By Keith R.Ball
Four in the morning. The streets are pitch black and deserted.
A lone street light flickers on the corner, its pole sprayed with
fluorescent graffiti and smudged with 40 years of exhaust smoke.
The brick buildings lining the Kansas City street are dark
beneath decades of accumlated coal dust floating from the
skies. This is a ghost town, lifeless and silent except for
the crack of mechanical thunder reverberating against the stone walls.
Windows shake and rattle like skeletons as the lone motorcycle
blasts along the dusty streets, sparking evil into the night.
The furious rider leans forward,slim,dark glasses bouncing
on the bridge of his nose as his narrow gray goatee lashes
his face like a bullwhip. Heading home at last, after a night
spent drinking Jack Daniel's and chasing women, the motorcyclist
barely notices his scoot's mid-30's front end bouncing against
the bear trap-size potholes and skidding along the damp
That lone rider was David Mann on his red 1957 Harley-Davidson,
living the life he has portrayed in Easyriders for the last
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