From: giovanne@ccrs.emr.ca (Desiree Salope)
Subject: Bikersluts, Chapter 5
Organization: Ugly Twisted Nastiness
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1993 22:21:19 GMT


La Spectre de la Salope de Moto



It is one of the crossroads of time. History has ebbed and flowed
through the fields of the Alsace, marched across the muddy fields,
built roads and even fast moving weapons of terror just to own this
place, even if only for a brief moment. It is Paris. From a circle
of huts in prehistoric times it grew into a medieval fortress and
spread its influence worldwide until it became the world's own
jewel. It has been clamoured for and lusted after, it has been
courted and besieged, beset with plague, and even conquered. Yet,
it rises above earthly intrigue with a peculiar timeless quality.

A foreign invader passes through this evening. An English rain,
having lost its way, has meandered into the French night and spends
its energy in delicate droplets over what any Parisian will tell
you is the centre of the universe.

Ancient, rounded cobblestones still dot the edges of the Champs
Elysees. The Parisian rain coats them with a thin sheen that
reflects the lights of the diminished 3 a.m. traffic bustle. The
grand street, built by the Romans, and paraded upon by centuries of
Emperors and tyrants, truly never sleeps. This night, an unfamiliar
sound cascades against the facades of buildings built by Bonaparte.
Annette strengthens her grip on the death shifter, and releases the
clutch. The angry throat of the Harley Davidson resonates gruffly
as she twists the throttle.

Annette does not belong here, but she will never leave. She is in
an alleyway behind an ancient stone building that houses a pharmacy
on the ground floor. An elevated tramway, a crazy lattice of iron
left over from the Industrial Revolution, hovers overhead and a dim
light, flickering from above, is all that illuminates her. Tiny
unpleasant apartments fill the upper floors of the building.

She is not young. In the dimness, it is hard to tell that she is
naked, save for her boots and leather jacket. The Gang colours on
the back of the jacket are not legible. The appendicitis scar that
slashes through loins which have swollen slightly with age is
barely in evidence. Her breasts have begun to sag slightly. She
removes a lipstick from a pocket in the jacket, and moves it
circularly on her nipples. Hot pink.

She is ready. She twists the throttle hard, and again unleashes the
clutch. The rumble of the big bike's lurching start can be felt in
the apartments above, mostly full of misfits and the down and out.
She guns the bike, expertly maneuvering around the detritus
scattered in the alleyway, pulling the death shift back towards her
crotch in perfect sequence to the thrum of the engine, lets the
clutch go again, and twists the throttle back hard.

She bursts onto the Champs Elysee, scattering a few Citroens and
Deux Cheveaux, guns the bike, and shifts again. Small puddles
vaporize in her wake as she makes the throaty Harley sing. Drivers
of other vehicles scream other world obscenities as she breaks the
100mph mark, still accelerating.

Annette does not reply to them. She never talks. She just rides.

-- 
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