By Peter B. and Art Intelli
Chapter Six: Captured by the Baldy Bikers
The roar of motorcycles died down as we pulled into a clearing deep in the woods. Firelight flickered off twisted tree trunks, casting eerie shadows over the makeshift biker camp. Many tents and oil drum fires surrounded a large circle of dirt in the center of the camp, with a row of heavy-duty choppers parked in a line like wild animals at rest. Off to one side I saw an old-fashioned barber chair, the black leather seat torn and stained, but its chrome and porcelain gleaming in the firelight. At the other end of the camp I noticed several objects, all under filthy tarps, one appeared to be a large crate of some kind.
They yanked me off the back of the bike and dragged me toward the center dirt circle. My wrists ached from the cuffs, my breath coming in short gasps. I was shoved to my knees.
“Welcome to your New Life, boy,” Q-Ball sneered.
