Phat City News

"The ones you want to fuck want to be loved and
the ones you love just want to be fucked. When
your woman leaves you this is probably the best
song ever."
-- comment on "Can't Find My Way Home"

I'm ancient now, 48 times this old orb has made
it's twisted way around the long circuit. But I'm
still a lusty young man, and the fires still burn.
I've been through the crucible. In my misspent
youth I seemed to have a lot to prove, and prove
it I did. I've still got the scars and broken bones
to show for it.

I ran 127mph on the Harley on a black night on a
flat highway with the Highway Patrol out on the
prowl for me. I jumped in full combat equipment
in the dark from a C-130 aircraft with my face
painted and dressed in camouflage, a killer ready
to kill, Airborne Death From The Sky.

I've tripped, I've loved, I ran hard and fast and
crazy with no regard for life or limb, utterly
unconcerned with the very real possibility I'd be
maimed or killed, a life well established ending
suddenly and violently.

So here I am, miraculously still around, a little
older, slower, not so fast to heal, but much wiser. I'm
the Ram, impetuous, headstrong, charging blindly
into the ambush. Recon, the point man. The
Penetrator, the Gimlet. Now just older and wiser
enough to know when to pull my horns in. Plenty
just like me aren't around any more to tell you
about it, but I am, and I will.

I got my bona fides the Hard Way. I've seen the mean
streets, the dive bars, the alleyways. I was
lucky, and that's no exaggeration. Measure twice, cut
once. I learned that. It's especially true when you're
about to change lanes on a lean low fast Sportster
traveling over 100 miles per hour. There's only one
chance to do it right and if you muck it up, well, there
will be plenty of time to regret it while you lay in the
bed of pain and contemplate the place where your
femur came out the side of your leg. Or no time at all,
catapulted forever into that great mysterious Other
Side, off to explore whatever Next Adventure awaits
each of us in that place where no one gets to come
back and tell you how it is...

I'm a film noire detective working on the greatest case
ever imagined. Only one problem, it doesn't pay. Not
even expenses. Not in sheckles anyway. The payoff is
all metaphysical, and that don't make the nut when
rent is due or the bottle of rye is empty and you need
a refill to getchyer head right.

But it's exciting, exhilarating, somedays, between the
bouts of extreme boredom. I've got a Harley, but not
a big fat one like so many guys ride. Mine's slim and
sleek and built for speed. Everything not necessary
for going fast has been stripped off, like the horn and
the turn signals and the mirrors, except for the one
bar end mirror perched way outside of my elbow
where I can check for pursuing cops. Not that I really
need a mirror. Worry about what's in Front of you,
I say. But I make that one concession to the Law. You
don't need turn signals so long as you make all the
proper hand signals, but you must have a mirror.

You're obviously built for speed too, Honey. You'll
look great, a beautiful tail ornament on the back of
the Sporty. Be sure to wear a little pleated short short
skirt and give all the citizens a thrill. Let the vibrations
off that big 74 cubic inch motor percolate and
permeate and get you all wet and hot and sultry
sweaty stanky so when we get back into those trusty
trails and there's no one around and you're stretched
out under that tree with my face buried in your
luscious little snatch you taste so good I'LL be
moaning with pleasure just lapping up your sweet
hot cum as I shove my thumb up your ass and you
buck your hips and arch and dig your nails into my
back and catch your breath with a little squeal of
pleasure, grinding that hot little box into me...