Ok...said I'd link you guys and gals to my eerie Biker thrillers I wrote some years ago for Bikernet webzine...so here are the links to all three of the stories. The formatting is, quite often, woeful...nothing to do with me. Also in Down South , at the end there is the line, "We're dead, they're not." Should read. "They're dead, we're not." Also the last chapter of Florida Haze is missing. I'll post it up in this thread in the next couple of days. Why is it missing? I have no freaking idea, been pointed out to the Bikernet staff any number of times. They paid me, I didn't pay them, so a helpless shrug is all I can offer. My writing has come a long way since I wrote those tales...so don't take take them as an indication of how I write today. I actually wrote Swamp Story back in the 80's for Easyriders magazine. One needs to read the stories in order, as they all link up to form a complete novella. Swamp Story. Down South. Florida Haze.
Wild Justice is a single, stand alone story.
Swamp Story: He paused, watching Travis remove the seat on his bike and produce a large, ugly looking revolver. The biker snapped open the cylinder and began to feed bullets into the chambers until all six were loaded. “Anyone ever been inside this mansion?” Travis asked. Sam Daniels shook his head. “I heard old Jake went out to the island one night. Came back half crazy. He was babblin’ and droolin’ some. Folks who listened to him said that he saw Leah downstairs naked and that she was……………” The rest of the sentence was cut off by a terrible scream. Travis whirled around, his loaded pistol at the ready and what he saw made his blood freeze! Daniels was hanging on the side of the pick-up, mouth open, making a primal noise of pure horror. Wrapped around his right leg was coiled the biggest Swamp Adder Travis had ever seen. It had sunk its fangs into Daniels crutch and even as Travis watched, the head reared back and it descended again, this time into the man’s lower stomach!
Down South: I’m a couple of inches under six feet myself but I’ve got a lot of manufactured muscle to make up for the size difference. I don’t have a flat top; in fact I don’t have any hair at all. I’ve got a shaven head burned brown by the sun. On the back there’s a tattoo, in bright luminous ink, of the Ghost Rider’s skull, haloed by flames. I’ve got more tats running from my shoulders down to my biceps. I’ve got scars on my cheekbones and my nose and the bony projections where my eyebrows are situated. I’m wearing a black leather vest with some unusual patches sewn onto it, no shirt, faded denims and rebel boots. I’ve got the face of a man people generally don’t want to fuck with.
Florida Haze: He fingered the trigger on his rifle nervously. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, coming here had not been such a great idea after all. Nothing of value appeared to have survived the intense fire either, he realised with disappointment. As he turned around to walk back across the fire-blackened hall, a dark shadow reared up behind him. A mighty blow from an unseen hand knocked the old man off his feet! Jake fell heavily against a fallen timber beam. His head felt like it had been split open, but the old man was tougher than he looked. He still grasped his rifle and somehow managed to roll over onto his back and face his attacker. His heart froze in his chest as he gazed up at the midnight black form that loomed over him! Red, disk like eyes, burned into his own. He opened his mouth to scream as a taloned hand reached out towards him. Iron fingers locked around his throat, his vision began to dim as they squeezed harder and harder. Old Jake’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped unmoving in the creatures grip. Nazzule gazed intently down into the old mans face. Satisfied, it concentrated and its form began to lose the solidity of a few moments ago. Wraith-like once more the dark shadow merged with the old mans body. In seconds only the old mans form remained in the room. His eyes opened. Old Jake climbed to his feet. He looked at the rifle in his hand and, with a contemptuous heave, threw it away from himself. He turned his head from side to side. Flexed his hands and shrugged his shoulders. Took a long, deep, breath. Burning red eyes looked past the boundaries of the burnt out mansion and settled on the boat tied up at the wharf. Without a backward glance, Nazzule began to walk away from the mansion in the swamp that had been its prison for so long.
Wild Justice: It’s better if you don’t know my name. Better for you, and certainly better for me. I’m the person you hear about on the news sometimes, or read about in the newspapers. I’m probably one of the most wanted people in America. Wanted by State and local Police Forces, the FBI, hell the CIA and the NSA for all I know.
I think you're right jaq - that Down South is a great wee snippet. Didn't need anything as far as I could see.
I've always liked my openeing scene in Down South. The old geezer at the gas pump, the girl, the cop.
I was riding around America for 3 months in their summer of 2005. I came across plenty of steel tough bikers who wouldn't think twice about punching out a cop. A hundred of us were parked up alongside the road at Mt Rushmore. ('Cause it was US $8 bucks to get a single bike parking spot inside the Mt R carpark. ) A county mountie (local trooper) cruises by in his squad car, loudspeaker on. "Now come on folks. Ya'all know you cain't be parking here. Ya'all move those bikes along or I'll hafta ticket ya." Two big, bearded bikers in their 40's stepped forwards. "Hey...(one guy jerks his thumb in the direction the trooper is driving in)...F..k off! A...hole!" The trooper blinks, gives them a startled look, winds up his powered window...and f..ks off. I was laughing out loud, as were most of those assembled. I mean really...a hundred of us...what's he going to do?