C'mon, there's nothing for us here. Let's take one more slide down into the mud and blood and meat and adrenaline of real life, roaring engines and wind blasting our faces and show the citizens some class. Then we'll end sitting at midnight on that splintery wooden picnic table behind that rathole biker bar up over the border at that boondocks-asphalt T-intersection, all road grease and creaking wear-tanned leather and scarred combat boots, each of us in our own way howling at the full moon. We'll pour down some smoky Bourbon and warm ourselves over the heat of women who don't care about the aches and scars and grey, or are paid enough to get over it. We fade, old friend, because our family has faded and died and the remainders and new crews compare as a squirrel fart to a tornado. Our tribe is gone, and there are no others. Age has finally fucking civilized us when nothing else could. You're the last, you know, and at that only a ghost of unraveling memory. So, my ephemeral brother, drag your limping grey carcass and rheumy eyes on over here and we'll sit in the silvery dark and talk like the old days and snarl at the wannabes and RUBs, and drink to the howling ancient gods no one hears anymore.
In Our Next Episode: I dunno. Gonna get on my bike and go places I haven't been in awhile. So, probably some road grime you've seen before. Us old guys do that a lot. Pretend they're new stories, and it will be fine.
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