Once you’ve pulled the plug on social media and erased your Internet fingerprint Web-Death is very, very isolating. Now a prisoner within these four walls, this tiny dark room feels like solitary confinement rather than a sanctuary. I don’t even have Internet access. The charred smell of seared animal flesh lingers as the fire flickers against the cave walls. I have become Paleolithic man, scratching out ancient prehistoric cave paintings. I sought safe haven and am now in some godforsaken place buried deep in the Oregon woods. How the hell do these bikers exist here? At least they’ve got enough guns, Jack Daniels, and cigarettes to last a millennium. These dudes are scary tough, they don know what I’m really doing here and I wonder what the hell their doing here, this ain’t no vacation resort. We are all hiding from something.
I have my own space on the second floor. Cramped quarters but suits me fine. By now I’m a confirmed Midnight Writer. Usually up till the break of dawn clacking away on the laptop. These bikers seem to live in the same space-time continuum. Drinking all night long, scrapping and yelling till four in the morning then sleeping till 2: 00 p.m. My kinda people. Its 3:00 a.m., and I see two figures approaching the house from my second story window. There is a loud crash and hear the sound of gunfire. Thirty-five bikers downstairs explode into a tornado of violence. I turn off the hallway lights and head for the porch door, it’s dead bolted. As I turn to find another escape route, a young medium- built man in army fatigues calmly walks down the second story hallway, he has a pistol in hand. He is here for me. As he raises it towards me, a door flies open and a massive biker with a shotgun unloads both barrels point blank at the intruder literally blasting him completely in half.
Surprisingly, the screaming torso reaches to grab his blood-soaked pistol and starts knocking off rounds in our direction. The big biker reloaded his shotgun and unleashes both barrels. The blast completely disintegrates his head…that stopped him. We stand in complete shock. It’s gone quiet and we race down stairs. The room full of bikers was picking up the pieces, tending to wounds; miraculously no one was killed although eight bullets found homes in bikers. The other intruder was gone. These were some of the toughest men I’d ever seen and they couldn’t believe what had just happened.
It turns out the other intruder was tossing them around like rag dolls with one hand, while firing off rounds with the other. They also claim to have unloaded dozens of rounds into the super human freak. These guys are furious and are about to turn on me, but the big shotgun-wielding biker brings them upstairs and recounts what happened. That was it; they wanted answers, revenge and now wanted to hear my whole story.
Theses guys are pissed and call a code red. Code Red is a complete wipe. They shoved the remains of Mr Terminator into a plastic bucket and duct taped the lid closed, and literally emptied the house in 30 minutes, separated into two groups and peeled-out in two separate directions. Someone split the gas line at the main into the house, and as we drove away it triggered a blast that put a mushroom cloud into the morning sky. Surely that house burned to the ground, with the attached garage housing my faithful Victory Cross Country Tour.
The injured left with the other group while my group silently heads to a private airport and boards a vey expensive looking Gulfstream jet. The precision and organization of this seemingly rag tag group of bikers was absolutely incredible. They worked together like highly trained commandos, or shit like this happens all the time.
LINK TO NEXT EPISODE…The War Begins