I’m easily amused. Lake circled the rental car around Palms Garden Cemetery. A spiked, wrought iron fence kept the dead in, otherwise, who knew? They might run out and vote. I didn’t say that to Lake for fear of an unappreciative groan. At the white stone gates, at intervals , the uniformed cop held up a hand to allow other boulevard traffic to flow past the line of bikes and cars waiting to enter the city of the dead. My skin started to hum. The voltage in the atmosphere was amped to the max despite the fanning palms doing their damndest to make this day a celebration of the dead. “Don’t anyone light a match,” Lake said. Riley "Big Red" O'Rourke We weaved and shouldered our way through throngs of bikers, some startled at seeing three people not wearing cut, sleeveless denim, or leather, or visible tattoos— until they caught the badges. They growled and spit, then went back to their conversations. Lots of fucks and fuckers bein...
Comments
Post a Comment