![]() ![]() The best was the vintage Harley shovelhead motorcycle that had been confiscated from a Spawn member in New York. The worst was the itchy blue contacts to hide my violet eyes. We even thought about a tattoo, but my skin won’t take them anymore, and a fake one might be too much of a giveaway. My hair and beard were grown out, my jeans, tee, and leather jacket artfully weathered and worn. A lot of prep work had gone into getting me here. Heavy sisal rope bound my hands and feet, digging into my skin, the fibers needling the insides of my wrists. ![]() The bed of the beat-up old truck was full of filth to choose from. The blood on my cheek was drying and becoming sticky, so I carefully moved my head to rub some dirt and rust into it. I also heard the individual engines of the six motorcycles that escorted us, the heartbeats of their riders, and the fact that the pickup needed a valve job. It sounded much different from the Eastern coyotes I was used to. A single lonely coyote howled in the desert night. ![]()
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