The motorcycle purred beneath him as he ripped across the desolate highway stretching off into forever lit only by the single light on the front of the bike. The wind whipped his hair against the worn leather of his jacket, singing the sweet song of freedom past his ears. His beard collected whatever unfortunate insects happened to be in his way on this still, cold Southwestern night. The pistol in his belt felt empowering, assuring, like three and a half pounds of steel confidence.
Hell was in his veins.