An
alarm was ringing in the bank.
“Heh
heh heh heh,” snickered a raspy voice from the midst of the dust
cloud. “Beautiful. Just beautiful … if I do say so myself.”
His accent was cowboy. He whistled loudly. “Shooter! Come on,
boy! I got a job for you—get in here!”
He was answered by the eruption of a big v-twin engine roaring to life.
The
rumble approached him, growing ever louder, the closer it got.
“Shooter!
Blow away all this dust, so I can see what in tarnation I’m
doin’.”
The
cackling engine revved up a few times, and then tached all the way
out—and held it there.
Within
a few moments, the exhaust blowing out of the screaming motor had
cleared most of the dust away.
“ALRIGHT,
SHOOTER!!! ALRIGHT!!! THAT’LL DO!!!”
The
engine revved down.
A
tall, lanky man in a long black duster coat and cowboy hat walked up
to the snarling motorcycle, and gave it a pat on its gleaming black
chrome gas tank. “That’s a good boy, Shooter. Good boy.”
The
bike growled affectionately under his touch.
“That’s
right. Shooter and The Rustler—pardners ‘till the end. Which
doesn’t look like it’s going to be coming anytime soon now, does
it? Heh heh heh heh heh.”
The
cycle matched his evil laughter with it’s own, mechanical version
of the same.
“Alright!
Enough messing around here—let’s go get that loot, boy!”
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