Two old men sat playing pinochle, while the barroom ebbed and flowed around their table as if it was an island in the ever-moving stream of humanity.
The harsh growl of motorcycle engines emptied the place, save for the card players and a raddled barmaid.
These bikers were spoiling for a fight as they streamed in from the unforgiving streets.
One strutted over to where the old men sat, but as they looked up at him he turned away.
“Who the fuck?”
The barmaid smiled. “That’s the future boys, Death and his brother Taxes.”
The bikers cut and ran…