I walk into the Hotel Kendall, a place too fancy for my usual digs. The place smells like money and wood polish, a far cry from my jail cell just an hour ago. Something’s up. The Twisted Paladins aren’t known for their charity.

“Welcome, Mr. Wilson,” the front desk clerk says with a grin that seems too perfect. “We’ve been expecting you. Your room’s been reserved.” Reserved? By whom? “Third floor, overlooking Main Street.” The guy talks like I’m royalty, not some ragged biker fresh from the slammer.

A bellboy’s on me before I know it, escorting me to the third floor. He keeps glancing at me like he’s sizing me up. But it’s not an ugly sizing up, more like curiosity. The elevator’s too slow for my liking, and finally, we’re there.

“Enjoy your stay,” the bellboy says, sounding like he means it, and then he’s gone. Doesn’t even wait for a tip.

The room’s nice, real nice. Martha Stewart wouldn’t mind getting laid here. There’s an envelope on the bed. Inside, a note: “Take a shower, change into clean clothes, and await further instructions.”

Further instructions? What is this, a spy movie?

I’m filthy, that’s true, but my only clothes are what I’m wearing. That’s when I see a neatly folded paper bag on the dresser. Inside, there are exact copies of my black T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and even my socks and underwear. How’d they know about the underwear? Creepy.

I don’t think about it much. The hunger’s gnawing at me, and the hot shower washes away all my worries. Well, most of them.

I change into the clean clothes, looking out the window, down on Main Street. Bike Week’s over now, and Sturgis has returned to its small-town slumber.

As for the Twisted Paladins, my benefactors, mystery envelopes — it feels like a scene out of a Tarantino flick. Only thing missing’s Samuel L. Jackson telling me what to do.

I sit on the bed, lean back, and wait. The Twisted Paladins did me a solid, got me out of jail. But nothing’s free, not in this world.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon

Here I am, sitting in a cold jail cell in Sturgis, my jaw throbbing.

Yesterday, I took a stand in that dive bar, thinking I was doing the right thing. Now, I’m facing charges of felonious assault, and I can hardly believe it.

The woman I thought I was protecting now claims her man wasn’t abusing her. How could that be? I saw it with my own eyes. But she’s singing a different tune, and now I’m the one in trouble.

The whole situation stinks, and I can’t shake the feeling that something fishy’s going on. I replay the scene in my head, over and over, looking for clues. Was there something in her eyes? A hidden plea for help, maybe? Or did I read the whole thing wrong?

My thoughts are interrupted when the cell door clanks open, and a heavily tattooed guy with a wild beard is tossed in beside me. His ink marks him as a one-percenter, and I immediately sense trouble.

“What’re you in for?” he growls, sizing me up.

“Felonious assault,” I say.

He laughs, a harsh, gravelly sound. “You’ve got it easy, man. They just captured me on an outstanding warrant for first-degree murder.”

I’m taken aback, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not joking. He’s lived a hard life, and this is just another chapter.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say, more to myself than him.

He leans back, eyeing me with a strange mixture of curiosity and contempt. “Right thing? Wrong thing? Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with truth.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon

It’s just before noon and I’m sipping my Jack and Coke in a Sturgis bar I won’t name when the shouting starts.

Big guy’s shoving his girlfriend, and she’s trying to get away. I look at the bartender, but he pretends to be busy polishing glasses. I look at the bouncer, but he pretends to be talking on his cellphone.

“You lay off her!” I yell, getting up from my stool.

Everyone’s looking at me now.

The guy turns, eyes blazing. “Mind your own business,” he spits.

I don’t like his tone. Don’t like what he’s doing either. “Your business is my business when you treat a lady like that,” I say.

A fist comes at me, connects with my face. The guy’s buddies join in, and I’m swinging, hitting, dodging until WHAM! Something slams into my jaw, and everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m on the curb, jaw aching — and a dozen people are taking photos and videos of me. I feel a smear of blood pooling under my left eye and touch it gingerly. That’s going to be a beauty of a shiner.

Inside, the bar’s careening along like nothing happened. “Hey,” a voice booms from inside, “did you see how we tossed that loser out like a box of cat shit?”

For an insane moment, I consider pulling my hunting knife from my right boot and going back in. But the last time I did that, things didn’t turn out well, so I let it rest.

I check for my bike keys. Still there. Good.

A craving for Norco sets in, gnawing at me. That’d fix things right up. Instead, I pull myself to my feet, stagger over to the Harley. Don’t feel much like a hero.

I start her up and ride off, the roar of the Fat Boy cutting through the music and noise. I’m just another guy with a sore jaw, a developing black eye, and a head full of thoughts I don’t want to think.

It’s been a lousy day and it’s only half over. But that’s life. You step in, you take a swing, you end up on the curb.

Maybe next time, I’ll mind my own business.

Maybe not.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon

Belly full of beer outside The Knuckle Saloon and a dare in the air. The stranger’s eyes lock onto mine, and he’s talking crazy.

He challenges me to switch rides for the day, my Harley Fat Boy for his vintage Triumph Bonneville T120R. All for the thrill of it.

“Yeah? You serious?” I say, not believing it.

“As a heart attack,” he says, hand outstretched.

Should I do it?

My pal Larry from Cleveland says you can’t drink all day unless you start at breakfast, and it’s almost 10 a.m., so . . .

What the fuck!

Deal’s done with a handshake, and I hop on that Triumph, nowhere near as hefty as my Harley, but she’s got spirit, and we’re off like a prom dress.

Start riding, wind in my face, new beast under me. Triumph’s nimble, dances around curves, growls at stoplights. Ain’t my Harley, but she’s something special.

The Triumph attracts her own crowd. Folks I wouldn’t usually cross paths with.

I head out on U.S. 14A and stop at some bar I’ve never heard of halfway to Deadwood. Dixie admires me and the Triumph, invites me inside to watch a mini bike slow race and buys me a Jack and Coke.

Dixie says she rode in from Coos Bay, Oregon, with 47 cancer survivors. She shares stories of the road and of the breasts she lost. Hugs me solid when we part.

Outside, I bump into Pembroke, an old-timer — you have to be with that name. I think he’s fucking with the Triumph, but he’s running papyrus hands across her curves with eyes closed as if reliving his youth through Braille.

“I’ve been fixing bikes since God knows when,” he says. “They’re like robots, fine and wild machines — they need a human brain to be complete.”

Wisdom wrapped in grease-stained stories.

Nightfall. I meet the stranger again at The Knuckle and swap back, but we’re no longer strangers. Share a drink, trade stories. He’s had a hell of a time on my Harley. We laugh, promise to keep in touch.

By the way, I know many of you are going to harsh on me for letting this guy ride my hog. But I knew what I was doing, so fuck you.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon