The Biker's Rules
And I kept going North for some reason, until my brain started to process thoughts again, and chose to come here.
“Woof!” A fucking dog suddenly barks right next to my ear, scaring the bejeezus out of me.
The puppy — a ridiculous, cherry-red bundle of fluff, complete with padded vest and tiny boots — stares up at me like it owns the mountains.
“Good boy,” comes a voice, sarcastic and icy.
I turn my head to face the very last person I ever want to see.
“That’s his cadaver signal. Guess you look and smell like a fucking dead corpse.” He smirks, as if my literal soul isn’t already on fire.