(continued) Looking For Something. . .

The Harley roared as he flew down the highway. A huge storm was behind him and he wanted to get to the strip of town that was only 3 or 4 miles away; he could take shelter and gas up there. He felt a few drops hit his buckskin jacket as he neard the town. Drops smeard his sunglasses. He roared into town and a few onlookers stared as he pulled into the gas station. His new beard had grown out to a considerable length. He had grown it out since he left school. He had a tattoo across his knuckles that read "Lone Wolf". He filled his tank and paid the clerk inside then parked his bike in parking spot and sat at a picnic table and ate some food and smoked a all natural cigarette. A large man walked by him and gave him a stare and said something under his breath. "What was that?" The older man stopped in midstride as he was going through the door.
"Problem son?"
"Not yet. I heard you say something as ya walked by. What did you say?" The rain came down harder as the tension in the air thickened.
"I don't reckon it much matters to you what i said." He spit a dip of Skoal out of his lip and stared down the rugged looking teenager.
"Sir, I ain't lookin' for trouble but if you want it, i ain't afraid to let you see it show." The biker flicked the last of his cigarette to the ground.

Looking for something

http://www.artsceneiowa.com/artscene-DAVID-MANN.htmlHe woke up just a few minutes before true dawn. He took a quick shower in the dirty motel bath and dressed. He put on a pair of close fitting wrangler jeans and a pair of high leather slip-on boots. A wool plaid flannel came down over his chest and a buckskin jacket over that. He put his spare clothes back into the green army stuff bag and threw one strap over his shoulder. He walked out and tied the bag full of clothes and other goods to the sissy bar. He tied a dirty, ragged bandanna around his head. He put on a pair of dark aviator sunglasses and lit a handmade cigarette. He climbed aboard his old iron horse and started her up. The dual pipes roared and he reved it up to get her warmed up. The sun was gleeming over the motel rooves. He was always up early and laughed at what the sleeping others must think as they wake up to the sound of his bike at 6 AM. He shifted the Harley into first and let the clutch out slow. He had nowhere to be. He rode to the Motel Office and dropped the key off. Then again slowly made way to the lonely, personless road. He had left home only 2 weeks ago and yet, not once had he felt homesick. (to be continued)