorcycle approach.
As Iron Buffalo slowed surrounded by a gang of clamoring students of various ages, several adult students and masters burst into April’s studio. The sound of his motorcycle, Jade’s reaction and April’s scream, echoing through the dogo, brought the students running. Iron Buffalo rode directly into her loft, jumped from his bike and ran to her side as Jade was attacked by the masters. His life was whole again and it just goes to prove, Loud Pipes Saves Lives.
She Slipped Under His Skin
By Robin Technologies |
Editor’s Note: I started on this fiction, then a brother sent me these shots of this blonde and the two were destined to be together. Let me know what you think.–Bandit
The smell of Wild Turkey mixed with the scent of steamy, spicy, oriental chili, as it boiled on Iron Buffalo’s single apartment stove. He sipped the drink as he stirred the vegetables and steak-chunks concoction and thought about his two-month wild, wanton relationship. Everything sizzled.
Iron Buffalo stumbled into her lovely-self on a brisk Saturday morning in a near-empty gym on the outskirts of San Jose, California. A loner, he worked for Custom Chrome, lifted weights and tinkered with his only major possession, a hot rod chopper. She jogged on a squeaking treadmill alone for an hour while listening to an I-pod. Iron Buffalo suited up, stretched and warmed up undetected by the dazzling, bobbing, blue eyes staring out to the street beyond, overshadowed by large sprawling pine trees.
Iron Buffalo noticed her shapely form immediately. She was blond and although her hair was rubber-band-restricted he discerned a full, naturally wavy golden mane. Her striking features glowed and her body would melt battleships. Every voluptuous curve ranked on the double-digit scale. She was in fantastic shape, with defined arms and thighs, but she still held onto natural womanly softness. Her gorgeous facial features screamed to Iron Buffalo, “Outta your league.”
Iron Buffalo wasn’t a slouch, bad looking or uneducated. He served his country in Iraq recently, graduated with an associate degree on line, while in the field, but he had a record, a haunting drug problem and a nowhere history. He tried to ignore the quivering vixen while pushing weights in Sam’s Iron Pile Gym. It wasn’t a Baileys or World Gym and he wondered what the hell she was doing in the sweat stained, rusting cast iron torture chamber.
His name came from bikers who recognized his size and American Indian Heritage. He was tall and 240 pounds. His hair was long and dark, and his face was naturally tanned and scared from years of fights and drug deals gone sour.
Just six months prior, Iron Buffalo faced six years in the pen for a violent drug-induced fight. He hit bottom hard and struggled. If he went away to prison, his life could have taken a turn for the hubs of hell. He knew he was on the brink of disaster and reached out. He tried Christian Biker clubs but was suspicious of their intend. He wasn’t a religious man, but he needed a path to the positive side of the tracks. The brothers showed him his first glimmer of hope, but he struggled for a code he could believe in, and he recognized how fragile his life had become.
He burned through his workout like a steroid pumped Pitbull. Working out was one guiding light. Every workout was positive for his mental and physical wellbeing. Sweat poured from every orifice as he slammed through easy-bar curls, dumbbell curls, and incline bell curls. Four sets and four exercises per muscle group was his dictated formula for strength and growth. Then he hit triceps with dips, cable pulls, rope pulls and dumbbell extensions over his head. He panted like a racehorse after the final lap.
Nearly finished with a two-hour workout, he noted a change in the morning air. Suddenly there was a shift in the noise level. He turned abruptly. She was gone, like a flowering blossom blown away by an errant gust of wind. He snatched his soaked-sweat towel and headed to the drinking fountain. He guzzled the cool water, as if he was a lost French Foreign Legion soldier stumbling into a water bound oasis.
Suddenly a shadow cast a darker haze over the stainless steel fountain and Iron Buffalo stood up, face to face with the sweating goddess in skin-tight spandex. Her heavy breathing caused her massive bolt-ons to reach for Iron Buffalo’s chest like two magnetic torpedo.
“Can I have a drink?” She panted.
Iron Buffalo suddenly couldn’t tell if he was sweating from the workout or from the awkwardness caused by her close proximity and the heat radiating from her lascivious form. His mind whirled with numerous cocky retorts, but he calmed himself, bowed slightly, while maintaining eye contact, and stepped back without a word.
“Thank you,” she said and bent over the fountain.
That did it. Her ass was more perfect than a ripe peach. His Zen-like composure evaporated. “Hold on,” he said, grabbed her elbow and spun her around. He pushed her back against the gym bulletin board wall, scattered with event posters and flyers. “You’re a knockout!” Iron Buffalo said. “You know it and so do I. I’m attracted, and I’m aware it’s an enticing first impression, but a damn strong one. Let’s cut the bullshit. Are you available?”
He freed her and she stepped away from the cold concrete, staring into Iron Buffalo’s dark stony eyes, eyeball to eyeball. Nose to nose they stared as if dueling radar scanners searching and evaluating every sense, flinch, twitch and sound. An aura like a blanket surrounded them as they mentally tested the visual and auditory waters.
All senses shifted from investigation to attraction, as if a magnetic field was energized. At 5’7” she rocked on her heals slightly and her crimson cheeks rose and ruby lips reached for Iron Buffalo’s. He kissed her gently, without embrace, as if still searching. Their lips met but with a level of respect and tenderness that surpassed simple lust, and a connection was made.
“Saturday night?” She said.
“That’ll be fine,” Iron Buffalo responded.
She turned to the cork bulletin board at her back and snatched one tassel off a cut flier housing a series of printed numbers. Their eyes met once more. This time she bowed ever so slightly with respect, handed him the slip of paper, turned and disappeared into the women’s locker room. He looked at the slip of paper and the flier, April, Personal Trainer. “Okay,” he thought, “her connection to the gym made sense.”
A chill ran up Iron Buffalo’s spine as he stirred the spicy soup and thought about the wild, provocative weeks that followed. Just the thought of her pegged his lust meter. The notion of spending time with her made his watch spin double- time. She slipped delicately under his skin and was lodged against his heart.
Iron Buffalo’s phone rang right on their preset call schedule for a quick bite at her home, a drink and a full night of nakedness consuming one another.
“Yep?” Iron Buffalo said.
“Honey,” April said.
Iron Buffalo immediately detected hesitancy in her voice, a lack of lustful exuberance.
“Yes, baby,” Iron Buffalo, responded.
“I can’t see you tonight,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I just can’t …”
Iron Buffalo noted the lack of upbeat harmony and joy in her tone, then something in the background. It was harsh, like a violent snap from a leather whip. Was it a voice? Something quivered in his spine, like a bad ground on a motorcycle starting circuit. A connection was missed or something or someone interfered.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
“Please,” she said and hung up.
That did it. Iron Buffalo noted pleading in the word. He chugged the tumbler of whiskey and slammed it on the counter. He turned off the gas flame under the dented pan and jogged to his room. He quickly suited in riding gear and readied for the road in five minutes. Panic welled up inside. She was his path to a better life. In a physical form she was more radiant than field of blossoming sun flowers. Her nature, poise and drive gave him peace, direction and hope.
Iron Buffalo snatched a decade old leather vest, slipped on Gussett Jeans, old cowboy boots and a sweatshirt. He grabbed his bike key, cell phone, KD night shades, a .32 caliber Wather PPK, deerskin gloves and a shorty helmet, crawled out the back apartment window and ran for the garage. Yanking open his garage door, the Paughco springer and framed chopper sat center stage, as if a riot shotgun in the middle of a gun cabinet. It was ready and so was he.
April lived just off the freeway in the industrial side of town under a noisy martial arts dojo, Nikko’s Jujitsu, in an old clothing manufacturing plant, turned lofts. She resided comfortably, for three years in a loft divided building, except for the nightly wail of kids and adult classes pounding on training bags. The deep thumping connected to exuberant squeals filled each evening. Other than the crushing sound of train metal wheels against cast iron tracks, the deafing air horns and thunder-like, powerful rumble of locomotives, no sound permeated her ‘20s concrete at night other than the reassuring gangs of martial arts students hammering mats and bags for all they were worth.
At 10:00 the weary students filed out to their cars and returned to semi-conductor suburbia and she was alone, except for the occasional drug deal or car being stripped by street gangs and left for dead on the unlit industrial streets.
Her industrial hovel, where she sculpted clay, made ceramics and studied art, contained two entrances. An industrial roll-up steel door rattled its tin existence every time she pushed the remote button in her car. Apart from the steel security the accordion door afforded, she had a standard workshop sized steel sheeted door, she rarely used, except to occasionally step outside to water two giant ceramic pots housing Birds of Paradise plants. They rarely bloomed in the concrete and exhaust-fume-filled atmosphere, but they added color and life to the otherwise gray surroundings.
Occasionally martial arts students stood on the curb shooting the shit before and after class. One in particular, Jade, made lascivious remarks about April’s tight fitted form as she bent over the pots to feed them plant food and water. The other students grinned and nodded as her narrow waist lifted her tightly contained hourglass ass and her large pendulous boobs dangled seductively.
He watched her intently for weeks, monitoring her single living conditions and sweet demeanor. He remained that evening and picked the rusty lock to her front door while class resumed upstairs.
Jade was 19 years old, part Samoan and 250 pounds at only 5’7”. As a kid he was ridiculed as an obese Suma wrestler until violence became a way of leveling the playing field. Taunters were attacked blindly after school and beat half-to- death with two-by-fours and clubs. The harassment ended, but so did any prospects of friendship and dates never materialized. Without social skills and with the reputation of an insanely violent postal worker, he was deprived of most human contact except for disparaging teachers who were duty-forced to confront him with his poor academic scores.
An anti-social with pent-up hormones, he trained hard, but lacked poise and integrity in his moves. He slipped his wide lumbering bulk into April’s loft wearing his training ghee and sandals. He wandered around her pottery kiln and spinning table, to a covered sculpture keeping the clay moist. He unveiled it and witnessed her likeness of the man she loved. The bust was striking and the Samoan sneered at the form, similar to the biker he once witnessed follow April into the studio.
Then he heard the industrial door shake, then rattle its opening procedure. He ducked into April’s kitchen uncertain of his next move. He caught her completely off guard, carrying a bag of groceries. Lashing his brown heavy-cotton workout belt around her tender neck. He yanked her completely off her feet, spewing groceries and canned goods around the concrete deck. He slapped her violently before she could regain composure. Almost losing consciousness, she fought to stay awake. He tore at her flimsy workout shirt and ripped it away from her performance bra. Her breast heaved against the resilient fabric and pushed at the top hem. The soft area around her left eye immediately swelled to form a purple black eye.
“Not a word,” he said panting and staring angrily into her baby blue eyes. He threatened to hit her again and she succumbed.
Her cell phone vibrated across the painted concrete deck. “I need to make a call, or he’ll come,” She said quivering.
“Tell him not tonight,” Jade said and spit in her face. “You’re mine tonight.”
Iron Buffalo’s cell phone blinked. One text message was indicated on the screen. No one sent him text messages… Options, point to read and he pressed the button. “Help,” clicked onto the screen in a split second, like the arming trigger on a two-ton bomb.
Before he was concerned, suddenly he fumed with terror. He flipped the petcock to “on,” snapped the choke to “On,” turned on the ignition with a small brass key, and prayed for one kick. It took three. He spit on the concrete deck and straddled the rumbling, 93-inch S&S Shovelhead engine coupled to the rear wheels with a Rev Tech Transmission. The front end bounced as he rolled through the water-filled gutter into the street and nailed the throttle. He flew toward the 101 Freeway. He peeled through a yellow to red traffic light and hit the on- ramp at 75 mph.
Jade whipped April unmercifully, fondling her body, but he was young and inexperienced, which enraged him even more. She pleaded to use the bathroom, where she texted Iron Buffalo. She promised to teach Jade the sexual ropes and he simmered, but his world was filled with mistrust, uncertainties and insecurity.
When she came out of the bathroom he slapped her again, knocking her to the floor. He pushed and prodded her to the bedroom, gagged her and lashed her violently to the bed. He tore her clothes away.
April lived on the other side of San Jose, where the freeway split and the asphalt was cracked from 20 years of construction and abuse. Traffic backed up as soon as Iron Buffalo sped into the concrete lanes. The rigid framed motorcycle was set up for splitting lanes with narrowed TT bars and tall risers. The aluminum XR 750 gas tank was narrow and so were the exhaust. He screamed into the maze of taillights and exhaust fumes as if it was a log term parking lot outside the San Francisco airport. He ground his teeth as he peeled past 10 mph, 2000 pound steel cars at 75 mph as if he was flying through an empty sweeping tunnel in Zion National Park. He didn’t care. He needed to be at her side as much as she needed him.
His mind swam with visions of April’s silken thighs during weeks of constant love-making. Her smile swelled his heart and waves of golden locks, he loved to smell like a bed of blooming roses, filled his thoughts. She glued his life together like a mission from god. He never felt so alive, loved and cared for. She never discussed an ex, a bad former boss or an abusive parent.
Iron Buffalo pulled on the throttle like a madman on horseback yanking on the reins of a hungry horse while being chased by the law. A Jap compact edged into his narrow path between lanes, in an attempt to change lanes, and Iron Buffalo stood on his Brembo brakes. The 500-pound steel chopper set his Avon tires on fire, squealing the pain and anguish tearing at his heart, and the compact jolted back into his or her lane. Without a passing sneer he snatched his Mikuni carb throttle open once more and blasted like a man possessed between cars.
Several drivers pulled right and left in their lanes to allow the motorcyclist safe passage. He usually acknowledged the courtesy with a wave, but not this bleary night. The vast San Jose freeway contained a maze of treacherous, threatening obstacles in a stretch of unrelenting construction threatening never to end. Jammed interchanges, concrete super structures, heavy equipment, barriers, closed off ramps, temporary warning signs, non-existent emergency lanes and crap from bay area squalor laying alongside the road, lined the turbulent lanes. San Jose resided at the southern junction to a 10-million-strong mid-California Bay Area community. He faced the coming interchange of Highway 101, the 280, 680 and 880 freeways.
A mid-sixties Plymouth swerved recklessly into the number two-lane and unleashed a 30 mph steel hubcap. It spun from its iron home and dropped smack onto the abrasive concrete below with a terrible clang. Cars swerved and Iron Buffalo considered slowing, but nailed it instead. His mission was love, burning desire and terror. No fuckin’ hubcap was going to stop him. It spit sparks, darting along the rough asphalt like a drunk on a unicycle.
Iron Buffalo focused on the cars on either side for aberrant behavior, panic or treacherous evasive maneuvers. The kids playing grabass in the sedan swerved as if they might attempt to chase their missing wheel cover.
Iron Buffalo tucked in, ground his teeth with unrelenting determination and approached the rattling steel disk narrowing his already treacherous pathway to her side. His handmade shotgun pipes were mounted high for optimum ground clearance but his lightening-hole drilled, 75 mph, foot peg caught the stainless dancing cap and launched it against the Plymouth’s quarter-panel. The roar of the chopper coupled with the searing noise of the tin plate against the side of the car was deafening and then Iron Buffalo escaped, about to enter even more evil freeway intersections ahead. He needed to cross four, bumper-to-bumper lanes and switch freeways and he needed to move fast.
No woman ever treated Iron Buffalo like April. Since they met at the gym she was at his side when he needed her week after week. She supported his every effort. She was driven, clean, had class, quality and was sexy beyond his wildest imagination. For the first time in his life he found someone who understood the Code of the West, the meaning of life and contained a sexual chemistry that melted the paint off the bedroom walls. There was no way Iron Buffalo would loose that sensation for two seconds. He was determined to treat her with the respect of kings, the love of god and the tenderness of a pussycat. Every time she entered his space he glowed like a kid on Christmas day receiving his first bicycle. His fingertips were delighted every second they danced along her wrist or over her sumptuous boobs. He couldn’t get enough of her. He sat close at restaurants, pulled her close in a car and dreaded being separated at the gym.
In his mind he knew it wouldn’t last. In his heart he prayed it would. He had been around long enough to understand the infatuation addiction and how it turned to love or hate. He knew ultimately the chemistry would wane and become respect or the relationship would fade.
The Shovelhead wasn’t fancy, no chrome or deep candy paint, but it ran like a jack rabbit with a shotgun pointed its direction, and it was built to fight any road obstacle. It was 93 inches of bare bones, a pirate’s saber. As he found his first opening and peeled across the number two-lane, his gloved hands hung tight to the bars. Then he slithered between number two and three lanes. His unwritten rule called for lane splitting only between the fast lane and number two. Other lanes were more dangerous. Folks moved toward off ramps on the right. It meant dancing along the border of 18-wheeler territory, narrowing his lane space. Attempting to split lanes between a massive Humvee and an 18-wheeled truck, alongside trailer- wheels, as tall as his rattling aluminum gas tank, was shear suicide, but Iron Buffalo ducked the sprawling Humvee’s stainless mirror and kept his throttle pressed on 80 mph.
He counted the miles. He was less than five minutes from April’s side, yet every second was uncertain. The California sun set reducing visibility. His single 4-inch diameter headlight dueled with thousands of taillights and construction zone spotlights unsuccessfully and vibrated to the rhythm of the rugged road surface and the springer front end. He had ¼-mile to weave through two more congested lanes onto the 680 Freeway. Cars and trucks jockeyed for position, changing lanes and weaving for their place in the world of asphalt.
“The Bastards,” Iron Buffalo muttered over the thundering roar of his chopper reverberating off the surrounding steel. Just ahead in the dim evening light silhouettes a cell phone jabbering woman in a Cadillac Escalade changed lanes without signaling, into the path of a Yellow Freight semi hauling two 40- foot loaded containers. Truck brakes squeeled, trailer brakes lit up and all 18-wheels spewed smoked. Even at 35 mph the truck lurched and jack-knifed. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air as the surrounding passenger vehicle pilots panicked.
Iron Buffalo spotted a fleeting opening at the back of the screaming trailer and leaned right. One black Mustang skidded sideways. The Yellow Freight shipping cab rear-ended the Cadillac and havoc ensued. Iron Buffalo aimed the 21-inch front wheel off the freeway toward the emergency lane and went for it. Cars skidded to avoid the accident in progress and Iron Buffalo ran for the border.
He peeled onto the shoulder nearly launching him from the seat in the dip separating the active lanes from the asphalt safety zone scattered with debris. The 500-pound motorcycle careened through the rubble and dust into a hill of slippery ice plant. He drug his right cowboy boot, holding tight to the bars and yanking the motorcycle back towards the asphalt terror. Onlookers watched the rear tire dig in, sliding to the right, and spitting moist particles of the ivy like succulent into the sky. Partial traction regained, he slipped towards the freeway and onto the overpass.
Iron Buffalo’s brain was ablaze with images of April’s tenderness, mixed with anger and fear. His eyes were crimson with adrenaline and intensity, as he ran along the filthy emergency lane, bouncing back into the right lane toward the next off ramp. His concern became rage laced with the challenge of asphalt torment. A siren wailed behind him, but he didn’t bother inspecting his vibrating rearview mirror. He kept going. One off ramp to go…
He flew up the familiar escape ramp at 80 mph, ignored the red light at the intersection and turned left. He knew the turn onto the overpass, but not at that extreme speed. He leaned for all he was worth. The rigid frame was raked to 35 degrees and the 9-inch over front-end housed 3 extra degrees in the trees. He leaned hard, but it wasn’t enough. He purposely built in plentiful ground clearance, but his kickstand drug sending a shower of sparks to the stern.
The overpass was under construction and bordered by massive portable 4-foot concrete barriers. His trusty careening sword neared the edge. If he impacted the tons of concrete, it wouldn’t budge but launch him over to the school of metal sharks below. He pushed down at the bars like a flat track racer. The kickstand screamed at the coarse pavement, but gave way to the desires of the chassis.
His unprotected front engine pulley was next as he neared the apex of the corner and survived the turn. Two intersection lights and a right turn lay ahead and he’d be at her side.
Ten long minutes passed as Jade tortured the whimpering girl, them climbed on top of her and pulled the gag aside to smash his fat lips against her tender flesh. Then he heard something in the distance. The loft contained no noise insulation or even a rug to absorb sound. The crack of the motorcycle sounded like a freedom train in the distance.
“He’s coming,” Jade screamed and whipped her with the tightly stitched belt and she screamed loud for the first time.
The scream reverberated off the concrete walls of the dojo, as if the fire alarm sounded. The students froze. Several noted that one violent student was missing. Others knew who lived directly below and the master knew both. He made one simple, but very direct jesture.
With each intersection the noise increased as the thundering motorcycle gained speed and gobbled distance. Iron Buffalo flew down the desolate industrial street surrounded by concrete buildings. At over 100 miles per hour he blasted through the first intersection and in a spilt second veered around and old homeless women pushing a packed rusting grocery cart across the next street.
He nailed the brakes as his turn approached and slid on smoking tires for a block before he turned on C Street. The dark street was lit only by the second story dojo lights, but it was teaming with martial arts students in pure white ghees. They formed an open path to April’s front door as they heard the thundering motorcycle approach.
As Iron Buffalo slowed surrounded by a gang of clamoring students of various ages, several adult students and masters burst into April’s studio. The sound of his motorcycle, Jade’s reaction and April’s scream, echoing through the dogo, brought the students running. Iron Buffalo rode directly into her loft, jumped from his bike and ran to her side as Jade was attacked by the masters. His life was whole again and it just goes to prove, Loud Pipes Saves Lives.
Captain America Combo
By Robin Technologies |
With all the neo-hippies marching and claiming that peace is just around the corner during the hell fire time that we call the 21st century, it’s nice to escape to a time when you could fuck, take acid, and ride the shit out of your motorcycle with reckless abandon. I’m not saying there weren’t problems, because holy shit there were, but with hindsight being 20/20, you can be damn sure there are more then a few bikers who harken that age and wish they could go back to 1969 when the movie Easyriders took the US by storm, catapulting bikers into mainstream culture as crazed, drugged-out lunatics.
I think the motorcycle industry these days could use an old fashion ass kicking and would benefit hugely from a GREAT goddamn biker movie. This movieGhostrider that’s coming out better be fuckin good or I’m hangin up my motorcycle movie viewing cap until an actual biker makes one who knows at least a little bit about making a movie. Either it’s complete bullshit, or it’s horribly made. Easyriders came at the right time. It made people think about what the American Dream is and today it’s totally applicable but I guess nobody gives a shit about my idea that the cash coming out of the gas tank was just a symbol for the US dependence on oil, and how that will eventually land us on our ass…or are we already there?
“Nic, Nic, Nic…..Indians!”
Jack Nicholson after drinking whiskey in Easyriders
Enough of my drug induced ramblings. What we have here, whether it was 1969 or 2010, is the best combination…a hot girl (and for once she really is hot I’m not just writing that because Bandit needs to keep his ratings up…whatever those might be), and a killer chopper. This chopper is obviously a period perfect duplicate of the Captain America bike in Easyriders and it’s owned and built by Trash. He had a vision that he needed that needed to be true to the original, he did tons of research and ended up with this real chopper. I know, it seems like everything is called a chopper today…hell if the right person asks, I even tell people I have a chopper because they think they know what that means and it makes it easy for me to stop the conversation.
This Captain America Replica bike is a true chop with the chromed wishbone frame, king and queen seat, double risers for the bars, tons of stretch, a front end that’s a mile long, and of course a kickstart. The Captain America bike is easily one of the most recognized bikes in the world and with only one original remaining that was rebuilt from the one blown up in the movie it’s no wonder that someone would want to build a bike that epitomizes freedom and immediately brings people back to an era when things were very different. Today there is an actual motorcycle industry, back then it was underground, unacceptable, and meshed nicely with some of the counter culture movements.
“If the sun refused to shine I don’t mind, I don’t mind”
“If the mountains fell in the sea let it be, it ain’t me”
The Jimi Hendrix Experience If 6 was 9
Speaking of counter culture the hot number on the bike is none other than the lovely Tiara Leanne you can see less of her at her myspace page http://www.myspace.com/tiaraleanne.
She is a SoCal girl through and through, but currently resides in….hell? Well at least that what it says on her MySpace page. Seems like some of you old dirty bastards reading out there might have a chance because we know you’re already burning! She likes to look at bikes as they go by and takes the occasional ride with the right guy. She’s modeled for a while, isn’t shy and just digs being able to be creative…she was very creative with this Captain America replica bike and adds another dimension to the pictures…well she adds the dimension…enjoy!
Captain America Combo
By Robin Technologies |
With all the neo-hippies marching and claiming that peace is just around the corner during the hell fire time that we call the 21st century, it’s nice to escape to a time when you could fuck, take acid, and ride the shit out of your motorcycle with reckless abandon. I’m not saying there weren’t problems, because holy shit there were, but with hindsight being 20/20, you can be damn sure there are more then a few bikers who harken that age and wish they could go back to 1969 when the movie Easyriders took the US by storm, catapulting bikers into mainstream culture as crazed, drugged-out lunatics.
I think the motorcycle industry these days could use an old fashion ass kicking and would benefit hugely from a GREAT goddamn biker movie. This movieGhostrider that’s coming out better be fuckin good or I’m hangin up my motorcycle movie viewing cap until an actual biker makes one who knows at least a little bit about making a movie. Either it’s complete bullshit, or it’s horribly made. Easyriders came at the right time. It made people think about what the American Dream is and today it’s totally applicable but I guess nobody gives a shit about my idea that the cash coming out of the gas tank was just a symbol for the US dependence on oil, and how that will eventually land us on our ass…or are we already there?
“Nic, Nic, Nic…..Indians!”
Jack Nicholson after drinking whiskey in Easyriders
Enough of my drug induced ramblings. What we have here, whether it was 1969 or 2010, is the best combination…a hot girl (and for once she really is hot I’m not just writing that because Bandit needs to keep his ratings up…whatever those might be), and a killer chopper. This chopper is obviously a period perfect duplicate of the Captain America bike in Easyriders and it’s owned and built by Trash. He had a vision that he needed that needed to be true to the original, he did tons of research and ended up with this real chopper. I know, it seems like everything is called a chopper today…hell if the right person asks, I even tell people I have a chopper because they think they know what that means and it makes it easy for me to stop the conversation.
This Captain America Replica bike is a true chop with the chromed wishbone frame, king and queen seat, double risers for the bars, tons of stretch, a front end that’s a mile long, and of course a kickstart. The Captain America bike is easily one of the most recognized bikes in the world and with only one original remaining that was rebuilt from the one blown up in the movie it’s no wonder that someone would want to build a bike that epitomizes freedom and immediately brings people back to an era when things were very different. Today there is an actual motorcycle industry, back then it was underground, unacceptable, and meshed nicely with some of the counter culture movements.
“If the sun refused to shine I don’t mind, I don’t mind”
“If the mountains fell in the sea let it be, it ain’t me”
The Jimi Hendrix Experience If 6 was 9
Speaking of counter culture the hot number on the bike is none other than the lovely Tiara Leanne you can see less of her at her myspace page http://www.myspace.com/tiaraleanne.
She is a SoCal girl through and through, but currently resides in….hell? Well at least that what it says on her MySpace page. Seems like some of you old dirty bastards reading out there might have a chance because we know you’re already burning! She likes to look at bikes as they go by and takes the occasional ride with the right guy. She’s modeled for a while, isn’t shy and just digs being able to be creative…she was very creative with this Captain America replica bike and adds another dimension to the pictures…well she adds the dimension…enjoy!
Gina and G-Spot Rigid Roadster
By Robin Technologies |
Get an e-mail from confidant and photo man Curt Lout that says… Bandit’s on me like leaky oil on a Shovelhead. I'm going to shoot G-spots black bike on Sat. the chick is Gina. She’s reliable, as far models go…get it handled soon or you an I are going to get shot and buried in this fuckin snow and won’t be found until spring. I hear the Bikernet assassins are hot broads who know how to use small arms and are smooth operators.
It’s never easy to write under pressure but after that unfortunate avalanche (I heard it was a Bikernet writer who didn’t hand his piece in on time) this weekend I figured I better heed Curt’s warning and get crackin. Lucky for me I know Geoff from G-spot. I’m not proud of knowing a grease ball biker like him but we’ve gotten to know each other over the past few years and he builds some wild shit…as a matter of fact he had the first ever GOB feature with his Evel Knievel bike.
As I’m writing I get an instant message
“Where’s the story? You have been typing all day, and keep getting distracted by those pics of Gina…she’s hot but you have a job to do.” No smiley face here…
I look down and see a red dot on my heart and realize those Bikernet bastards mean business. I blink and it’s gone maybe it was just in my head, no sleep, shoveling out of 3 feet of snow and way too many stimulants, but I get Geoff on the horn and realized the bike was a hot little number that was unveiled at last years Denver bike show and swap. It is a bitchin sanitary bob job with the G-spot touch. He has been trying to unload it for almost a year now and it looks like it went up for auction on Ebay
Last time I looked it was selling for 10K, and that’s a killer price for this sport little machine, hell even twice that’s a good price. I would buy it myself but know that I need a bike with a 100-inch, 4×4 Revtech like I need a faster car…just more tickets.
G-Spot was founded and fueled on and that beautiful human emotion…anger. Geoff had been into bikes since he was a kid, and when he decided to look into building a custom American bike he was treated…well he was treated like shit. The local shops laughed at him and his young greasy, cocky demeanor. What they didn’t know was that this guy had a very successful business, that started out with just one single thought and gave him a steady income and dough to spend on shit he likes, bikes, broads, booze and hotrods. He gave the local bike scene a big middle finger and built his first bike on his own, no help, and has been doing it ever since. It’s the classic story about a guy building a bike for himself, someone offering him enough dough to cover his ass and building another and that just kept happening.
Another Instant Message: “U R DEAD if U don’t get it to me soon.” Sin Wu
I’m working as fast as I can goddamit! I need to calm down and get it done.
This Rigid Roadster is a salute to years past and other motorcycling disciplines including motocross. Geoff has a certain style that can be spotted a mile away, nothing unnecessary, usually black and intricate utilitarian styling. The G-Spot RR started out with a 100-inch Revtech motor, 6-Speed tranny, 3-inch open BDL belt drive and a Rigid 240 Santee frame with only 32 degrees of rake and a couple inches added to the backbone. This sled was built to ride and ride hard. The motocross bars, and shaved fully adjustable FXDX front end with old style fork boots show that he was looking for a unique style that says Fuck You to all the long bikes and hell yeah to all those guys who want a hardcore wide tire modern bob job that’s meant to be ridden.
Another instant message: “You can’t stop for lunch you puke…you have an assignment to do and until it’s complete I own you.” Sin Wu
I look down and there’s no red dot on my heart but I see in the reflection of my computer monitor another one on my forehead. Shit, I gotta get this story done, before they start blasting.
Geoff started this bike to show off his self-taught welding skills so he set to work on making sure the tank had some hotrod scallops welded into the tank. Not an easy feat but Geoff handled it and the outcome is a Sporty tank that looks like no other. The final touches needed to be added, and he decided on black paint with some pinstriping. He finished the bike off with PM controls and some Iron cross rotors cut by Pistol Pete at Deep Cut rotors.
The bike was done and it sat in his booth, at every event, getting lots of looks and even more compliments. The crowning jewel was when his buddy Curt said he showed the bike to a model friend who said she had to do the shoot with that bike.
I talked to Gina and she explained it like this… “I saw that bike and although I am not a biker, I can appreciate form and function. I look at bikes just like I look at guys and girls. If they’re well built and have style I am immediately attracted…I saw the pictures of this little hotrod and just kept wanting to see more. When I got to actually model with the bike it made me realize I need to know more bikers and get on one when it’s moving, a bike like the G-Spot RR that is.”
Geoff and the G-Spot RR completed the photo shoot and the bike will go to some lucky new guy or gal…better watch out though, because I heard Gina had a hard time leaving the G-Spot Rigid Roadster at the studio.
A Final instant message that almost sends me to the bomb shelter: “You have two minutes to submit your story…you have been dicking around all day and I’m tired of waiting. I have my finger on the trigger so get it to me NOW!” Sin Wu
I took one last look at the G-Spot RR, set my screen saver to my favorite pic of Gina and pressed send hoping the red dot on my chest would disappear… If you never hear from me again, you’ll know the sorry outcome.
Gina and G-Spot Rigid Roadster
By Robin Technologies |
Get an e-mail from confidant and photo man Curt Lout that says… Bandit’s on me like leaky oil on a Shovelhead. I'm going to shoot G-spots black bike on Sat. the chick is Gina. She’s reliable, as far models go…get it handled soon or you an I are going to get shot and buried in this fuckin snow and won’t be found until spring. I hear the Bikernet assassins are hot broads who know how to use small arms and are smooth operators.
It’s never easy to write under pressure but after that unfortunate avalanche (I heard it was a Bikernet writer who didn’t hand his piece in on time) this weekend I figured I better heed Curt’s warning and get crackin. Lucky for me I know Geoff from G-spot. I’m not proud of knowing a grease ball biker like him but we’ve gotten to know each other over the past few years and he builds some wild shit…as a matter of fact he had the first ever GOB feature with his Evel Knievel bike.
As I’m writing I get an instant message
“Where’s the story? You have been typing all day, and keep getting distracted by those pics of Gina…she’s hot but you have a job to do.” No smiley face here…
I look down and see a red dot on my heart and realize those Bikernet bastards mean business. I blink and it’s gone maybe it was just in my head, no sleep, shoveling out of 3 feet of snow and way too many stimulants, but I get Geoff on the horn and realized the bike was a hot little number that was unveiled at last years Denver bike show and swap. It is a bitchin sanitary bob job with the G-spot touch. He has been trying to unload it for almost a year now and it looks like it went up for auction on Ebay
Last time I looked it was selling for 10K, and that’s a killer price for this sport little machine, hell even twice that’s a good price. I would buy it myself but know that I need a bike with a 100-inch, 4×4 Revtech like I need a faster car…just more tickets.
G-Spot was founded and fueled on and that beautiful human emotion…anger. Geoff had been into bikes since he was a kid, and when he decided to look into building a custom American bike he was treated…well he was treated like shit. The local shops laughed at him and his young greasy, cocky demeanor. What they didn’t know was that this guy had a very successful business, that started out with just one single thought and gave him a steady income and dough to spend on shit he likes, bikes, broads, booze and hotrods. He gave the local bike scene a big middle finger and built his first bike on his own, no help, and has been doing it ever since. It’s the classic story about a guy building a bike for himself, someone offering him enough dough to cover his ass and building another and that just kept happening.
Another Instant Message: “U R DEAD if U don’t get it to me soon.” Sin Wu
I’m working as fast as I can goddamit! I need to calm down and get it done.
This Rigid Roadster is a salute to years past and other motorcycling disciplines including motocross. Geoff has a certain style that can be spotted a mile away, nothing unnecessary, usually black and intricate utilitarian styling. The G-Spot RR started out with a 100-inch Revtech motor, 6-Speed tranny, 3-inch open BDL belt drive and a Rigid 240 Santee frame with only 32 degrees of rake and a couple inches added to the backbone. This sled was built to ride and ride hard. The motocross bars, and shaved fully adjustable FXDX front end with old style fork boots show that he was looking for a unique style that says Fuck You to all the long bikes and hell yeah to all those guys who want a hardcore wide tire modern bob job that’s meant to be ridden.
Another instant message: “You can’t stop for lunch you puke…you have an assignment to do and until it’s complete I own you.” Sin Wu
I look down and there’s no red dot on my heart but I see in the reflection of my computer monitor another one on my forehead. Shit, I gotta get this story done, before they start blasting.
Geoff started this bike to show off his self-taught welding skills so he set to work on making sure the tank had some hotrod scallops welded into the tank. Not an easy feat but Geoff handled it and the outcome is a Sporty tank that looks like no other. The final touches needed to be added, and he decided on black paint with some pinstriping. He finished the bike off with PM controls and some Iron cross rotors cut by Pistol Pete at Deep Cut rotors.
The bike was done and it sat in his booth, at every event, getting lots of looks and even more compliments. The crowning jewel was when his buddy Curt said he showed the bike to a model friend who said she had to do the shoot with that bike.
I talked to Gina and she explained it like this… “I saw that bike and although I am not a biker, I can appreciate form and function. I look at bikes just like I look at guys and girls. If they’re well built and have style I am immediately attracted…I saw the pictures of this little hotrod and just kept wanting to see more. When I got to actually model with the bike it made me realize I need to know more bikers and get on one when it’s moving, a bike like the G-Spot RR that is.”
Geoff and the G-Spot RR completed the photo shoot and the bike will go to some lucky new guy or gal…better watch out though, because I heard Gina had a hard time leaving the G-Spot Rigid Roadster at the studio.
A Final instant message that almost sends me to the bomb shelter: “You have two minutes to submit your story…you have been dicking around all day and I’m tired of waiting. I have my finger on the trigger so get it to me NOW!” Sin Wu
I took one last look at the G-Spot RR, set my screen saver to my favorite pic of Gina and pressed send hoping the red dot on my chest would disappear… If you never hear from me again, you’ll know the sorry outcome.
Insane Choppers Meets The Mercedes Maiden
By Robin Technologies |
I was on my way to Phoenix to shoot a bike for the Horse Backstreet Choppers. Johnny Goodson, proprietor of Insane Custom Cycles in Glendale, Arizona, built a bike and documented each and every step for a build series for the Horse BC and my job was to shoot the final product. I have always been a huge fan of Goodson’s style. Strong, clean, powerful and distinctive are words that come to mind when you see one of his Insane Customs. I called Johnny from the road and suggested that, if he had another bike ready to go we should shoot a Bikernet.com Girls of Bikernet feature at the same time. Johnny was ready, the bike was ready and Mercedes … well does she look ready?
You have probably seen Goodson on “Build or Bust” or recognize him from his days at Exile Cycles. He brings the same innovation and style to his Insane Customs and Mercedes is the perfect compliment … both are clean, lean and perfectly proportioned but with just enough attitude to stand out in any crowd. You can see more of Mercedes, well not much more, at the Great Alaskan Bush Company in Phoenix.
Watch for Goodson’s build feature in the Horse . Also check out the Insane Custom Cycle website at www.insanecustomcycles.com to see Goodson’s other creations in particular his Sporty, which was supposed to be his keeper bike. It is currently in the collection of Chris Angel “the Mind Freak” from the A & E show of the same name.
Angel saw the bike at a Las Vegas show and decided that it was a must have. Goodson relented … and it’s on to the next build.
General
Owner: Frank Cotroneo
Year/Make: ‘07 Insane Custom Cycles Suicide
Fabrication: Johnny Goodson
Assembly: Insane Custom Cycles
Glendale, AZ (it's a little bit hot in August… but we have a lot of bars around…)
Phone: 623.979.5874
Fax: 623.979.5876
email: jgoodson@insanecustomcycles.com
Build Time: Three months
Engine
Size/Type: 114-inch Total Performance
Cases: Total Performance
Flywheels: Total Performance
Rods: Total Performance
Pistons: Wiseco Pistons
Cylinders: Total Performance
Heads: Edlebrock
Cam: Crane
Carb: Mikuni 45mm
Ignition: Crane Hi-4
Pipes: Exile
Year/type: JIMS 6-Speed
Case: JIMS
Gears: JIMS
Clutch: BDL
Primary drive: BDL
Frame/Suspension
Year/Type: Redneck Getting High
Rake: 40 degrees
Stretch: 4-up, 6-out
Swingarm: nope
Rear Suspension: rigid, sorry
Forks: 7-inch over FXST
Triple-trees: Insane 5 degrees
Extension: 7 inches
Wheels/tires/brakes
Front
Wheel: 3.5/21 Exile
Tire: 120 Metzeler
Brake: HHI
Rear
Wheel: 8.5/18 Exile
Tire: 240 Metzeler
Brake: Insane 4-piston Sprocket Disc
Accessories
Bars: Insane
Risers: Insane
Hand controls: Jay Brake
Headlight: Headwinds
Taillight: Insane
Gauges: Nope
Electrical: Insane
Fuel Tanks: Insane
Oil Tank: Redneck
Front Fender: Nope
Rear Fender: Insane
Sissybar: Insane
Pegs: Nope
Foot controls: Exile
Seat Pan: Insane
Seat Cover: Pascal
Web: InsaneCustomCycles.com
Insane Choppers Meets The Mercedes Maiden
By Robin Technologies |
I was on my way to Phoenix to shoot a bike for the Horse Backstreet Choppers. Johnny Goodson, proprietor of Insane Custom Cycles in Glendale, Arizona, built a bike and documented each and every step for a build series for the Horse BC and my job was to shoot the final product. I have always been a huge fan of Goodson’s style. Strong, clean, powerful and distinctive are words that come to mind when you see one of his Insane Customs. I called Johnny from the road and suggested that, if he had another bike ready to go we should shoot a Bikernet.com Girls of Bikernet feature at the same time. Johnny was ready, the bike was ready and Mercedes … well does she look ready?
You have probably seen Goodson on “Build or Bust” or recognize him from his days at Exile Cycles. He brings the same innovation and style to his Insane Customs and Mercedes is the perfect compliment … both are clean, lean and perfectly proportioned but with just enough attitude to stand out in any crowd. You can see more of Mercedes, well not much more, at the Great Alaskan Bush Company in Phoenix.
Watch for Goodson’s build feature in the Horse . Also check out the Insane Custom Cycle website at www.insanecustomcycles.com to see Goodson’s other creations in particular his Sporty, which was supposed to be his keeper bike. It is currently in the collection of Chris Angel “the Mind Freak” from the A & E show of the same name.
Angel saw the bike at a Las Vegas show and decided that it was a must have. Goodson relented … and it’s on to the next build.
General
Owner: Frank Cotroneo
Year/Make: ‘07 Insane Custom Cycles Suicide
Fabrication: Johnny Goodson
Assembly: Insane Custom Cycles
Glendale, AZ (it's a little bit hot in August… but we have a lot of bars around…)
Phone: 623.979.5874
Fax: 623.979.5876
email: jgoodson@insanecustomcycles.com
Build Time: Three months
Engine
Size/Type: 114-inch Total Performance
Cases: Total Performance
Flywheels: Total Performance
Rods: Total Performance
Pistons: Wiseco Pistons
Cylinders: Total Performance
Heads: Edlebrock
Cam: Crane
Carb: Mikuni 45mm
Ignition: Crane Hi-4
Pipes: Exile
Year/type: JIMS 6-Speed
Case: JIMS
Gears: JIMS
Clutch: BDL
Primary drive: BDL
Frame/Suspension
Year/Type: Redneck Getting High
Rake: 40 degrees
Stretch: 4-up, 6-out
Swingarm: nope
Rear Suspension: rigid, sorry
Forks: 7-inch over FXST
Triple-trees: Insane 5 degrees
Extension: 7 inches
Wheels/tires/brakes
Front
Wheel: 3.5/21 Exile
Tire: 120 Metzeler
Brake: HHI
Rear
Wheel: 8.5/18 Exile
Tire: 240 Metzeler
Brake: Insane 4-piston Sprocket Disc
Accessories
Bars: Insane
Risers: Insane
Hand controls: Jay Brake
Headlight: Headwinds
Taillight: Insane
Gauges: Nope
Electrical: Insane
Fuel Tanks: Insane
Oil Tank: Redneck
Front Fender: Nope
Rear Fender: Insane
Sissybar: Insane
Pegs: Nope
Foot controls: Exile
Seat Pan: Insane
Seat Cover: Pascal
Web: InsaneCustomCycles.com
Savage Cycles Chained Stephanie In The Dungeon
By Robin Technologies |
From fabrication, engines, ground up restoration, and custom paint, Savage Cycles does it all. A lot of sacrifices have been made by the crew at Savage Cycles in order to succeed in a business full of challenges, and obstacles. However, Sean Snyder, president of Savage Cycles, and his partners Mike Dixon and Jeremy Gordon managed to keep their eyes on the prize, and move forward. While engine builder Jack Rafferty keeps building quality machinery on the East Coast.
“What makes us extremely unique is that we have people and equipment in place to do everything in house, which enables us to keep costs down while being able to build quality bikes,” Snyder said. “This opportunity and facility allows us the capability to keep up in a competitive custom market.”
Savage Cycles was the next logical step in an evolution from Savage Grafix, and officially became a business of its own in 2002. Working as a team for 15 years and counting, Savage Cycles brought their paint and fabrication skills from the street rod/custom car scene to the motorcycle world in a big way.
It wasn't until Snyder and his wife, Lorrie, vacationed in Myrtle Beach, during Bike Week that the blood started pumping, and the itch to start bike building was sparked.
We returned home to Maryland, came up with a concept for a bike, and built our first custom bike, from there Savage Cycles was born.
“I knew I could always do this, but it was scary in the beginning, because I didn't know what to expect,” Snyder said. “For almost four years we worked hard at proving ourselves. Building bikes is one thing, but being able to build bikes that leave people talking is another. We just believed we could do it and went after our dream.”
Snyder, a mason by trade, felt he had the right people in place to make, what was once a hobby, into a full-blown business. Everyone involved at Savage Cycles made sacrifices. Dixon was a building contractor. Gordon is considered one of the best fabricators and welders in the region on his own. Everyone took pay cuts to pursue this dream, but Snyder said the sacrifices were ultimately well worth it.
“When we started out, everyone knew we would have to give up something in our personal lives in order to succeed in the custom bike business,” Snyder said. “We are doing something we love and making a living doing it. Not too many people can actually say that.”
Savage Cycles recently moved into a lavish 6,000 square- foot facility, with the intentions of staying small. “We’re concerned about personal attention for each customer,” Snyder said. “We also pride ourselves in every custom detail.”
Savage Cycles prides themselves in knowing they handle all fabrication and paint in house. The shop builds their own frames, handlebars, exhaust, custom components, and sheet metal. They handle all the body work and lay on all the custom paint. The staff forms the seat pans in the shop. Besides one-off choppers, the crew manufactures their own line of production customs ranging from the Violator, Head Hunter, Jackal, and King Chaos.
They also provide products from Big Bear Choppers.
In addition to assembling Big Bear bikes, they add their custom touch to ensure each bike is a show winner. All wiring is run internally through the frame and handlebars. This makes for a much cleaner look. It can be a pain, but well worth it. They weld spacers to front fenders to protect the paint. Nothing sucks worse than having your paint chip off around the “floating” spacers. They install chrome wheel bushings and spacers. It's the little things that make a difference.
They install weld-on mid-mount kickstands, not the bolt on front mount. It's a much cleaner look. “Quality is everything is this business, and I think we definitely put out quality in everything we do,” Snyder said. “You can't ask for much more than that.”
