More Wild Road Tales

Razor Ray opened a bloodshot eye and groaned. It wasn’t bad enough thathis three day-speed binge and Jack Black hangover made his head feel asif the points of a million stilettos were tapping on the inside of hisbrain pan. It wasn’t bad enough that the insides of his eyelids felt as ifthey were being eaten […]

The jukebox was playing Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Freebird. The tempo was picking up, and Bo, a young biker/stranger in this small berg, reached out to pick up a little something himself. Linda Lou, a hot looking local number that regularly melted strangers, had been shaking her tits at him for the past two or three songs,

Wednesday night, Mick rolled his bobbed ’92 Dyna onto his table lift and pulled up a battered bar stool to begin checking the performance machine over from end to end. Mick was single, alone, and tired from a day deep in mud and sludge in the oil fields. He lived in a small industrial complex

It was just another boring day on the job, but at least it was Thursday, so he was over the hump. The security guard sat watching the monitors that were hooked into the perimeter surveillance system. There had been a few friends of the family coming and going, plus the pool man and gardeners, but

… they jumped in the cab of Bobby’s pickup, and peeled out of the lot and onto the coast highway, heading south. There was only one road to travel from town to town in the redwood region. The winding Pacific Coast Highway skirted along the sheer precipices high above the jagged, coastal landscape. Below, the

Stormin’ Norman slammed his mug on the bar. “Fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled, tossing the thick, empty beer glass against the mirror behind the bar. Both shattered instantly. Exploding shards of glass blanketed the bar, bartender, and barmaid. Norman was big and burly. Some called him Bear. He wore a fringed leather jacket with strips of

Sticky shards of beer bottle splashed against his face as Harrison rolled in the soiled sawdust to escape a worn, pointed cowboy boot. His troubled mind whirled. What was he doing diving towards the cigarette butt-strewn deck of the cowboy bar anyway?Less than a half hour before he pulled his ’78 Shovelhead up to the

He stepped into the chilly night, the clean air a welcomechange for his abused lungs after the stuffy confines of the tavern. To counter the shocking effects of pure oxygen, he fumbled in his jacketpocket for the crumpled pack of Luckys. He pulled out abent but unbroken smoke and fired up the Zippo lighter, revelingin

Part I Francis “Ace” Calhoun awoke with the fear, accompanied by guilt, which was a bit odd. It wasn’t that Ace didn’t have plenty to feel guilty about. In his 32 years, he had been involved in as much debauchery as any 10 pimps or con men. He had slept with his best friend’s wife

  Nobody knew Buzzard’s real name. There was a reason for this; if you had aname like Horace Hieronymous Toozfetz, you probably wouldn’t go aroundadvertising it either. Some people might say that it’s a bit of anoverreaction to become an outlaw biker just because your parents gave you aname you didn’t like. Of course, the