A sprawling homeless encampment surrounded Bandit’s Cantina on the main channel overlooking the Port of Los Angeles. Brothers were leary of parking for a beer. Anything on their bikes worth a dime was stolen and the cops couldn’t and wouldn’t stop them. The LA City Council made it okay for thieves and even hold-up thugs to steal up to $1,500 without arrest.

Hardworking brothers and sisters, all over the area from Long Beach to San Pedro still got up in the morning and went to work while rich college kids who didn’t want to work, used homeownership against home owners who paid their bills. They said the homeless problem was a lack of affordable homes, but it wasn’t. Drunken, drug-addicted folks came to LA from all over the country with nothing and expected to buy a home and get a high-paying job. It didn’t work that way, but college kids and advocates lured destitute folks, gave them drugs then shouted, “See they can’t find affordable housing.”




Before opening on a Sunday morning someone pounded on the door. Margaret opened the stout oak door with a brass ship’s porthole at eye level.

It was the progressive broad from the rider meeting two weeks before. “We’re going to make this an un-homed encampment, by order of the Mayor of Los Angeles,” She spat at the miniature human being, bubbly Margaret, while pushing her way into the dining room.

“Sorry,” Bandit shouted from the top of the stairs as he headed down with his bedroll packed. “I just sold the Cantina to a strip-club purveyor for over 2 million. “It will be called Ship Wreck Joey’s in three months and they’ll bring thugs to clear your no-home, drug-addicts out of the parking lot.”

The broad from the mayor’s office looked sorta wide-eyed. “I had the brothers interview every homeless credent shitting on our sidewalks. Not one moved here with the intentions of buying a home. They came here because you promised them free, tax-payer financed drugs. I hope that’s working for you,” Bandit said and made his way out to his chopper where the bros waited.

The blond followed him to her white pearl Softail. Richie from the Motorcycle Riders Foundation approached her. “Here,” he handed her a pamphlet from the CO2 Coalition containing the benefits of CO2. “You need this,” Richie said. “Your exhaust is helping the plants grow in the area. Sorry, CO2 is not a pollutant.”

Big Marko hustled to his bagger with his gear, and Jeremiah loaded his big-inch Dyna.

“Are we ready?” Bandit asked. “Let’s get the hell out of this shithole. We all know what you’re trying to do, but all of George Soros’ slum-lord money won’t kick one hardworking American’s ass. I know where freedom and the truth still rings.”

Bandit had just 45 days to find and set up a new location for the new Bandit’s Cantina and find housing for the crew.

The brothers, with Marko as navigator developed a flexible plan to escape the Golden State with gas stops previously picked and checked. After weaving out of the city, they stopped in one of the largest truck-stops at the edge of the desert in Barstow.

As they pulled up to one of the pumps, they noted a commotion by the diesel pump island. A gang to kids tied themselves to the truck fueling station with banners touting, “Fossil Fuels are Killing Kids.” Trucks started to back up in a line to refuel. Big guys scrambled out of their cabs, some with baseball bats and others with guns.

Bandit jumped off his bike and headed for the Truckers, while Marko made his way to the protesting gang. “Fossil Fuels must be stopped,” A young man with dreadlocks shouted into a bull horn.

“You’re wrong,” Marko said.

“Science says,” the kid shouted.

“Not the real science,” Marko said.

“The growing storms,” the kids shouted in unison.

“The storms aren’t growing,” Marko said to him face to face. “Only the media reports are growing.”

Bandit approached a big trucker with a 14-inch Barrel Mossberg 12-guage. “Hold on a sec,” Bandit said. “I think we can straighten this mess out.”

“I know I can, goddammit,” the big full-bearded trucker said and jacked a round into the chamber.

“They’ve also taken over the courts,” Bandit added. “You don’t want to go to jail around one of these punks.”

The trucker in bib-overalls snarled raised the weapon above his head, aimed toward the sky and fired. The cannon rocked the lot, everyone froze including the trucker. The gun jacked back so hard the safety button tore the flesh between his right forefinger and his thumb. Almost dropping the sawed-off shotgun Bandit caught it.

“Huddle around,” Bandit said and started collecting weapons. “Listen, these kids aren’t bad, they’re just lost. We can teach them a lesson.”

Marko stood in front of the silenced mob, shocked by the blast. Suddenly, they realized the reality of their efforts. A couple wanted to bolt for their SUVs. “Hold on,” Marko said. “You’re cool.”

He turned as Bandit approached with a dozen big truckers, some of them with trucking partner wives. Unarmed they came face to face with the kids.

“Okay guys,” Bandit said to the protestors. “These folks are feeding their families by delivering your shit all over the country, from Christmas toys for kids made from Fossil Fuels to vegetables and fruits grown with fossil fuels and the CO2 we all produce. And what about medications? Imagine if all these guys just said, “Screw California and dropped all their loads right here in this lot. Can you get electric vehicles to deliver all your food before it rots?”

“But what about the emissions?” the teenage leader spouted.

“Harmful emissions have been dealt with and CO2 is not a pollutant. In fact, our CO2 levels were slipping dangerously low before fossil fuels came along.” You guys need to stop being sold on doom and study the true science. Come back when you’ve done your homework. Now, can we get moving. If you’re headed back to the city, you better refuel here.” Bandit laughed.

The kids muttered to themselves and unwrapped their banners from pumps.

“That was close,” Marko said as they walked over to the gas pumps on the asphalt lot made from fossil fuels.

“They just don’t get it,” Bandit said. “They’re being fed a line or paid off.”

Jeremiah refueled the bikes during the commotion. “We’re burnin’ daylight,” he snapped and donned his full-face helmet.

They hit the road and swung onto Interstate 15 toward Vegas.

Bandit wore a beanie helmet and narrow shades, which vibrated in the wind but covered the California mandatory helmet law requirement. The guy with the most accidents, Jeremiah, wore a full face helmet with blue-tooth capabilities. He wasn’t paying attention half the time. Marko wore the heavy padded armor gear and an open face classic Bell helmet with a partial tinted face shield. Only Jeremiah didn’t cope with the sand whistling across the cracked asphalt.




The government passed a trillion dollar infrastructure bill that didn’t fund fixing anything, but it did fund more regulatory agencies to control everything from dust to construction projects. If anything contained fossil fuels or petroleum products the manufacturers faced restrictions and heavy fines.

Blasting over the Clark mountain pass at 7,900 feet, they could see the California border at Primm Nevada at the base of the steep pass. The three Casinos including the smiling Neon Buffalo glowed as the sun drifted over the mountains to the west. The brothers leveled out at the base as the sun’s warmth faltered and a chilly coolness crept between the seams of their leather gear and denims.

They crossed the line and out of California relieved. Vegas a quick 50 miles away was not their goal. They weren’t interested in anything to do with glitter city. It was just a milestone in their trek to the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Halfway into the city, just past the dismantled state line Casino they spotted a shapely object ahead leaning against a new Tesla. The youngest of the group, Jeremiah, slammed on his dual front disc brakes, let off and jammed his right boot against his rear brake pedal. The silver Dyna slid in the sandy emergency lane to a stop behind the electric sports car. Bandit and Marko pulled off the concrete onto the asphalt unceremoniously in front of the vehicle.

The object of immediate attention wore a mini-skirt and enough make-up to decorate a Christmas tree. An absolute knock-out, she wreaked of something very high-end. The Tesla emergency flashers still on, Jeremiah unsnapped his full face and made his short, round way to the girls side. “Are you cold,” he said offering her a sweatshirt from one of his saddlebags.

“Yes, thanks,” she returned quivering as the sun set in the west and the winter night chill engulfed the vast valley.

“Did you call for a tow?” Jeremiah said looking her over like a kid eyeing a succulent Christmas cake. “I don’t imagine I can help with your electric sportscar.”

Her delicious appearance had him on edge. He didn’t know what to do, cuddle her like a swimming victim fresh from a tidal wave?

“They won’t tow electric cars,” She muttered shivering. “Something about the batteries.”

“It’s not like we could blast to an auto-parts and buy her another battery,” Bandit said approaching from in front of the slick vehicle. He peered into the car’s lush interior and spotted two more girls equally dressed to the nines, trying to wrap themselves in anything they could to fend off the cold.

“These girls need a ride to a warm neon-infested casino where they can show off their wares,” Marko said and opened the side door.

Jeremiah enjoyed the closeness with the girl standing next to the car with the 44DD tits and giggling eye-lashes, like erratic black garages doors not knowing whether they should open or close.

“Let’s ride girls,” Bandit ordered. “It will only take us 15 minutes to get you out of the cold, but we better move, unless you want to hang here and wait for a better option?”

The girls, each in spiked high-heels and skin-tight chromium dresses with underwear to enhance bustling cleavage and bubble butts climbed out of the stylish car. The brothers wrapped them the best they could with sweatshirts, long Johns and extra leathers.

They flew into the night helmetless, knotting their hair during the blast to the emerald city in the distance, where they found the high-end Wynn Casino, pulled to the line in front of check-in cars and the girls scrambled off the bikes under the lights. In less than 30 seconds they shed the biker gear and were once again top-of-the-line party girls ready for action.

Jeremiah hugged the taller than him babe with the boobs to fall in love with one final time. “Let me know anytime your electricity goes out,” he said. “I’ll be there in a flash.”

She smiled and took the clasp out of her hair. “I’ll never forget you, Jeremiah,” She said her lips parting and her smile could have powered the dead EV. She leaned down and kissed him deeply. He was gone in a romantic mist until Bandit shouted, “Wind ‘em up.”

Their plan was to roll north of the city to a cheap motel away from the lights and the casinos, somewhere where they could keep an eye on their bikes. Just a few miles past the original old town of Vegas and nearing the sports complex they leaned off the freeway.

On the edge of one of the richest cities on the planet, something smelled. Abandoned cars and homeless folks resided on the dark off ramp. Bandit could sense intense eyes peering at them from behind rusting hulks. He moved quickly to cross the intersection and into a large fueling station.

The gas station looked odd, unkept, with graphitti sprayed on the windows. The pumps were damaged as if beat with baseball bats. As soon as the brothers kicked out their kickstands, a tall black approached and then another. Some didn’t look like the African Americans in LA, but more South American, maybe Honduras. Then the guns appeared.

“Yo bros,” the leader said. “Just give us your white cash and be on your way you racists motherfuckers.” But the brothers knew better. There were six of them, maybe more coming and Bandit weighed his options quickly. He stood abruptly, all 6’4” in tall riding boots and layered up. He yanked open his leather 5-Ball vest.

“You know I could kill all you mothers,” the loaded black spat, “and get away with it.”

Bandit didn’t say a word but started to slip off one of his black gauntlet leather riding gloves and reached inside the vest.

Marko, on the other side of the pump used Bandit’s maneuvers as a diversion. He pulled his .45 auto and fired at the feet between two assailants. A split second and a second level distraction. All hell broke loose.

A clerk busted out of the tagged building wielding a shotgun and fired it into the air. The leader spun and took aim, but Bandit capped his right knee and he went down screaming.

“The crime wave is moving into Vegas from the North side,” The clerk shouted jacking another round into the chamber as the assailants began to run.

“Get gas at the junction of Highway 93,” The clerk shouted. “Get the hell out of here. This is my last night, where are you going?”

“We’re headed to South Dakota,” Bandit said as the brothers mounted their bikes and quickly fired them to life. “Do you ride?”

“Hell yes,” the young, bearded clerk from India said. “I’ve got a used ’69 XLCH.”

“Find us in Deadwood or Sturgis,” Bandit shouted and kicked his bike into gear.

“Bring Whiskey and ammo,” Jeremiah yelled, flipping his face shield down and burning stroked, twin-cam rubber out of the station and back across the street. Bullets started flying as the clerk ducked back into the marred convenience store and the brothers flew onto the freeway.

Another 15 miles and they spotted the truck stop a mile off the interstate alone on the desolate desert floor. They peeled to the base, into the sprawling gas station and truck stop. After refueling they made their way inside, paid their tab, grabbed coffee and headed for a booth.

Surrounding booths were packed with truckers and partner teams. “Where are you headed,” one big trucker in a plaid flannel, denims and cowboy boots said.

“We were planning to spend the night in north Vegas and maybe ride to Wendover or Salt Lake tomorrow,” Bandit said.

“Vegas is headed for a major problem,” the big farmer looking trucker said. “The crime wave is coming.”

“Stay on Interstate 15 north out of the state,” A round trucker’s wife dressed like a mechanic in stained dark blue overalls spouted. Her husband wearing a similar outfit, but a foot taller nodded. “If you want to make time that’s the way to go. Watch for trucks and the speed limit ranges from 65-80 mph.

Jeremiah sat up straight. “I like that.”

“You might stop in St. George for the night,” She continued. “The motels are clean and you can avoid night travel, get up early and be in Wyoming before dark.”

“Thanks much,” Bandit said.

“Don’t ride north on 93 tonight,” she added. “It’s notorious for illegals and slow.”

“You got it,” Bandit said and Marko took notes.

They topped off and hit the dark interstate north for 60 miles then quickly cut through a slice of Arizona and into Utah to St. George another 30 miles where they slipped off the freeway into the first Best Western Motel they could find. She was right and they grabbed a room with two beds and a rollaway. They had covered 430 miles.

The next morning, they were up, loaded, fed and on the road by six. Big wide and open interstate 15 steered them north and slightly east up toward Wyoming. Before noon they planned to duck off the freeway at Provo, the college town and dodge riding through the city of Salt Lake to reach Highway 80 into Wyoming.

Provo’s an historic Mormon town and home to Brigham Young Research University established in 1875. The brothers rolled off the interstate and into town for a few miles, but it didn’t go as planned. Next to the college campus a group of alarmist activists set up a road block and stopped traffic. Kids with bull horns, road blocks and banners halted all movement.

The brothers split lanes illegally to the front. Jeremiah parked his bike and gathered a handful of CO2 Coalition brochures and started to hand them out to the motorists waiting in their cars. Bandit and Marko took a handful and started handing them to the protestors. They we completely caught off guard.

A tall angular college kid barked into a bullhorn, “Fossil Fuels must be banned. We are doomed. CO2 is killing people all over the planet. It must stop!”

Bandit handed him a brochure, which explained that CO2 is not a pollutant and we need more. The kid stammered after reading the first paragraph on the cover page. “What the? You’re deniers.” Then he shouted into the bullhorn for a growing crowd to hear. “We’ve been attacked by deniers. The science is settled. We’re doomed because of fossil fuels.”

“They are absolutely wrong,” Bandit cupped his hands and shouted toward the crowd. “Science is never settled as any science student knows.”

“Who are you guys,” the emotional protestor snarled. “No one ever questions us.”

“We’re just grubby bikers sharing the truth and trying to be on our way,” Bandit said.


A female protestor came forward with her brochure. “Is this the truth?” She asked waving the flier.

“Yes, but you don’t need to believe a couple of bikers,” Bandit said. “Everything in that brochure can be verified.”

Another protestor approached shaking his redhead, his full crimson beard like a ball of fire on his face. Bandit knew he would have trouble with this one.

“You guy are right wingers. You just want to destroy the planet,” he approached and acted like he might hit someone with his bullhorn.

Marko stepped quickly in front of Bandit. “You’re wrong. We are just freedom fighters who seek the truth,” Marko said. “What could be wrong with that?”

The kid looked over the constantly working out, big Marko and backed down. “We’re not trying to bully anyone,” Bandit said. “We just believe in Freedom and the truth. Check it out.”

The protestors huddled while sharing the info. The tall kid with the scruffy beard and the girl with the ponytail turned abruptly to Bandit and Marko. “We’ve been told and even paid to set up these protests.”

“I understand,” Bandit said. “We would like all kids to know we’re living in the best of times. We’re not doomed because of your dad’s pickup truck. Can we get moving. We’re on a sorta mission.”

The two went back to their crew and slowly they moved across the lanes removing their barricades and banners.




Motorists waved to the bikers as the lanes opened and traffic flowed. “We’re burnin’ daylight,” Jeremiah said as he donned his full-face helmet.

They lost time but wound through the streamside canyon to Highway 80 to Coalville, where they stopped for gas and Bandit checked in with Margaret. He reported on their progress and Margaret and the Chinaman reported on their packing efforts. “I hope we don’t lose anyone in this move,” Bandit said.

“You find us a place, and we’ll be there,” Margaret said, but she was concerned about a couple of the girls. Bandit couldn’t help but to be on edge about nearly everything, from the state of the country to their future in South Dakota.

They hit the highway and in a matter of 30 miles they rolled into Wyoming. Bandit knew he was only one state away from freedom. Wyoming was one of Bandit’s favorite states with less that a half million population, lots of open lands, but he was told how some of the folks hate Californians, and he couldn’t blame them.

At the last gas stop the brothers studied the maps. Paper maps got rare, but they enjoyed spreading them out over one of the leather bike seats and studying their options. They opted for remaining on the interstate until Rock Springs which would put their day at around 400 miles, leaving just 350 into the Black Hills of South Dakota.

The red rock of the Wyoming hillsides seemed a turning point into the true Western spirit of the land. There was something majestic about each hillside. Their bikes seemed to fly faster. They spent the night in Rock Springs and found a family run Mexican Restaurant.

“We’ve been lucky so far,” Bandit said. “We need to be alert about Cowboys who don’t like guys from California.

“We’ve got 100 miles to Rawlins, then it’s off this interstate and we start to cut north and east across the state,” Marko said pointing at the crumpled map spread over the table. “That’s when you’ll feel the openness of this state.”

“I’m game,” Jeremiah said. “How far?”

“We’ll slice off 100 before breakfast,” Bandit.

“Hopefully,” Marko said. “I’m keeping an eye on the weather. It’s been mostly dry and sunny so far, but at any minute December weather could shift.”

They took off before the crack of dawn in the morning and as Bandit said they munched on pigs in a blanket at a coffee shop in Rawlins 100 miles east.

The small downtown area contained a myriad of highway junctions. They wanted the 287 north to the 220 and the 25 into Casper.

Slipping through town they nearly hit an errant dear searching for its family and it nearly bounced into the street as the brothers gathered speed at the edge of town.

Notorious, the next 40 miles into Muddy Gap was hazardous in the winter. If a storm blew into the state the gap was the worst hit area. Fortunately, clear weather remained, but it was down to 36 degrees. The chilled brothers added layers, but the bikes chirped delighted with the crisp cold air.

They slowed entering the slippery, muddy gap area along the continental Divide at an elevation over 7,000 feet. They approached the junction to highway 220, when Jeremiah took the lead.

Just as they came to the intersection in the middle of nowhere Bandit slowed, but Jeremiah sped ahead. He loved to hit his rear disc brakes and slide to a stop. Marko knew as the temps dropped and the roads became slicker, it wasn’t a good idea.

Bandit noticed something else. A small ravine, and the top of a school bus, the yellow roof sticking above the ground level and movement. An explosion rocked the intersection and Jeremiah went down.

Bandit and Marko purposely rode into the ditch on the opposite side of the road and laid their bikes down. Marko moved into a position where he could look across the road.

Bandit crawled toward the intersection where Jeremiah stirred. “Are you okay?” Bandit asked.

“I think so,” Jeremiah said. “What the fuck.”

“I think that was an IED,” Bandit said. “Can you crawl over to me.”

“What about my bike,” Jeremiah said. “I can’t leave it.”

“It’s no good to you if you’re dead,” Bandit spat. “Get your ass over here, quick.”

Bandit aimed his big .45 revolver at the other side of the road, when someone opened up with an AR-15 and bullets started flying everywhere. Motivated Jeremiah scrambled, scuffed from going down, to the edge of the road and rolled into the ditch.

The assault weapon operator ran through his clip and quiet ensued while he ejected and slipped a new clip in place. As he attempted to raise his weapon once more Marko fired, shattering his front stock and damaging the barrel permanently. Marko ran across the road toward the rear of the bus and Bandit did the same at the front of the bus.

Bandit fired into the roof of the bus and folks started to scream. As they reached the edge of the ravine folks stood and raised their hands, but one Iranian used a young teenage girl to block his move, raised his weapon and Bandit fired, blowing a chunk his olive skinned, middle-eastern face off, knocking him to the ground, the other Iranian lay in the deep grass injured by his weapon exploding. “Everyone down Bandit shouted. Marko fired his weapon at the sky and everyone dove into the grass.

There were maybe 50 illegals. The bus became stranded in the ravine and they were stuck with an injured transport full of mostly south American refugees and a couple of terrorist types, one dead and another injured. “Does anyone speak English?” Bandit said.

“I do,” the young dark-haired teenager said and raised her head.

“Come here,” Bandit said as Marko watched for any strange or deliberate movements.

“Are there anymore trouble makers on the bus?” Bandit said.

“No,” she said, “only those two.”

“What happened to the bus driver?” Bandit asked. “What’s your name?”

“They killed him for wrecking the bus,” she said. “My name is Angela, from Venezuela.”

“Why did you come here?” Bandit asked.

“Your government is giving us money to come,” Angela said. “But when we get here there are no jobs and it’s not a friendly place. We’ve just been sneaking around. It was a set-up. We don’t know what to do.” She started to tear up and Bandit took her arm.

“These are strange times,” Bandit said, “and it seems you and your people are being used. Do you have any food?”

“Hardly,” Angela said. Striking she seemed intelligent and educated.

Jeremiah hobbled over and took the weapon off the dead guy and searched him. “Are there any more weapons?” he asked.

The injured one was mostly in shock and Jeremiah searched him, took a stout tie-wrap and secured his hands behind his back.

The bus tilted over at a 45 degree angle in the ravine, wasn’t of much use even as a shelter. Marko worked with a couple of young men to start a fire.

“It’s another 45 miles to Casper, Wyoming,” Bandit said. “We need to ride there as soon as possible to get help. Does anyone else speak English?”

Marko righted Jeremiah’s Dyna. They straightened a crash bar and foot peg. Jeremiah fired it up and rode it a mile up the highway and back. “It’s good to go,” he reported.

“You’re welcome to come with us,” Bandit said to the Angela.

“I’ll stay, and trust you,” Angela said and hugged Bandit.

“You might stay out of site until help arrives,” Bandit said.

The brothers mounted their bikes without another word and hit the road. Shortly after 2:30 in the afternoon they rolled into the small berg of Casper a junction key city with a population of 60,000, it wasn’t hard to find the fire department across from the historic city hall where some commotion was taking place. Three suits stood on the steps of the city hall and argued.

Bandit nodded to Marko and he walked briskly into the fire department to report the bus load of illegals. “Grab some of those CO2 fliers, Bandit said to Jeremiah.”

They crossed the street and discovered the governor and two legislators going at it over the governor’s green agenda.

They all turned to the two bikers approaching. “Can we help you?”

Bandit took the fliers from Jeremiah, “Nope, but we might be able to help you. Check this out.” Bandit handed the brochures to the three men and handed a staffer the leftovers. “Spread them around.”

“This is not your business,” Governor Gordon said and attempted to brush Bandit aside.




“I saw your interview on 60 minutes,” Bandit said. “You’ve got it all wrong. Check this out, then I’ve got to roll. Heat waves peaked in Wyoming in the 1920s and 30s. Average maximum annual temperatures have been in decline for more than 80 years. Growing seasons are lengthening in the Cowboy State. Snowfall totals at six of the eight largest ski resorts in Wyoming has increased. Increasing atmospheric CO2 is driving huge increases in grassland, forest and crop productivity. Attempting to lessen the amount of atmospheric CO2 is not only foolish and wasteful but detrimental to the well-being of ecosystems and citizens of Wyoming. There you have it, goddammit. I’ve got to roll. You’ve got a bus load of illegals at Muddy Gap you need to take care of.”

Jeremiah looked at Bandit as if he was nuts and then said. “We're burning daylight, goddammit!”

“Let's roll,” Bandit said and the brothers refueled and mounted up.

“It’s not far,” Marko pointed out, “but we are cutting through several highways into the Black Hills. We’re only on Highway 25 for another 15 miles, then we hit 259 for a minute in Edgerton where we catch 387 into Wright, then highway 450 to New Castle where we roll onto the 85 into Lead, Deadwood and finally the 14 into Sturgis and home we hope.”

“Fuck,” Jeremiah said. “I’m glad you’ve done this before.”

“Never like this run,” Bandit said. “Keep your fingers crossed and your spirit bells clean. It’s the final stretch.”

“What the hell could go wrong?” Marko said.

“Watch for animals,” Bandit said. “You never know.”

They mounted and rumbled through one highway after another toward the Badlands and the Chopper homeland. In Newcastle they topped off for the final run into the Black Hills. Dusk was begging to engulf the hills.

“Be very careful of deer at this time with limited visibility,” Marko pointed out.

As they finished topping off their tanks an old rental truck pulled into the station. Bandit immediately noticed a box truck without plates. Dirty, dinged and grimy it must have been decommissioned and sold at auction. Jeremiah, the truck driver made quick work of the roll up door and peeked inside, immediately slipping the door closed and moving away from the truck.

He hustled to Bandit. “Drugs,” he said, “the bad ones. Don’t go near the tailgate. Just a whiff of that shit could kill you.”

Marko pointed out that they paid cash. Jeremiah, about to fill his tank looked at Bandit and the truck.

“Fuck,” Bandit said. “We’re burning daylight.” He looked at the sky then back to his brother. “But we can’t allow that shit in South Dakota.”

He walked briskly into the convenience store, returning with a plastic sheriff’s badge sealed to it’s display cardboard container. He yanked his pocket knife flipped open the blade and cut the plastic sheath away. “Watch my back,” Bandit said to Marko and followed the passenger as he exited the store toward the truck.

“Excuse me,” Bandit said to the Iranian looking tall olive-skinned skinny dude in tattered denims and a puffy winter coat.

He turned and Bandit flashed the badge and stuck it inside his vest quick. “I’m undercover. We need to inspect your truck.

The passenger’s dark eyes brightened with concern. His black scruffy beard jerked as he tossed his big gulp container at Bandit and screamed, “Drive,” as he ran for the truck.

Jeremiah, behind the truck, filled his tank and a discarded soda can with gas and poured it all over tailgate and the thick bound strap used to pull the door shut.

Suddenly the truck lurched backwards, knocking Jeremiah to the oily asphalt and bumping his Dyna. The truck jerked forward, shifted and rumbled quickly out of the parking lot.

Bandit and Marko ran to Jeremiah’s side, and helped him away from the pumps. “My bike,” Jeremiah said and Bandit ran to it, righted it and noticed the cracked primary and fluid running onto the payment.

Shaken Jeremiah felt blood running down his face and Marko made a bandana bandage. “You’ll survive, but your bike needs help.” Bandit said.




“You’ve got to go after that truck. Those drugs can’t make it to… You said it,” Jeremiah said. “I’ll catch up.”

Bandit and Marko ran to their bikes, mounted, fired them to life and peeled out of the parking lot to the intersection where they leaned left and their Harleys barked at the darkening sky. Rumbling north hard, the old truck, loaded down with boxes of fentanyl capsules slowed as it reached the winding roads into the black hills.

Bandit and Marko had less than 35 miles before the truck would cross into South Dakota. Blasting through the bends leading into the Jack Pine forest, Bandit gritted his teeth. This couldn’t be happening. How much more bullshit could the government pile on their hardworking citizens. He glanced at Marko as faint taillights came into view ahead.

He knew Marko calculated every option. He also pondered the aspect of a devastating forest fire as the passenger of the vehicle tossed a six pack of empties out his window in hopes of throwing the bikers off the road. Bullets followed and mussel flashes could be seen as they approached.

Marko, on the right, reached inside is vest with his left hand while keeping his right on the throttle. He pulled his .45 semi-auto and attempted to fire back, but nothing about his speeding motorcycle afforded him a vantage point to hit the weapon-wielding truck co-pilot.

The highway straightened and widened slightly. Bandit looked at Marko and formed a pistol finger pointed at the tailgate. Marko fired twice and the bound strap caught fire. The brothers backed off slightly as the flames crept inside the box and erupted.

They had to stop the box truck before it reached the tree line. Bandit made a move to pass the box and reach the cab simultaneously reaching for his big pistol. The dipshit behind the wheel heard the crisp rumble of the chopper and yanked the wheel to the left. Bandit fired at the front tire and missed.

The driver steered quickly back toward his lane and Bandit righted his chopper and fired again. The big .45 slug slammed through fender and into the thick, stout tire.
At 50 miles an hour treachery surrounded the calamity unfolding on the asphalt lanes.

Marko fired at the thick rear dually truck tires. They began to hiss. Another threat loomed, the fumes from the flaming box were lace with fentanyl smoke as the brothers jammed alongside of the truck where Marko took out the sideview mirror, but the truck lurched to the right and drove Marko into the gravel at the edge of the road. He lost control and went down. He immediately scramble into the drainage ditch at the road’s edge and fired at the front wheel and the passenger door.

Bandit pulled alongside the cab but lost his pistol as the front fender bumped his chromed springer and he grabbed the door handle as his cherished motorcycle went down and slid off the left side of the road into the gravel.

The passenger a skinny bastard with a beard leaned across his partner and stuck his gunned hand out the window and fired. The bullet whizzed past Bandit’s shoulder as he lifted his leather boots onto the running board to secure his position.

He reached up and grabbed the semi-auto by the slide and yanked it away from its owner, tossed it into the street and reached in for the steering wheel, pulling it hard to the left and pulling himself into a standing position.

The truck jolted. The passenger abruptly slid to the right and the passenger door flew open. The co-pilot flying out the door as the truck turned and leaned. But the driver hung on, pulled a knife and lashed at Bandit’s gloved hand as he attempted to right and straighten the truck.

Bandit looked ahead and saw where the road would narrow and turn into the woods. Forced to let go with his bloody left hand, he grabbed the edge window, pain shooting up his arm. He stood and punched the driver with his left and followed through with his right hand to the steering wheel and pulled it hard.

The driver hung on until the truck spit to the left and up on three wheels, then on its side, screaming and ripping against the pavement as it slid to a stop. Bandit jumped down from the cab and ran for the road’s edge and the drainage ditch as the box truck burst into flames. But the driver wasn’t done, as he threw open the driver’s door and jumped out of the cab. Running after Bandit, he tackled him in the ditch.

Wielding his straight blade with a leather strap wrapped handle, military knife Bandit rolled and faced his assailant bearing the knife down toward his chest. “That was my future,” he muttered in broken English through a long narrow mustache and week old beard while grinding his teeth.

“And death to lots of South Dakota kids,” Marko said and pistol-whipped the side of the assailant’s head knocking him out. The man fell to the side in a heap of lifeless terrorist.

“’Bout time you got here,” Bandit said. “Who gets to keep the knife?”

“I’ll flip you for it,” Marko said. “But we need to check out our bikes. We’ve got a deadline.”

Two days later the brothers sat in the Deadwood Number 10 saloon and Charlie, a tall good-looking female town commissioner brought them three different whiskies to try.

“Okay,” Jeremiah said his head bandaged. “We survived.”

“By the skin of our teeth,” Bandit said. “We’ve got to get our people out of California.”

“I’ve got a list of potential restaurant locations to check out,” Marko added yanking the list out of his vest.

“No time to lose,” Jeremiah said hoisting his tumbler of whiskey.

The massive Number 10 Saloon oak door opened and the brothers turned. In walked an obvious Californian wearing a colorful Hawaiian Shirt and shorts in 36 degrees. Outside it started to snow. The brothers looked at one another and raised their glasses. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”