Miranda got to the rally, she planned to meet up with Todd. He was both her boss and her ex. Todd was a good-looking guy, if not a bit scrawny; but, he was a pretender. He didn't embrace the nomad's lifestyle, he didn't feel it in his heart. He simply put on the show. It was all about the money and the women to Todd. The tattoos for him were nothing more than profitable dried ink. For Miranda, they were reflections of the self, self-expression immortalized on the skin. Todd never understand that.
Miranda took the exit to Black Hills. She could already hear the distant roar of the motorcycles. Much like the Indian and the wolf, bikers usually hunted in packs. Some of the biggest tribes around were gathering here, assembled from every corner of America, to strip the land bare of all of its valuables.
Excitement began to build in Miranda, as she took the exit ramp into town. It had already begun. The city’s bars were packed to the brim with hundreds of steel steeds outside. The bikes often took up an entire parking lot because of their sheer number. An old man, a settler by the looks of his old Honda, was honking his horn angrily at two bikers perched lazily in the middle of the street, sipping beer in the desert sun.
“Get out of the way you damn fools!” the old man howled out of the car window. The settlers didn't like Miranda's kind because they scared them. But, this town belonged to the nomad now and for the next week. The old man was the fool, he should have escaped when he had the chance.
“Nice ride, old timer. You on your way to church?” one of the bikers asked. The other one laughed, draining the remnants of the beer in his hand. He then crushed the can and threw it at the old man's car.
“A tin can for the tin can,” he said, and the two howled with laughter. It irritated Miranda. The settlers never got along with the nomads, that was true, but that didn't mean they were at war. In fact, without the settlers, the nomads could not exist. The nomads needed the settlers to make the food and brew the beer. The nomads should show the settlers their due respect.
“Hey, morons! You think you're tough? Hassling the old man? Guess you're out here because the real men inside the bar kicked you out, huh? Looks like you thought you'd pick on someone more your speed!” Miranda shouted.
The two men looked at each other, then back to Miranda. “Why don't you mind your own business? You ain't even patched.” Patched was a term used by the nomads when they were initiated into a tribe. Once they went through the initiation process, they would get a patch sown onto their jacket; but, Miranda's was brand new, not even broken in yet.
“You know...” the other one grinned, displaying a row of yellow teeth. “A girl like you could get patched real easy. Maybe if you show me and my friend here a good time, we'll see what we can do,” the biker said with a chuckle.
Miranda laughed. “That's three minutes of my life I would never get back. Tell you what, if you go back inside and find me a real man, then I'll think about it. Until then, you're holding up traffic.”
The two bikers looked at her in shock. Even the old man was giggling in his Honda. “Bitch,” one of them muttered, as they moved aside.
“That's better,” Miranda said, cranking back the throttle. Nomads like them gave bikers a bad name, and all the patches, tats, and jackets in the world wouldn't change that.
***
“You're late!” Todd said with a grimace. “I told you to be here by nine sharp. Not whenever you feel like it.”
Miranda shrugged. “I got held up by a couple leather-clad clowns. They were blocking the road, nothing I could do.”
Todd examined her. She assumed he was trying to feel out whether she was lying or not. “Was it one of the Jackals?” he asked.
Miranda nodded. “Two of them actually. You know how they are. Bunch of
Miranda took the exit to Black Hills. She could already hear the distant roar of the motorcycles. Much like the Indian and the wolf, bikers usually hunted in packs. Some of the biggest tribes around were gathering here, assembled from every corner of America, to strip the land bare of all of its valuables.
Excitement began to build in Miranda, as she took the exit ramp into town. It had already begun. The city’s bars were packed to the brim with hundreds of steel steeds outside. The bikes often took up an entire parking lot because of their sheer number. An old man, a settler by the looks of his old Honda, was honking his horn angrily at two bikers perched lazily in the middle of the street, sipping beer in the desert sun.
“Get out of the way you damn fools!” the old man howled out of the car window. The settlers didn't like Miranda's kind because they scared them. But, this town belonged to the nomad now and for the next week. The old man was the fool, he should have escaped when he had the chance.
“Nice ride, old timer. You on your way to church?” one of the bikers asked. The other one laughed, draining the remnants of the beer in his hand. He then crushed the can and threw it at the old man's car.
“A tin can for the tin can,” he said, and the two howled with laughter. It irritated Miranda. The settlers never got along with the nomads, that was true, but that didn't mean they were at war. In fact, without the settlers, the nomads could not exist. The nomads needed the settlers to make the food and brew the beer. The nomads should show the settlers their due respect.
“Hey, morons! You think you're tough? Hassling the old man? Guess you're out here because the real men inside the bar kicked you out, huh? Looks like you thought you'd pick on someone more your speed!” Miranda shouted.
The two men looked at each other, then back to Miranda. “Why don't you mind your own business? You ain't even patched.” Patched was a term used by the nomads when they were initiated into a tribe. Once they went through the initiation process, they would get a patch sown onto their jacket; but, Miranda's was brand new, not even broken in yet.
“You know...” the other one grinned, displaying a row of yellow teeth. “A girl like you could get patched real easy. Maybe if you show me and my friend here a good time, we'll see what we can do,” the biker said with a chuckle.
Miranda laughed. “That's three minutes of my life I would never get back. Tell you what, if you go back inside and find me a real man, then I'll think about it. Until then, you're holding up traffic.”
The two bikers looked at her in shock. Even the old man was giggling in his Honda. “Bitch,” one of them muttered, as they moved aside.
“That's better,” Miranda said, cranking back the throttle. Nomads like them gave bikers a bad name, and all the patches, tats, and jackets in the world wouldn't change that.
***
“You're late!” Todd said with a grimace. “I told you to be here by nine sharp. Not whenever you feel like it.”
Miranda shrugged. “I got held up by a couple leather-clad clowns. They were blocking the road, nothing I could do.”
Todd examined her. She assumed he was trying to feel out whether she was lying or not. “Was it one of the Jackals?” he asked.
Miranda nodded. “Two of them actually. You know how they are. Bunch of
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