Hell on Wheels: Snakebite’s Tale
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, but I was already up, lacing up my worn leather boots, my old man's jacket slung over my shoulders. My name's Sadie, but back in the day, everyone called me Snakebite, and I earned that name more times than I can count. You see, I wasn’t just any biker chick—I was a goddamn legend. The sixties were my playground, and I ran wild with the Devil’s Hounds, a pack of unruly bastards who didn’t give a shit about nothin’.
I remember those days like they were yesterday, even if the details are a little hazy—blame the acid for that. We lived fast, rode hard, and didn’t give a damn about tomorrow. Free love wasn’t just a phrase; it was a way of life. We fucked like we rode—fast, furious, and without a care in the world. The men I rolled with weren’t the type to settle down, and neither was I. If I wanted a piece of someone, I took it, and if they didn’t like it, they could fuck right off. Love wasn’t a word in our vocabulary; it was all about the thrill, the chase, the burn of whiskey in your throat and the wind in your hair.
Drugs? Hell, we had our pick of the litter. Acid, weed, pills, whatever could take the edge off or send you soaring into the stratosphere. I’ll never forget the first time I dropped acid—everything was alive, the colors, the sounds, even the damn pavement seemed to pulse under my boots. Riding high, both on my bike and the shit coursing through my veins, I felt like I could take on the whole world. We rode through the night, the roar of our engines the only sound, and it felt like we were the kings and queens of the universe, untouchable, unstoppable.
The bike was my soul, a ’64 Harley Panhead, black as sin with chrome that gleamed like a knife in the moonlight. She was my baby, and I treated her better than any man I ever fucked. We had a connection, her and me; she understood the need for speed, the hunger for freedom. We rode through hell and back, my Panhead and I, leaving nothing but dust and memories in our wake.
The cops? Pfft, those pigs were a joke. They couldn’t catch us if they tried, and believe me, they tried. There was something about a leather-clad chick with a devil-may-care grin that drove those bastards wild. They’d chase us down, sirens blaring, lights flashing, but we’d just laugh, flip ‘em the bird, and twist the throttle a little harder. The road was ours, and we weren’t about to let anyone tell us different.
But it wasn’t just about the rides and the parties, the booze, and the drugs. It was about the brotherhood, the sisterhood, the family we built on the back of our bikes. We looked out for each other, bled for each other, and if anyone fucked with one of us, they fucked with all of us. I saw some good people go down, some who never got back up, but that’s the way it was. You lived fast, or you died young—there was no middle ground.
Now, sitting here, looking at the old photos, the worn patches, the faded tattoos, I can’t help but grin. I may be older now, a little slower, a little softer, but those days are etched into my soul. I wouldn’t trade a single wild night or crazy ride for all the quiet in the world. We were hell on wheels, and we lived like there was no tomorrow because, for us, there wasn’t.
So here’s to the sixties, to the bikes, the booze, the drugs, and the free love that defined a generation. Here’s to the wild ones, the outlaws, the rebels who took the road less traveled and left a trail of fire in their wake. Here’s to Snakebite, the girl who gave no fucks, took no prisoners, and rode straight into the heart of the storm without looking back.
We were the last of a dying breed, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
THE END?
I often stumble upon an image while browsing that sparks an idea for a story, like this one of an old biker chick. It took me back to the 70s, to a biker bar I used to visit after work. The girls there were wild, and I can't help but wonder what they're like today and the stories they might have to tell.
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