It was out of no where, a sucker-punch, a cheap glancing shot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as the demon scratched at it's grey cell walls. He wanted attention, an he received it.
Walking out of the bookstore for a smoke and inner communion with the jail keepers, he hit again. This time not a glancing blow but one directly to the center of my back. He meant business this time.
But this time it was different. Straddling my bike, bringing this steel and rubber and chrome beast alive, we prepared. Hot asphalt and blood red setting sun swayed to my request; we rode.