Mile 640

Once upon a time, and a rather exciting time at that, a raccoon waddled into a campsite. After a few moments, it found what it was smelling for- a piece of potato, a golden morsel, a vestige of the meal made over the fire the night before. Potato in his happy little grip, he returned to the dense wood from whence he came.

Not far from this happy raccoon, the Kid pulled along the eerie canal, pulled along a black man named James who had a tackle box in his hand and $10 in his pocket and was heading to the casino. In the steel producing city of Buffalo, the Kid circled into an empty parking lot, downshifted to 1st gear and then back up to neutral, killed his engine. The purr came to a silence.

Bubbling- blop, blop- from the front forks of the motorcycle was a steady blop, blop of oil. He dismounted from the black and brown bike to have a better look. A blop blopped like a sick baby blopping down his chin.

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