On a blazing noon day, under a lean-to of tarp and tent poles, a lone stallion sat leaning against the side of his motorcycle.
He sat, idly rolling the cigarette in his lips, savoring the smokey flavor, as the distant sounds of engines roared nearer. And in a moment, the sun started creeping into view from above the tarp, illuminating the features of the stallion in full.
His buckskin jacket, seasoned by the sun, wind and rain. His jeans, a faded pallor, their color lost to the desert. His build, imposing. His face, hard and weathered from a life of drifting.
All who knew a face such as his knew what to expect. Quick. Harden. Dangerous. But, those who knew more knew a gentleness, deep and guarded. His name, Big Macintosh.
The engines were growing closer. And as Big Mac took the last drag on his cigarette, three motorcycles sped by him in a cloud of dust. So quickly, they blew over his lean-to and all of the ash left on his smoke.
With one last exhale of smoke, Big Mac let his cigarette butt fall to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his palm.
Standing up, he dusted himself off and collected the pieces of his fallen shelter. Once it was all collected, he lashed them together with a bungee from his pocket and walked them back to his motorcycle.
His one pride and joy in his life. A 1956 Pilgrim. Its glossy, candy apple red paint had dulled from a buildup of dust, which nearly hid the emblem of a green apple on the gas tank. The handlebars, once of polished silver, were now dull and showing spots of rust.
Set between the handlebars, a small, military green bedroll, which Big Mac hooked his makeshift shelter to. Now, he was set to go.
Sitting atop the long, king and queen seat, he leaned back against the leather saddlebag behind him. Looking down the road, the bikes that had passed him had disappeared into the haze of heat and highway.
With his eyes set squarely ahead, he kickstarted his machine.
The outside had been let go. But, the inside of the Pilgrim was as alive and vigorous as the day he acquired it.
It roared like a beast, and rumbled like a heavyweight champ.
A small smile cracked onto Big Mac’s face. And with his hand the throttle, he was ready to take off like a sonic rainboom.
The engine rumbled, as the wheels rolled to the blacktop. And in seconds, Big Mac was riding well over sixty down the long and lonesome highway at breakneck speed.
The ride was exactly the way he preferred it. With not another soul to be seen. And the desert land untouched by corporate pricks, who constantly tried to spoil the land he loved with their developments.
He knew it would not be long before some suit with his head up his ass would set foot on the untouched land. But for the time being, he would enjoy it.
For hours, he rode through the land, never knowing where he would end up. But, a glance to his fuel gauge, and he saw that he had better end up at a gas station.
As luck would have it, there was a large, green sign ahead. And in bold, white letters, he was informed of a gas station at the next exit, 20 miles down the way.
Easing his throttle forward, the Pilgrim picked up speed, sending him rocketing toward his destination.
On the lonely stretch of road, a gas station sat facing an orchard.
Under the shade of the massive awning that stretched over the pumps, three stallions sat. Two of them bucked a can of oil between them, while the third sipped his can of Red Coyote beer, as he pumped his gas.
In the distance, the familiar sound of a motorcycle engine approached. And in moments, the stallion pumping gas looked to see an enormous stallion ride up to the neighboring pump.
Big Mac stepped off of his Pilgrim, and glimpsed over at the orchard. The sight of the many fruit-bearing trees tugged at a part of himself that had been lost many years ago. But, they were now only memories of a time long passed.
As he walked to the front door of the gas station, one of the stallions missed when the can was tossed to him, and banged loudly against the cement wall.
Before Big Mac walked inside, the owner, an elderly donkey in a grease-stained shirt, came out to investigate the noise.
“What was that!? You guys trying to wreck my shop!?” the donkey said.
“It’d probably look better if we did!” one of the stallions joked. He took a clip of money from his pocket and tosses it for the donkey to catch. “How about another six pack of Red Coyote?”
The donkey returned to inside his shop, grumbling all the while.
After one last glance to the other stallions, Big Mac walked inside the shop.
Inside, there was little more than a few shelves and a counter with a register, where the old donkey was shelling out the bills he was given.
“Ones. Why do these bums only pay in ones?” he muttered.
Big Mac casually sauntered up to the counter.
“Help ya, son?” the donkey asked.
“Need ten bucks on pump number two. An’ some jerky, if ya got it,” Big Mac answered.
The old donkey picked up a six pack from the refrigerator behind himself, and shook it vigorously.
“Sure. If’n ya don’t mind gecko meat. Tell ya what: ya take this beer out to them hobos at the pump, ya get yer jerky free,” he said.
“Deal,” Big Mac plainly said, as he exchanged his money for gas, and collected the six pack and jerky.
He walked out to the door, and saw that the three other bikers were now surrounding his motorcycle.
For the first time since he saw them on the road, Big Mac was able to get a good look at them.
One was much shorter than the others, and sported a red bandanna and a shaggy beard.
The next had a face that looked like it was half roadkill, with a pale glass eye set into one socket.
The third was much older than the others. On his front leg, he sported a tattoo that read, ‘I will never go down in history, but I’ll go down on your sister.
All three wore the same black jacket with a logo of a unicorn skull. Above the logo, stitched in bold white were the words ‘Luna Angels.’ Below the skull, the word ‘Califoalnia’ was embroidered.
In a bold move, the short stallion with the bandanna tried to take his seat atop the Pilgrim.
“Ya won’t get far. That thing’s been runnin’ on fumes for a few miles now,” Big Mac said.
“No. It ain’t like that. I just wanted to see what it was like sittin’ on this little baby,” the short stallion said, as he climbed off. “What is it? A ‘59?”
“‘56,” Big Mac corrected, as he passed the older stallion the six pack. “Here’s yer beer.”
He then removed the gas cap and started pumping fuel. To his dismay, the numbers on the pump rotated slowly, and he could feel only a trickle of gasoline moving through the hose.
With a pop and a fizz, the three stallions opened a can of beer each.
“Hey, the old geezer actually shook ‘em this time,” the one-eyed stallion said, before gleefully sucking down the contents of his can.
“Thanks fer the suds, fella. Name’s Coastie,” the short stallion said. “Old timer’s King. And Mr. Universe here is Thor.”
The one-eyed stallion flicked some foam from his can at Coastie.
“Have a can, sport,” King said, passing a can to Big Mac. “What’s yer name?”
“Big Mac,” the large stallion replied, carefully cracking his can open.
“So, when’d ya get back to the world, Big Mac?” Thor asked.
Big Mac nearly stopped mid sip of his drink. That was a vernacular he hadn’t heard since his return from the war. Looking at Thor’s disfigured face, it made sense that he would know such slang.
“It’ll be one year on the dot by next Thursday,” he answered. “How ‘bout you?”
“Got back in ‘67. Would’ve stayed longer, but they had to discharge me after I lost my eye,” Thor replied.
Over the course of the time it took to pump his gas, Big Mac shared his stories with the others. A short while later, King crushed his empty beer can and climbed atop his bike.
“C’mon, girls. We’re burnin’ daylight here! The prez is waitin’ for us!” he called to his two companions.
After saying their goodbyes, Thor and Coastie both mounted their bikes, and started their engines.
“Hey, Big Mac! If you’re headed west, hit us up a Pinto Creek!” Thor said, over the roar of his engine.
“Could be a few days, but I might get there,” Big Mac replied.
And with those last words, King, Thor and Coastie all rode out into the distance.
Big Mac watched them go, until they disappeared into the horizon. Looking to the pump, he saw that it was now counting $5.56 paid for. And the numbers were still slowly rolling.
With a sigh, he sat down against the pump, and waited for the moment when he would be able to ride again.