For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
We arrived here by the vermilion cliffs in the dead of night. It wasn’t until I finally rolled out of bed the next morning after the long ride from Bullhead City that I saw how desolate it was there.
I stumbled out of the Motel 6 while buttoning my leathers around my thighs. No shower for me. I was going to get straight down to business and get the fuck out of there.
Holy shit on a crucifix. There was a neat row of pine trees, obviously planted on the opposite side of the highway to blot out some unsavory view. If I looked toward the cinnamon mesas I was greeted by a giant, frisky bull on a tall pole. Dotted lines on his form showed me which cuts of steak I could look forward to.
Oh, and best of all. A weather-battered sign to my right—I suppose it had been neon before being bleached like dinosaur bones in the searing desert sun—told me I was right smack next door to the “Sha-de-land Motor Home Park.” I could also tell by the four dozen or so motor homes parked in the dust that it was not a shady land. At seven in the morning, it was already sixty-three degrees, according to the handy thermometer stuck to the wall sponsored by a lava rock quarry.
I wanted to kill Breakiron. He would have to get us sent to Cornucopia, Utah during August. This was all his fucking fault. I’d done nothing serious to deserve this exile. Papa Ewey would only send club members in bad standing to a hellhole like this, and it was ninety-nine percent Breakiron’s fucking fault.
“What am I doing here?” I muttered, wandering to my scoot to get my cigs from my saddlebags. I’d been trying to quit for six months. Smoking had been banned from our clubhouse since Papa Ewey had had one of those lung cancer holes drilled in the pit of his throat three years ago, but there were still plenty of members smoking outside, so it wasn’t easy. I’d quit every night, flush them down the toilet, then thrash it first thing the next morning to the store to buy a fresh pack. I hadn’t flushed them last night. Too exhausted and pissed off at fucking Breakiron for getting us into this mess.