He came and stood over the gleaming Machules. He languidly pulled on a pair of black gloves decorated with silver studs. He slid his glasses on… Then checked himself in the mirror.
“Screw ’em all,” he muttered through his teeth as he slowly raised hisleg, took aim, and then rammed it hard onto the pedal, as his gloved hands flew down and grabbed the buckhorn handlebars. He revved the engine up until a swirling cloud of dust enveloped him. Then, taking his time, he mounted the bike.
He looked right and left, and squeezing Machules between his legs gave her full throttle and emerged from the cloud of blue-tinged exhaust fumes like an avenging black angel, riding its hundred and twenty roaring miles as he hit the asphalt and burnt a silver streak across the early afternoon.