The staccato rumble of Tucker’s Harley brought Elowyn to her feet. Her hands trembled, her long, slim fingers clenched so tightly that half moons ofblood appeared on her palms where her nails gouged them. She knew from theway he sped into the dirt driveway, sliding to a stop in front of theirbattered trailer, that he had been drinking again. Oh, God, he’s homeearlier than usual. He’s going to know! Oh, God! she thought.

She tried to pat her long, golden hair into place, but her shaking handsonly seemed to send it flying in further disarray. Maybe he hasn’t had thatmuch to drink tonight, she thought hopefully. He’s really not so bad when hehasn’t.

“Elly! Get the hell out here, bitch!”

Tears flooded her eyes and left their salty trails down her cheeks as shestumbled forward, her feet seeming to stick to the worn carpet. She cautiously approached Tucker, his 6-foot-2 frame filling the sagging doorway, silhouetted against the dying sun.

A huge hand reached out to roughly grab the front of her thin cottonsundress. She could feel the neck of the dainty garment tear as he pulledher toward him. She turned her face away from the stink of whiskey andcigarettes on his breath, her stomach turning with revulsion.

“Just where the fuck do you think you’re going, huh?” He wrapped a big fist in the soft saffron strands of hair that hung nearly to her waist and drugher toward the stained sofa near the front windows. There, in the last raysof the setting sun, lay her scuffed old suitcase, bulging at the seams withthe meager collection of belongings she had to show for her five years asMrs. Tucker Morgan. Without releasing his grip on her hair, he spun heraround and pushed her roughly to her knees.

“No, Tucker. Not this time,” she said, looking up into his dark, bloodshoteyes.

“The hell you won’t, bitch!” he spat. He drew back his free hand and struck her across the face. She reeled from the blow, his hold on her hair the only thing that kept her from falling. Stars appeared in her vision and shegently touched her cheek, her fingers coming away stained by a trickle ofblood that ran from the corner of her full lips.

Tucker reached down and unzipped his stained jeans, allowing them to fall to the floor around his ankles.

Elowyn looked up, her eyes pleading, but he just drew his hand back again.Her tears ran freely, washing the blood from the corner of her lips as shetook his swollen member into her mouth, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Shegagged momentarily when he pulled her forward, the length of his throbbingmanhood sliding into her throat. She could taste the traces of another womanon his flesh, but dared not stop or complain. She ran her tongue down thelength of his shaft the way he liked it, hoping to put a quick end to theact that had begun as pleasure, but become torture for her. He staggereddrunkenly, grunting like a pig as he filled her mouth with his hot, saltyseed.

“Thanks fer nothin’ bitch,” he mumbled as he ripped her torn sundress from her body. He wiped the sweat from his face with the wisps of floweredcotton, then threw it aside. He pulled up his pants and zipped them,buckling his wide leather belt.

“Remember what I told you, my sweet little Ellie?” he smirked. “You ever try to leave me, I’ll break your pretty little neck, and you know I’ll do it.”Elowyn clutched the remnants of the dress to her breasts as Tucker staggeredoff to bed.

The hours before dawn found Elowyn curled up on the stained sofa, her eyesburning and red rimmed from crying. She walked softly to the bathroom,making sure that Tucker had left again before sighing with relief. She madea pot of coffee and was sitting at the table, a steaming cup cradled in herslim fingers, when the phone rang.

“Trouble Elowyn?” The voice was dry as parchment and barely audible, even to Elowyn, her ear pressed tightly to the receiver.

“No, Grandma. Everything’s OK.”

“You’re lying to me, Elowyn. You should know by now that you cannot lie tome successfully.”

“I?uh?” Elowyn stammered, her fingers touching her lips. “I didn’t mean to lie, it?s just that he?he isn’t usually like this. I mean he wasn’t before.”

The voice came through the phone again, at once soothing and intimidating.”You know what you must do child.”

“No, Grandma, I can’t. I can’t do it no matter what. I’ve thought about it, but it just isn’t in me as it is in you and mother.”

“Yes, it is, child, but no matter. I will not see you die at his hands.”

“I’ll call the police, have him arrested.”

“And when he is released, child?”

Elowyn sat in silence, the coffee growing cold before her. He hadn’t always been this way. When she first met Tucker Morgan, he had been her idealman. A bad boy, but good to her, he had known how to use just the rightamount of muscle to get what he wanted. He had taken her the way she hadalways dreamed of being taken. He had used her for his pleasure, but indoing so had brought her to the pinnacle of her own pleasure as well. Shestill remembered the electric intensity of her orgasms before her world wasravaged by his addiction to speed and whiskey. Now she shrank from the touchthat had once sent waves of ecstasy through her body and lured her so many milesaway from her ancestral home. Even his beloved Harley was now just a shadowof itself. Paint faded, chrome covered with a fine patina of rust, it satneglected like a jilted lover.

“Are you there child?”

“Yes, Grandma, I’m here.”

“Take your leave of him child. Do not fear.”

“I?yes, Grandma. I know it is for the best.”

Elowyn emptied her cup into the sink and flushed the remnants of coldcoffee from the cup, setting it on the drain board. She picked up hersuitcase from behind the sofa, and, after a last look around, opened thedoor and stepped through. She had just stepped onto the sagging porch whenTucker staggered around the corner of the trailer.

“Caught ya’, didn’t I?” he snarled.

The suitcase slipped from her fingers as he took the steps in one bound and seized her by the throat. He lifted her off her feet and threw her backthrough the doorway, where she landed on the stained carpet. She heard thedoor slam shut behind him as though in a dream. He lowered his pants anddropped to his knees between her spread legs, pulling her dress over herhead. He ripped her bright blue nylon panties off and entered her in onequick thrust. She screamed as he forced his way inside her. He balled upher panties and stuffed them forcibly between her lips and teeth to silenceher. She thrashed beneath him, trying in vain to dislodge him, but herefforts only spurred him on. He suddenly pulled out of her and rolled heronto her stomach. Her eyes grew wide with fear as he pressed the head of histhrobbing member against the tight, puckered ring of her anus. She tried toscream as he pushed slowly into her clenching orifice, but the pantiesprevented the scream from escaping her lips. The pain was so intense shealmost passed out, but then he stopped, his cock half way inside her.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss the fun, now would we?? he laughed. When she started to struggle once more, he resumed his entry into her depths untilhis member was buried inside her. She sobbed quietly, her tears soaking intothe carpet as he began to thrust violently in and out, each thrust bringinga new wave of agony shooting through her tortured body.

After what seemed to Elowyn like hours, she felt him explode inside of her, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself. He rose and walked to the bedroom as Elowyn lay spent on the dirty carpet, his seed leaking out of her, adding new stains to old. He returned with a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38 revolver clenched in his right hand.

“Told ya’ I’d kill ya’ bitch,” he snarled, the pistol held loosely at hisside. “Now I’m gonna.”

As he raised the pistol, glass from the front window exploded inward, thegleaming, razor-edged shards spraying across the room as a black shadowlunged toward Tucker. A huge black mastiff caught Tucker in the chest withits full weight, knocking him off his feet, the gun falling to the floorwith a muted thud. Fangs gleaming, the snarling beast stood over him, all the fury of hell glowing in its red, glowing eyes. Elowyn could smell the stench of sulfur in the air and the gigantic animal paused, as if savoring the moment,staring down in triumph at the terrified Tucker.

Tucker groped frantically around him for the pistol that had flown from his hand when the beast struck him. Before his fingers could close on the grip,the dog leaped, sinking its fangs into his throat, stifling the scream thattried to escape his lips. Blood flew from the hideous wounds the slashingfangs opened and pink, frothy saliva dripped from the animal’s muzzle. Whenits bloody carnage was finished, it turned, its crimson eyes seeming tosearch Elowyn’s soul. As quickly as it had appeared, the creature leapt through the broken window, its black visage becoming one with the pre-dawn blackness.

“It must have been a nightmare for you, Mrs. Morgan. Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Detective Calloway asked. The coroner had already removed themangled corpse of Tucker Morgan and secured the evidence left behind fromthe attack. “Strange that we didn’t find any tracks outside the window. Justa few tufts of hair on the edge of the shattered glass, and the bloody pawprints.”

“That is strange, but don’t worry, I’ll be fine, Detective Calloway,” sheassured him, wiping the Harley’s gleaming chrome with a soft towel.

“Beautiful motorcycle,” Calloway said, looking the Harley over with acritical eye. “Was it your husband?s?”

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “I’ll be riding it home. I’m leaving first thing in the morning to rejoin my family. My grandmother is expecting me.”

“Oh?” Calloway asked. “Does she live out of town?”

“Oh, yes, detective.” She gave him a sad smile as the towel slid over theglowing black surface of the Harley’s tanks. “I’m from Salem, Massachusetts.My family has lived there for centuries.”

I don?t have to ask if you understand women, ?cause if you do, you?re inserious shit up to yer neck already. At one time or another, all of uscard-carryin? male chauvinist pigs has asked himself, ?Why the fuck did shedo that?? Being the kind, considerate mate that my ol? lady swears I?m not(the lyin? skunk), I tried to delve into the female psyche to find out alittle more about their thought patterns so I could help out all my equallyconfused brothers.

When we?re young, we all start out like dogs chasin? cars: We chase ?embecause it?s fun, but when we catch one, we don?t know how to drive it. Wespend the next few years lookin? for one that?ll teach us to drive, then weall think we?re the Mario Andretti of Motel 6. Just remember this before yastart the race: Nice guys finish last.

At great risk to my sanity, I found myself included in some honestto goodness ?girl talk.? They were kind enough to totally ignore me whilediscussing their love lives, social calendar and personal hygiene while Iwas locked in the end stall with my boots pulled up on the toilet seat. Ilearned a few things, and reinforced the truth of some observations I?dalready made for myself through years of experience dealing with theobstinate sex.

First, I learned that women are after most of the same thingsin life that we are — money, fast machinery, good booze and earth-shaking good sex. Unfortunately for them, they expect to get them from? you guessed it, us.Good fuckin? luck, ladies! The fast machinery we can take care of for ya?.Unfortunately, the money is all used up on the fast machinery, and ANY sexis earth-shaking good to us if we?re the ones gettin? it.

Second, I found out that ALL girls are bad girls. They lookfor a guy who treats them good, takes care of all their wants before his own and is attentive to their every word, then they marry the poor bastard. From twohours after the wedding (or less, depending on the best man), they sneakout and fuck the ears off of every bad boy who treats ?em like shit, slaps?em into submission and throws ?em out the door without so much as aHandi-wipe when he?s done.

I asked several women why this phenomenon inevitably occurs, andthey informed me that sex with bad boys was wilder and better than with thenice, attentive, dull motherfuckers they marry. ?Well, then,? I asked, ?why not marry the bad boys?? They looked at me like I?d just farted in church, and answered in chorus; ?Do we look like we?re fuckin? nuts to you? Besides, sex is no fun unless we?re getting away with something!?

Now, don?t get me wrong here, this makes it a hell of a loteasier for us bad dogs to get laid, but if we?re bad dogs who are also good to our ol? ladies, what?s goin? on at home when we?re out havin? earth-shaking good sex with somebody else?s ?good girl??

Allow me to give ya? an example: Let?s say, for the sake of conversation,that yer offspring is hung like a prize bull. Ya look down at yer ownsickeningly average size weddin? tackle, and scratch yer head. One time,you read somewhere that 97 percent of all adult male offspring have the same size twat cannon as their daddy. ?OK,? ya tell yourself, ?lucky for him he?s in the 3 percent that don?t. He?ll thank me some day.?

Now that?ll get ya by unless it gets ya thinking, which is always bad.Never try to think when you?re sober, because then ya start to notice otherthings. How come he?s skinny, and everybody on both sides of the family is fatter?n hogs? How come he grins just like your ol? lady?s ex-boyfriend inthe picture she hid before ya could get a close look at it? You know, theskinny guy with the humongous? Hey! Wait a fuckin? minute here! Wasn?t shethe one who wouldn?t hump ya as often after the weddin? because she wasn?tgettin? away with somethin? anymore? If I were you, I?d hand the lil? sumbitch in question a wrench or a shotgun an? see if he inherited anything from you! After all, it could all just be a coincidence, ya know.

Last, but not least, I learned that women always change.Remember that sexy little thing with the ?come fuck me? smile who used to meet ya at the door with a drink an? a wink? When did she turn into the born-again virgin who greets ya in a bathrobe and curlers, with a list of shit that needs fixin??

If I were you, I?d fix myself a good strong drink, ?cause it looks to melike you?re gonna have to do a shitload of clear thinkin? here, pal. Butremember: Somewhere out there is somebody else?s good girl, and she?s justwaitin? for a bad dog like you to come along!

The roar of the explosion rocked the Rat Hole Bar and Grill, shaking thewalls and a fine mist of accumulated dust loose from the ceiling,along with a pair of Lizard Lips Louise’s panties that had stuck to the roofseveral months ago. Tanker cursed, wiping off the remains of his pickled pig’s foot that had slipped from his startled fingers and onto the floor. He had just raised the unsanitary morsel to his lips when the front door flew open and H.L. “Hardluck” Harding ran into the room.

“Tanker! Hey, Tank!” he screamed. Check it out, man!”

“Check what out, damnit?” he mumbled around the chewy pickled pork.

“Some sumbitch just blew up the Krispy Kreme donut shop!” Hardluck pointed toward the door. Tanker slid his 350-pound bulk off the stool and followed, a look of disbelief on his face.

“Who the hell would do a miserable thing like that, Hardluck?” he queried, swallowing noisily.

?It was a car bomb, I guess. Some asshole’s Toyota blew up in the parkinglot. Probably tryin’ to blow up some cops, there’s usually plenty around!”

Tanker shook his massive, shaggy head. “Nope. Not since they got robbedtwice in a week.” He paused to wash the pig’s foot down with half a mug ofbeer. “Now the cops hang out at the barbershop where it?s safer.”

“Maybe they didn’t know that,” Hardluck said, shrugging impassively. “I was just ridin’ by right after it happened.”

Tanker peered out the door into the gloom. “Anybody hurt?”

“I don’t think so, but everything for half a block’s covered with thatsticky sugar shit they dip the donuts in. I think Freddy, the night guy, wasin the back with his girlfriend. They were in the parkin’ lot covered withfrosting, an’ she was tryin’ to pull her pants up, but they were stuck toher legs. That gal’s got an ass on her, lemme tell ya!”

“Son of a bitch!” Tanker spat. “That was one of my favorite places aroundhere. Now what the hell am I gonna do for breakfast?”

“Maybe ya could go over to the barbershop with the cops.”

Tanker slapped Hardluck playfully on the shoulder, nearly knocking him offhis feet. “Aw, what the hell. Sit down an’ have a beer, Hardluck. We’llworry about breakfast when the time comes.”

The wail of approaching sirens echoed down the street, and Tanker set hisempty mug down on the bar to join Hardluck at the door. “Only took ’em halfan hour. Not bad time from the barbershop. It’s nearly three blocks away.”

The back door flew open with a crash and Tony the bartender nearly droppedthe bottle of Jack Daniels he had been watering down while nobody waslooking. “What’n hell do you think you’re doin’, pal?” he yelled.Tanker and Hardluck turned, staring down the barrel of a nickel-platedrevolver clutched in the hand of a very confused looking man. His swarthycomplexion and dark eyes made him hard to see in the gloom of the burned-outlight at the rear of the room, but his voice was low and dangerous. “I denda begehul” he said, motioning with the barrel of the pistol.

Tanker looked at the bartender. “Whad he say, Tony?”

“Shit, I don’t know,” Tony stammered, his eyes on the gun. “But whatever it was, I think he means it.”

Tanker walked up to the gunman, stopping almost within reach. “What did yajust say, buddy?”

The swarthy man shook his head and repeated, “I deed a begehul!” His accent hindering the conversation seemed to irritate him further.

“You ain’t from around here, are ya?” Tanker asked, his fingers twitchingnear the gun, almost ready to make his move.

The squeaking hinges on the front door made everyone turn toward theinterruption at once.

“You fellas seen anybody strange come in here?” The first police officerasked. They had stopped just inside the door to let their eyes adjust to thegloom.

Tanker felt the barrel of the pistol press into his back. “Officer,” he said, wincing as the cold steel dug between his ribs, “does this look like a place where you’d find anyone strange?” Tanker punctuated the question with a loud, juicy fart.

“Uh. No, I guess it doesn’t at that.” The officer spun on his heel, and ashe did, his foot hit the greasy spot left by Tanker’s pig’s foot and senthim sprawling face first to the sticky, littered floor. Without delay, hepicked himself up and made a hasty exit, followed by his partner.”Useless sons ‘a?” Tanker sputtered.

The gun probed his rib cage again. “I stel deed a begehul!” the voice behind him demanded.

Tanker spun to face his antagonist. “Ya’ miserable puke of a gawdamnraghead! If ya’d learn to talk American, I could get ya what ya want, an getya the hell outa here!”

“I believe he wants a vehicle, Tanker, my friend,” said a voice from thedarkness of the back booth.

“You still here, Doc?” Tanker rumbled. “I thought you’d left hours ago.”

“No, I’m afraid Mr. Daniels and I were taking a little nap.”

“The explosion didn’t wake ya up?? Tanker asked, incredulous.

“No, indeed not. It was your raucous flatulence that interrupted my peaceful slumber, I’m afraid.”

“You mind me askin’ how ya know what this diaper domed son of a bitch istalkin’ about?” Tanker inquired, gesturing toward the terrorist with amassive thumb.

“Tanker, my friend,” Doc chuckled, “I’ve been a dentist for forty years.”

“Oh, then you’ve probably seen a lot of pain, too,? Tanker mused.

“Oh, indeed I have,” Doc admitted.

“Tell me, Doc, does it look anything like THIS?” he shouted, bringing amassive knee up into the terrorist’s groin. It lifted the screaming Arab 2 feet off the ground, the pistol flying from his grasp as he crashed to thefloor in a quivering heap.

Tanker immediately grabbed the sobbing man by the neck and lifted him up,his feet dangling a foot off the floor. “Now I gotcha, you funny lookin’,funny talkin’, camel hunchin’ son of a bitch! I’m gonna pound yer skinny assto doll rags!”

“Allah wid sed me do padarise!” the man said through gritted teeth.

“Whad he say, Doc?” Tanker asked. He walked toward the back booth, the limp terrorist still hanging from a massive hand.

“He said Allah will send him to paradise, I believe. Their religion teaches them that if they die in a holy war, they go straight to Heaven.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember readin’ about that in a National Geographic I found in a gas station bathroom. Pretty stupid, huh? So, what should I do with him,Doc?” Tanker asked, totally confused.

Doc slid from the booth, and climbed unsteadily to his feet, wiping pretzel crumbs from the front of his dark, rumpled suit. “I think I know just the thing, Tanker, my friend.” Doc walked to the bar, where he dipped his handinto a big glass jar, extracting one of the venerable pickled pig’s feet. “Ithink our friend looks a bit hungry, don’t you?”

The terrorist’s eyes grew wide as Tanker took the pig’s foot and stuffed it into the Arab’s mouth as he screamed oaths in his native language. He chokedand tried to spit, but Tanker forced his jaw shut while Doc held thestruggling man’s nostrils shut. Finally, he swallowed, choking for breath.

“Damn, Doc,” Tanker said, “I’ve never seen a fella with such an almightyaversion to pickled pig’s feet in my life.”

“He has good reason, Tanker. He believes that by making him eat pork, we’ve sentenced him to an eternity in hell. They’re forbidden to touch pork.”

“Oh, they are, are they?” Tanker asked. “Hardluck! Go call Pancho an’ havehim bring over the hide from one of them hogs he raises.”

Thirty minutes later, the terrorist was sewn inside the skin of a freshlyslaughtered hog. He was reduced to a babbling mass of quivering flesh whenthe two police officers peeked cautiously in through the door. “Somebody inhere call us?”

“Yep,” Tanker said, pointing to the babbling terrorist. “Caught us a madbomber, here.”

The officers stared in disgust at the bloody pig skin and its contents,but, dedicated public servants that they were, they stooped and lifted thebomber between them. “You know, sir,” the sergeant said to Tanker, “there is a substantial reward for this man.”

Tanker and Hardluck looked at Tony and Doc and grinned. “How substantial?”

“About ten thousand dollars, I believe,” the officer said. “Just come downto the station tomorrow.”

After the officers left with the terrorist in tow, Tony poured them allanother round. “Well, boys,” he said, “it looks like a ragheads to richesstory to me!”

Wind, rain, cold, heat.
I feel them as living, breathing entities.
To know that all around me is alive,
To know that I am alive.

The bike between my thighs,
The road beneath my wheels.
The vibrations of the living world trembling through my body,
Telling me I am alive.

The sting of rain on my cheeks,
Searing heat rising from the asphalt.
The spurt of fear, rush of adrenaline,
Affirms that I am alive.

Leather wrapped against the frigid air
I see them look at me as if I were crazy
But to lose my spirit, my soul, my freedom would be true insanity.
Instead every cell within screams “I am alive.”

The light came from behind as she walked through the bedroom door, but he could still make out that she was all but naked. Long legs, a flat stomach and platinum blond hair. She was way out of his league, but he didn’t care, she was here with him and that was the main thing. She had been wearing nothing but a small white tank-top, stretched tight across her firm breasts, but now even that was going as she began to straddled him on the bed…..

A noise. Shouting. Someone at the door? Confusion. The dream was shattered. As he struggled back into consciousness he heard wood splintering, boots running through his exclusive condo, his bedroom door crashed open and he was immediately blinded by a powerful flashlight attached to the front end of a submachine gun. Was this really happening or just another dream – a nightmare? He was frozen in fear.

More lights, more guns, and behind each gun he caught glimpses of men in black masks. Rough hands pulled him from his warm bed and threw him onto his stomach on the floor, too terrified to struggle. He felt a knee drive into his back, a cold muzzle pressed against his neck, hands pulling at his arms, steel handcuffs biting into his wrist, now he heard voices. “Are you Dominick Lunt?” a voice from behind a light. His voice failed him so he just tried to nod.

“Police. We have a warrant for your arrest. Do you have any weapons? Where is the dope? Where is Roberto Dolgos?”

He was confused. Dominick struggled to make sense of all this, but fear kept blocking his mind. He was paralyzed, incapable of speech let alone resistance. He had no guns or drugs and he had never heard of anyone named Dolgos.

Still face down on the rug, he managed to say, “Who are you? How can you do this? I am not a criminal. You have made a mistake.”

From behind he heard, “No mistake Mister Lunt. We did your office an hour ago and found all the evidence we needed for this warrant.”

His office? More confusion. What was there? Nothing! He heard someone reading him his Maranda rights, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will…. You have the right to an attorney…..”

All the time, he could hear others rummaging through his expensively decorated condo. He had represented clients who had been the targets of police warrants, but never dreamt that it would or could ever happen to him. He had even had warrants thrown out of court as unconstitutional, on some technicality, but now he couldn’t even focus on what was happening in his own place. All he could feel at that moment was an excruciating urge to pee.

He was pulled to his feet and led to the door. It was now hanging broken on the hinges, a heavy battering ram lay just inside on the floor. Just as they leave he hears one of the masked figures say “Bingo! It’s in this closet.” Before he can even ascertain what “it” is he is hustled down the stairs and into a waiting four door grey sedan. By now his neighbors are peering out through partially open doors and curtains. In the street, lit by flashing blue lights, there were more people, more police cars and even an ambulance.

Still trying to find answers, “Could these really be cops?” he wondered. In his experience police didn’t wear black masks. Was this a hit? Were they just going to take him out and shoot him? He had seen organized crime related executions on the news – one bullet in the back of the head – no muss, no fuss. He was almost relieved, a short time later, when they turned into a parking lot illuminated by a blue and white sign – “POLICE” – and then pulled into a chain-linked cage area in front of a door with a sign that just read, “BOOKING”.

Still in his pajamas and still in shock, his mind was numb as he went through the booking process, being searched again, hands roughly exploring his genitals, photos, finger prints, black ink on his hands, on his pajamas. One of the officers made a remark about, “the rare pleasure of locking-up a scum-bag attorney.” But he was still too dazed and confused, racking his brain for answers, hoping to wake up from this horrible nightmare.

“You can make one call.”

“Huh. What?” Dominick still deep in self pity, totally intimidated by the experience. No ability to resist or object to this dehumanizing experience.

“You can call your attorney now,” said the uniformed jailer.

Danica! He had to call Danica. She would know what to do. But for a quarter all he got was an answering machine. He left a pleading message, “Help!”

Now came the complete strip search. He hadn’t been naked in front of another man since showers after gym class in high school. He hung his head in shame.

“Bend over and spread ’em.” This couldn’t be happening to him.

He felt the rubber gloved finger enter his rectum. How much worse could it get? He was given an orange set of coveralls, two sizes too big, then led into a holding cell. The door slammed and he was alone.

It was a sterile room, about twenty feet square with pale green walls and three stainless-steel cots along each wall – six in all. In the corner stood a dirty stainless-steel toilet with no seat, and a wash basin bolted to the wall. The cell smelled of disinfectant, but not enough to hide the stench of urine and excrement.

Just when Dominick thought it was bad enough being alone, it got worse as others were put into the same cell. Half a dozen of them. They didn’t look scared. They didn’t look uncomfortable. They looked like they were at home here. Shaved heads, tattoos on their faces and necks, baggy pants and long-sleeved shirts – hard men, gang members. He wasn’t sure but he had seen people like that on the evening news. There weren’t any in Beverly Hills but he knew they existed to the East and to the South of downtown. Now they were looking at him sitting on the bunk.

Five of them sat down on the hard steel cots, the sixth just stood looking at Dominick sitting on the only remaining bunk. He was sizing Dominick up, like a shark circling a weaker, slower fish.

“Hey fucker, that’s mine. Get off,” he indicated the bunk and glared at Dominick with crazy eyes.

Bile rose into Dominick’s throat and again his voice failed him. He didn’t know how to respond. It was so illogical. He was there first, but before his mind could grasp the problem, he was grabbed by the hair, pulled roughly from the bunk and thrown into the corner where he crashed heavily into the steel shitter. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder as he landed face down in the wet corner. He heard the others laugh as he struggled back to his feet.

His antagonist stood, braced, ready to fight, not realizing that Dominick had no fight in him. When there was no attack, the tattooed hood walked over and bitch-slapped Dominick across the face. The blow split his lip and made his vision blur. In a panic he called for the guard. No response. He called again. Nothing. All six just leaned back on their bunks and laughed.

Dominick slumped back into the corner by the toilet, if not physically beaten, psychologically beaten. He was too scared to even try and cross to the opposite corner since that would mean passing through the midst of the group.

With his head between his legs and totally immersed in his own misery, he didn’t even notice when one of them came over to the bowl and began to urinate. Suddenly the stream of hot urine was hitting his feet, then his legs and then all over his head and hands. This drew a great cheer from the others but only made Dominick cringe and try to curl into an even smaller ball.

The rest of the night was spent in nervous terror; trying not to look at the gang bangers who seemed to sleep comfortably; too scared to even use the toilet, even though his bladder was bursting. He was terrified that if he fell asleep they would attack him, rape him, even kill him. But then, perhaps death would be a welcome relief from this hell.

It was eight o’clock in the morning when the jailer came and led him to an interview room. Danica was waiting.

“Dominick. Thank God. I didn’t get your message until early this morning. Are you OK?” she asked with real concern in her voice.

The guard handcuffed him to a ring in the steel table and left. Danica reached out and touched the side of his face where it also had hit the toilet. At that point all of the fear and tension flooded to the surface. Dominick broke down, dropping into the chair sobbing and shaking. Danica tried to comfort him but not understanding what he had just been through.

When he was finally able to trust his voice, he looked at Danica and pleaded, “Don’t let them put me back in there. Please.”

She reached out and held his hand. “We go before the judge at ten for a bail hearing. It will be OK.” She continued, “But until then we have some work to do. I don’t know what you are involved in but the charges are possession and trafficking in narcotics; possession and sale of automatic weapons; money laundering; tax evasion; attempt to defraud the United States government; and various other customs and monetary violations.”

“No! Oh shit. Danica, you have got to believe me, this is all a big mistake. I have never done anything like that,” he cried in desperation.

“I know. But someone has done a damn good job of setting you up. You have made a powerful enemy somewhere,” she responded. “Your office, your car and your condo all had massive amounts of evidence. I understand they also have your phone records linking you to some known heavy hitters in the drug world. It doesn’t look good.”

Dominick Lunt handed his keys to the parking attendant as he took an expense briefcase from the trunk of his dark green Mercedes SEL 500 coup. As he crossed the parking structure to the lower lobby he looked like any other successful Beverly Hills attorney. The twelve hundred dollar suit, three hundred dollar shoes, expensive silk shirt and tie and gold Rolex had all once given his clients confidence in his legal ability. But as with many of his colleagues, even a tailored suit could not hide the deteriorating physical condition.

Several years of law school, cramming for exams, living on pizza and coffee; followed by the thousands of hours of burning the midnight oil, researching and handling minor cases to get established, had all taken their toll. The soft stomach strained against his jacket buttons, his lower back was killing him, his posture was poor, and the hair was thinning. Now with recent events it was worse. He had been drinking too much and the stress was showing in his face. His skin was pale and there were dark bags under his eyes. Even his neck and chin were beginning to look soft and flabby. He made a mental note to see about some liposuction and a little face lift when this was over – hopefully soon.

As he rode the elevator to the twelfth floor he tried to grasp the enormity of his predicament and where it had all gone wrong. Dominick had been near the top – an expert at getting his rich, but guilty, clients off on technicalities. He had even been offered a chance to sit on the OJ Simpson dream team. If he had just taken that job he would be safely seated in Judge Ito’s court room now, making interminable objections to the prosecution’s arguments, getting his face on the daily news, doing celebrity talk shows and being paid handsomely for it all. The fact that he thought OJ was guilty had no bearing on the matter.

The elevator doors sliding open snapped him out of his reverie and he entered the tastefully decorated reception area of the law firm of Panitch, Brennen & Kovacs. The receptionist looked up as he entered. “Oh, Mr Lunt, Ms Kovacs is waiting for you in the conference room. Go on through”

Danica Kovacs, glasses on and studying a document looked as beautiful as ever. Every time Dominick saw her he felt something primal stir in his Calvin Kleins. Even in a conservative brown pin-stripe and her blond hair tied back she was striking with long legs, a perfect body and the face of an angel. Though she featured prominently in his more erotic dreams and fantasies, he had never even had the guts to ask her out.

She looked up, concern showing on her face, “Dominick. Good morning. Sit – please”

“You don’t look happy,” he said as he lowered himself into a comfortable chair.

“Are you ready to head over to the courthouse. The jury will be back in this morning,” she changed the subject.

“I can’t do time Danica. I am an attorney not a convict. They will eat me alive in there.”

“We talked about this, Dom. You knew the odds of beating this when we went into it. We were lucky to beat the Federal stuff but the State case proved unshakable. Even though we got the phone records thrown out, there was just too much physical evidence.”

Dominick with panic showing in his voice, “But I am not equipped to survive in prison. Hell, my folks wouldn’t even let me go out for football in high school. Luckily I was fleet of feet and could out run the school yard bullies, but in prison there is only so far one can run – then what? A wall, barbed wire, guards with guns. I will be dead in a week, or worse, a sexual boy-toy for some three hundred pound hairy, tattooed ape named Bubba. You’ve heard the horror stories.” He shuddered, turning pale at the mere thought.

“Well you can’t just skip out. You would lose everything and your folks would lose their house, which if you will recall, they put up for your bail. As long as you play the game, we stand a chance of beating this. You run, then it is as good as an admission of guilt.”

“Help me Danica. What do I do?” Dominick pleaded, almost breaking down again.

“Let’s see what the jury and judge have to say first. You never know. The jury may surprise us.”

“And if it is Guilty?” Dom shot back.

“Worst case scenario, if it looks like you are going to have to go to prison, there is someone I want you to meet. He was a client of mine when I worked in New Orleans – Monk. He lives out here now. He has done time and may be able to give you some advice or help prepare you for what looks like the inevitable.”

“Oh, this is just great. How is some ex-con gonna be able to help me? And what sort of name is Monk?”

Danica’s eyes flash with anger. “Listen you jerk. First, he is not a con nor your basic career criminal. His real name is Michael Kagan, he is a decorated veteran and he did some hard time on a bullshit charge. I was his assigned public defender but couldn’t help him. He wouldn’t even take the stand to defend himself. I think he was protecting someone ….. but that’s another story.”

Calming down, she continues, “Hey, you have a Harley, he works on bikes, you guys may have something in common.” Even though to herself she wondered just how much this pampered yuppie would have in common with real bikers. Her mind wandered back to some of the long rides she had taken on the back of Michael’s bike and the tough crowd he ran with. A private smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the thought of him.

She quickly hid it by adding, “Listen, I will drop by and see him on the way home to set this up.”

“Why not just call him?” Dominick asked.

“He doesn’t have a phone. Doesn’t like them and doesn’t trust them. But it is still too early to even consider that. We are going to get you off,” Danica said hopefully.

Sitting in the court room, a place he had spent all together too much time over the past few months, Dominick had time to reflect. He sat there now, fear crawling up his spine. One night in jail was enough to tell him that he was totally unprepared for prison. He had heard the gruesome stories; the brutality, the sodomy, the male rape, the murder. He would almost prefer death over forced oral copulation or anal intercourse – but even that choice may not be his to make.

He tried to block those morbid thoughts by thinking about better times. Having breakfast with his buddies on a Sunday morning and then riding up the coast to Malibu. Then cutting into the mountains and winding their way up to the Rock Store where hundreds of bikers hung out on Sundays. Rich urban Harley owners side by side with real bikers, the occasional rock star or even Jay Leno dropping by in one of his restored antique cars.

He was brought back to the present when the judge took the bench and ordered the jury back in. A final thought flashed through his mind that it may be a long time before he ever rode again.

After all twelve were settled, the judge asked, “Has the jury reached a verdict in the People versus Dominick Lunt?”

“We have your honor,” answered the foreperson, a heavy set woman in her late fifties. She then handed a piece of paper to the bailiff who passed it up to the judge.

The judge read the paper to himself, passed it back to the juror and then indicated for Dominick to rise, Danica beside him. The foreperson read aloud from the paper, “We the jury in the aforementioned case find the defendant, Dominick Lunt, guilty as charged.”

Dominick felt his knees buckle and his head spin. Danica caught him and he tried to draw strength from her closeness.

“The defendant is ordered to appear before this court in 90 days for final sentencing,” announced the judge as he slammed down the gavel with finality.

He was going to prison. His worst fears were now a reality.

It was just about midnight when Dominick pulled up in front of the bar. A tough place, very tough and putting him totally out of his element. All he had was Danica’s business card with one word on the back – Monk.

Two hours ago he had been in a different world. A world where he was safe and comfortable. It had been just after ten when the phone rang. Dominick had been trying to enjoy a brandy and a fat La Gloria cigar when Danica called. “Dom, I talked to Monk,” she actually called him Michael but that was too personal. “He will be over at Frog’s around eleven thirty to midnight.”

“What’s Frogs?” Dom had asked.

“Its a bar over on Lankershim, just north of the 101 freeway. You can’t miss it. You will see all the bikes parked out front.”

Reluctantly, but knowing his future survival may depend on it, Dominick put out the cigar and got dressed. He wasn’t comfortable about leaving the relative safety of Beverly Hills but luckily he had just the outfit for a biker bar. When he had bought his bike at Bartels Harley-Davidson he had also dropped a grand on the “latest biker wear”.

Forty minutes later he pulled his ’95 Heritage onto the Hollywood Freeway. He was dressed in his new Biker brand jeans, HD monogrammed biker boots, an official Harley sweater, a fringed black leather jacket with silver conchos, matching gloves, and a white Highway Patrol type helmet with visor. He preferred his wrap-around designer sunglasses but couldn’t see well with them at night.

Danica was right. The bar was easy to find. Apart from all the bikes lined up out front, there was a ten foot high green neon frog with a cigar in his mouth and a stick of dynamite in one hand. The sign below proclaimed in big letters, “FROG’s”, and then in smaller letters, “We Walk Where Others Fear to Run”.

Dominick pulled into the parking lot feeling quite proud of his bike. Compared to the assorted old pans, knuckles, shovels, choppers, and custom jobs, his brand new metallic-white Heritage, complete with every available bolt-on option was a veritable show piece. Or so he thought – not realizing that his stock bike looked like something only Liberachie would ride, compared to the leaner classics and high performance customs lined up around him. Even the ugliest rat bike in that lot could blow off his stock, overloaded garbage wagon.

Entering the bar Dom was immediately struck by the noise, the smoke, the smell of sweat, all seemingly compounded by the heat. There was obviously no air conditioning but he still felt a chill from the bikers who now checked him out as he entered – a rough looking crowd obviously distrustful of strangers – especially when they looked like a narc. This was not what he expected or what he was used to in his preferred exclusive watering holes in Beverly Hills.

Old jeans, tank tops, sleeveless shirts, torn and faded, with well worn work boots seemed to be the order of the day, leaving Dom feeling quite overdressed in his brand new designer wear. Even the leather and denim clad women eyed him with distinct destain – totally unimpressed by the fact that he probably made more money in one week than any other man in the place made in a year.

Heading to the bar for a beer, Dom found himself next to a group of particularly tough looking outlaw bikers sporting long hair, beards, numerous tattoos and sinister looking patches on their backs – and not like the patches worn by his local HOG chapter.

Covering his nervousness he tried to attract the attention of the barmaid and called, “Bud, please.” The barmaid shot him an irritated look and then ignored him.

Next he turned to the big hairy biker leaning on the bar beside him and politely asked, “Excuse me, do you know Monk?” This drew an evil look and a curt, “Fuck off, yuppie.”

Even though he had already soaked the arm-pits of his shirt with nervous sweat, Dom tried again. This time tapping the outlaw biker on the back, on his colors, and asking, “I’m sorry but I am just looking for Monk.”

This drew more of a reaction but not what Dom expected. Things went real quiet in that part of the bar and he seemed to have gotten the attention of everyone within ear-shot. The evil look on the biker’s face went from surprise to shock to rage, all in about two seconds. Out of the corner of his eye, Dom saw one biker pick up a pool stick, another a beer bottle and a third move to block the door.

“I don’t fuck’n believe it,” bellowed the big biker, his face now red and contorted. He pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt and brought the point to within an inch of Dom’s nose.

“You fuck’n maggot. You fuck’n touched my colors, you stupid fuck,” the biker continued to rave in Dom’s face. Dom was too terrified to move or even think.

“No harm meant…,” Dom began but was cut off by the point of the knife prodding his cheek just below his eye.

“Shut the fuck up you asshole,” the biker screamed. By then Dominick realized he had done something really wrong, he was just not sure what.

Dom felt the group closing in on him, the point of the knife near his eye, and then someone grabbed his ponytail, jerked him off his feet backwards and the lights went out.

He came to lying in the parking lot next to a trash dumpster, a splitting headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. Something wet was pouring on his face. Piss? No, too cold. Beer? He hoped. His vision began to clear and he found himself looking up at a dark figure back lit by the big green neon frog.

COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.

Standing at the bar facing the angry bikers, Dominick felt someone grab his ponytail, jerking him off his feet backwards -and then the lights went out. He came to laying in the parking lot next to a trash dumpster, blood in his mouth and with a stream of liquid pouring in his face. Urine? No, too cold. Beer? He hoped.

As he spluttered and his vision cleared, Dom found himself being roughly pulled to his feet by one tough looking character. “What are you, the stupidest fuck on planet earth?” the stranger asked.

Not knowing how to respond to that, Dom looked up and spluttered, “What happened? Who are you.”

“I am the person who just saved your worthless ass.”

Trying to focus on the stranger’s face, Dom asked, “Who hit me? Those bikers?”

“No. Thank me, I did. Probably saved you from the stomping of your life. Tramp and the boys could have killed you for touching his colors,” the stranger added. “I’m Kagan. You gotta be Lunt. Danny asked me to keep an eye out for you.”

Confused, Dom asks, “Thank you? Danny?”

“You’re welcome. Danny. Danica,” the stranger continued impatiently.

By now the fog in Dom’s head was clearing, leaving a blinding headache, but at least his eyes were getting used to the green neon lit parking lot. The stranger was tall, a solid six two, broad shoulders, dark jeans, a leather vest over a red and black work shirt, dark hair greying at the sides and a matching goatee beard.

“Monk, you gotta be Monk,” Dom blurted, relieved.

“Some call me that,” Kagan responded. “Let’s get you out of here before Tramp decides that you haven’t been punished enough for your sins.”

As they walked over to Dom’s Heritage, overloaded with chrome and bolt-on accessories, Dom could see several deep dents in the gas tank and fenders that weren’t there when he had arrived at the bar. As Dom touched them, Kagan said, “Oh those. Animal and Red figured that that was your ride so went at it with ball-peen hammers.”

“What did you let them do that for?”

“Stop your squawking. Just be thankful that it wasn’t your head.” With that, Kagan pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and stuffed it into Dom’s jacket pocket. “That’s directions to my place. You have had enough lessons for one night. Be there in the morning. Early.” Then turned and went back into the bar.

As Dom rode out of the parking lot unsteadily and back to the safety of Beverly Hills and his condo, he wonder what he had got himself into. He had to survive three or more years in a state prison and yet couldn’t even survive three minutes in a biker bar. Maybe he should just put a gun in his mouth now and save everyone any further pain and trouble.

The next morning, after a large breakfast at a cafe in Brentwood, Dom rode north on Pacific Coast Highway and following Monk’s instructions, turned left just before Point Dume.Another half mile and he was at the right address but all he could see of the property was a high wooden fence and equally high gate with a sign that read, “To Hell with the Dog, Beware of the Owner”.

Pushing open the gate, he found himself facing a small wooden house over shadowed by a large concrete structure with a steel roller door, about the size of a three car garage but taller. Luckily no dog.

With no response from the door-bell at the front door, Dom stepped through the open steel side door of the garage and found himself in a large work space that, although it smelled of oil and machinery, was immaculately clean and well organized. To the left was a workbench, a tall red Snap-On tool chest and an old bike, stripped down to the frame and transmission, up on a hoist. The motor, less the distinctive Pan heads and barrels, was sitting in pieces on the workbench.

To the right of the shop was a heavier metal work table, a drill press, an arc welder and a set of gas bottles. There were also high shelves stacked with an assortment of bike parts, gas tanks, fenders – enough to build several bikes by the look of it. A little nervous but more curious, Dom wandered over to look at an immaculate red and white Knuckle with high bars that sat in the back of the work area. He admired the workmanship of the bike, not that he knew what he was looking at, since he wouldn’t know a Shovel from an Evo, let alone what year this bike was.

The back wall of the shop was covered with photos of bikes, bikers, parties, women – but before he could get a closer look, he felt an ominous presence behind him. He turned to find himself facing the largest, Rottweiler he had ever seen. The dog growled and advanced menacingly, backing him into the corner. When Dom tried to move out of the corner the dog snarled and foamed at the mouth, convincing him that it was going to attack. Fortunately, when he stopped moving, the dog stopped snarling, content to just watch with an evil glint in his eye.

For what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only thirty minutes, Dom sweated in the corner. Finally, Monk walked in, seemingly unaffected by the drama being played out in the corner, patted the dog and then said, “Morning. I see you have met Tyson.”

“Thank God you are here, I thought he was doing to tear my throat out,” Dom quaked rubbing his own neck.

Monk smiled and responded, “No chance of that, he is groin trained.” Dom just shivered at the thought, too horrible to contemplate.

Monk, headed to the workbench and began working on the disassembled motor. Not really giving a shit about this wound-too-tight yuppie, but since it was a favor for Danica, he asked, “So what’s the deal. What’s your story? And you can skip the part about being innocent.”

Dom, still collecting himself but happy to be talking, something that like all lawyers he knew he did well, began, “I was left holding the bag. Guess I got greedy and didn’t much care who my clients were. I thought I was delivering legal documents and contracts, then found out it was dope. When I told them I wanted no part of that, they set me up. When the law came to my home, warrant in hand, they found automatic weapons in my closet, dope in my car, photos of me in bad company, phone records and bank deposits that I never knew existed. The works.” Dom added, “In short, the federal charges didn’t fly but the State stuff stuck. Worst case scenario – I’m looking at seven to ten but only expect to do three. That’s about three more years than I think I can survive.”

“How much time you got?” Monk asked without looking up from the set of heads he was working on.

“With a little more legal maneuvering….,” Dom trailed off looking depressed. Then continuing with more resolve, “I expect about 90 days.”

“OK, heres the deal. I’m doing this for Danny, not for you. It’s my way or no way. The first time you screw off, you are on your own. You stay here. You are going to train, work, eat, sleep and shit the hard life.”

Dom looked shocked, “But I need my stuff, and where do I sleep?”

“All you need is what you got, and a good supply of determination. We’ll throw a mattress in the corner of the work shop. Tyson will enjoy the company.” Monk challenged him to protest. “And another thing. Cut that ponytail off. It looks ridiculous and is too easy to grab in a fight.”

Before Dominick could protest further, Monk smiled and said,

“Ready to get started?” as he put down his tools.

Making a weak attempt at a Hollywood martial arts pose Dom asked, “What are we going to do -Kung Fu, Jeet Kun Do, Hapkido, Kempo….?

Monk, looking disgusted and just grunted, “CQB!”

Dom, looking puzzled, “CQB. Never heard of it. What is it?”

“Close Quarters Battle. It was developed for military special operations teams. For real combat, not Hollywood”, Monk explains as if talking to a child.

With that Monk turned and lightly back-fisted Dom in the stomach. Not hard, but hard enough to get the desired effect. It knocked the wind out of Dom as he buckled forward, unable to speak or breathe, his face turned red, and then in a violent spasm he threw up his breakfast in one long technicolor yawn. Monk just shook his head while Tyson trotted over to investigate and licked Dom’s face.

“Your other life doesn’t exist. You are not only going to train hard, you are going to live hard.” Monk continued, “Modern living has made you soft and dulled your less civilized primal skills that were once necessary for survival and self defense. Do you think the muscle bound monsters who frequent the iron piles in the joint are getting softer? Quite the opposite. Your tax dollars are paying their gym fees and post-graduate studies in intimidation, violence and mayhem.”

Dom listened as he struggled to pick himself up and wipe away the vomit.

“On the other hand, you probably drive everywhere, avoid stairs, never carry your own bags, eat processed foods, use a remote garage door opener, and with a channel changer not even leave the couch to surf the TV channels. You probably expect your old lady to do all the work in bed and have an expensive gym membership that you never use. Well, time for a reality check. You are going to be in pain everyday for the next ninety days

Are you ready for that, or wanna quit now and save us both a lot of time and energy?”

Between clenched teeth and chunks of vomit Dom managed to spit out a defiant, “Fuck you!”, but without conviction.

“OK then,” pointing to a pile of scrap metal in one corner, “First thing is to build yourself an iron pile and start working on those puny arms and flabby gut.”

With that, Monk showed him how to use the welder and the cutting torch and how to scribe a circle on metal and then turned him loose. The rest of the day would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. As Monk worked on the old Pan motor he listened to Dom curse, moan and struggle with the heavy iron. Sparks from the welder burned his forearms; a metal off-cut dropped onto his foot; the leg of his jeans caught fire from molten slag; he hit his hand with a hammer and a wrench slipped off of a bolt and grazed his knuckles. His shirt got shredded when he let it get too close to the grinder, and he grumbled constantly about his back as he wrestled the one inch thick plates on and off of the workbench.

Monk couldn’t recall ever seeing such a klutz with tools. But by nightfall Dominick had put together a bench-press bench, a bar with assorted plates and a set of dumbbells. The cuts were rough and the welds questionable but he had stuck to it. “Maybe there was hope for this wingnut yet,” Monk mused.

Dom fell asleep on his mattress in the corner that night, fully dressed and too tired to even finish the cold beer clutched in his burned, bruised and blistered hands. This was undoubtedly the first days physical work he had done since he was a student.

The next morning training began in earnest. Monk and Tyson led Dom on a run down to the beach. A short run – but before they had gone even half a mile Dominick was puking in the gutter and trying to catch his breath at the same time. It was a pathetic sight to see a grown man whimpering like a whipped puppy. Three months would just not be enough time.

However, after a breakfast of oatmeal and egg whites Dom felt better. But not for long. An hour of pumping iron on the pile and he had lost his breakfast. In the afternoon Monk introduced him to the basics of balance and movement, explaining that this was the foundation of all fighting -but by three o’clock Dom was rat shit so Monk let him relax in the sun as he went back to work on his bike.

For Dom, the next few days became a blur of sweat, strain, blood and vomit. But by the end of one week, he felt his body slowly responding to the effort. His recovery time was a little better each day and he was even managing to holding a few meals down.

At the start of the second week, in the middle of his weight routine, he was surprised to find Danica, his attorney, standing at the edge of the pit watching him.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, “and how did you get passed Tyson?” With that Tyson padded over and affectionately rubbed up against her leg.

“Oh, I just dropped by to see how you were doing. You’re looking good,” she said as she smiled and leaned down to scratch Tyson’s ear. “Where is Michael – I mean Monk?”

“Went into town to get some bike parts, I think. He doesn’t exactly tell me his business,” Dom said racking the bar and toweling himself off. He was kind of proud that he was already benching 135 pounds and his flabby stomach was beginning to respond to the endless sit-ups and crunches.

“Danica, while I have you alone, answer something for me. Who is this guy and what’s with this Monk stuff?”

“He hasn’t told you?” she asked.

“Hell, if it doesn’t relate to training he doesn’t even talk to me. I haven’t even been invited into his house,” Dom complained.

Danica thought for a second and then said, “You are right, he doesn’t talk about himself. As best I could tell from his military records, he was a navy Seal attached to a thing called SOG in Vietnam. He saw a lot of action but most of his file was classified. One thing I did learn was that instead of taking R&R in Hawaii, like everyone else, he would go off and stay at some monastery and studied martial arts. When his third tour was up, he chose to spend a year visiting other monasteries and training centers in South East Asia. I guess the local monks pretty much accepted him as one of their own.” She continued, “When he finally returned home he used his accrued military back-pay to buy this place. I think he still does some advisory work for Uncle Sam but doesn’t talk about it and pretty much keeps to himself. Just likes to build bikes and seems most comfortable around other bikers. He has even been asked to join a couple of the clubs, but says he has never found the urge to wear colors.”

With that they heard Monk’s bike pull into the workshop so walked inside. Monk ignored Dom but seemed genuinely pleased to see Danica, giving her a hug and displaying the closest thing Dom had ever seen to a smile from him.

Eventually he turned to Dom and said, “Strip the bike,” pointing to Dom’s Heritage in the corner. It had sat there since Dom first arrived, the ball-peen hammer marks still a grim reminder of their meeting.

“What do you mean, strip it?”

“I mean fenders off, tank off, motor out, tranny out, wheels off, down to the last nut and bolt. You are going to learn more about Harleys than just the retail price and where to stick the gas.”

Trying to save some face and act tough in front of Danica, Dom said, “I’ll do it tomorrow. I got to go into town and see someone. It’s been a couple of weeks and I need to get some pussy.”

“Listen, shit-bird. If you don’t work and train you will be the pussy. You will be spreading your pink cheeks for half the prison population of where ever you end up.” That was enough to send a shudder through Dom and motivate him to get to work stripping his bike. Dom didn’t see Danica squeeze Monk’s ass as they turned and went into the house.

Over the next few weeks Monk explained and demonstrated the eight key principles of street fighting to Dominick. The first lesson came when Dom put his fists up to fight, school-boy style, and Monk kicked him in the stomach.

“First rule – there are no rules – fight dirty. Don’t hesitate to kick, gouge, stamp or bite if necessary, and use any available weapon to win,” Monk lectured as Dom rolled on the ground hugging his gut.

The next day Dom learned to attack vital areas such as the eyes, throat, groin and joints, not wasting energy on the parts of the body with strong bones and heavy muscles.

On day three Monk taught him the importance of aggression and attacking the attacker; intimidating him with ferocity and a willingness to mix it up.

The lesson for day four was the KISS principal – keep it simple stupid. No Hollywood kung fu or spinning kicks. Just short, fast, hard and violent techniques that worked in the close confines of a bar or cell.

On day five Dom learned not to stop until his opponent was beaten and out of the fight, and never to let him get up after having knocked him down.

When Dom showed hesitation or caution, Monk taught him number six, that he should expect to get hurt in any fight. If he accepted that he would get hit or even cut, he could just let the pain make him more determined or even go psycho on his attacker.

The seventh lesson was never to go to the ground or lose mobility. Dom learned to stay standing, kicking, punching and stamping, and always aware of the potential for multiple attackers.

The last lesson, number eight was to be mentally prepared at all times. This meant knowing who was near him, who was behind him and who may pose a threat at any time. Dom learned that he had to know where he could move and what he could utilize for a weapon. To live in a state of semi-paranoia – like an animal in the wilds or a soldier in a combat zone.

Over the next month Dom fell into the painful daily routine of run, puke, train, puke, work, sweat, sleep. He lost track of time. He rose with the sun and by dark fell exhausted onto his mattress in the corner. That smelly old mattress felt better than any king-sized bed in any five star hotel. It wasn’t much but it was his mattress, his space. Even if Tyson often times felt he could share it.

As time wore on, Dom got a training routine going and was able to progress, at least with the weights, without Monk’s constant vigilance. In the afternoons, the fight training progressed into the forming of a fist, striking techniques, work on the heavy bag, followed by the intricacies of aikido wrist and joint locks and the simple brutality of the CQB techniques. Dom never ceased to be amazed at Monk’s speed and power – he even had the aches and bruises as testament. He hadn’t had the time to think about his other life, his legal problems or even his friends, and Monk had no phone with which he could call them.

After six weeks of hard training and a high protein diet, Dom was fitter than he had ever been in high school. The steroids he had been taking had also added muscle mass and an extra edge to his workouts. But he still wasn’t happy with what he saw in the mirror. Even though his arms were getting bigger and he could now run the length of Zuma Beach without throwing up, he still felt that he didn’t look tough. He wanted tattoos like Monk’s and the other bikers he had seen.

That evening, he rode into Hollywood, went to the first tattoo parlor he saw and had a small tattoo of a skull put on his upper right arm. The next morning as they got ready to train, he pulled off his shirt and displayed it to Monk.

“What’s that little thing?” Monk asked

“What does it look like. It’s a tattoo.” Dom said proudly, but a little hurt by Monk’s reaction.

“Its so small. Only wanna-bes and yuppies get little tattoos. If you want tattoos, get something that has meaning. Make a statement. Getting something you can wear with pride.”

That afternoon, when it came time to spar, Monk kept popping Dom on the right arm making the tattoo bleed. But that was not unusual since he always seemed to find and target Dom’s weaknesses.

That evening they rode back into town where Monk took Dom to meet Frank at Tattoo Mania on Sunset Boulevard. As he slapped down a wad of hundreds he had taken from Dom’s wallet, he said, “Frank, take care of this boy and make it bad.” Then left.

For the next couple of hours Dom went through back issues of Savage and Tattoo Magazine while Frank sketched up some designs. They settled on an arm piece for his left arm and shoulder of a blind-folded Lady Justice with flowing robes, a sword in one hand and the scales of justice in the other. She stood on a mound of tormented skulls and the whole piece was surrounded by heavy black tribal work.

At first Dom was concerned at the size of it, but soon succumbed to the addictive dull ache of the needle and the open admiration of the steady steam of people who came in to watch Frank work.

It took most of the night, but at least Monk didn’t target his arm the next day at training. In fact, he seemed quite impressed with both Frank’s work and Dom’s commitment.

Over the next few weeks, when Monk wasn’t running him ragged, Dom went back to see Frank several times, drawing more money from an ATM machine with a card that Monk hadn’t found in his jacket. The small skull tattoo was soon lost under an arm band of barbed wire, some more tribal up and over the shoulder and an oriental dragon winding down the forearm. Combined with his new leaner body, slicked back shorter hair, moustache, goatee and Blues Brothers shades, he felt that he had begun to look quite the part.

The CQB had become Dom’s favorite part of the day. Monk had taught him a small but effective repertoire of fighting techniques, each with a specific application and all brutally efficient. Each day he worked on the bag with his vertical punches, horizontal punches, ridge hand strikes and palm heel strikes – visualizing attacks to the eyes, throat, groin, nerve centers and joints. He practiced his blocks and turns, often incorporating kicks and strikes, a thousand repetitions each. No wasted motion, balance, speed, power – and no mercy.

When he sparred with Monk he held back nothing, even though he knew Monk was holding back and could slaughter him if he wished. He also knew that if he didn’t attack hard and with conviction, Monk would teach him another painful lesson. There had been all too many of those – one even breaking Dom’s nose and another cracking a rib. The rib still hurt but he now wore the bent nose with pride – the mark of a fighter.

The new Heritage that he had ridden in on was now unrecognizable. Most of the bike’s accessories sat unused in the corner. They would remain unused. Dom, with Monk’s guidance, had cut and stretched the frame; rebuilt the motor and transmission; set-up a 180 rear tire with a chain drive; redesigned the exhaust pipes; bobbed the rear fender and stretched the gas tank. Still without paint or molding, and almost devoid of chrome but for the high bars, it was now a lean, rowdy little chopper.

The night that they finally got the bike back together and the motor running, Monk suggested they head to a bar over in the valley to celebrate.

As they pulled up outside, Dom saw that it was not the biker bar he had expected. In fact there were no bikes, just a parking lot full of pick-up trucks and a sign that said “Saloon”. Country dance music drifted out into the street.

“Go on in and grab us a couple of beers while I lock the bikes,” Monk told him.

Dom had barely reached the bar when a big cowboy, complete with Stetson, Rodeo belt buckle and snake skin boots, leaned into his face and said, “We don’t like no white trash bikers in here.”

Getting past the initial shock Dom smiled and explained, “Hey, no need to get hostile, we just came in for a beer.”

“I don’t see no WE and I think I am just gonna stomp YOU, you piss-ant,” the cowboy shot back.

Dom tried again, “Listen, let me buy you and your buddies a beer,” hoping Monk would come to back him up. But no such luck.

“Outside asshole. You and me are gonna dance,” the cowboy snarled.

Feeling confidence coming back, Dom said, “Fine, lets go,” and turned to walk back outside. That’s when the lights went out.

Again he came to in the parking lot with beer being poured in his face, another blinding headache, but this time with blood matting his hair at the back of his head.

As he looked up at Monk he asked, “What happened?”

“You fucked up. That’s what happened,” Monk explained. “First, when that shit-kicker got in your face you tried to talk your way out of it. That was interpreted as fear. Then when you agreed to go outside you turned your back on him and he popped you with a beer bottle.”

“So what did you do?” Dom asked, puzzled.

“Oh, I had a beer while the bouncers dragged you out here.” Monk smiled. “I had to let you learn a lesson – and remember, pain is an awfully good teacher.”

Dom was getting mad, his head still hurt and this sucked. He picked himself up, headed back into the saloon, found the big cowboystill leaning on the bar, and hit him as hard as he could in the kidneys. This did not have the desired effect. The cowboy grunted then turned and charged at Dom like a wounded bull.

Dom had just learned another lesson. One punch knock-outs didn’t exist – at least not for him. But now he was not only mad, he was frustrated.

He side-stepped the charge and caught the cowboy in the solar-plexus with a ridge-hand strike. This got another grunt but did not stop the cowboy turning and coming at him again – this time a little more cautiously. Dom at least thought he had hurt the cowboy so he balled up his fists and prepared to duke it out.

As the cowboy swung a huge right fist, Dom ducked under it, stepped in and fired a palm heel strike to the base of his nose. Dom then stepped back and executed a side kick to the cowboy’s knee. As the cowboy went down Dom stepped back to admire his work.

As the injured but enraged cowboy picked himself up, he picked up a chair and, as Dom tried to duck, crashed it into his back and shoulder. Immediately that shoulder and arm went numb.

Just then the sound of approaching police sirens could be heard. The cowboy’s friends immediately stopped his next attack and hustled out of the bar before everyone ended up in the slammer.

At the same time, Monk walked over and pulled Dom out the door. When they reached the bikes Dom doubled forward and vomited all over the sidewalk. The nerves had kicked in and he was shaking and sweating all over.

This lad just ain’t gonna make it, Monk thought to himself.

When Dom had composed himself a little, he asked hopefully, “So how did I do?”

“Not good. First you went in mad, forgetting that revenge is a plate best served cold. Your fighting must be coldly efficient not blinded by rage. Second, you didn’t go for vitals when you had the opportunity, and thirdly, you let the slob get up after you had already knocked him down.”

Monk made the training the next day harder and more brutal than usual. Just when Dom was feeling some confidence and a growing bond with Monk, here he was treating him like when he had first arrived. This went on for the next few days with Monk driving him to the brink of exhaustion, making Dom use everything he had learned just to survive the workouts.

One evening, while cleaning up the work area, Dom said, “This is my last night. Its been ninety days and I go before the judge tomorrow for final sentencing. Do you have any advice for me?”

“You’ll be OK,” was all Monk said but not really believing it.

Dom had acquired some fighting skills and was at least in better shape than he had ever been in his life, but Monk was not convinced that he had the heart or the street savvy to survive in the joint. Occasionally he would see a glimmer of hope during training but then Dom would fold under serious pressure. Hell, Monk had even come to sort of like the guy, but that was the last thing Dom needed to hear the day before he faced the toughest test of his life.

“Keep in touch. I’ll have your bike here when you get out. We’ll take a long ride somewhere,” was all Monk could manage to say.

COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.

Dominick was now a lean 180 pounds of mostly muscle; could bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds and run several miles with ease. He was tanned and tattooed and his dark hair and beard were both cut short. Even his bike was leaner and more powerful than when it first rolled into Monk’s shop.

This was all a far cry from the weak, flabby Beverly Hills attorney of just ninety days ago, but in the back of his mind Dominick was still not sure that he could survive what was to be three long years in the state prison system.

Dominick had been living and training with Monk for almost three months but still didn’t know him well. The only reason that Monk had agreed to take Dominick under his wing and train him in the first place was as a favor to Dom’s attorney Danica, whom he affectionately called Danny. The weight lifting and fight training had been a daily ritual, brutal at times, but always effective. Between workouts they had worked on the bikes together and hit several bars in the evenings, but rarely talked about anything accept Dom’s training.

It was Dom’s last evening at Monk’s and they sat with a cold six pack watching the sun set over the Channel Islands. Monk seemed more friendly than usual which prompted Dom to finally worked up the courage to ask, “So what’s your story? How did you end up doing time? Danica wouldn’t tell me.”

A little uncomfortable with the suddenness of the question, but thinking back to those dark days, Monk began, “I was riding back from Daytona, passing down through Louisiana when some redneck state troopers decided to have a little fun at my expense. They didn’t try to look past the sled and the clothes so all they saw was another white trash biker in “their god damn parish”. To make a long story short, they pushed too hard and when the dust settled, two of them were bruised and bleeding, a third had a cracked rib and a punctured lung and the forth had shot me in the stomach. I did 28 days in hospital, they planted dope on my bike, fabricated evidence and got their stories straight. Or as least as straight as four bent redneck cops were capable.”

“Danica said you wouldn’t testify and that she thought you were protecting someone,” Dom pushed.

“Smart lady. There was another biker involved. An old Vietnam vet buddy riding with me. He had done two years as a POW and the whole experience shook him up pretty bad.”

“Didn’t he jump in to help you?” Dom asked.

“Yea, but with his old injuries and a bum leg he couldn’t do much. When a couple of cops came to visit me in hospital they made it clear that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut they would implicate him in the charges as well and he would end up doing time with me. After what he had gone through in ‘Nam and the psych therapy stateside, I knew that any confinement would kill him, or he would kill himself rather than be locked up again. So I did the time. The rest is history.”

After a long pull on his beer, Monk said, “While we are getting all personal here, tell me about these goons that you got sideways with. The ones who set you up.”

“Not much you don’t already know,” Dom began. “I was retained as an attorney for a Central American import company headed by Dolgos – you may have heard of him. Because of the big money, I kidded myself that everything was legal and above board, but I had my suspicions. When these were confirmed and I found irregularities in the banking procedures, and worse, found that our messenger service was actually being used to move dope, I bailed. They didn’t like that so Dolgos had his goons plant incriminating evidence at my home and office, and, well, here I am. No more appeals and one night of freedom left.”

Monk reached across and put his arm around Dom’s shoulders, “Good luck. You have done good in the training – and I consider you a friend. I mean that, and I don’t give up on my friends. Danny and I will keep plugging away at the system out here – you just gotta hang tough.”

Dom was choked up by Monk’s display of friendship and concern, so didn’t trust his voice to answer. He just sat watching the last of the orange sun drop below the horizon.

The following morning Dom had an appointment to see Danica. He arrived on his bike looking very different from the well dressed attorney of just three months ago. The valet parking attendant didn’t know how to deal with bike parking, especially Dom’s rowdy chopper, and the receptionist all but called security. Only Danica seemed unaffected by Dom’s tough appearance since she had seen his gradual transformation each time she had visited Monk’s place.

“Are you ready?” Danica asked, but without waiting for an answer, “I have your suit here, you can change in my bathroom.”

Dom changed from his worn jeans and boots but he found that the expensive tailored suit that he had once worn to the office on a daily basis, now felt alien and uncomfortable.

Danica drove and Dom sat in silence as they made the short drive over to the court house – both deep in thought about what the future held in store.

Standing before the judge, Dominick felt numb and detached. His past experience as an attorney gave him a strong feeling of foreboding for which way this was going to go.

“Dominick Lunt, your appeal has been reviewed and denied and you are here today for final sentencing,” the judge began. “You have been found guilty of a number of crimes, not the least of which is possession and trafficking in narcotics. In view of the seriousness of these and the fact that you were once an officer of the court you could be sentenced to ten years, but since this is your first time before the bench, I have shown some leniency in sentencing you to three years.” This is what they had expected. “You will surrender to the bailiff and be taken into custody at this time….,” the rest was all just a blur to Dominick as he was led from the court, handcuffed and transported to county jail – his first stop on the way to state prison.

“Out of the van, line-up and move directly to the door,” the deputy’s voice snapped Dominick out of his dazed state. The beginning of his worst nightmare. He flashed back to when he was first arrested and the night he had spent in jail, a helpless victim of the six gang-bangers.

He was led into the processing area where he immediately gave up his clothes and all his possessions were sealed into a large brown envelop. Next came the dehumanizing body cavity search after which he was given county issue orange overalls, and a thin blanket. He had missed the evening meal so was led directly to a holding area. It seemed to be an old gym filled with iron bunks stacked three high and grossly over-crowded.

Dom walked up and down the rows looking for an unoccupied bunk until he found one in the very back. At least this time, as a result of the training, he felt a little more confident. The other cons studied him but seemed to accept him as one of their own. Never the less, Dom had no intention of sleeping that night. He wasn’t that comfortable.

Before dawn the next morning, after a sleepless night and a breakfast of watery scrambled eggs and soggy toast, Dominick’s name was called and along with several other inmates in orange coveralls, was strapped into chain restraints and marched out to a waiting black and white bus. There seemed to be a chill in the air but Dom was not sure if it was real or just his imagination. LOS ANGELES SHERIFFS DEPARTMENT was painted down the side in large black letters, the windows were all barred and there was a heavy wire grill gate separating them from the driver and guard.

They were leaving early to avoid the grid-lock of LA’s morning rush-hour traffic and the sullen group had been told they were being transported to Tehachapi – but Dom thought little of his final destination. He didn’t even know where Tehachapi was. The long bus ride gave him a chance to catch a few needed zees and think back to his time with Monk – wishing that he was here now.

At the same time that Dom was boarding the bus, the morning light was filtering into Monk’s bedroom. Monk swung his legs out of bed, and still naked headed by instinct to the bathroom to relieve the pressure in his bladder.

As he sat back on the bed to pull on his jeans an arm snaked out from under the covers and slid over his thigh and down between his legs.

“So she is awake,” he said quietly.

“And she wants to play came the response,” as Danica pulled the covers back with her other hand to reveal her naked and willing body curled in the center of the bed.

Monk needed no more encouragement. He dropped his jeans and turned so that she could take his now hardening penis, which she was already holding, into her mouth. He lay back and submitted to her delightful early morning torture.

After they had all but exhausted themselves, and Danica lay curled in his arms, she asked, “Do you think he will be ok?”

“Dom? I don’t know. I just don’t know,” was Monk’s only response as he pushed her long hair away from her angelic face.After a moment of thought she persisted, “So what’s state prison really like?”

Monk took a moment to let his mind wander back to those days and then began, “It’s not like Club Fed, the federal prisons, and there is none of the freedom that you have at a minimum security housing facility for white collar criminals. State prisons suck. They are overcrowded and often violent places. You work, you eat, you sleep, and you try to survive. All with a uniquely unforgiving, racially segregated structure. Everyone is paranoid and it is jungle rules – survival of the fittest. The old hands try to take advantage of the new arrivals and the strong prey on the weak or those who show weakness.”

“Don’t the guards protect the prisoners?” Danica asked hopefully.

“The guards aren’t there to protect the inmates. They are there to protect society from the inmates. That is evident by the number of killings that occur on the inside each year. The guards are as much prisoners of the system as the cons. They just want an easy life and their shift to go smoothly – so there is a kind of tense working relationship and understanding of the rules by both sides. Sure, the guards hold the keys and man the towers, but actually inside the walls, the inmates run the show. Its a whole different world. The smallest things become important, and men often die over them.”

“How do the weak survive?” Danica asked with a little shiver.

“Some don’t. Some serve the strong. If Dom had been an informant or a child molester he would go into a PC unit -protective custody, segregation. But he is not, so after processing he will probably go straight into the main population. That can be scary at first. You lose all possessions, rights and privileges. The only thing you can try to hang onto is your self-respect – and that you must fight to maintain.” Monk explained.

“But being an attorney. Won’t that make him valuable to the other prisoners who want to file appeals?”

“If he survives the first few months, maybe. Everyone needs a scam, a money maker, something to barter with. For some it is access to cigarettes, dope, sex, doing tattoos, or making shanks. Even working in the kitchen or clerical duty can be a plus. But you gotta remember, everyone inside is there because their lawyer failed them. Either they had no money and couldn’t get a good one, or the good ones bled them dry. They have families still trying to pay the bills on the outside. Most have a reason to hate attorneys. They represent a part of the system that put them inside.”

“What more can we do?” Danica asked.

“Do you have access to Dom’s office files?” Monk asked.

“Not all of them. The police seized most of that stuff – but I did get the tape-drive back-ups for his computer without anyone noticing.”

“Let’s start by checking his records and correspondence, maybe there is something there,” Monk said as he rolled out of bed for the second time that morning.

Dom was snapped back to reality by the doors on the bus hissing open. The bus had pulled into a secure double gated sally-port with only one door leading into the facility. A guard with a scoped rifle looked down from the tower. There was a sign – California Correctional Institution – Tehachapi.

They were led off the bus in shackles and line-up in a processing hall. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Grey Bars Hotel. You can expect to be in this reception facility for anything from twelve to sixty days. During that time you will be processed, medically examined and evaluated for your current educational levels. After all that you will classified and be moved to your final destination.”

Dominick was then issued bedding and taken to a cell already occupied by another inmate. The cell was about eight feet by ten feet with one set of bunks, a toilet bowl and a wash basin. It was painted with pale green government issue paint and the only color came from a few pictures the current resident had torn from magazines and put on the walls.

Dom’s new cell mate seemed almost relieved to have company but also a little intimidated by Dom’s appearance. He could only guess that he looked like a returning guest.

Charlie Grimms,” chirped his cell mate as he swung down off of the top bunk.

“Dominick,” was all Dom answered without shaking hands. It had been another long day and another missed dinner, so Dom just lay down on his bunk and tried to relax. Within minutes he discovered the true torture of imprisonment. Boredom. The sheer monumental boredom of confinement. Nothing to do, no where you can go, nothing to read, no TV to watch and nothing to eat or drink. Just four walls and a shitter. This was it.

The first night was the worst. When the doors slammed shut and the lights went out, it all hit home like a sledge hammer. He was in prison. He had lost his freedom. He had hit an all time low, but at least he didn’t cry like those others who kept him awake most of the that night.

Over the next two weeks Dom came to feel like a slab of meat being passed from one department to the other: finger prints, photos, full medical, blood screening, testing for TB and AIDS; followed by educational testing, interviews and file checks for any gang affiliations. Only broken up by those long boring hours sitting in his cell with nothing to do.

He learned from the other returning inmates that he would be assigned a points score of one through six, based on his criminal history and propensity for violence,and this would dictate his final destination. Level 01 was minimum security while Level 06 housed the real hard-core killers and rapists.

The only thing Dom had in processing was time, time to reflect on the past. Dom thought back to the months of training knowing that physically he had risen to a new level. He had learned to fight but was not sure that he hadfound the trigger that released the survival instinct and primal violence that Monk had talked about. He was getting some respect from the other inmates cause he looked tough – but he did not know how he would react when tested. And they would test him. Fear lurked just below the surface and became his unwanted constant companion.

Dom had gone the distance in the training and beneath the tattoos and muscles had found someone he could face in the mirror, very different from the fast talking attorney that he had once been and now despised. He had attacked the iron pile in the mornings and in the afternoons gone after Monk with a vengeance in fight training. He had learned to use mechanics tools and had torn his bike down several times to make changes and to get it just the way he wanted it. When he went to Frog’s bar he was accepted as an equal by all, even the outlaw bikers who had earlier wanted to kill him and later not even recognizing him as the same yuppie who had disrespected their colors just a couple of months before. Some he even considered friends.

He had also scoring with the ladies who frequented the bar. One hard-body in particular had dropped by quite frequently to stay the night with him at Monk’s. She didn’t seem to mind the old mattress in the corner of workshop or even Monk’s dog Tyson watching either. Now the thought of that hard naked body riding him for all he was worth made his confinement even more real and painful. Three years of no sex except in his mind’s eye – and no way was he going to fall victim to the violence of prison rape.That was enough to make him role off of his bunk and start his daily work-out routine of push-ups and sit-ups in an effort to sweat that horrible image from his consciousness.

Would all that training help? He was soon to find out since he was to be transferred to main line the next day.

At the end of his second week he was moved to a Level 3 module. The organized crime and drug association of his charges put him well above minimum security, but since he did not have a prior history of violence he was not sent to the PC unit – requiring total segregation. He was glad to be away from his cell mate who had turned out to be a real twitchy mother fucker. He never stopped talking about the women he had fucked and the scams he had pulled and was always trying to bum cigarettes.

Upon arrival at main line, Dom was issued bedding and handed in his orange coveralls for prison blues – dark blue denims and coat with a lighter blue work shirt. Anything was better than those orange coveralls and any change broke up the monotony of serving time.

Now that he had reached his final destination he was informed that he could get quarterly packages from the outside, could have $25 per month in canteen allowance and would ultimately be eligible for a number of vocational work programs. In the beginning though he was to have culinary duties – working in the kitchens.

He was assigned a cell on the second level of the module. His cell mate, Hank, was an old goat, a three time loser who was supposed to show him the ropes and keep him out of trouble while he adjusted. But all he seemed interested in was how he could sponge off of Dom’s canteen allowance.

When Dom stepped out into the yard for the first time, he immediately noticed the distinct yet invisible lines drawn between racial groups – black in one area, hispanics in another and whites, the smallest of the three groups, in yet another.

Dom knew by now to associate with his own kind so headed for the iron pile being used by some of the biggest men he had ever seen. Their sweating muscles glistened in the late morning sun and the dark glasses and distinctive prison tattoos made them look quite ominous.

As Dominick stepped into the pit with the rusting bar-bells and dumb-bells, he was startled by a loud voice from behind, “You haven’t earned the right to work-out on this pile, shit bird.”

Dom turned to see who had spoken. He found himself looking across the pile at a very tough looking character. He looked to be a little under six feet but made up for it with a huge chest, and massive arms and shoulders. He had jeans and a weight-lifter wide leather belt. He wore dark wrap-around glasses and his head was not only shaved, it was tattooed.

“Hey Deacon, let the new guy come play,” one of the other weight lifters called.

“Fuck him, and fuck you,” Deacon spat back at the other con.

“Listen, this is my first day outside for weeks. All I want is to pump some iron,” Dom said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. He hadn’t expected such a hostile reception from the white population.

“If you want to work out it will cost ya,” Deacon declared.

Dom knew it would be a mistake to just give in and he couldn’t just walk away now. Everyone was watching and he was being tested.

“Hey buddy, I can wait until you have finished your work-out. No rush,” Dom compromised.

“I ain’t your fuck’n buddy, but I tell ya what punk, if you can knock me out of the pit you can work-out,” Deacon challenged. The other inmates gathered around and smiled. This was the best entertainment all week.

“First, I am not a punk and second, I don’t want to fight you,” Dom tried to stand up for himself.

“That’s what I thought. You are just a punk and a coward to boot.” With that, Deacon reached for Dom, but out of sheer reflex and driven by fear, Dom blocked his arm and hit Deacon in the face. Not real hard but hard enough to bloody his nose.

Before Deacon or his cronies could react, the guards whistles were blowing and everyone began walking away trying to distance themselves from the confrontation. No one wanted to be a witness or lose privileges over some prison yard scuffle.

“You’re dead meat faggot. You just bought into more than you can handle,” Deacon threatened, barely controlling his temper, but smart enough not to make a move with the guards watching.

By the time the guards arrived everyone had dispersed into the yard.

“Lunt, what’s happening here?” one of the guards asked.

“Nothing,” was all Dominick dared to answer.

“Well just watch it. The last thing we need is another dead inmate,” the guard added. “Oh, and stay away from that Deacon – you don’t need that trouble. He is a psycho and should be in the PC unit but we just haven’t caught him at his shit. So just watch your ass.” The guard turned and headed back to the base of the tower.

For the rest of the day everyone avoided Dom like the plague. He was a marked man, and even at dinner that night he sat alone. Deacon and his mob glared at him from the other side of the food hall.

That night as he lay on his bunk, he found it strange that he now appreciated the locked cell door. At least he would be safe while he slept that night. The only distraction was the voices in the night saying: “You are dead, Lunt.” “Kiss your ass good-bye, punk.” “You are stuffed, turkey.” “See you in the yard, lawyer.” this went on until Dom finally feel into an exhausted but troubled sleep.

When Dom stepped into the yard the next day he sensed the tension immediately. Too many faces were looking his way. He could see Deacon and his goons huddled over by the iron pile. Dom’s first instinct was to turn and go back inside – maybe fake an illness and go to the infirmary. But that would show he was a punk and only delay the inevitable. At best he would just have to stay alert and hope that the guards intervened before it got too bad.

It was his cell mate, Hank, who finally came over to talk to him. A small nervous man with wrinkles deeper than the cracks in the granite walls. “Hey Lunt, I hear you are a lawyer on the outside?”

“Was,” said Dominick.

“Whatever. Look, some of the guys would like you to become a MAC rep. If you survive the next few days that is,” the old con chuckled.

“What’s a mac rep?” Dom asked, but not really interested.

“Mens Advisory Council. You help with filing 602 appeal forms – what the guards call snivel sheets. You would represent the inmates in their complaints with the institution and that kinda stuff. Interested?”

“No.” Dom was trying to keep an eye on Deacon.

“You get to use the library. You get other privileges too. It can only show your willingness to be a model prisoner. Might get you out earlier,” the old con was trying to make his case.

“Talk to me tomorrow,” Dom said, more worried that this old goat was just trying to distracted him from the problem at hand.

He was so busy keeping an eye on Deacon that he never saw the actual attack coming, but he did feel the steel rip into his side as one of Deacon’s lackeys slid up behind him. Luckily he had been turning at the time of the thrust and the blade skidded on his ribs, but it still bit deep and the pain made Dom’s knees go weak.

The attacker had already disappeared into the crowd by the time Dom straightened up. It had happened so fast, but he seemed ok, apart from a lot of blood running down his side. The guards hadn’t even seen it but the inmates watched discretely as the scene played out.

Dom headed over to the toilet block to clean himself up. As he washed away some of the blood and tried to hold the wound shut, he felt another presence behind him. He turned to find Deacon and one of his bigger, uglier cohorts with him, the one they called Beast. Six four and two hundred and eighty pounds of muscles and ignorance.

“Like I said, you are dead meat, punk,” Deacon said.

With that they both rushed at Dom slamming him into the wall. Pain shot up from his already injured side and he felt the blood flow increase. Both his attackers stepped back to get another shot at him.

Beast came in fast, faster than a big man should move, and grabbed Dominick by the throat in a vice-like grip. Dom had seen it coming but was too slow reacting. At the same time he felt Deacon land a solid body punch right into his injured side. The pain was enough to blur his vision and almost make him pass out.

But then his months of training clicked in. Dom brought his right up in a cupped-hand strike that landed squarely on Beast’s left ear. Dom felt the satisfying slap as his cupped hand compressed the brute’s ear-drum bursting inward and extracting an short scream of pain.

The grip immediately loosened on his throat so he followed up with a kick to the base of Beast’s knee cap. With this he heard the knee cap tear and felt it slide upwards. Beast’s leg buckled and he dropped to his now damaged knee. That made enough room for Dom to slip out of his grip and get some space to maneuver.

Deacon had seen what happened and was now stalking Dom, looking for an opening. Deacon moved in with his left arm extended and his right down by his side – then Dom realized why. In his right hand, Deacon held a wicked looking shank made from ten inches of plexi-glass honed to a sharp point and a razors edge.

As Deacon made his first thrust, Dom side-stepped out of the way and tried to kick for Deacon’s knee, but was not quick enough. Deacon just made an evil face and came in again. This time Dom was luckier and as the blade grazed his stomach, he managed to land a solid ridge-hand strike to the bridge of Deacon’s nose. This got a grunt but did not slow Deacon’s next thrust which Dom only just avoided.

Now the beast was up and trying to get back into the fight but there was barely enough room for two to move, let alone three in the smelly wash room. Deacon stepped back to let the big bone cruncher swing a huge right fist at Dom’s head. Dom ducked under it, stepped in and fired a palm-heel strike to the base of his nose. As Beast grabbed his damaged nose, Dom stepped back and executed a rising kick to the con’s groin. As Beast went down, now clasping his crushed balls, Dom stepped in again, fired a vertical punch into the back of his head, and as he hit the ground executed a perfect axe kick to the base of his spine.

Dom found himself wondering how many other violent little tableaus had been played out in this toilet block. Had others screamed, bled and died here? Deacon’s scream snapped him back to the moment and Dom realized that he needed to concentrate, to focus as Monk had taught him.

Even though Deacon seemed a little shocked by the violent and efficient way that his partner had been dispatched – he wasn’t deterred. He now came at Dom with a vengeance – and that was his error. Even Dom knew that any loss of control would mean mistakes and openings.

As Deacon charged in, Dom side stepped and redirected Deacon’s momentum into one of the stainless steel mirrors above the wash basins. Deacon hit the wall hard and before he could turn, Dom delivered a forearm smash into the back of Deacon’s head, bouncing it off of the wall again like a basketball.

If Deacon was mad before, now he was in a blind rage. Before Dom could hit him again, Deacon turned and grabbed Dom in a bear hug, lifting him clear of the ground. Immediately Dom felt the impending peril of his position as Deacon began to squeeze the life out of him. He felt his back arch and ribs creak under the strain. He couldn’t breathe.

Dom drove two short vertical punches into Deacon’s face, trying to break his grip, but to no effect. As he began to get dizzy and see red spots before his eyes, Dom grabbed both sides of Deacon’s head, and with his fingers anchored under Deacon’s jaw, drove his thumbs down into his eye sockets. Dom felt the gelatinous orbs of the eye-balls roll and compress under his thumbs – then Deacon bellowed and threw him across the room.

Before Deacon could clear his damaged vision, Dom was up and moving. As he closed on Deacon, Dom hit him as hard as he could in the solar-plexus. This did not get the desired result but it did make Deacon pull his hands down from his face and give Dom a clear shot at Deacon’s throat. Dom drove a webbed-hand strike into Deacon’s exposed throat, then closed it into an iron-claw and pulled back. Before Deacon even began choking, Dom fired two solid kicks into Deacon’s groin then grabbed his head and ran it into one of the wash basins. As Deacon slid to the ground, now choking on his own juices as his shattered wind-pipe began to spasm, Dom delivered a stamping kick to Deacon’s knee. Dom heard the satisfying sound of the knee breaking.

Without immediate medical attention Deacon would choke and die. Dom didn’t care as he turned for the door. He stepped over the beast who was conscious but barely moving – his spine probably permanently damaged from the earlier axe kick.

The inmates, including Deacon’s buddies, were crowded by the door to the toilet block and were now frozen in shock as Dom emerged into the glare of day. Even though he was battered and bleeding, they had never expected to see him come out alive. Especially from such a seemingly unmatched fight.

Grabbing Dom, the guards hustled him off to the infirmary. When the body of Deacon was discovered, along with his badly battered partner, Dom was immediately put under close guard and then transferred to a maximum security unit. Rumor had it he would be charged for the murder.

For days, Dom sat in his dull, confining cell, unable to even use his daily hour of yard time because of his injuries. The only break in the monotony came with the meals that were now delivered to his cell and the occasional visit by the male nurse who checked on his injuries and changed his dressings.

If the mind numbing solitude wasn’t bad enough, he began receiving threatening notes, delivered by the trustees who swept out the housing module. Deacon’s friends were promising all sorts of grievous bodily harm when he returned to main line.

Dom gave up any attempt at personal hygiene or shaving as he became more depressed with each passing day. The danger of returning to main line would almost be preferable to the terminal boredom of segregation.

“Someone from the DA’s office here to see you,” the guard announced one morning.

Dom said nothing and slowly walked with the guard to the interview rooms. A man in a suit was sitting at the table, a briefcase open beside him. He seemed shocked at Dom’s appearance.

“I’ll come right to the point,” the deputy DA began. “We know you were set-up on the original charges so have begun release formalities. You will have to appear in a few weeks before the judge, but you will be out of here by tomorrow afternoon.”

“How?” was all Dom said, surprised that this meeting didn’t relate to his recent battle.

“A local hood, a Columbian, walked into our office and confessed to framing you. Seems someone had convinced him that it would be safer for him to be in here than on the outside. He was pretty shaken up by the time I interviewed him. Kept mumbling something about protecting him from evil bikers,” the DA added.

“What about Deacon?” Dom asked.

“What about him? Seems no one saw what happened, and if they did, no one is talking. The report will probably show that he was fighting with the other inmate who is now paralyzed from the waist down, and you just happened to have gotten in the middle of it. You have a problem with that?” the deputy DA asked.

“No god damn way!” Dom answered with a pained smile. He still showed a lot of bruising.

The DA was true to his word. The following afternoon Dom signed for his clothes, possessions and meager pay and processed out.The first thing that he saw as he limped passed the guards and out the front gates was Monk and Danica standing by two bikes – his stripped down Evo chopper and Monk’s red and white Knuckle.

Dom hugged Danica, looked at Monk and asked, “You didn’t have a hand in this did you?” Monk just sat on his bike and smiled.

“Thought you may be more comfortable in these,” Danica said, holding up the clothes Dom had left at her office.

Without any hesitation, Dom pulled off the suit that he had been wearing when taken into custody and changed into his old jeans, boots and leather vest – leaving his twelve hundred dollar suit in a crumpled heap on the ground. Dom then asked, “So, what’s news in the big world?”

“You want to talk or do you want to ride?” Monk shot back.

“Where to?” Dom asked, grinning from ear to ear.

“Somewhere with no walls,” Danica said, climbing on behind Monk.

Dom then took great pleasure in giving the guard in the tower a final one finger salute and then laying rubber the length of the prison parking lot as they accelerated out to the highway.

The End

COPYRIGHTS:The author – Mark Lonsdale – holds all copyrights to this three part fiction and retains the rights to all books, screenplays, television projects or features derived from this work. By allowing one time magazine publication as a short story, the author gives up no rights to this property.

I parked the all-black custom-built hardtail “80” kickstart Evowhere it was visible from the window and headed into the bar.Swaggering slightly, I pulled my leathers out of the crack of my ass -trying not to be obvious.

I ordered a Coke. The bartender, a new guy, raised an eyebrow likeit should have been a Jack or Jim Beam or something. I remembered aline from an old Bob Hope movie. I snarled a bit and real low, Isaid, “in a broken glass.”

I watched the crowded bar alone for the next 30 minutes. She was afew minutes late but it gave me time to mull over the proposition. My fellow bikers were draped in women. Granted there was the occasional fugly buffarilla, but women none the less. She entered the bar and headed for the seat next to me.

She scanned the debauchery and, in an accusatory tone, said, “Youbikers are all the same.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I remember years ago when I firstjoined the club. I would watch these old, fat bros hitting on theseyoung girls. I knew they were married. Disgusting really. Rightthen I told myself — I will never be fat.”

She did not smile. A smile at this point, I am sure, would have been aviolation of character. “You’re after women just like the rest ofthem” she said matter-of-factly.

“Actually, I am not,? I said. There was no evidence that she believed me.

“Just as well,” she said. “Why would any of them be interested?”

“I am hung like a horse,” I replied. She stared at me for a longsecond, like she couldn?t believe I just said that to a total stranger, and then, slowly, a faint smile did appear briefly.

Finally, she responded. “Really? I have no gag reflex.” She lookeddown at my wedding ring and continued, “I do believe you have all thecharacteristics of a dog — except loyalty.”

She was really very attractive, in a not immediately apparent sort ofway. You could have overlooked her in a room full of fashion models,but it would have been a mistake. She had a round face and a shorthaircut, which did not suit her. She had a subtly stunning figure,not so chesty as to become a center of attention, but ample and firm.Her derriere was remarkable in that it was perfectly shaped but didnot appear to be carved out of stone like the girls who spend toomuch time at the health club.

She was 5-foot-6, which at this point I was grateful for. If I was goingto loose this witty repartee with this stranger, at least I could lookdown during the conversation, solace for the male ego.

Sensing she had parity, if not the upper hand, she was apparentlyready to call a truce. “I am Joanne,? she stated, offering her hand.

“Oh,” I said, “you look more like a Joni with an ?i?.” I shook herhard firmly.

“My name is Rouge,” I said. “I am married.” I?m not sure why Iadded that last part. I already knew she knew I was married. It came out like someone standing up at an AA meeting. ?My name is Rouge and I am an alcoholic.? I thought about that briefly. Is there a relationship between alcoholism and marriage? Are most alcoholics married first?

I found out she was from Maine, which sent me back. My firstexperience, of sorts, was with a girl from Maine. I told her, “Oneof my first girlfriends was from Maine.”

“The first girl you ever slept with,” she said. It was a statement.I could feel my ears turning red. My ears turn red when I amembarrassed and I was hoping she would not notice. She did, and Isaw her smile for a second time.

I wanted to lie and tell her that she was wrong, but I wouldhave been really embarrassed when she told me I was lying. Inretrospect, I?m glad I didn’t. I never lied to her the entireevening, and she accused me of lying about every 10 minutes.

She was young to be so untrusting; 24, with apparently richParents. She?d recently graduated from Cambridge University, spokethree languages, drove a new car and had no credit card debt. No debtperiod. She should have looked out of place in this biker bar, butshe didn’t. This was a pre-arranged business deal between us. Adeal I hoped I would not regret.

“So what were you thinking about before?” she asked.

“I have been having this dream. I am cooking dinner withthis priest who has Touretts syndrome when there is a knock on thedoor. It is Norman Bates and I say ?Great, you’re just in time fordinner. The roast is almost done,? at which point I hand him a largecarving knife and say I am just going to take a quick shower. Ihave no idea what it means.”

“That is really weird, I?ve been having the same dream,” she said.

The Proposition

Hours passed before she brought up the business proposition that brought us here. “OK,” she finally said, “Two hundred and fiftydollars, lose the wedding ring and we ride to my parents house fordinner next Friday night.”

“Yeah, that is the deal I guess I agreed to.” I smiled. “But I didn’tknow you were such a bitch when I said I would take the job.” She knew I was kidding and did not respond.

“I could guess, but why are you doing this?” I asked.

“The obvious, an overly judgmental father. I blame him, ina way, for breaking off my engagement. Anyway, a night with someoneas pleasant as yourself and he might have a little less to say aboutmy next boyfriend. Would you mind not showering for three daysbefore our date?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Three-hundred dollars.”

“No problem. Cleanliness is overrated. Meet you here at 7 p.m. Friday.”

I strolled out of the bar and pulled out the foot pedal on thekickstarter. I normally use the electric starter button on thehandlebars, but not tonight. I looked through the window to make sureshe was watching as I dropped my weight on the beast.

The kickstarter jerked and came slashing back into my leg just belowthe knee. I almost went down. Pain was shooting through my leg as Iquickly slipped my thumb over the electric starter button and thebeast roared to life. I hoped she didn’t realize what happened as I gave her a stoic bad ass nod and sped off into the night. I rode two blocks just to be safe before I pulled over to look at my leg.

Friday

Friday was here. I had gotten off work at 8 the night before and,with the wife and kids out of town, it seemed like a good time to do afew things on the bike I was building. It was a BSA 650 Thunderbolt in a hardtail frame; a good second bike for short trips or maybe for the wife to ride someday.

Daylight came as I was fitting the rear fender and it was 10 a.m.before I went to bed. I set the alarm for 6. No need to leavetime for a shower and a change of cloths. Breakfast was coffee andbreath mints. I headed for the bar.

She walked into the bar looking more expensive than a life insurancepolicy for a resident of Cabet Cove. Her tight black leather pantsapparently had some effect on me. Perhaps the blood rushed from myextremities to other parts of my body, or maybe it was a brief loss ofconcentration, but my beer glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

She did not look at me like I was a klutz, which is what I was expecting.She took it as the subliminal yet sincere compliment that it was. She seemed almost human as she quietly said, “Thank you.”

The bartender awakened from a trance-like state and with his eyesstill glued to her, he pulled me another draft. With a look to sayhe could not have said it better himself, he slid the beer to me.It occurred to me that she was going to ride off on the back of mybike in a matter of minutes just as she slid $300 in my jeans pocket. Good work if you can get it. Of course, I realized it was all made possible because she viewed me as scum, but it did not seem to matter.

We walked out to my bike. I had two jackets bungee corded to the apehangers but the night was warm and we would not need them. I choosethe kickstarter once again. She started smooth on the first kick andwe climbed on to ride helmet free, the evening air blowing throughour hair. I could feel her breast against my back and I kept tellingmyself this was just a job. It had been awhile since anyone reallyattractive besides my wife had been on the back. I had that dangerous feeling like I was 18 again.

We just cruised for 10 minutes and at the first stoplight, all shecould say was that she couldn?t believe what she?d been missing.I definitely felt 18 again.

Dinner Out

Dinner went well enough, I suppose, although I had the distinctfeeling I was letting Joanne down. I realized I was hired to be a bitof a cretin. I briefly toyed with the idea of trying to pass someintestinal gas during dinner, but it just was not me. I didn’treally know these people yet. I did use my Buck knife instead of mysteak knife, which I could tell Joanne enjoyed.

Dessert was a disaster. Conversation had been centered on Joanne andI had to agree with her father that gainful, full-time employmentwould be character building. I added that a six-month stint ofcommon labor at a regular worker?s wage (say, waitressing) might teachher many things she missed at Cambridge. I added that, of course,none of this would really work unless the only money she had to liveoff of for the six months was what she made at her job. I knew arestaurant that needed help, and when I tuned to her to make mygenerous offer, I could tell she was fuming mad.

Feeling bad for her at this point, I tried to redeem myself. I wasdesperately looking for some crude gesture that might win back herfavor. The opportunity presented itself as she stood up. I said”Lighten up, hon,” as I gave her a stinging slap on her ass.

Her gratitude was less than I expected. She picked up a china plateand almost cracked it over my head. A trickle of blood was flowing from just above my hairline, right over my left eye, causing me to squint. I deduced that I may have miscalculated.

I retired to the study with her father, and as he threw me a roll ofmedical tape, he said, “You know, you’re the first guy she has everbrought home that I can stand.”

Truth Be Known

We didn’t say much and as the hog fired to life, everything seemed OKagain. Cut on my head and all, I had to admit I had a great time. Joanne didn’t say anything as we rode but I could tell she loved it. I deliberately chose a long route back to the bar with great views off some twisting mountain roads. As we neared the bar, she asked if I would take her back to her apartment. I was enjoying the ride, sure.

We got to her place and she asked, “Have you ever cheated on yourwife?” Maybe I was flattering myself, but I thought that what shereally wanted to ask is if I would cheat on my wife.

This was one of those hypothetical questions that is easy to answeruntil you are in the situation. If I were twisting a wrench on myscoot and my buddy asked if I would sleep with a beautiful 24 year old, clad in black leather, no less, I would have to say yes. Hell, she was so attractive my wife could catch me and would have to understand. Sure Rouge, how could you turn that down? But here I am thinking about the bar I met my wife in instead and Isaid, “No.”

“Are you really hung like a horse?”

“No.”

“I would still probably gag,” she said. “You really don’t think Icould make it for six months on waitress pay, do you?”

“You might, but it wouldn’t be easy and yeah, I think youmight benefit from the experience.”

She walked up and put her hands flat on my chest. As she slid thembehind my back, she kissed the side of my face. “Take care” was allshe said as she turned and walked away.

The Saddest Words of Mice or Men…

I sat at the bar thinking that, sure, there would be moments I would regret turning down something that maybe I?d only convinced myself I hada shot at, but basically I felt like I did the right thing.

Pat, the owner and usual bartender, said, “Hey, you rememberthat girl you were in here with the other night?”

Like, how could I forget her? I just nodded.

“Well I don’t know why someone that speaks three languages wants towork here but she starts next Tuesday. I hired her for the busy season. She should be here at least six months.”

Coffee. All she wanted was a good cup of coffee. Was that too muchto ask? Apparently so. All she had been able to find in this littleditchwater town was oily swill that wasn’t fit for human consumption. She made do with a Coke, she really needed the caffeine. She hadn’t slept for almost 36hours and it was beginning to make her a tad punchy. She leaned against theseat of her silent Deuce sipping the cold cola, knowing her stomach was gonnagive her hell in about 20 minutes if she didn’t add some food to soak up theacidity of the soda.

Her eyes roamed the quiet, narrow street. She became aware of eyeson her. Vacuous eyes from the cab of a decrepit Ford pickup. Two guys ingreasy baseball caps. She averted her eyes, knowing in this jungle thateye contact could prove dangerous. No need to provoke the beasts.Time to go. She’d eat in the next town.

She slammed the last half of the Coke and pitched the can into a full,fly infested barrel that made do as a trash can at the classy roadsidemercantile. Swinging a long leg over the bike, she settled into theMustang seat that cradled her ass like a pair of loving hands. She thumbed theignition and the Big 88 rumbled happily to life between her thighs. Sheforgot all about the piggish eyes watching her every move as she reveled inthe serenade of the pipes. She toed it into gear and slipped out onto thestreet heading east. The Ford pulled out and followed.

The wind, though hot and dry, felt good against her face, drying thesweat that had begun to bead while she had been parked. The front of herleather jacket was open, allowing air to caress her body and dry her dampT-shirt. She glanced in her rearview mirror and was a littledisconcerted to see the pickup behind her. Not a problem. She smiled and pressed the throttle. The Deuce responded eagerly, leaping forward, the needlepressing toward triple digits. She laughed aloud as the truck dwindled in hermirror. Her attention returned to the road — long, straight and decentlysmooth. She could see a shimmering heat wave rising up off the asphalt.It was barely 10 a.m. and the sun was beating down with such ferocity thatthe asphalt radiated heat. If she didn’t cover up she was gonna crisp up likea worm on the sidewalk.

She pulled off onto the side of the road, leaving the engine hummingas she dropped the kickstand and started fumbling around in her panniers.Sunscreen, bandannas, her favorite leather vest to replace the jacket. She tied one bandanna around her neck to protect the white skin exposed by the braids. Another wrapped around her face, bandit-style. Goggles with UV lenses and her skid lid. She re-buckled the leather bags, rolled her jacket and strapped it to the small rack on the rear fender. She was ready now.

Unfortunately, her dawdling had allowed the jackals to arrive,sniffing around for road kill. She mounted her bike quickly but the truck pulledsharply in front of her, cutting off an easy escape. She rolled backwards,trying to steer clear of the animals before they could burst loose fromtheir cage. It didn’t work. The mass of the Deuce didn’t move easily underhuman power on loose gravel. The passenger door slammed open, clipping the lacedwheel of the big bike, nearly toppling it. A plaid-shirted cretin in agrungy John Deere hat jumped to the ground, his paint-spattered work bootscrunching in the gravel. She could see she wasn’t going to get out ofthis one too easy. Time slowed as she weighed her options. A quick escapewasn’t in the cards. It was two against one. Neither looked too bright or particularly coordinated, but both were big. She dropped the kickstand to relieve herself of the effort of balancing the bike but she stayed astride. If all went well, she’d be back on the road in under a minute. Her hand went to the small of her back, easily finding the tidy little .25 semi-auto cradled there. In one easy movement, the weapon was in her hand and the safety thumbed off. Thebarrel was staring one-eyed into the face of the first redneck.

“I’d stop right there fucker or I’m gonna have to shoot in selfdefense,” she spoke loud enough to know she was heard but in a cool, steadyvoice.

It worked, he skidded to a stop and the slack jaw dropped evenfurther in a vapid look of surprise. He had stopped so suddenly that his buddy ran into him from behind.

“God damn it, Ralph, what the hell?” Even his dull mind couldappreciate that the tables had suddenly turned.

“Get back in your truck, gentlemen.”

Neither moved, she could almost see the slow gears of their mindsgrinding through the obvious turn of events. She smiled. Neither manliked what they saw in the smile.

“Gentlemen?” She inclined her head toward the idling pickup.”Slowly, please.”

She saw their stubble-covered Adam’s apples bobbing as they swallowedagainst their rising fear. Both began stumbling backwards toward thetruck. As soon as they began climbing aboard, she pulled up the kickstandand rolled her Deuce backwards, ready to pull out of the situationbefore either man could decide to brave the blatant hostility of a tired womanwith a gun. She maneuvered into position, then aimed carefully and fired twice,shooting out the front right tire. She tucked the gun into her waistband,waved at the two furious men and pulled back out onto the asphalt in astaccato spray of gravel. She grinned into the wind as she ran quickly upthrough the gears, wanting to put as many miles behind her as possible.

Damn yokels anyway. See a woman in leather and what iota of civilitythey have in their grim little souls turns a blind eye. Now that theassholes were miles behind her changing a flat, she began to fume. Thiswasn’t the first time she had been confronted by such rapacious intentions,not the first by a long shot. She had taken to packing her little .25 justlast summer after having to carve up the arm of an ape bent on hauling herinto the shrubs for his own amusements. He didn’t find the bone-deepgashes from her Gerber hunting knife amusing.

It was impossible for her to stay angry with the big bike throbbingbeneath her. Only a few more miles under the wheels and her mood hadreturned to the normal high she always attained cruising open roads.

She knew she was nearing her final destination and her eagernessbegan to build, erasing any hint of fatigue. Only an hour to go.Her eye watched the needle on the speedometer creep up, clicking miles offthe odometer a little faster. She kept it at a smooth 85, all herattention focused on the pavement before her.

Rounding the curve, she was confronted by a sight no biker is toothrilled with. The white body of a state trooper’s cruiser loitering onthe shoulder of the road, running radar. She backed off the throttleinstinctively and hoped she squeaked past. She kept her head forward, buther eyes followed the movement of the cop behind the wheel. He was going tonail her. She slowed and watched in her mirror as he pulled out behind her.She didn’t have long to wait before the red and blues flicked on. Damn.

She pulled onto the wide shoulder and killed the engine. It satticking quietly beneath her as if scolding her for her carelessness. Shewatched in the mirror as the cop called in her plates and sat in the darkair-conditioned interior of the squad car. The heat rising off the asphaltwas burning through the thick soles of her engineer boots and drying outthe lining of her nose. Sweat trickled down the small of her back as well asoff her forehead and into her eyes. She pulled the thin wallet from her hippocket and sat waiting.

She wondered if the cop was dallying on purpose, letting hercook for a bit before ticketing her and sending her on her merry way.

“Fucker,” she whispered, still watching him in her mirror.

Finally there was movement. The tall, broad shouldered man unfoldedfrom the confines of the car and settled the Smokey Bear hat down firmlyover his close-cropped blond hair. He walked with long, slow, measuredstrides. She turned her head to watch him approach.

“Ma’am,” he greeted in a soft, deep voice sweetened with a Southernaccent, “could you step off your bike please?”

“Sure.” She swung a long leg over the seat and stood looking up atthe man.

She was tall, over 6 feet in her boots. But this guy must havestood 6-foot-6 and tipped the scales at a solid, muscle-bound 275 or more.Despite the circumstances, she couldn’t help but look into the crystal blue eyes set in the well-tanned face and wish she could have stumbled across this guyunder different circumstances, like maybe naked in a hot tub.

“You were clocked at eighty-seven miles an hour, ma’am. I’m afraidthat’s a little fast. Could I see your license, please.”

So enthralled with the soft voice and blue eyes she almost didn’thear the request. “Huh? Oh yeah. Sure. Here you go.”

Brilliant. Fucking brilliant.

He took the proffered ID and read the name and number into hisshoulder mic. He pulled a pad from his breast pocket and flipped through it to anew sheet. But he didn’t start writing. His eyes were on the Deuce.

“Nice Deuce,” he smiled a little, showing a brief flash of straight,white teeth.

“Thanks. I just got him last month. I’ve been riding a ’68 Shovelfor the last five years or so. Finally decided to get something with a littleless vibration. You ride?” She had to ask.

The smile flashed again briefly, “Yeah, a ’99 Softail Standard.”

“I would have thought Road King or Electra Glide, you’re a big boy,”she teased before stopping to think just who she was teasing. She blushed.”Oh, sorry officer.”

This brought out a laugh. “No apology needed. I am a little tall.”

As a tinny voice spoke from his shoulder, he sobered and responded.

“Well Ms. Morrison, there are no outstanding wants or warrants onyou, your bike isn’t stolen, and other than the handgun you got stashed in theholster at the small of your back, I’d say you were a fairly upstandingcitizen.”

Her cheeks turned crimson at the mention of the gun. She began tostammer, “I have a permit and it’s registered.”

“I’m sure it is. But you really shouldn’t shoot out truck tires, youknow.”

The heat in her face changed rapidly from embarrassment to anger.”Those sonsabitches tried to attack me,” her voice trembled with rememberedrage. “I’m lucky I’m not lying raped and half dead in a ditch somewhere.”

His face was calm, his voice calming, “I figured as much. Theycalled in a complaint. I’m going to pretend I didn’t pull you over, all right? I really just wanted to check your story. Really.”

Her defensive posture relaxed, realizing she wasn’t going to gethauled in for protecting herself. “Uh?thanks. I really wouldn’t have shot them,you know. I’ve just had some close calls the last year or so. It’s getting soa woman isn’t safe anymore.”

“Been that way for a long time I’m afraid. Well, I won’t detain youany longer, it’s hotter than hell out here. Ride safe, all right? Andslow it down just a bit.”

“Sure, thanks bro.”

She watched the broad back as he walked back to the waiting car.Swinging back on her bike, she thumbed the ignition and was back on her wayin a minute. Again, the hot desert air dried the sweat from her face and herdamp shirt. She was beginning to get hungry now. The Coke was sittingunhappily in her stomach, sloshing violently in the empty space. Sheglanced down at her odometer and tried to remember how much further to the nextlittle town.

Her mind was just distracted enough from lack of sleep, lack of foodand too much excitement that when the coyote stepped out from behind a bushand into her path, she overreacted. Her right foot and hand were hittingthe brakes even as she swerved. Realizing her critical error a split second too late, she was sliding before she could correct her own stupidity. The bikeslid across the melting asphalt, throwing a shower of sparks into the kilnhot air. She managed to keep the wheel turned into the slide, preventing aflip that would have tumbled her down the road with potentially fatal results.Instead, the rear wheel caught the soft shoulder and spun her into theditch. Her body pulled free from the bike, she had a flash of sage and rock before darkness claimed her with a sickening thud and blinding pain.

It was the heat that penetrated the red haze in her brain. Her skinfelt seared, heat penetrated through her jeans, her chest, her vest, and mostlyher face. She felt like she was being cooked alive. Even without openingher eyes, that thought managed to cut through. Lying out in the open in the desert on a day like today was deadly. She had to move. Despite the agonizing clamoring in her brain, she managed to open her eyes, squinting into the killer sun. She tried to take a mental tally of her body, but she ached all over. Nothing hurt any more than anything else. Everything hurt like hell. She pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement made her gasp in pain as she realized that something did indeed hurt more than the rest, her right shoulder sent a nauseating jolt of pain through her body.

It didn’t matter, she couldn’t stay here. She struggled to her feetand stood swaying, dizzy with pain and heat. Her eyes searched for her bike.There it was, a mere fifteen feet away, handlebars dug into the softgravel, head first in the ditch. She doubted she’d be able to get the thing backon its wheels. But she had to try. She stumbled through the soft dirt,trying to push the reality of her situation from her mind. She needed to focus.

“Okay,” she breathed, psyching herself up as much as possible.

With her back to the bike, she crouched alongside it, her left handgrabbing the edge of the seat, her right hand closing around the center ofthe handle bars as best she could. Using her legs she lifted with all thestrength she could muster. Her feet dug into the sand as she pushedupwards, a grunt forced itself from her lips. She found herself growling as she put her all into righting the heavy machine. The pain pulsing in her shoulderalmost made her drop the bike, but she had it nearly vertical now. Thesand shifted beneath the big Dunlops and the bike began to slide, tippinguncontrollably toward her. She fought to regain control, but her injuredshoulder refused to cooperate and the soft ground beneath her gave her nostability. She went down, trying to roll away from the bike, but themassive Harley came down hard, pinning her from the knees down.

She could feel the heat of the engine burning into her calves. Sheclenched her teeth against the pain and found her mouth was full of sand.She tried to spit, but couldn’t muster enough saliva. Tears of pain andfrustration burned her eyes. She was face down in the desert, trapped byher best friend and doomed to die under the blistering heat if she couldn’tmanage to get her ass out of this sling. Panic began to rise in her chest,inexorably and beyond control. She pushed herself up and fought to freeher legs. She writhed and tugged, raising a cloud of dust. She thrashed andwriggled, trying to worm from beneath the hot iron. Her breath was comingin short, barking gasps. She choked on the sandstorm she was creating, butcontinued to fight. She could feel her left leg slipping free, but theright had yet to budge. Pulling her foot free from its boot, her left leg wasfree. She braced her foot against the tank and pushed with every ounce ofstrength she could muster, pulling her right leg with equal force. Thesharp pain in her shin alerted her to the fact that there had to be a rocklurking beneath the soft sands.

In despair, she collapsed onto the ground, cradling her face againsther arms as sobs wracked her body. Finally choking back the unproductive tearsshe mumbled to herself, “C’mon, get a grip. You can do this. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. Why me? Fuck!”

Clenching her teeth, she tried to roll over, hoping she could gether hands on the bike and somehow pry it up enough to free her leg. Shecouldn’t get even halfway around before the strain on her knee joint proved tooexcruciating to go any further. She was back on her face, exhausted fromher struggles. How long had she been fighting this? She looked at the handsof her dusty watch. It hadn’t even been fifteen minutes? How could that be?Her watch must have broken on impact.

The heat had moved beyond merely unbearable to suffocating. Sherealized with dread that she had stopped sweating, the first sign of heatstroke. She needed to get calm and try to think of something to get herout of this situation before she found herself suddenly and irreversibly dead.There was a water bottle in her left saddlebag. If she could reachit, wet herself down and have a drink, that would help.

Pivoting as best she could, and by pushing with her foot andscrabbling for a grip in the soft soil, she managed to contort her body into ahorseshoe shape. She could just get her fingers on the first buckle, but the pain in her shoulder was making her fingers less than cooperative. She fumbledwith the leather strap, unable to maneuver it through the buckle.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed, “give me a fuckin’ break.”

She was beginning to feel weak and light headed. She was afraid theheat was frying her brain, quite literally. She had to get to the water orshe was dead. In a last ditch effort she twisted her body until she felt apainful pop in her knee and felt a sharp jolt run up her spine as it tooprotested violently. Her fingers were on the buckle, but she couldn’tmanage the stiff leather with one hand. She roared her frustration and collapsedback into the sand.

This time there were no tears. Her head rested on her arm and shestared apathetically along the barren ground, thinking that it was anabysmal vision for her last glimpse of the earth. She watched a line of antscrossing the ditch, coming and going from nothing to nowhere. She watched,and waited. In what was left of her rational mind, she decided that if shecould just rest for a brief moment she could gather her strength and tryagain to free her leg. She just needed a little rest. Her eyes flutteredclosed, shutting off the blinding glare of the summer sun on thebleached, dead earth.

His eyes scanned the empty road to the horizon, always keeping vigil.Not that he had ever had to do much other than rescue the occasionalinjured animal, but even that broke the monotony of his shift along the deserthighway. He glanced at the driver?s license clipped to his onboard laptop andchided himself for forgetting to return it to the tall redhead. He smiledand shook his head, his brother would have accused him of a feeble attemptto get a date. Well, maybe so. Not too often that he met a woman who didn’tseem to have the stature of a twelve year old, as well as one that rode anice bike with obvious skill.

Asphalt rolling black beneath her. Hot sun above changing to thesilver of a cold moon. Scent of sage and dust and hot tar. Riding. Herdestination unclear. Yellow center line passing in a series of rhythmicdots, hypnotic, keeping time with her pulse and the beat of the engine. Herheart, beating slower. The lines passing slower. Her speed lowering until shecould see every detail of the sleek black road. Time to stop. The Deuce wastired.

He saw the sun glint off of something in the ditch about a mileahead. Probably just a hub cap. But as he neared he could see it was far too bigto be anything unintentionally dropped in the ditch. He sped ahead, the bigV8 grumbling and eating up the road easily. What he saw made his heartstutter briefly. A purple Deuce and a motionless woman. He skidded to a stop andleapt from the car, leaving the engine idling. He was on his knees,feeling for a pulse at the hot, dry throat. It was thready and weak, but still beating. His eyes traveled down her body to the pinned leg. It wasn’t too hard for him to lift the bike, adrenaline lending additional strength to his alreadyformidable power. He set the bike on its stand and returned to the woman.

He carefully rolled her onto her back. Her face was covered with thepale dust of the desert, her lips darkened with grit. “Sarah, Sarah. Openyour eyes. C’mon Sarah, open your eyes.”

There was no flicker of a response from the limp, hot body. He knewshe would die if he didn’t get her cool. Overriding any thought of keeping herstill to prevent possible further injury, he scooped her into his arms andcarried her to his patrol car. He managed to open the passenger door andslid her into the seat. He closed the door and scooted around to hisside. Once inside he cranked the air conditioning and grabbed the waterbottle from beneath his seat. He poured the tepid water over her face andchest. He dribbled a little against her lips, washing away the accumulateddirt. After soaking her down good, he tried again to rouse her.

“Sarah. Damn it, open your eyes,” he ordered, shaking her shouldergently. “C’mon girl, look at me.”

Still no response. He began to feel a touch of panic gnaw at hisprofessional detachment. He put the car in gear and left a cloud of bluesmoke.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, grabbing the mic. “Dispatch, this isNathan 8. I have an accident victim, female, 38, suffering from what appearsto be heat stroke. I’m taking her directly to Southwest Memorial. My ETA is15 minutes.”

To keep himself calm and businesslike he read her license informationback to dispatch, hoping too that some family could be notified. Peopledied quickly from heat, he had seen it more than once. But this was the firsttime it could happen to someone he had actually spoken to.

During the agonizingly long ride, he continued to talk to theunconscious woman, holding her hand, squeezing it gently, calling her nameand cajoling her to open her eyes. The long straight road allowed him topush the cruiser up to speed, easily clipping along at 120 mph. He slowedonly when he knew he was nearing his destination, but he ran with lightsand siren, cursing the inattentive drivers who seemed to think his warningswere for anyone but themselves. He radioed dispatch, alerting them to hisimminent arrival at the hospital. He wanted the ER team standing by and ready.He skidded under the breezeway outside the ER and leaped from his seat. Ahuddle of medical staff was at his side as he yanked open the door andcaught the woman as she slid into his arms. He lifted her onto the waiting gurney and she was whisked through the double doors. He followed, jaw clenchedand brows glowering.

He grabbed an attending nurse and tersely explained the circumstancesin which he’d found the woman. She made brief notes then turned away. Hefelt summarily dismissed. He reluctantly returned to his car and headed back tothe desert. The rest of his shift was tediously uneventful, except forcalling the truck to pick up the scraped purple Deuce. He had to fight theurge to repeatedly call dispatch for updates on the woman’s condition. Butas his 12-hour shift neared its end, he knew he would not be going home rightaway.

Her head felt too large for her neck, as if her brain had swollen anddistorted the skull. And everything hurt. The bike. She had parked herbike. Hadn’t she? She wanted to open her eyes and see the bike, but herlids felt glued together. Her dry throat reminded her. She hadn’t parked herDeuce, she had wrecked her beloved bike. The thought brought needed tearsto her eyes, loosening the glue that kept them closed. But still she did notopen her eyes. She did not want to be returned to the grim reality of herdeath in the desert. They would say, “At least she died doing what sheloved.” Bullshit. She didn’t want to die at all.

It was the smells that permeated the pondering of her death. Notsage and hot dust but antiseptics and disinfectants. The unmistakable smellof a hospital. That forced her eyes open. The room was dimly lit but therewas no doubt of where she was. She looked to her right and was startled bythe sight of a giant of a man sprawled in a chair a few feet from the bed.

Her gasp alerted him. His eyes opened and he smiled, “Decided torejoin the living?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words could pass the parchedtissue.

“Need a drink?” he asked as he reached for a glass.

She sucked greedily on the straw, re-hydrating her mouth and rinsingthe last of the grit from between her teeth. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“No problem, I live to serve,” he teased.

“My bike?”

“In my garage. Hope you don’t mind, but it was that or the countylot. It’s sitting happily next to my scooter, only a little worse for wear.”

“Thanks.”

“Like I said, I live to serve,” he smiled again. “I’m just glad I gotto you when I did or we might not be having this conversation.”

She looked at him for a long moment, realizing the truth in the wordsand was briefly overwhelmed by a wave of mortality. But it passed asquickly as it came and she grinned back. “Guess I almost rode faster than my guardian angel can fly.”