Iron Jaws Motorcycle Club Read Online Free PDF

ran out from his cheek. “…, you know?” he heard.  He righted himself of his stool again.
    “Talk like that makes me wonder if I’ve got more past than future,” Scales said. He sucked back a shot of pinot; found bottle picked up scavenging on the highway, swished it over his gums and swallowed. The wind blew debris all around outside the diner, hotter than an old virgin loosening his collar as the devil climbs onto the bed. The wasteland breathed in and out.  The diner walls and plate glass windows shook and warped but Scales sat still, cracked and boarded up. He sucked down another slug of wine straight from the bottle.
    “Got to make a call,” he heard.
    Numb footsteps carried him across the desert that reclaimed the parking lot. “Real estate was a fucking illusion, huh,” he spat.  The last intact panel of glass had blistered and, so, stood upright magnifying the scene outside of the phone booth in which Scales was standing. His veins were vines stuck to tree trunks; they burned all up and down his arms. His temples were fixed in flex because his teeth were clenched to stop himself from grinding them to powder. His jaw jerked, lips reverberated—shockwave spreading and collapsing. His left eyelid sunk behind his eyeball so that for a moment his eye seemed to float in the air. And then an immediate return to his default clutch. Sweat hardened on his face in leprous salt craters. He pulled the phone from the hook and pushed some coins into the slot. 
    His jaw jerked.
    It pulled the cramp in his neck.
    A storm on the horizon behind him in a crimson sky scratched through with charcoal lines like some terrible mistake—unable to be erased, blotted out, or forgotten—made him the anonymous silhouette.
    He mumbled into the receiver, into the silence.
    Scales was tired of it; ultimately exhausted by his survival.  Cyclones pogoed into the line of fire toward the back of the rubescent dome. The atmosphere was alive with lightning. “You told me not to bother.  I have to tell you, to get this off my mind,” he said. Debris clattered against the metal frame of the phone booth. “But I know I’m not getting through.” 
    A coyote with an open wound in its flank strained through the rootless panorama. He counted its steps; noted the silence of the gory struggle to persist. Looking at the cord he had been languorously twisting , he saw it was severed and for the first time felt the handset moving untethered against his ear. He spun round and round in the booth sweating, hyperventilating.  The ruddy sky became a lung heaving for air and finding little. Dead satellites pushed out by the swollen atmosphere fell once more into their unknown orbits independent of all control but physics. He saw the wind before he felt it blowing through the booth, wheezing in his ears.
    His little brother again. 
    Gasps muffled through the thin attic wall. 
    Scales staring at the corroded brass lock slid shut to keep his brother from escaping. 
    Just a game, he reminded himself.  Just a game. “I didn’t know he could die. I swear, Mom, I swear I didn’t know.”
    Scales jaw jerked. He bashed the handset into the faceplate. The coyote was swallowed into the wasteland.
    He came up short when he reached for the door. Confused, he pushed his hand out again grinding his forearm along the shard crowned frame. 
    His affect plateaued, “Memory was a name. Name was a game.” 
    His boots hit the sand hard, “Game was the same. Same gets the blame, the blame game.” 
    Boots kicked up dust flying faster than Judas’ dying prayer. He put a hand on his motorcycle, “Name of the highway,” he put his ass on the seat. “Name of the highway is…” He kicked the starter. Nothing. “Highway is…”
    “Unknown.  Shut up and ride,” Scales heard.
    He looked down, braced and watched the road fly beneath the knucklehead. He rode toward the horizon, away from the storm. A cobweb of nerves short circuited around his elbow and he