BlackTop MotorCycle Gang raids Nonymous

As their rumble faded away in the distance from the direction of the nearest watering hole, a dazed, small man, with black powder smeared on his whiskered face, pulled himself upright out of a mess of crumpled boxes, strewn paper, and overturned furniture than had been his office. He swayed on his feet and with sandbagged eyes surveyed the damage and sighed.

He knew they'd come back for him. They'd make him do horrible things: drink in public; make a fool of himself; make him read aloud words that would curl the petals of flowers and make loved ones howl and scream in the night. There would be another BlackTop MotorCycle Gang night of mayhem on the spring rain-soaked streets of Freddy Beach.

He heaved his desk upright and found a not too broken but decidedly wobbly chair in which to sit. He hears sounds, a whirring and phut phut phut repeating over and over. He smiled. It wasn't from outside the office window with a cardboard panel from a wine box taped over a hole punched there during the last raid. No, the sound came through the wall from an inner room. Micah picked his way across the ruined office, careful to avoid daggers of shattered mirror on the floor outside the kitchenette and now doorless toilet.

The door had been ripped of its hinges and kicked to pieces, panels of wood flying, in front of him. The bald badass reaking of beer and candied cigarillos that had held him tight almost whispered as he'd said, "We'll do to that to you, if you don't cooperate." Micah had nodded his head and gulped out, "Okay. Sure. Whatever you say."

Micah took the lid off the toilet tank, reached a hand in and pulled out a key. In the hallway opposite the toilet was a half height steel door with curled decals warning DO NOT ENTER in bold letters above a lightning bolt and HIGH VOLTAGE below. Opening the door, he stooped and squat-walked two steps in then stood up.

It was a small, windowless room with a fan in the outside wall above a bank of grey equipment with flickering green and red LED lights. The right end was busily moving up and down like it was doing something. Micah reached over, pulled out a stack of paper. The top sheet read NONYMOUS—With the BlackTop Motorcycle Gang—. He'd done it. He gotten it on paper while they were destroying his office, his life.

He'd be ready, when they returned. Better than WANTED posters at the police station and post office, he'd captured a likeness of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang in words and pictures. They were loud and rude, sweet and perverse, poets and not-poets, their fukted-up and alive, singin' and spinnin', peelin' rubber and leaving tread all over the place. Tonight they'll be hoggin' the talkin' stick, raidin' the microphone. They'll be in your face and between your ears . . .

BE THERE OR WEEP:
7 pm, Saturday, 4 April 2009
Wilser's Room
in the Capitol Complex
off Pipers' Lane & Queen St
opposite The Tannery & King St
Fredericton, New Brunswick

Bring money, watches, wallets, piggybanks, your stash, if you want to give a copy of Nonymous Three a good home away from the clutches of the BlackTop MotorCycle Gang.

shirt: boothill saloon
loc: broken desk
temp: 8 C
sound: prong "rude awakening"