Pump Up The Volume

100-word fiction

Photo by Motoculturel on Unsplash

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The throaty roar drew them to the diner. Four grubby pre-teens reflected in the gleam of Gold Wing chrome. Duane’s Summer spent persuading the others that shrieking guitar solos were ‘cool’. Their rolled eyes screamed lame. But this. The edgy, uneasy Rider, mirrored shades, ‘Satan’s Spawn’ tattoo, rock chick hissing at them to step the hell back from our wheels. The gang, open-mouthed, starting to believe in this Highway to Hell. Raw power rumbling in their guts. The biker pressed {play}

… You can tell by the way I use my walk …

They turned as one. “Duane, you loser …”

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Cycling in the French countryside, we were passed by a huge touring bike blasting out Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’. I have never worked out the appeal of playing loud music while riding a motorbike. As I muttered the word “loser” out loud, this story popped into my head.