On a dreary day in the middle of July, a biker picks himself off the floor of the club house and staggers outside to piss. Zipper down and weaving during flow, he notices a crow soaring over the rooftops. Cherk, cherk, was its call, seemingly watching the biker.
It dropped to the pack of nine motorcycles covering the driveway and landed on the seat of one. It hopped onto the handlebars of a black Harley bearing a cross on the tank. His Harley. They stared at each other. The biker zipped up not sure he was awake and obviously not lucid.
It was only a blink or two. The crow was gone and a man in leather was trying to kickstart the 78 panhead. “Hey what are you doing? That’s my bike,” shouted the biker. He started toward it and stopped halfway. The piercing blue eyes of the man on his bike—the tattoos and colors. It looked like the panhead’s original owner. He was shot during a gang fight. The bike was purchased from his ole lady. The confusion stopped the biker for a staredown. A double take and the bike was suddenly clear. The crow lofted into the dreary July morning as another biker staggered out of the house.
“I just saw Cherk,” the first biker said in the middle of trying to piece it together.
“Cherk has been dead for ten years,” said the second biker. “Shot dead, while starting his motorcycle, well, about where you are parked.”
“That’s his 78pan that I’m on. He is that crow flying out of the tree,” the biker said pointing.
“That’s why I don’t mess with that shit you boys were snorting. Cherk, a crow, ha, ha, ha.”
DAGilberthorrorwriter 