The smell of Wild Turkey mixed with the spicy boiling Top Ramen scent on Iron Buffalo’s single apartment stove. A loner, he worked for Custom Chrome, lifted weights and tinkered with his only major possession: a hot rod chopper. He sipped the drink as he stirred the vegetables and steak-chunks and thought about his recent wild relationship. Everything sizzled.
Iron Buffalo stumbled into this knockout broad on a brisk Saturday morning in a near-empty gym on the outskirts of Morgan Hill, California. She jogged on a squeaking Stairmaster alone for an hour while listening to an I-pod. Iron Buffalo suited up, stretched and warmed-up undetected by the dazzling, bobbing blue eyes staring out to the street beyond.
Iron Buffalo noticed her form immediately. She was brunette and although her hair was rubber band-restricted, he discerned a full, naturally wavy amber mane. Her striking features glowed and her body would melt battleships. Every voluptuous curve ranked on the double-digit scale. She was in fantastic shape, with defined arms and thighs, but she still held onto a glorious natural womanly softness. Her facial features screamed to Iron Buffalo, “Outta your league.”
Iron Buffalo wasn’t a slouch, bad looking or uneducated. He served his country, in Iraq, graduated with an associate degree on line while in the field, but he had a record: a prior drug problem and a nowhere history. He tried to ignore the quivering vixen while pushing weights in Sam’s Iron Pile Gym. It wasn’t a Baileys or World Gym and he wondered what the hell she was doing in the sweat stained, rusting cast-iron torture chamber.
Just six months prior he faced six years in the pen for a violent drug-induced fight. He hit bottom hard and struggled. If he went away, his life could have taken a turn for the hubs of hell. He was on the brink of disaster and reached out. He tried Christian Biker clubs but was suspicious of their intent. He wasn’t a religious man, but he needed a path to the positive side of the tracks. The brothers showed him his first glimmer of hope, but he struggled for a code he could believe in.
He burned through his workout like a steroid pumped pitbull. Working out was a guiding light. Every workout was positive for his mental and physical wellbeing. Sweat poured from every orifice as he slammed through easy-bar curls, dumbbell curls, and incline curls. Four sets and four exercises per muscle group was his formula for strength. Then he hit triceps with dips, cable pulls, rope pulls and dumbbells pushed over his head. He panted like a racehorse after the final lap. His name came from bikers who recognized his size and American Indian Heritage. He was tall and 240 pounds. His hair was long and dark, and his face was naturally tanned and scarred from years of fights and drug deals gone sour.
Nearly finished with a two-hour workout, he noted a change in the morning air. Suddenly there was a shift in the noise level. He turned abruptly. She was gone, like a flowering blossom blown away by an errant gust of wind. He snatched his soaked sweat towel and headed to the drinking fountain. He guzzled water as if he was a lost French Foreign Legionnaire soldier stumbling into a water bound oasis.
Suddenly a shadow cast a darker haze over the stainless steel fountain and Iron Buffalo stood up, face to face with the sweating goddess in skin-tight spandex. Her heavy breathing caused her massive bolt-ons to reach for Iron Buffalo’s chest like two torpedo magnets.
“Can I have a drink?” She panted.
Iron Buffalo suddenly couldn’t tell if he was sweating from his workout or embarrassment and the heat radiating from her lascivious form. His mind whirled with numerous cocky retorts, but he calmed himself, bowed slightly, while maintaining eye contact and stepped back without a word.
“Thank you,” she said and bent over the fountain.
That did it. Her ass was more perfect than a ripe peach. She stood upright, turned away, and his composure was gone.
“Bullshit,” he said, grabbed her elbow and spun her around. He pushed her back against the gym bulletin board wall which was scattered with event posters and flyers.
“You’re a knockout!” Iron Buffalo said. “You may be outta my league, but I’m attracted, and I’m aware it’s just an enticing first impression, but a damn strong one. Let’s cut the bullshit. Are you available?”
He freed her and she stepped away from the cold concrete wall startled, staring into Iron Buffalo’s dark stony eyes… eyeball to eyeball. They stared dazed and scrambled, as if dueling radar scanners searching and evaluating every sense, flinch, twitch and sound. An aura like a blanket surrounded them as they mentally tested the visual and auditory waters.
All senses shifted from investigation to attraction, as if a magnetic field was energized. At 5’7” she rocked on her heals slightly, her crimson cheeks tilted up and ruby lips reached for Iron Buffalo’s. He kissed her gently as if still searching. Their lips met but with a level of respect and tenderness that surpassed simple lust, and a connection was made.
“Saturday night?” She said.
“That’ll be fine,” Iron Buffalo responded.
She turned to the cork bulletin board at her back and snatched a tassel off a cut flier housing a series of printed numbers. Their eyes met once more. This time she bowed ever so slightly with respect, handed him the slip of paper, turned and disappeared into the women’s locker room. He looked at the slip of paper and the flier, April, Personal Trainer. Okay, her connection to the gym made sense.
A chill ran up Iron Buffalo’s spine as he stirred the spicy soup and thought about the wanton weeks following. Just the thought of her pegged his lust meter. The notion of spending time with her made his watch spin double-time. She slipped delicately under his skin and was lodged against his heart.
Iron Buffalo’s phone rang right on their preset call dating schedule, for a quick bite at her home, a drink and a full night of nakedness consuming one another.
“Yep?” Chance said.
“Honey,” April said.
Iron Buffalo immediately detected hesitancy in her voice, a lack of lustful exuberance.
“Yes, baby,” Iron Buffalo, responded.
“I can’t see you tonight,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I just can’t … It's my cat.”
Iron Buffalo noted the lack of upbeat harmony and joy in her tone, then something in the background. It was harsh, like a violent snap from a leather whip. Was it a voice? Something quivered in his spine, like a bad ground on a motorcycle starting circuit. A connection was missed or something or someone interfered.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
“Please,” she said and hung up.
That did it. Iron Buffalo noted pleading in the words. Then it dawned on him. She mentioned,”Cat.” He chugged the tumbler of whiskey and slammed it on the counter. He turned off the gas flame under the dented pan and jogged to his room. He initiated a code with any girl he cared about. If they were in a jam, needed help but couldn't talk, mention, “Cat.” He quickly suited in riding gear and readied for the road in five minutes. She was his path to a better life in a physical form and more radiant than field of blossoming sunflowers. She gave him peace, direction and hope, but she was in San Jose during rush-hour traffic.
Iron Buffalo snatched a decade old leather vest, slipped on Gussett Jeans, old cowboy boots and a sweatshirt. He grabbed his key, cell phone, KD night shades, a .32 caliber Walther PPK, deerskin gloves and his shorty helmet, crawled out his back window and ran for the garage. Yanking open his the rickety wood door, the Paughco springer and rigid framed chopper sat center stage, as if a riot shotgun in the middle of a gun cabinet. It was ready.
His cell phone blinked. One text message was indicated on the screen. No one sent him text messages… Options, point to read and he pressed the button. “Help,” clicked onto the screen in a split second, like the arming trigger on a two-ton bomb.
Before he was concerned, suddenly he fumed with terror. He flipped the petcock to “on,” snapped the choke to “on,” turned on the ignition with a small brass key, and prayed for one kick. It took three, and he spit on the concrete deck and straddled the rumbling, 93-inch S Shovelhead engine coupled to the rear wheels with a Rev Tech Transmission. The front end bounced as he rolled through the watery gutter into the street and nailed the throttle. He flew toward the 101 freeway. He peeled through a yellow to red light and hit the on-ramp at 75 mph.
April lived on the north side of San Jose, where the freeway split and the asphalt was cracked from 20 years of construction and abuse. Traffic backed up as soon as Iron Buffalo hit the concrete freeway. The rigid framed motorcycle was set up for splitting lanes with narrowed TT bars and tall risers. The aluminum XR 750 gas tank was narrow and so were the exhaust. He screamed into the maze of taillights and exhaust fumes as if it was a long term parking lot outside the San Francisco airport. He ground his teeth as he peeled past 10 mph, 2000 pound steel cars, at 75 mph as if he was flying through an empty sweeping tunnel in Zion National Park. He didn’t care. He needed to be at her side and much as she needed him.
His mind swam with visions of April’s silken thighs, a smile that swelled his heart and waves of amber locks he loved to smell like a bed of blooming roses. She glued his life together like a mission from god. He never felt so alive, loved and cared for. She never discussed an ex, a bad former boss or an abusive parent.
She lived just off the freeway near the industrial side of town under a noisy martial arts dojo, in an old clothing manufacturing plant, turned lofts. She resided peacefully for three years in a unit divided building and listened to the nightly wail of kids and adult Muy Thai and kick-boxing classes pounding on training bags. The deep thumping connected to exuberant squeals filled each evening. Then the crushing sound of train metal wheels against cast iron tracks jarred the late night, the deafening air horns and thunder/powerful rumble of locomotives.
At 10:00 p.m. like clockwork, the weary students filed out to their cars and returned to semi-conductor suburbia and she was alone, except for the trains and or occasional drug deals or cars being stripped by street gangs and left for dead on the unlit industrial streets.
Iron Buffalo pulled on the throttle like a madman on horseback yanking on the reins of a tired horse while being chased by an angry posse. A Jap compact edged into his narrow path between lanes in an attempt to change lanes, and Iron Buffalo stood on his Brembo brakes. The 80 mph bike set his Avon tires on fire, squealing with the pain and anguish tearing at his heart, and the compact jolted back into his or her lane. Without a sneer he snatched his Mikuni carb throttle open once more and blasted past like a man possessed.
Several cars pulled right and left in their lanes to allow the motorcyclist safe passage. He usually acknowledged the courtesy with a wave, but not this bleary night. The vast San Jose freeway contained a maze of treacherous, menacing obstacles in a stretch of unrelenting construction threatening never to end. Jammed interchanges, concrete super structures, heavy equipment, barriers, closed off ramps, temporary warning signs, non-existent emergency lanes and crap from bay area squalor tossed alongside the road, lined the turbulent lanes. San Jose lay at the southern junction to a 10 million strong mid-California Bay Area community. He faced the coming interchange of Highway 101, the 280, 680 and 880 freeways.
A mid-sixties Plymouth swerved recklessly into the number two-lane and unleashed a 30 mph steel hubcap. It spun from its iron home and dropped smack onto the abrasive concrete below with a terrible clang. Cars swerved and Iron Buffalo considered slowing, but nailed it instead. His mission was love, burning desire and terror. No fuckin’ hubcap was going to stop him. It spit sparks, darting along the rough asphalt like a drunk on a unicycle.
Iron Buffalo focused on the cars on either side for aberrant behavior, panic or treacherous evasive maneuvers. The kids playing grabass in the sedan swerved, as if they might attempt to chase their missing wheel cover.
Iron Buffalo tucked in, ground his teeth determined and approached the rattling steel disk narrowing his already treacherous pathway to her side. His handmade shotgun pipes were mounted high for optimum ground clearance but his lightening-hole drilled, 75 mph, foot peg caught the stainless dancing cap and launched it against the Plymouth’s quarter-panel. The roar of the chopper coupled with the searing noise of the tin plate against the side of the car was deafening, but he escaped. He needed to cross four, bumper-to-bumper lanes and switch freeways and he had to move fast.
No woman ever treated Iron Buffalo like April. She was at his side when he needed her. She supported his every effort. She was driven, clean, had class, quality and was sexy beyond his wildest imagination. For the first time in his life he found someone who understood the Code of the West, the meaning of life and contained a sexual chemistry that melted the paint off bedroom walls.
There was no way Iron Buffalo would loose that sensation for two seconds. He was determined to treat her with the respect of queens, the love of god and the tenderness of a pussycat. Every time she entered his space he glowed like a kid on Christmas day receiving his first bicycle. His fingertips were delighted every second they danced along her wrist or over her sumptuous boobs. He couldn’t get enough of her. He sat close at restaurants, pulled her close in a car and dreaded being separated at the gym.
The Shovelhead wasn’t fancy, no chrome or deep candy paint, but it ran like a jack rabbit with a shotgun pointed its direction, and it was built to fight any road obstacle. It was 93 inches of bare bones.
As he found his first opening and peeled across the number two-lane, his gloved hands hung tight to the bars. Then he slithered between number two and three lanes. His unwritten rule called for lane splitting only between the fast lane and number two. Other lanes were more dangerous with inattentive folks moving toward off ramps on the right. It meant dancing along the border of 18-wheeler territory, narrowing his lane space. Attempting to split lanes between a massive Humvee and an 18-wheeled truck, alongside trailer-wheels as tall as his rattling aluminum gas tank was shear suicide, but Iron Buffalo ducked the sprawling Humvee’s stainless mirror and kept his throttle pressed on 80 mph.
Iron Buffalo counted the miles. He was less than five minutes from April’s side, yet every second was uncertain. The California sunset reduced visibility. His single 4-inch in diameter headlight dueled with thousands of taillights and construction zone spotlights unsuccessfully and vibrated to the rhythm of the rugged road surface. He had ¼-mile to weave through two more congested lanes onto the 680 freeway. Cars and trucks jockeyed for position, changing lanes and weaving for their place in the world of asphalt.
“The Bastards,” Iron Buffalo muttered over the thundering roar of his chopper reverberating off the surrounding steel. Just ahead in the dim evening light silhouettes a cell phone jabbering woman in a Cadillac Escalade changed lanes without signaling, into the path of a Yellow Freight semi hauling two 40-foot loaded containers. Truck brakes squealed, trailer brakes lit up and all 18-wheels spewed smoked. Even at 35 mph the truck lurched and jack-knifed. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air as the surrounding passengers vehicle pilots panicked.
April’s industrial hovel where she sculpted clay, made ceramics and studied art, contained two entrances. An industrial roll-up steel door rattled its tin existence every time she pushed the remote button in her car. Apart from the steel security the accordion door afforded, she had a standard workshop sized steel sheeted door she rarely used except to occasionally step outside to water two giant ceramic pots housing Birds of Paradise plants. They rarely bloomed in the concrete and exhaust-fume-filled atmosphere, but they added color and life to the otherwise gray surroundings.
Occasionally martial arts students stood on the curb shooting the shit before and after class. One in particular made lascivious comments about April’s tight fitted form as she bent over the pots to feed them plant food and water. The other students grinned and nodded as her narrow waist lifted her tightly contained hourglass ass and her large pendulous boobs dangled seductively.
He watched her intently for weeks, monitoring her single living conditions and sweet demeanor. He remained outside that evening after class and picked the rusty lock to her front door.
Jade was 19 years old, part Samoan and 250 pounds at only 5’7”. As a kid he was ridiculed as an obese Suma wrestler until violence became a way of leveling the playing field. Taunters were attacked blindly after school and beat half to death with two-by-fours and clubs. The harassment ended, but so did any prospects of friendship and dates never materialized. Without social skills and with the reputation of an insanely violent postal worker, he was deprived of most human contact except for disparaging teachers who were duty-forced to confront him with his poor academic scores.
An anti-social with pent-up hormones, he trained hard, but lacked poise and integrity in his moves. He slipped his wide lumbering bulk into April’s loft wearing his training ghee and sandals. He wandered around her pottery kiln and spinning table, to a covered sculpture keeping the clay moist. He unveiled it and witnessed her likeness of the man she loved. The bust was striking and the Samoan sneered at the form similar to the biker he once saw follow April into the studio.
Then he heard the industrial door shake, then rattle its opening procedure. He ducked into April’s kitchen uncertain of his next move. He caught her completely off guard, carrying a bag of groceries. Lashing his brown heavy cotton workout belt around her tender neck. He yanked her completely off her feet, spewing groceries, glass juice containers and canned goods around the concrete deck. He slapped her violently before she could regain composure. Nearly losing consciousness, she fought to stay awake. He tore at her flimsy workout shirt and ripped it away from her performance bra. Her breast heaved against the resilient fabric and pushed at the hem. The soft area around her left eye immediately swelled to form a purple black eye.
“Not a word,” he said panting and staring angrily into her baby blue eyes. He threatened to hit her again and she succumbed.
The phone rang. “If I don’t answer, he’ll come,” April muttered flinching, suspecting another blow.
“Tell him not tonight,” Jade said and spit in her face. “You’re mine tonight.”
Iron Buffalo spotted a fleeting opening at the back of the screaming trailer and leaned right. One black Mustang skidded sideways. The Yellow Freight shipping cab rear-ended the Cadillac and havoc ensued. Iron Buffalo aimed the 21-inch front wheel off the freeway toward the emergency lane and went for it. Cars skidded to avoid the accident in progress and Iron Buffalo ran for the border.
He peeled onto the shoulder nearly launching him from the sprung seat in the dip separating the active lanes from the asphalt safety zone scattered with debris. The 500-pound motorcycle careened through the rubble and dust into a hill of slippery ice plant. He dragged his right cowboy boot, holding tight to the bars and yanking the motorcycle back towards the asphalt terror. Onlookers watched the rear tire dig in, sliding to the right, and spitting moist particles of the succulent into the sky. Partial traction regained as his Avon dug in, he slid towards the freeway.
Iron Buffalo’s brain was ablaze with images of April’s tenderness, mixed with anger and fear. His eyes were crimson with adrenaline and intensity, as he ran along the filthy emergency lane, bouncing back into the right lane towards the next off ramp. His concern became rage laced with the challenge of asphalt torment. A siren wailed behind him, but he didn’t bother inspecting his vibrating rearview mirror. He kept going. One off ramp to go…
He flew up the familiar escape ramp at 80 mph, ignored the red light at the intersection and turned left. He knew the turn onto the overpass, but not at that extreme speed. He leaned for all he was worth. The rigid frame was raked to 35 degrees and the 9-inch over front-end housed 3 extra degrees in the trees. He leaned hard, but it wasn’t enough. He purposely built in plentiful ground clearance, but his kickstand dragged sending a shower of sparks to the stern.
The overpass was under construction and bordered by massive portable 4-foot ta;; concrete barriers. His trusty careening sword neared the edge. If he impacted the tons of concrete, it wouldn’t budge but launch him over to the school of metal sharks below. He pushed down at the bars like a flat track racer and slammed his leather-soled cowboy boot against the pavement. The kickstand screamed, but gave way to the desires of the chassis.
His unprotected front engine pulley was next as he neared the apex of the corner and slid through the turn. One intersection light and a right turn lay ahead and he’d be at her side.
Jade whipped April unmercifully, fondling her body, but he was young and inexperienced, which enraged him even more. She pleaded to use the restroom where she could text Iron Buffalo. She promised to teach the young madman the sexual ropes and he simmered, but his world was filled with mistrust, uncertainties and insecurity.
When she came out of the bathroom he slapped her again, knocking her to the floor. He pushed and prodded her to the bedroom and lashed her violently to the bed. He tore her clothes away, then he heard a sharp crack and the screaming Harley in the distance.
“He’s coming,” Jade muttered angrily and whipped her with the tightly stitched belt, and she screamed out loud for the first time. She too heard the familiar rumble she looked forward to each night, and knew…
With each intersection the noise increased as the thundering motorcycle gained speed and gobbled distance. Iron Buffalo flew down the quiet industrial street surrounded by concrete buildings. At over 100 miles per hour he blasted through the intersection, and in a spilt second veered around an old homeless women pushing a packed rusting grocery cart across the street.
He nailed the brakes as his turn approached and slid on smoking tires before he turned on C Street. The dark street was only lit by the second story dojo lights, but it was teaming with martial arts student scrambling down their metal stairs in pure white ghees. They formed an open path to April’s front door as they heard the thundering motorcycle approach.
As Iron Buffalo slowed, surrounded by a gang of clamoring students of various ages, several adult students and masters dragged Jade from April’s studio and into the street. The sound of his motorcycle, Jade’s reaction and April’s scream echoing through the dojo, brought the students running. Iron Buffalo rode directly into her loft, jumped from his bike and ran to her side. Their fleeting lives were jolted but still intact.
Loud pipes save lives.
