Like a latter-day Errol Flynn, Zeke was a swashbuckling bastard astride his throbbing steel steed. Prone to waxing eloquent at the most propitious times, Zeke intoned a lustful ditty. "Blazen on the Poot Bah, the Nucleic diddle on the Zots. I be yoked to your twang matter and a prisoner of the Choaf." Zeke could charm the skivvies off a nun. The chiquitas were snorting like horny heifers, all goosey-bumped and tingly. At the first crook of his gnarled and chewed on finger, the trio of en fuego nasty nymphets were all over him with a mad frenzy of thigh rubbing, neck licking, arm pit snurffleing, choad scarfing, and hip humping. It was a delightful debauch in hellishly hot, barren, boring Boron.

Boron is one of those tired out desert spots in the road, (not enough population to be called a town) that clung to existence by selling expensive muddy gas, Korean-made day-glo Navajo kachina tchotchke, out-of-date California road maps, ragged sheets of mystery meat jerky, tart-garish postcards of Disneyesque desert vistas in a spinning wire rack, a variety ersatz Cowboy and Indian paraphernalia perpetuating a Hollywood myth of musk scented manly perseverance, high-kitsch heathen blood lust and politically correct bootstrap independence, and Scully/Muldar/Roswell inspired, tweaked and tarnished space alien trinkets.

Zeke didn't give a shit for culture, trinkets or otherwise. The Booty Bar was an oasis from a hot ride. He needed to get lost. The Mojave desert was the kind of place you could get lost in. It's not just the size of it or the seeming emptiness; there is a tantalizing, mystical strangeness to it. Reality was an illusive lilt that could seduce the minds eye like the flash of scarlet underside of a hawk's wing against a turquoise sky.

"Hallucination is just a state of mind," laughed the wrinkled as a saguaro cactus old Indian in the corner of the Boron Booty Bar. "It's the heat," he giggled obscurely, more to himself than Zeke. "There's a chrome-titted banshee on the Punjab." The old man's black beady eyes twinkled with glee. "She'll be throwin' a lip lock on the mushy parts of yer' medulla oblongata when yer' yeast rises. You'll see, you'll see," he turned his sun-wrinkled bull scrotum face to Zeke. "Rainbows, ribbons, sultry sequins, roarin' and rumblin', firebreathin' hedonists…They gonna' get ya!" The old man threw back his head as he giggled hysterically. He stumbled out the door and into the desert, his high-pitched hysterical laughter turning to the yipping cackle of a serenading coyote.

Zeke and the three girls shivered in unison as if a winters wind had blown in the door, when the last of the old man's yipping died away. Zeke was not usually one to succumb to the panty-waist fears of things-that- go-bump-in-the-night. He had done a lot of night bumpin' himself. But here he was, on the run, in this weird-assed bar, in this weird-assed town, in the middle of this weird as William Burrough's rectum desert. He was dancing on the keen edge of life's razor blade.

He had ridden, with great aplomb some would say, like the madman he is from the lusty luau of Los Angeles with the LAPD (Nazi division), hot on his tail like a cherry-red poker probing his Hershey highway. Those humorless, fascist-thug-assholes seemed to take offense at his middle-digit turn signal as he peeled a doughnut U-turn worthy of a Winter Olympics 9.9 at the intersection of Cahuenga and Doheny in downtown Hollywood. Sure it was like teasing a couple of rabid pit bulls, but what the fuck are you gonna' do on a hot Saturday night? The Splooty man was blessed with the kind of perverse sense of humor that gave rise to a yeastful cornucopia of yuks. The neon glitter of trendy, tacky, tainted East Hollywood was coldly echoed off the robot-like Ray-Ban sunglasses of the cops. Turning their chiseled jaws like "Jurassic Park" raptors, the cops smelled fresh meat.

The game was afoot. Zeek spun the throttle back to full bore and maxed out the revs. Zeek kicked in the nitrous oxide bottle. Flames shot out the Bartel's exhaust like dragon breath igniting cigarette butts and pieces of paper in the road. He clung on to the handlebars for dear life, the G-forces pulling against his body with un-challengeable gravity-defying cosmic power. As he turned a corner, the hairy arm of centrifugal force grabbed his body and tried to fling him in another direction.

By the time the robo-cops had wheeled around their black and white bucket of bolts, Zeek was out of sight. But the high-pitched scream of his bike was unmistakable, so they followed the sound. Excited by the exotic-ness of the chase, the boys in blue were absolutely salivating with glee at the thought of a chase with some adventure. They radioed for tactical intervention, tack strips, helicopter surveillance, armored vehicles, mace, manacles and M-16's. They were running amok and running behind.

By the time Zeek was comfortably far away from Hollywood he was turning onto the Antelope Valley cut-off. By now he had to keep his feet on the front pegs, the exhaust was so hot that the pipes glowed cherry red. Even though he had eluded "L.A.'s (sic) Finest", he decided to take off for the desolate expanse of the desert and cool it in the heat. That's how he ended up at the Boron Booty Bar.

The Booty Bar reeked from stale beer, staler piss, rotting Slim-Jims, putrid pickled eggs, 30 wt motor oil, and the combined Sploot spunk and cunt cider from 48 hours of marathon happy harlot humping and crazed cunt lapping. The Zeekster could never get enough of that cute cooze cookie. The girls were hot as Hades sex troopers too.

Taking a momentary break from the hedonistic high jinks, Zeke leaned against his infamous, hellish Harley, absently stroking the snot slick surface of the fat gas tank. The stylishly gothic presence of his Milwaukee-made monster belied the tough as nails, fast as a rocket chopped scooter he rode. Under the black as death, powder coated frame and eerily animated enamel/lacquer crinkle-coat paint that looked like the living flesh of a Manta Ray, Zeek had altered, trained, teased, tuned, and tormented out the screaming-ist two-cylinder machine on Earth. The soft-tailed frame had Ride-Lo shock extenders that made the bike so low, wadded up cigarette packs would get hung-up under the frame. In addition to the Patrick Racing engine with shaved heads and shaped the ports, Zeke had added a single-fire ignition, a titanium crank, and dual carbs with a super-charger. There were a few other top-secret personal touches the Zekester added to tweak every last ounce of 'bad to the bone' street nastiness out of motorcycle engineering possible. Zeek stared at the scene before him with red-rimmed, sex-sated eyes. In the middle of the bar room floor, the three women rolled around like a wad of rabid ferrets; punching, screaming, clawing, gouging, panting, scratching, biting, heaving, cussing and generally slapping the shit out of each other. As one of the raven haired, firm bodied, ample bosomed, plum nippled, tauntress' of the desert was about to land a tooth smiting, jaw shattering right cross, the fly bead curtain at the front door clattered like rattling bones. Stumbling into the fray, Loopo McTood, shambled into the midst of the melee of the catfight.

"Top of the morning to ya'," he grinned at the knotted trio of sweating and squirming young taquito tarts. It wasn't the titillating tatas heaving with exhaustion that captured his attention, but rather the cool, foamy nectar dripping from the spigot of the beer tap just at Zeeks elbow. A conspiratorial glee danced upon his whiskered Gabby Hayes lips as he spotted Zeek and sidled over to him.

"'Sa hot day, ain't it," the old coot slathered on the smarmy spread of unctuous oleo. The twinkle in his eye insinuating like a buzzing bee working at the pollen dripping sexual equipment of a hot California Poppy. He gazed lustfully at the foamy brew Zeek had just dolloped into a frosty mug. Shoving the icy mug upon the old man, Zeek poured one for himself. "Saints preserve us and a blessing on your house," the old man mumbled as he raised his mug in toast. "Here in the Mojave, we have a different taste for life. Care to try a sliver of mescal pickled, sun dried habenero?" The old man handed Zeke a jar of pungent peppers. Pulling one out to examine its shinning, slick red chili shape.

"Looks like pickled Chihuahua pecker to me," Zeke laughed as he popped it into his mouth. After a moment, "Yeow," Zeke smiled as his eyes teared up, his face flushed and he desperately grabbed for his beer.

"Try to enjoy it," the old man grabbed Zeke's arm. "Give it a chance."

Zeke looked desperate. His eyes darted about frantically. Sweat trickled down his brow. Just as he thought the top of his head might blow off, a calm confusion surrounded him. It was as if someone had managed to bust a magnum of champagne across his cerebral brow, launching his cranial canoe upon the great, green, greasy Limpopo River, doing the backstroke as he waved at the riverbank gathering throng.

Loopo tenderly patted Zeke's shoulder, "Glad to see you've joined us, Zeke." Zeke, not a stranger to the seductive charm of all things chemically stupefying, grinned his goofy-est.

"Nice to see you too. Boozstrup on a metallic masthead made the captain cry real tears," Zeek parried and made the first conversational thrust. "A tweedle become electric, set in an elegant etui, I toast your twaddle," Zeek hoisted his own flagon in distracted homage to the old coot. He was feeling like he no longer needed Mrs. Bascombe, the crossing guard, to help him across the street. He popped another pepper.

"Ooooh, we beez' trans-Atlantic. Slammin' on the jim-jam, flippin' on the frim fram." Zeke was getting to like those chili pepper induced charades. As the frosty brew bussed the maw of the old geezer, Zeek noticed the coot's outfit. Loopo looked like he was straight out of central casting for a 1940's B western. Short, stout, button-nosed, sun burnt and wrinkled, his presence was every bit the old desert rat. Except for his hair, or rather everything that was going on around his head.

Loopo's rosy glow emanated from more than the effect of the desert sun and more than a few frosty brews. There was an aura about him. It was like the joy of Christmas, a tab of chemical Ecstasy, the aftermath of sexual satiation, and a slab of peach pie all rolled into one. It was a kind of infectious, knowing, joyousness. His grin made you grin.

When you got real close, I mean real close, as Zeek did, one noticed a myriad of tiny flying insects circling his head. These flying things didn't nervously or evasively bob and weave like gnats or flies. Rather they maintained a constant orbit around his head. And what was even more curious was that each of these bugs glowed, ever so slightly. Their combined emanation created much of the rosy-ness in the old man's cheeks. And Loopo never seemed to find the bugs distracting. When he tilted his head back to finish off his beer the bugs gave way to the glass and returned when he dropped his mug.

By now the three lusty ladies had joined Zeek in checking out the old dude. "Ay, que guapo esa viejito," one of the ladies made a giggling latina homage to the old man's cuddly-cute demeanor and his unusual hair do. There were iridescent streamers woven into his long gray but radiant dread-locks. His torso was covered by an Indian blanket pancho that had every color of the rainbow woven into it, as a matter of fact there was a rainbow woven in part of it. As his arms extended to grasp the beer mug, Zeke noticed the unique tattoos on Loopo's upper arms. The colors were different and the imagery was all psychedelic paisley swirls and Maori war patterns. The back of McTood's hands and forearms were tattooed with black and magenta beads, fading to nothing on the underside of his arms. His plastic pantaloons were festooned with the flotsam and jetsam of the highway, bicycle reflectors, cosmetic knee protectors, foul ball deflectors, neon rabbinical genuflectors, bad attitude affecters and a goodly amount of Christmas tinsel.

Loopo smiled at the Latin lasses, gently caressing their firm, round posteriors as if casually selecting a ripe, succulent fruit. They fairly hummed with casual contentment at his touch. Their eyes got all dreamy and half-masted. Zeek could tell he was in the presence of a master sensualist. A man to be reckoned with, Zeek mused.

"So, what's the obscure word, old man?" Zeke said with feigned, casual comment, belying his fascination with the old mans aura.

"Oooo," the old man's lips pursed like the puckered anus of a failed vestal virgin. "Oooo, me lad, there is much to tell, but a great thirst is upon the land." He puckered his weathered lips and a magenta tongue snaked out to wet his dried lips. The old man's eyes twinkled in appreciation as Zeke slid another frosty brew toward the old man. He quaffed the quiff of tepid Budweiser as if it were Biblical ambrosia.

Zeke was fascinated and impatient as the old man finished off the second beer.

After a pregnant pause, the old man spoke.

"There is a turgid musk in the air," the old man's eyes twinkled with a conspiratorial glee that Santa Claus would be proud of. "Some would do such splendiferous glitter-bedecked costume salutations as to make those Rio Mardi Gras revelers weep."

"They ride chariots of heaving testosterone all glittered up with magical mystery. It's a sight to behold," he ended cryptically.

"Sounds like a fun party," Zeke moved nose to nose with the old man, so close that the circling mini-fire flies began to circle Zeke's head. "When, where, how?" Zeke had grown impatient with these desert bards and their waxing cryptic.

"More than a party, my young bucko," the old man cautioned. "There are some who are there every year, some who are there once in a life time. The revel becomes who you are." He paused, then added. "There will be bikes and riders of mythic proportion. A medieval romp of chrome, leather and steel. The pustulant pagan is in full rut."

To Zeke, this was an invitation that must be addressed. He gave the old man a hungry look.

"Out there," the old man motioned to the bead strung doorway behind him, jerking his thumb toward the desert. "There is a rumbling crescendo a' buildin' as we speak."

Zeke walked to the bar's front door. He just then heard a faint rumble like the frequent earthquakes that regularly shake Southern California desert communities. He returned his gaze to the bar, the old man who was no longer at there. The only trace was two lingering mini-fire flies that buzzed in a lost, erratic path. They immediately darted to Zeke. He flinched as they zipped to an inch from his face. Soon they were a part of his visage as they were for the old man.

The desert dusk began to drape the landscape like a velvet shroud. A neon-orange purple glow under-lit the lacy edges of the wispy pale clouds. Scurrying across the dirt apron in front of the doorway, a satanic-smiling, sardonic, black and magenta beaded Gila monster shuffled like an animated ladies clutch purse. Zeke spotted, off in the distance, a pair of desert antelope vaulting patches of pastel sagebrush in unison like feral ballerinas. A shooting star shot across the horizon directing his view to the West. On the western edge of the highway, just as it rose over a sandy mesa to drop back in a continental slope to the Pacific Ocean, a gigantic funnel-shaped, black cloud descended from the sky. This wiggling phallus finger of cloud and wind tickled the landscape. As quickly as it appeared, the cloud vanished leaving a glowing emanation on the man-made cut in the line of the ridge.

By the time the girls had joined him, cramming their honey-hued cherubic faces under his arms and between his legs, the glow had become a shimmering halo above the ebony pavement and glowing double-yellow median stripe. Zeke stood there as awe-struck and gape-jawed as John Mills' merry retard in "Ryan's Daughter."

As the halonic glow grew nearer, Zeke began to discriminate the familiar rumble of custom choppers roaring down the highway. He was grinning ear to ear as the first bike came to rest on the dirt apron in front of the bar. Others soon joined the throbbing, idling rhythm of the first bike.

The rider of the lead bike was a spectacular vision. Astride his candy flame-red Dytech stretch rigid frame with a 4-degree raked/extended Euro-fork front-end, streamlined 5 gal. fat-bob dual tanks, chrome-skull accentuated Performance Machine foot pegs, 16 inch apes, all rumbling to a stroked Evo 98. On top of all that were accessories of a mystical kind; shimmering streamers, twinkling lights, ruffling wind-blown banners and sequins festooning and scattered about fenders, tank and seat.

The rider dismounted with a flourish worthy of an 18th century cavalier. He was a spectacular vision, from head to toe. From his plumed, red leather brimmed hat, to waxed and curled moustache with tiny, silver Tibetan prayer bells hung on the ends, to his Technicolor riding leathers, rings on every finger, and riding boots with tiny silver prayer bells hanging all over them.

He was a sparkling, tinkling, jingling visual cornucopia.

"Hey, brother," the biking cavalier intoned, "What's shakin'?"

"Nothin' til you showed up," Zeke casually extended a hand. "I'm called Zeke the Splooty. Welcome."

"And I…," he was interrupted by a goggle-eyed, hairy Yoda dwarf who stuck his over-sized head around the cavaliers waist. "I am...," he was interrupted again by the dwarf. "He's Rudy the Red Ribbed Tickler," the dwarf chimed in, "…Rudy," he finished.

"And these are my compadres," Zeke followed the sweep of his arm which described a vivid collection of eccentric partial-cars, commercial catering trucks, crazed custom choppers, wobble-tired three-wheelers, two matched Morris Minor 1000's that looked like mom's house slippers, apocalyptic survivalist four-wheel ATV's , turned-on electric bicycles, a cherried-out Vincent Black Shadow, VW vans stuffed to the gunwales looking every bit like the Okie Joads, flat-bed semi's with cargo boxes and porta-potties, and other vehicles which defied definitive description. Every vehicle, driver and passengers were decked out as if they were crazed escapees from some Brazilian Mardi Gras parade. Sequins, body-glitter, tattoos, ribbons, pierced body parts, bells, balls, rings and odd jiggling things all a-dangling, jangling, twinkling and tinkling like a psychedelic Xmas tree. There were bejeweled bimbos, straw hatted harmonizers, warm hearted womanizers, Brazilian waxed anorexics, tattooed and nipple-pierced insurance salesmen from Des Moines, squinty-eyed dog trainers, thumb-nippled hussies, liver-lipped busters, slap-happy hustlers, flaming faggots in feathered finery, one-eyed paperhangers, power chord flangers, frigid fresh water anglers and a covey of hard-hearted hermaphrodites. They all chimed in unison, "Play that funky music, white boy," beckoning Zeke and the three girls to join them.

The three stunned chiquitas who had been hiding behind Zeke, squealed with delight as they ran to join the rag-tag be-spangled group. Jumping up and down with glee, their melons a-bobbing with insouciant charm, the girls were engulfed by the welcoming crowd of revelers.

Rudy put a fraternal arm around Zeke, "My friend, you are about to have an adventure of mystic proportions, a Danse ka Boom, out there," he pointed vaguely to the north east, " there is a party goin' on, an Ooo-Pah-Pa-Doo, Les Fais Deaux-Deaux."

Rudy's mantra of hedonist celebration was hypnotizing. Zeke's head began to bob in confirming chorus to Rudy's poetic meter like the amen-ing confirmations at a back-country Black Baptist tabernacle.

Zeke's eyes glazed over in a tranced-dance as the women behind him breathed in his ear a humming, soul-thumping drone. "Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ngha, oofa. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Ooo, ahhh. Nuh ha, oofa."

Gazing closely at Zeke, Rudy noticed the mini-fire flies dancing about Zeke's face to the rhythm.

"Oh, ho. I see you've had the pleasure of Senor Loopo's magical company." Zeke just nodded his head in mute confirmation.

"Chick ah, chick ah chick ahhhhhh," the basso profundo rhythm from the lusty ladies increased.

"Well, the buzzing bugs settle it," Rudy grinned, "you must join us now."

Zeke moved unquestioningly to his gothic black chopper, he jumped aboard the steel stallion and brought it to life. Rudy motioned for Zeke to join him at the front of the pack. Rudy's hairy, dwarf side-kick scooted his three-wheel chopper over to make room for Zeke. The dwarf jumped off his bike then leaned his head close to Zeke's throbbing cylinders listening to the chopped cam's lope. The dwarf smiled and looked up to Zeke, mimicking it's deep-throated attenuated cam rhythm with a 2/4 beat.

"Chuff, chuff, hmmm. Chuff, chuff, hmmm." He continued to ape the sound, trucking back to his side-car like an R. Crumb street bopping boogy-er, bobbing his head to the beat. He leapt to the nose of the side-car then vaulted onto his saddle. A half-naked Nubian temptress undulated in the dwarf's sidecar seat, her shimmering breasts moved in counter-point to her body boogie; she joined the rising crescendo of the intoxicatingly rocking, aortic rhythm, becaming a chorus of shared sensuality as everyone began bopping. They spontaneously broke into Dr. John the Night Tripper's "Mama Roux."

The strains of the Night Tripper's Gris-Gris, Creole, coco Robicheaux, African, Poo-Pah-Pah-Doo, Fais Deaux-Deaux, jump sturdy, Fat Tuesday, Chieu va Bruler, psychedelic, voodoo, Santerist, up-tempo funerary dirge, glistened with a crystalline poetic clarity.

"…sez a ooo, why," the sequin and glitter-clad women in various stages of sensual dishevel humped and shook to the beat, " can't ya' spy boy, prepare yo sef' ta' die boy, medicine man he got heep stong powa', you know better than ta' mess with me," the Zulu parade of decked out vehicles began to move out into the desert, " lackedad a eye ball, a la la la la froo froo," the body glitter and sequined mixed desert dust kicked up by the vanishing revelers shimmered like a New York ticker tape parade as the last of the happy hedonists left the environs of the Boron Booty Bar, "if ya see a spy boy, sittin' in a bush, nascem on na' head, then give him a push," far off by now, the roar of the choppers was delicately mixed with the barely perceptible strains of the song mixing with a night birds trill, "get out the dishes, get out the pan," a coyote serenaded the moon, "move he fast for the medicine man…" Then the desert hush returned to the land like Mother Nature's sagebrush and sand quilted comforter.

All was silent in the Boron Booty Bar except for the tick and whirr of the ceiling fan stirring up the glitter on the bar room floor into sparkling mini-dust devils. At the threshold of the bars' doorway, the black and magenta beaded reptilian shuffle of a large Gila Monster made its way awkwardly across the bar floor.

Just under the breeze-blown swinging fly beads, a desert swallow flitted softly past the opening, then circling the room finally landing on the edge of the bar. Twitching nervously, turning its head side to side so that its black pearl eyes could scan the length of the bar, the bird hopped along the bar coming to rest on the black and magenta beaded hand of Loopo Mc Tood. Loopo blew a soft melodic zephyr through his pursed lips, gently fluttering the birds' feathers. The bird cocked its head so its' beady, black eye could focus on the distended cheeks of the old man.

A glowing pink-orange-magenta sunrise-bloom filled the bar many hours before the actual sunrise. The old man was the origin of this soft, warm glow. His eyes twinkled as the bird returned his serenade. He reached across the bar to the beer taps. Pouring himself a heady brew, the old man drank heartily. Looking out into the ebon dark desert night, Loopo turned to the bird, who had hopped onto his shoulder.

"They'll be rollin' into the oasis pretty soon now. The journey begins." The journey to the middle of the Mojave, for Zeke, was a magical blur. The air was filled with the high pitched screaming banshee rpm's of the various bikes- stockers, choppers, dressers, customs and odd-ball conglomerations of chrome and steel. The sparkling parade of riders was a color-streaked acid flash, a Fourth of July of sartorial splendor. In spite of the compromising noise, speed and exhaust smell, the pack of merrymakers seemed to blend into the landscape.

Zeke, at the head of the pack, was the first to spot the orange flapping nylon tents.

"Wooo, hah," he enthusiastically proclaimed and energetically pointed in the direction of the undulating image.

As soon as he pointed to the shimmering apparition, he realized its visual ghost dance just above the horizon was a mirage. He turned in confusion to validate his experience with the others. He was startled by the silent emptiness behind him. He was alone. Nothing moved but the desert breeze. He was no longer riding his bike. He was standing next to it. He put his hand on the bike's cylinder head- it was cold. He was hungry.

He turned, one foot pivoting in the sand, to scan 360 degrees. Nothing. As he looked to his side, there was no bike. Nothing stood out in the landscape except a familiar smell. It was a cooking chicken aroma memory, a smell of his mother's kitchen. She'd cook in such a way as to make the whole kitchen part of the meal.

The litany of smells from his memory washed over Zeke like the sudden sweetness of fresh baked bread. There was the sound of crackling grease in the fry pan, and a bubbling, pot-lid clatter as she worked her womanly magic on some pale as a parson parsnips (her favorite), or emerald green jungle spinach, or randy ruby rutabagas. The flying motes of flour dust pirouetting above her proud hands as she worked and kneaded a pastry pie crust into a soft, irregular pancake blanket to embrace thinly sliced green apples with a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. He could just hear her humming some lost lilt of a tune, on his lips but out of his mind. Now he was really hungry. Zeke stood there helpless, as a young girl appeared touching his outstretched hand mutely. Following obediently, he didn't question her appearance. She moved in a slow-motion undulation, like ocean waves at sea. Her beaded and fringed leather top and skirt gave her little protection from the sun's rays.

Her lithe body moved in hypnotic rhythm.

"Are you lost yet?" The young girl gave him a seductive side-long glance as she continued up a small rise in desert floor.

"I'm wandering," he smiled back at her.

"We've missed you," she replied cryptically.

Just as he was about to ask her: where she'd come from, where they were going, where were the rest of the group, when could he eat, they crested a small hill. Down in a large desert arroyo, a spectacle unfolded. It was as if the Ali Baba and his Forty Thieves had set up camp. In the middle of the festivities, Rudy leaned against Zeke's bike and beckoned him forward. At Zeke's side, the young girl began to shimmer with colors. An arching rainbow arose from the top of her head. The rainbow arched over the encampment to an oasis of turquoise palms.

As Zeke bent his head back to appreciate the rainbow, he focused on the stars in the night sky. Each star glowed and shimmered. Zeke rode by each star, waving and grinning a silly grin as he pasted them. When he looked down at his speedo', the needle was pegged and bent over the peg. Blue flames shot out the Bartels exhaust for twenty feet behind him. Yet he had no sense of movement. When he looked down on the scene of partying bikers below, they looked like multicolored bugs, jiggling and scurrying about. The whole scene took on a magenta and black beaded-ness, undulating like some primordial reptilian dance.

The air felt cool and refreshing as it caressed his face. His eyes beheld the diamond-like blanket of the Milky Way. Following the Milky Way's arch to the horizon, his eyes made out the familiar form of saguaro and sagebrush. His reverie was interrupted by the scurrying sound of something moving in the sand beside his head.

He was startled, but did not move, to see the humorless grin of a giant Gila monster shuffling up to his face. The magenta and black beaded lizard turned its head to sound of the soft flutter of wings as a small bird with black beady eyes landed on Zeke's arm.

Zeke seemed paralyzed except for the movement of his head. He could feel the tiny pin-pricks of the birds talons as it hopped from Zeke's wrist to his forearm and on up his arm until it stood beak to nose with Zeke. The bird turned its head to the side so as to focus one black pearl of an eye on him. "I suppose this means that I'm dead," Zeke spoke barely above a whisper. He could hear a voice in his head answer him.

"You, my young friend? No, but more than alive." A hearty laugh reached his ears. The Gila monster shook its' head from side to side.

"Then why can't I move?"

"You can do anything you want, my bucko" The Gila monster began shuffling away.

Turning his head to the rumbling sound nearby, Zeke spotted his hellish Harley idling away next to him. As he cautiously rose to his feet and brushed the sand off. The bird flitted to the bikes' handlebars. He was on the gravel apron in front of the Boron Booty Bar. It was early morning, clear and cool. He walked to the edge of the highway. The double yellow ran straight and true, east and west.

"Well, bird," he spoke to the bird resting on his handlebars as he mounted the bikes saddle, "it was an adventure. But I'm not sure what really happened." The bird danced on the chrome bar and twisted his head from side to side as Zeke spoke. "Them chili peppers were spicy in more ways than one.

Okay, bird, I think it's time we 'motate'. There are ill-tempered cops to the west, mysteries in the east, and too much craziness here in the middle of nowhere. I imagine one could easily get lost for a long time out here. Maybe nothing happened and I've been stoned and laid out in the sand for a few hours. Maybe the bugs have been crawling over me all day. Maybe I've got to lay off that skunky beer, it gives me the heeby-jeebies. It probably was just a skunk induced funk. A frap on the piddle."

Zeke shuddered and shrugged. He reached for his riding bandana in his back pocket. As he yanked the bandana out of his pocket, a shower of glitter, sequins and feathers fell all around him.

"Wha'?" Zeke stood there gape jawed as the sparkling cloud swirled around him.

"Okay, okay, I guess something weird did happened, somewhere out there, a kind of Chet Baker "Let's Get Lost" sorta thing. Rudy and his crew, a magical desert oasis, and a nubile, neo-hippie nymphette with a sexual appetite that challenged his own. But I ain't hanging around here to get the details." The bird took flight as he shook the bike back and forth. "And I've got nearly a full tank of gas. I don't know where I be goin' but where ever it is, it beez' scootin' on the Splooty. It's a hell of a yazoo to two by four the poodle."

Zeke eased his bike to the edge of the asphalt. To the left was L.A.- chaos, mayhem, rabid cops, and more than a few pissed-off ex-girl friends and wives. To the right, the mysterious adventures to the east- full-hipped Mid-western farmers wives, raw-boned truck stop waitresses, sloe-eyed lustful southern belles, and tight-assed Manhattan thin-lipped socialites who love getting dirty in more ways than one. "There's a harvest of hot honeys," Zeke said out loud, to himself, "waitin' out there for my hot, heathen, monkey love. Gotta' fly."

With that Zeke roared the bike to life, sent gravel aflyin' and skidded on to the pavement, screaming to the east. The shards of sand and gravel pelted the bar's porch. Two old geezers who sat on wooden rockers on the porch were unphased by the staccato peppering of rocks. Loopo McTood looked over to the old Indian.

"It's going to be hot today," McTood declared. "Hotter than a two-peckered billy-goat."

"Hmmm," the old Indian agreed. "And our visitor, Senor Zeke, will have a hot ride."

"Hmmm," McTood confirmed, "Hot indeed."

They sun sent dancing ripples of heat up off the pavement. A family of quail scurried to the cover of sagebrush. A red-tailed hawk circled high above, fluttering his wings and dipping in anticipation of prey. A dust devil twisted and wiggled its erratic course across the desert plane. A black bug squirmed helplessly on the pointed end of a small birds beak. The desert settled down to its primordial routine.

Zeke was roaring on his way to another rompin', stompin', bike blastin', cunt cosmic, hedonistic hell raisin' adventure……. the Zoot be on the Splooty, insert tab A into slot B, close cover before striking, ride with the wind.