The place is on the water. It has little umbrellas that have frayed in the wind. The fresh salty air from the gulf can’t penetrate the smells of stale beer and greasy food that surround the plywood structure like a fugue.
Gulls circle looking for morsels of food. With protesting squawks they fly off when the big bikes roar into the parking lot. The leather-dressed men smell of piss, shit and vomit. They have long greasy hair and beards. They wear dark glasses and scowls. They step off loud machines onto sun bleached cement stained with blood and violence.
One after another they park until twenty bikes are lined up.
When the last one enters the dive bar the door closes after him and the music inside kicks off and the gulls return to search for food.
Stories 