Somewhere Around Barstow, When Memories Start to Kick in

The waitress looked me all over. The leather jacket, the worn out jeans and my black boots. For a moment I thought I scared her, but I wasn’t wearing a patch so she figured I wasn’t in a motorcycle club and it was probably safe to come near me.

“What will you have, sugar?” She asked. I studied her pretty face and deep blue eyes. She was too pretty to work a joint like this, in a middle of nowhere on a highway no one cares about. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll have the french toast and some orange juice.”

She chuckled and flirted a little, or maybe she didn’t since she was a waitress after all, “Since when do bad bikers drink orange juice?”

For a second I thought about making a cheeky joke, go with it and see where it lands, but just 48 hours ago the love of my life decided to end things. It didn’t feel right, “I’m no bad biker, darling. I’m just a guy with a Harley.”

The waitress smiled again, “Ooh. Doesn’t matter. I like good bikers too.” Her look fell down as she said it and saw the shiny ring I had twirling in my hand, “Thinking about proposing? There’s a lot more fancier places.”

“Nah. This ring…she returned it to me just two days ago. It’s run it’s course.”

An awkward silence ensued and the girl decided to nod and get back to work. I continued playing with the damn ring and sipping on my orange juice. She came back after 10 minutes with my french toast and set it on the table.

“What happened between you two if you don’t mind me asking? You seem like quite a catch,” Once again she flirted.

I took a bite of my meal, “Well, there was a time when we were inseparable. We had plans. I’d buy a Harley and we would drive all the way to Louisiana. She always wanted to see New Orleans, then we’d go and see the desert, move up to California too. No restraints, no worries. Just the bike, her and me.”

“Seems like she had a change of mind.” The waitress said.

“Yeah. Somewhere between dream and reality she decided that a Benz, security and a nice place in a quiet neighborhood outrank a Harley and the open road,” I said. “Can’t blame her though. Everyone wants security. A nomad’s life isn’t a pretty one.”

I ate through all my french toast now and took my wallet out. As much as I liked talking to this pretty stranger I figured it was best to leave, “Here you go, darling.”

The waitress smiled, “Where to now?”

“Wherever I end up. I’ll ride around, see which place looks good. You never know where the road might take you.”

She smiled and took a small piece of paper, scrambled and address and a phone number, “If the road ever takes you to Barstow. Why don’t you visit me?”

I took the paper and smiled, got up and went for the door, “Sure, darling. I don’t know your name yet, doesn’t matter. If I ever decide to stop by in Barstow you’ll be my first stop.”

“Have a nice day and take care.” She said.

I put my helmet on and sat on the bike, looking at the open road ahead, the sun shining bright. I could go wherever I wanted. Just me, my bike and the vast beyond. Chances were I’d end up in Barstow sooner than later though, we all know I can’t resist a pair of nice eyes.

The engine came to life and I drove off trying to get as much distance as I could from me and all the troubles back home.

Lettin’ it Kill Me

People always try to blame someone else for their mistakes. If there is anyone to blame in my case it would be Charles Bukowski and his ‘find what you love and let it kill you’ quote. You could say I took it a bit too far. It wasn’t a what though, it was a she.

A she-devil in a blue dress. She tip-toed behind me and managed to get me falling head over heels. I honestly can’t remember when I first met Jane. It doesn’t really matter, because most of the time the begging don’t matter. It’s the ending that counts. The first signs were obvious, 20 bucks missing here, 50 bucks here. It always happened on the days Jane slept over at my place. I never said a thing. I’d watch her strut in her panties and my oversized shirt, dancing to some rock and I didn’t have the heart. Never asked her what was it for either, but I kind of had a few clues.

It should have alarmed me when two tough guys broke down my door at ” AM and demanded 500 hundred bucks. They settled for my TV instead. She’d always tell me it’s a misunderstanding and she’ll sort it out. She’d get down on her knees and make me forget everything. It was simple. She used me, played me for a fool and I went along, because everyone wants a bit of thrill now and again. Thrill and sex.

The problem with a slow decline down is the fact you don’t understand how deep you’re in until it’s too late. You don’t understand what she’s capable of until you wake up one day with a gun to your head and five thousand dollars lighter. It’s all my fault really, I found her and let her kill me. Because honestly dying in her arms was far more interesting than living on my own.

Cold Plate of Lasagna

Everyone in the little bistro stopped what they were doing when the four men came in. Three of them wearing expensive tracksuits with golden Rolexes. You could see they were connected from outer space. The man at the helm was wearing a tailored suit and a nice looking jacket over it. He stood out as the more serious of the group, higher up it looked like it. The group of men walked to the most further corner of the small establishment. The one secluded behind some decorative plants and shrubbery.

“Sit,” The man in the suit ordered the others.

A fat mobster in a white tracksuit sat opposite of the suited man. The two others sat on both sides.

“Should we cute to the deal now or order first?” The suited man asked.

“I’ll order. I’m fucking starving,” The fat man against him responded and waved down a waiter.

The waiter came and took their orders, nodded politely and hurried back with drinks. The conversation was rather dull at the table, business and the old ways the only things discussed. After a 20 minute wait the waiter came with the meals prepared, saying goodbye to some leaving customers.

He put pasta in front of all the mobsters except the suited man who had lasagna.

“Enjoy your meal,” Said the waiter. “I hope it’s just how you expected it,” He said left with a smile.

The fat mobster dove right in and started eating. Taking sips of wine and stuffing his mouth, “So, the business?” He mumbled, pieces of food falling out of his mouth.

“The deal here Tony is simple. You did an unsanctioned hit on another man’s soldier.”

Tony, the fat mobster, hit his hand on the table, “I had my fucking reasons. The fucker was skimming on my turf.”

“I promised I would deal with that myself,” The man on the left joined in…

“Silence, Sammie. Please,” The man in the suit yelled and turned back to Tony, “You fucked up big-time. The only reason why you’re here using that mouth of yours is because boss has history with you.”

“Oh, spare me the fucking bullshit!” Tony said.

“You’re a fucking prick.”

Tony stopped chewing, laid down his fork. His face changed expression and his eyes flashed with murderous rage, “I resent that Louie. Very fucking much.”

Louise chuckled, “You can resent it seven ways to fucking Sunday. Doesn’t change the fact you are a prick,” Tony wanted to say something but kept silent, “This is the deal. Sammie wants ‘S&L Construction’ as reparations.”

Tony almost choked on his food and spat some out, “Are you fucking crazy? You really think I’ll say yes?”

“The kid was a good fucking earner—” Sammie said.

“Shut up. Now listen Tony. This is the only move you have left. We came here light. No one packing. This is a negotiation and we want both sides to agree.”

Tony laughed his words off, “Negotiation. It’s a fucking shakedown, is what this is. I’m no fucking jibone. No way I’m giving him that racket.” As he spoke his words Tony took a look around the bistro and found only a handful of people were left. Two wise-guys slumped over a drink, some old geezer on the other side of the room, the waiter, owner and his wife. Suddenly Tony knew what was coming.

He put the fork down and wiped his mouth clean, “So that’s how it is. No one is packing. Who’ll do the hit then? Someone waiting outside? Huh?”

Everyone stayed silent.

“I’m not taking the deal,” He said. “Forget about it,” Tony took a beat. “Yeah, and fuck you. All of yous.”

Louie sighed and looked down on his still untouched piece of lasagna on the plate. He reached for it and slid his hand in between the layers. Others just looked on in surprise. Louie took out his hand from the piece of lasagna, now all strewn around and pointed a small, snub nose gun. The gun still covered in tomato juice, cheese and pieces of meat. He cocked the gun slowly knowing Tony won’t run.

“No, Tony. Fuck you, you fat fucking fuck.”

The gun went off a couple of times, hitting Tony squarely in the face, blowing off bone in the back of his head and destroying what used to be his nose and eyes. Tony slumped over and dropped right into the plate of pasta. The red liquid quickly spread across the white table and down the floor. The two other men remained unmoved.

Louie took out a cellphone and speed dialed. He waited a few moments before a voice appeared on the other line, “It’s done. The whale has been beached,” he said and hung up.

You Have a New Picture Message

The vibration of his phone shook Mike out of his daydreaming in class. He took the phone out of his pocket carefully so no one could see it. Mister Phillips was talking about math and Mike just didn’t want to listen. A new photo received the phone said. It was the new app which allowed to send a picture to someone that could be viewed for a couple of seconds before disappearing. The username was unfamiliar to Mike, but he opened it nonetheless. It was a picture of the school hallways.

Someone from school, Mike thought. He took a picture of his notebook and wrote, “Who are you?” in the message. Now it was a waiting game. He tried listening to the class but the identity of the person was bugging him. The phone vibrated again, “That’s for you to find out,” said the text across a picture of a locker. Mike’s locker to be precise. He felt weird,  the photo was creepy. Mike thought about who could be pulling pranks on him or teasing him. He snapped a self shot and wrote, “Brianna?” thinking it could be the cute girl who had a thing for him.

The phone stayed silent for a few more minutes, the bell rang and everyone rushed outside with a lot of noise and commotion. Just as Mike was getting out of the classroom and heading towards the exit as it was the last class of the day, he got a new picture. This time it was a bathroom, the ladies bathroom in the school. The text said, “Maybe :P.”

He chuckled, “It’s Brianna.” Taking a picture of the parking lot he added, “Going home, you?” Just a few seconds after that he got another picture, once again of the school hallway saying, “It’s a surprise.”

It took him a bit longer to get home today as the traffic was very bad. At least he had the house to himself for a few hours, Mike thought. He unlocked the front door and made his way in a smaller hallway with a big, wooden clock to his left and the stairs right in front of him. Mike set his school bag down and walked upstairs to his room. It was a regular teenager room with just enough mess to still be clean. He jumped onto the bed and checked his phone, “One new picture.”

He clicked it; it was a picture of a busted door. A door someone broke into. It didn’t make much sense. After just 4 seconds the picture disappeared and left Mike confused. He stared at the phone for a little while before a new notification appeared. Another picture. Mike opened it.

It was a hallway. His hallway. His school bag on the floor next to the big, wooden clock. Mike stopped breathing. Someone was in his house. Before he could dial 911 he heard footsteps in the hallway upstairs, just a few feet away from his room. The doorknob turned. Mike turned his head the door.

“911. What’s your emergency,” The dispatcher on the other line said.

He never got an answer.

The Caretaker

The mass of grieving relatives and friends crowded the funeral showing room. Many of them waiting in line to see the body and pay respect.

One man stood out, alone in the corner of the room. He didn’t talk to anyone and no one seemed to mind him. Tall, strong looking and above all serious, he stood and looked on patiently.

The man caught on of the relatives eye. A very obese man in a suit that was two sizes too small for him walked over to the corner and approached him.

“A friend I presume?” He asked the mysterious stranger.

“Ummm…not really. I’m here to make sure my work was done right and pay my respects,” The man answered without looking away from the casket.

“Your work?”

Finally he looked the fat relative into his eyes, “Yes. I…” He paused trying to find a word. “I took care of him.”

“I understand. Thank you so much for your work. It’s beautifully done. He looks so peaceful, and you could never say he was killed.”

A slight, almost perverted smile flashed the mysterious man’s face, but disappeared before the fat man looked at him again.

“I’m his uncle. It was hard hearing how he went away, but at least…we were able to hold an open casket funeral,” He said. “You did a good job. How long have you been in the mortician business?”

“Very, very long.”

“Saw your fair share of dead bodies I presume,” The fat man asked.

“More than you can imagine. And I always come and pay my respects when it’s all done. The least I can do.”

The other man nodded agreeing and faked a polite smile, “I have to go now, but it’s nice of you to come by and…all this. Take care.” He shook hands with the man and walked away towards the casket where the widow was weeping.

The uncle shifted his look towards the head undertaker, the owner of the company, who stood at the door and looked on. He squeezed through the sad crowd and greeted him, “Hey, mister Robbins. I just wanted to thank you for doing a very good job here.”

“No need to thank me. It’s all in my job description.”

“Yes, I was just talking to your employee there,” He gestured to the corner of the room. “He did a very good job. His wife is pleased he looks so peaceful.”

“Who? Who did a good job?” Robbins asked.

“Well, your employee. He was just standing there a few minutes ago. He said he took care of him.”

“That’s impossible,” Robbins said. “I did the work on the deceased myself and the only people working alongside me are my two son. You already met them. That was no employee of mine.”

The uncle was shocked. He scanned the room for the mystery man, but he was nowhere to be found. One of the funeral flower arrangements caught his eye. In the middle of the arrangements a shiny object protruded. He walked above it and pulled the thing out. It was a bullet.

The wreath simply signed, “The Caretaker.”

Room 113

There’s a dead hooker in my bed and I don’t know my name.

Not the best way to wake up in a shitty, little motel room. The first glance around doesn’t reveal anything significant. It’s a motel room. I somehow know she’s a hooker, but not quite sure why. Just a gut feeling, since I can’t remember anything, starting with my name. What is my name? I get up and look around. Sure enough there’s wallet on the floor. Mark Walters the I.D. says, doesn’t ring a bell, but the face on it is mine. The name on the credit card is different, Brad Jenkins on one, Billy Mays on the other. I’ll stick with Mark.

The dead hooker is obviously strangled. The blue markings on her neck can be spotted from afar. This doesn’t look good. Concentrate, I think. What happened last night? Then I remember I’m still not sure what happened the last…32 years according to the I.D card.

“Anybody in there?” Someone says and knocks on the door.

Fuck, I curse. “Everything is all right. What do you want?”

“Just reminding you that you have to clear out in an hour. “

“Sure thing, yeah.” I say and the footsteps on the other side move away.

I look at the body, the room around me, the body again. A big gym bag in the bathroom catches my attention. I walk into the cramped bathroom and open it. There’s a hacksaw and a whole shitload of knives, plastic sheeting and trash bags. Walking into the room I look at the body again, then the saw, the body, the saw.

It’s almost natural and trained. I know exactly what to do. Just with a few moves I cover the bed in plastic sheets; the floor and the walls too. The girl looks so peaceful on them. She looks asleep, except for the mutilated neck. I take a big butchering knife and place it against her arm. No hesitation or reluctance, it slides across flesh. I cut deeper and deeper until the blade hits the bone. Something’s missing though.

I walk back into the bathroom and take the bottle of cologne. Smear it heavily right above my lips, under my nose. Blood, flesh and dead bodies smell. It’s not pleasant, but there’s a feeling in my bones that I’ve done this before. Back to the task at hand.

Hacksaw in hand, cutting the girl’s arm in half I can’t help but think about how demented I must be. Not much is coming back to me yet though. Things just feel natural. The saw cuts the bone in half and I toss the severed arm into one of the trash bags. “Still an arm, two legs and a head,” I think.

The clock says 10:15. 45 minutes until this place needs to be cleared out. A gut feeling tells me I’ll make it. Shouldn’t take too long.

“Better get back to work,” I mumble to myself and start slicing her neck.

A Kiss and a Bang

This wasn’t another story starting in a bar, rather the alleyway behind it. It’s where I met Casey. She stood next to the dumpster with smoke rising from her lips in slow-motion and the butt of her gun peeking out of her short skirt. Her deep blue eyes standing out in the black and white picture of a dirty alleyway like a mirage in the middle of the desert. I just wanted to lose myself in them even though they may just be a lie. The way she held the cigarette between her fingers so casually as if flirting with death was another past-time for her.

Her demeanor said “come here little boy, I’ll be the best girl you ever had” and “stay away before you get burned” at the same time. Kind of like a hot stove to a masochist, burning just the way you wanted. But she was not a stove, she was not a fire you could easily control and turn off when you pleased. Casey was an inferno of lust, regret and danger twirling dangerously close to your feet, inviting you over with the licks of flames.

Casey was the bringer of joy, pleasure, pain and death. Femme fatale was her day job, and murder for hire was her night one. Or it may have been reversed. Who knows? The line between each blurred constantly allowing her to mix pleasure and business as she pleased. Even though business was a pleasure and pleasure was sometimes business. All in a day’s work of a fatal woman like herself.

So why am I walking towards a woman capable of shutting my lights out with a single reach down her skirt? Today was my day to die. When the bosses upstairs put a bounty on your head death is inevitable. The only thing you can hope for is dying by the hands of Casey, not some other ruthless killer.

There we were, surrounded by garbage, dumpsters and billowing smoke from the ground, a real hard boiled scene I never thought I’d find myself in.

“Care for a smoke?” Casey asked.

“I don’t smoke. They kill you know?”

She chuckled, “But sugar, so do I.” Casey leaned forward and planted a kiss against my lips, blowing out the cancer smoke into my face. She pressed the gun against my stomach, “At least like this you went away with a kiss and a bang.”

The next moment everything started fading to black and the last thing I remember are her deep blue eyes. So calming and soothing, just a mirage.

A Love for a Tragedy

“She’s a bit weird, but worth it.” Was all the information my sister gave me before setting me up on a date with her friend, Kayla. I chose a nice little, quiet cafe and she said she’ll be there. I never met her before and hell, I had no idea what weird meant.

Kayla walked in and smiled at me. She looked perfectly normal wearing a pretty nondescript outfit and she didn’t really stand out. Guess her appearance wasn’t it, I thought. She sat down at the table and waved off the waitress, “Give us a minute. I have to decide if I’m staying.”

That was blunt. I had to give it to her, “Hi. I’m Alan. Nice to meet you—”

“Stop. I know your name. First let’s get something out of the way. You’ll listen to me and then you’ll give an answer to my question. It may seem strange but I need to know the man I’m potentially going to have inside me knows what he’s dealing with,” She said and looked at me without blinking the entire time.

“Sure.”

“Good,” She said. “Self destruction is a beautiful thing to humans. For what reasons I’m not sure, or maybe I am. We’ll get to that later. There’s something romantic about it isn’t it? The way we always romanticize drunks and junkies,” Kayla continued. “My first boyfriend was a damn drunk. He’d beat me up every time he drank.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Shut up,” She practically yelled at me, “I got into the relationship knowing he was a drunk, knowing he’s depressed. Soon he put his dirty claws into me and didn’t let me go. I believed him every time he apologized because he convinced me I was worthless without him. I got him into twelve steps three times, but he only ever managed to get to step three. Then he’d pick up the bottle again and beat me. He’s in prison now,” Kayle continued without a single ounce of emotion on her face.

I just kept listening, finding it hard to believe she was baring it all out.

“After that I told myself no more. I’d be with a man who would protect me and respect me. So I found myself a dealer. He was tall and strong, protective. I spent half of my time following him around shit holes and looking at half dead junkies, and the other half fucking in his shitty apartment. He didn’t beat me at least. I picked up a habit though, being surrounded by all that dope…it was bound to happen. So he kicked me out, saying he doesn’t want a junkie whore for his girl.”

Kayla took a few second to catch her breath and kept going, “That leads us to number three. He was a heroin addict, limp-dicked and very cute, in a certain light. We were both high all the damn time. Stole together, shot up together and were supposed to O.D. together. I woke up in a hospital, he never did.”

“And last is number four. I was clean for a year when I met him. He was suicidal. Haunted by…things. I fell in love within days. Tried to get him better, tried getting him into therapy, tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t just depressed. He was…a mess. Played Russian roulette once a week to see if luck was on his side. The last time…it wasn’t. I think I still love him,” She paused, emotional for the first time.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. What I was saying is…people love a tragedy. A fucked up story, the underdog, reject, loner. We all love a good sad story, but also a happy ending. And that’s what I wanted. To save them, to fix them, but you can’t save people, just be around while they save themselves. And if they don’t want to do it, it will be tragic,” Kayla said. “But I’d walk into every time because that promise of a happy ending is something you can’t pass up. The drunk is supposed to get clean and try to make up for all the damage he’s done, the drug dealer isn’t supposed to get shot over $50 worth of crack, the junkie is supposed to kick the habit and live happily ever after and the depressed boy gets help, and with the power of love and care he loves you forever.”

She looked me straight in the eye, “But life doesn’t usually work out that way. Not for me anyways.”

“So I’m asking. Will you be another tragedy? I don’t mind either way. And also, can I be yours? Just for once?”

“Sure. You seem very interesting,” I said.

“Good. Let’s order that coffee then.”

Riding Away

It’s 11:30; she should have been here already. Time goes by very slowly when you’re waiting on something, or someone. It’s funny, this little spot in the woods used to creep her out. Before I brought her here and we made some very nice memories together. That was years ago though, it’s all different now, overgrown.

I brought her here for our first real date, when I still had that old pick up truck. I’ll never forget that night. Just lying on our backs looking at the night sky. First time either of us had sex in a forest too. First times are always memorable.

It’s 11:35. Where is she? I look at my Fat Bob, wondering how many miles that big bike carried us already. If she shows up it should be a lot more. She has to show up. I told her this is the last time her father lays a hand on her, she packs whatever she can and meets me here. So many places she always wanted to see. All we need is gasoline and the road is wide open for us. Anywhere she wants I’ll go, just as far away from here.

It’s 11:40. She’s probably not showing. She’s not the one to be late. I walk over to my bike and sit on it, ready to drive away from everything. Put as much as distance from me and my past as humanely possible. A familiar hum of a motor stops me dead in my tracks. It’s her.

And sure as hell a pair of headlights makes it’s way across the small road to my right. The old, beaten down Ford stops a few feet away from me and my babe gets out. One of her eyes swollen shut, her lip busted open. She tries to hide it, but it’s too obvious even in this forest darkness.

“He caught you leaving?”

She just nods, taking the bags from the back seat, “It’s fine. Let’s just go.”

“No,” There’s a giant rage inside me. “I’ll go over there and show him what happens when you beat women.”

“It’s no use. Let’s just go. Let’s leave this place and never come back?”

“Sure, babe.” I say, “Hop on. We ain’t never coming back.”

And she does. She hops back on and grabs me with her arms, puts her helmet on. The motor turns over and the headlight illuminates the little road ahead. The little road leading to a big. And the big road leading to wherever we want to go.

I manage to overhear an audible ‘I love you’ as the bike rumbles and we take off. I guess things turn out okay sometimes, the women of my dreams holding onto me, the open road underneath us and a whole set of dreams the doors haven’t closed onto yet.

It ain’t much, but it’s something.

Somewhere Around Barstow, When Memories Start to Kick in

The waitress looked me all over. The leather jacket, the worn out jeans and my black boots. For a moment I thought I scared her, but I wasn’t wearing a patch so she figured I wasn’t in a motorcycle club and it was probably safe to come near me.

“What will you have, sugar?” She asked. I studied her pretty face and deep blue eyes. She was too pretty to work a joint like this, in a middle of nowhere on a highway no one cares about. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll have the french toast and some orange juice.”

She chuckled and flirted a little, or maybe she didn’t since she was a waitress after all, “Since when do bad bikers drink orange juice?”

For a second I thought about making a cheeky joke, go with it and see where it lands, but just 48 hours ago the love of my life decided to end things. It didn’t feel right, “I’m no bad biker, darling. I’m just a guy with a Harley.”

The waitress smiled again, “Ooh. Doesn’t matter. I like good bikers too.” Her look fell down as she said it and saw the shiny ring I had twirling in my hand, “Thinking about proposing? There’s a lot more fancier places.”

“Nah. This ring…she returned it to me just two days ago. It’s run it’s course.”

An awkward silence ensued and the girl decided to nod and get back to work. I continued playing with the damn ring and sipping on my orange juice. She came back after 10 minutes with my french toast and set it on the table.

“What happened between you two if you don’t mind me asking? You seem like quite a catch,” Once again she flirted.

I took a bite of my meal, “Well, there was a time when we were inseparable. We had plans. I’d buy a Harley and we would drive all the way to Louisiana. She always wanted to see New Orleans, then we’d go and see the desert, move up to California too. No restraints, no worries. Just the bike, her and me.”

“Seems like she had a change of mind.” The waitress said.

“Yeah. Somewhere between dream and reality she decided that a Benz, security and a nice place in a quiet neighborhood outrank a Harley and the open road,” I said. “Can’t blame her though. Everyone wants security. A nomad’s life isn’t a pretty one.”

I ate through all my french toast now and took my wallet out. As much as I liked talking to this pretty stranger I figured it was best to leave, “Here you go, darling.”

The waitress smiled, “Where to now?”

“Wherever I end up. I’ll ride around, see which place looks good. You never know where the road might take you.”

She smiled and took a small piece of paper, scrambled and address and a phone number, “If the road ever takes you to Barstow. Why don’t you visit me?”

I took the paper and smiled, got up and went for the door, “Sure, darling. I don’t know your name yet, doesn’t matter. If I ever decide to stop by in Barstow you’ll be my first stop.”

“Have a nice day and take care.” She said.

I put my helmet on and sat on the bike, looking at the open road ahead, the sun shining bright. I could go wherever I wanted. Just me, my bike and the vast beyond. Chances were I’d end up in Barstow sooner than later though, we all know I can’t resist a pair of nice eyes.

The engine came to life and I drove off trying to get as much distance as I could from me and all the troubles back home.