Cannibal Corpse, M/C
Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.
Copyright 2012 Tim Curran.
Cover art by Zach McCain.
“Only the dead are without fear.”
—Tomas, The Magnificent Seven (1960)
The wormboy cut in close, trying to sideswipe him, but Slaughter was ready: he brought out the big .357 Combat Mag and let it bark a couple of times. It was like thunder in the still air. The first round went wild, the other right on target. The wormboy cried out as the side of his throat was blasted to hamburger. He flipped off the shit-brown Duo-Glide Panhead, and hit the pavement, skidding on his face and leaving a greasy smear on the road. His bike went careening away, flipping over, spinning away in a shower of sparks.
Slaughter circled him, bringing his hog to a stop.
He hopped off, a tall wiry man in a greasy, road-weary jean vest emblazoned with club patches, his bare muscular arms sleeved with prison tattoos. He wore a black bandanna on his head and steel-toed motorcycle boots. On the back of his vest there was an oval logo patch with a horned deathshead over crossed pitchforks, a snake hanging from the fanged jaws. Above it, the top rocker read: DEVIL’S DISCIPLES, M/C. And below it: PITTSBURGH.