Neither man could have cared less about the state of the world. There was a highway in front of them and time proven scooters between their knees. It only mattered that they were moving against a cold wind pressing hard against flapping leathers and, that no matter what their differences might be, the other man was there. That was important because somewhere inside of both men was a tiny spark that drove each to soar freely at any cost, understanding the high price of a tiny bit of freedom, unmindful of how fleeting or scant life might be.
They were grayed, scarred, weathered veterans of a long orphaned war, and the last thing on either mind was terrorizing the next group of people that crossed their paths. The younger of the two rode bare headed and he let his shoulder length hair wave free in the cold, night breeze; the other man wore a bandanna over his balding, short-haired head. The night air lowered the temperatures inside their leathers and slapped at their bearded and goggled features without mercy, but it merely made the night run worth the trouble. It only exhilarated the twin phantoms as they cut holes in the wind and left swiftly dwindling thunder as the only proof of their passage.
"Iii-eeeee!" The first man forgot himself and screamed his love for the monster beneath him and the rough highway that stretched beyond the headlights. He shot a self-conscious glance at his companion before he threw his head back and laughed maniacally.
"Oww!" The second man screamed like an Indian, "Oww! Oww, oww, oowwww!" "Iii-eeeee!" "Oww, oww, oowwww!"
And thus they passed from view.
The night air dealt with their revelry in the same manner as it treated
the lives of all the brothers, past and present, who thundered white-hot
iron down darkened highways on cold nights. Exploding into view, always
moving, short-lived, too soon faded, and much too quickly forgotten.
(c) 1998 DeadReaper Fine Arts All Rights Reserved
May not be reused without written permission of author.