The only thing I missed about being mortal was the feeling of the wind in my face when I rode my scooter. Zipping up my leather jacket, I cranked the throttle and shot down the highway. The wind felt good to my face and the air held a slight chill. A crack of thunder rolled across the night, lightning flashed in the distance and I felt a raindrop hit my left cheek. I was traveling alone on this mission I didn’t expect much trouble, because I just came to bring a brother home. Whenever there is trouble in the biker world, they send us. Some people might call us angels, but we like to think of ourselves as troubleshooters. The halos are a division of the Road Dogs, only you have to be dead to wear the halo patch. They came up with the idea for the halo patch at a church meeting in Biker Heaven. I ride with the Road Dogs MC, or at least I did when I was alive, now I wear the halo patch. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man. The tires chirped when they touched asphalt on a lonely desert highway one hundred miles west of, Harlem Springs Arizona. I backed off the throttle, descended to the ground and my bike changed, from a dazzling steed of light, to a 1953 Harley Davidson Pan Head that looked like it had seen better days. Any similarity between any of the characters, events or organizations in this book is purely coincidental. Names characters, places, organizations, or any motorcycle club mentioned in this story are either a product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. This short story, Bring A Brother Home, is a work of fiction.
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