Re: It's not The Highwayman
He's on the highway..man
Leader of the pack,,,grim faced mauraders, eyes fixed on the horizon as massive pistons annealed in the furnaces of American foundries, pound out their V-twin song, each stroke sending powerfull thrusts through Iron and steel, through aramid/kevlar belts, to gleaming polished aluminium wheels to Dunlops powering into the asphalt of the American Road.
Leather sleeves straining to contain the writhing, knotting muscles therein as each Brother adjusts his machines throttle to maintain his aloted position in the pack, A position earned through respect gained in hours of manly combat.
The Highwayman accepts the mantle of leadership bestowed upon him by his Brothers as his right. The Band of Brothers passes through citys and towns big and small ever searching for atrocitours and provocitures, threats to the American Way of Life
Women young and old feel the flush of passion at the display of such wanton manhood. Muscles straining, hair braided or flying free in the wind, Leather cut-aways displaying mystic symbols frightening and unknown to the uninitiated.
Old men remember a time they too were tested in the fires of Guadalcanal, Normandy and Khe sahn and a hundred other nameless places unknown but to those who fought there, rememberd ever in their hearts, their own vision of hell. The Highywayman and his Brothers remind them of the freedoms won at such a cost,
Some draw themselves up a little straighter others feel their hearts swell with pride. All knowing they can sleep safely tonight,,, The highwaymans on the hunt.