Tuesday, March 5, 2013

100 Words a Day 205

They didn’t call themselves anything. Everyone else called them the Hell Patrol. There was always a spot at the bar when they arrived, the thunder from their pipes heralding their coming long before their bikes wound down the road like a great, metal serpent.

Clad head to toe in leather, they were a fearsome outfit, but dependable. When they signed a deal, they rode like hell for leather to hold up their end of the bargain. Each time they came into town, it felt like all the prospects were new. The ones who survived the initiation though, they were formidable.

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