Shaking off The Night Before And Rumor Control
Marko’s push broom shoved brass shell-casings and beer-soaked sawdust into the corner of the hardwood deck. The dining room remained quiet as Nyla stood on a step stool and patched bullet holes with spackle.
Early in the fog soaked morning the Pistoleros fired up their bikes, refueled and hit the bricks to dodge rush hour traffic. The Arizona border in their sites, with thoughts of riding without the restrictions of helmets, they pondered the experience at Bandit’s Cantina and club business at home.
Indian John finished his steaming plate of Chinaman cooked chriso and eggs. In silence the brother without a voice hugged Bandit and Marko, pounded his chest with his right gloved hand and signed the shape of a large heart in the air, then pointed at Bandit, indicating in his unique fashion, his love and respect for the Cantina Crew.
As the sun attempted to split the soft gray mist hanging over San Pedro, the staff quietly departed. The night, long and stressful, rolled slowly to a warm conclusion. All for the best.
Marko slept like an sheep dog after a long drive, in his single apartment next to the warf’s edge. He set his H-D piston alarm clock for 5:00 p.m. His next assignment called for prepping the Cantina to open for Happy Hour at 6:00. He had no notion of what the wake-up call would bring.
An incessant tapping on his door jarred his senses at 4:30 in the afternoon. He spun, wearing only black boxer shorts, and opened the steel door. A buxom bouncy biker broad pushed her way in.
“You didn’t call me?” Christine said. She worked at a local H-D dealership in sales. She professed to know everything and everyone in the industry. She attempted to take up residence with Marko unsuccessfully a year prior.
“Why?” Marko muttered turning his back to her and snapping on his coffee maker.
“Oh that,” Marko exclaimed unconvincingly and turned to face her soft features around jagged searching eyes.
“You have to tell me all about it,” she demanded bubbling over with curiosity. Peeling her tank-top off, she unsnapped her black bra and press her equally bubbly tits against his chest and hugged him.
“I heard someone was shot?” she hummed as her soft nipples responded to his hairy pecs.
Attempting adjustment to the infusion of razor sharp, violent memories, Marko wasn’t awake enough to analyze each weapon, position or aggressive maneuver, just yet. It was his job as head of Cantina security, but it would take time and slow plodding thought. He also knew that any report to Christine would pierce the afternoon gossip, cell phone communication network as fast as last night’s automatic-weapon fire. He shoved her toward his queen-sized bed. She quit questioning while air-born toward a soft springy landing. He yanked off her riding boots and pulled off her soft black spandex, skin-tight slacks. Finally her ruby thong underwear snapped over her tight ass and he buried his face in her quivering pussy, to her unending delight. She spread her legs, arched her back and moaned as if it was her first tongue lickin’.
Marko knew that while he fucked her, the interrogation would end.
Don’t miss the next episode of Bandit’s Cantina: Rumor control jams the Cantina with tourists swarming to see remnants of the OK Coral shoot-out the night before. One groupie is a young female reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gusset. She drills incessant questions at Nyla. Find out how her night ends…
