Ghost Rider After Sturgis

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Yes once again, the Sturgis Rally has descended upon the Black Hills of South Dakota and Wyoming.

In the past years I have discussed the mortality rates and the demographics of those involved in deadly accidents. This morbid but fascinating at least to me, shows just how dangerous the Baby-Boomers are wreaking havoc nocking each other off the roads in a domino effect – This is still going on and getting worse all the time. The experienced motorcycle rider already has the daunting task of the worry of vehicles and natural wildlife to look out for. Now this is compounded by the elderly on the rent-a-bikes industry.

This year I want to talk about something that truly has been bothering me since I moved out here some 11 years and that is how the local businesses including hotels, casinos, covenant stores, and bars escalate, inflate, fleece, to include robbery on these poor saps from out of state.

It’s a feeding frenzy where the average room at a normal hotel is anywhere between $35.00 a night to $45.00 a night. However, during bike week, you are looking at an average of $265.00 a night and some places a lot more. A bottle of beer is now $7.50 and the blood-sucking leeches at the Buffalo Chip will drain you dry. I think most people have seen a reality show of the antics of the Buffalo Chip – Fucking pathetic.

Then there are those who lease their homes out to bikers for the entire duration. This is something that the bikers and the homeowner both benefit from. Even the campgrounds rates are so jacked up you would be thinking you would be purchasing property rather than renting space – empty space. Pitching a tent just anywhere is against the law and strongly enforced. Fines, patrols, and law enforcement are out to get fresh out of state funds from the idiots who don’t know how to obey the speed limits or the rules.

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I have no tolerance for idiots breaking the traffic laws. They are usually the ones making a fresh grease mark on the pavement when it is all said and done. I will say this much, local people to include local female drivers are showing more road-rage than ever before towards these assholes who think they own the road.

That’s the fucking problem right there, those idiots who think they’re kings of the road. I watched a woman scold a biker calling his old ass every name in the book. Legally, she was in the right and once again the Baby-Boomer was in the wrong. Though through these last couple of years, the road rage has increased dramatically. Not all can be at the fault of the bikers by any means. Nor am I saying all bikers are assholes and idiots.

So, with the fleecing bit. Well, the bikers are not as slow-minded as some would suspect. They know when they are getting fucked. Tired of the fleecing, the majority of bikers this year are out here a week earlier and leave a day or two when the Rally officially starts.

Some are planning to come out here after a week or so when the Rally is over. I cannot blame them a bit. Though, I have noticed that the local businesses and other highway robbers are following suite in jacking up prices in advance and keeping these rates jacked a week or two afterwards. So, who are the ones really getting fucked besides the bikers?

The local folks – we all get fucked!

You might think that Deadwood and the rest of Lawrence County makes a lot of money because of the gaming alone. You would be wrong. The money is the second biggest export out of here heading to Sioux Falls, the baking cartel and good old Uncle Sam in Pierre, SD.

Most of us in Old School Math where 2 plus 2 equals 4 might have had this on one of your math test questions;

“If Johnny had one red apple and he wanted to share his apple equally with his girl, Betty, then, how many pieces would Johnny have to make?”

Answer; 3 equal pieces or Johnny would have to cut the apple in thirds.

Why?

Glad you asked; Uncle Sam has to get his cut too!

Lawrence County is the poorest county out of the entire state excluding the reservations like Wounded Knee of course.

Thanks for reading and for the new kids with the new math. Listen, it won’t do you a bit of fucking good in the end.


Douglas S. Taylor

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Grimstalker

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In these woods, I am the boss. Least, this is what my fellow brothers and sisters say. Most days I am pretty easy going and you really have to go out of your way to really piss me off. When you do, well, let’s just say you opened up a frosty keg of Old Testament Retribution. Naturally, I’m not religious, and make no mistake, all religions say there is no room for my kind in any heaven. I will say look at the big picture of things, I can’t see my sorry ass sitting on some cloud playing a goddamned harp and that would be a living hell. Nevertheless, something about the unforgiving vengeful god that just gives me some righteous wood. You know what I am saying and if you don’t best mind your own business.

I love rolling with my kind like thunder through these beautiful black hills sporting our colors, our tribal colors that is. Ours is like no other and those fucking sissies that say they are some outlaw biker don’t know the meaning of, “The 1%.” Sure, just because we look human, act human, and on any other day, have empathy of a human, well, there is just more than just leather jackets, high octane, and the crack of an opening throttle. After all, happiness is a flick of the right wrist away. However, you see, there is more than what you can normally see about my kind. There is so very much more beneath the skin as they may say.

Human shell on the outside and our truer selves on the inside. Believe whatever makes you sleep better at nights thinking you know there is no such things as ghosts, phantoms, vampires, monsters, and my kind, the werewolf. Yeah, that’s fucking right, there’s all kinds of creatures walking day or night. We are your doctors, nurses, service men and women, the police, the fire fighters, and shit. But one goddamned thing you got to understand is that we are indeed only human on the outside. Inside of my kind is a blizzard of wrath that no man can contain though many have tried — tried and died. There’s a whole goddamned nation of a cemetery full of them. More scattered to the four winds in the form of shallow graves and rotting remains hidden away. Up here in the hills, there are more old mine shafts than people, and in the bottom of these are hills of bones who thought once upon a time that humans were at the top of the food chain.

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Listen, the moon does not hold its sway over my kind. Piss me off and have me in a corner, and I will show you the animal within from zero to spilling your guts in less than a couple of seconds. Not to worry, you’ll be plenty alive when your small and large intestines splash its payload on those new boots of yours. Also, let me clue you in on something else, religious relicts, crosses and such, spells and incantations don’t do jack shit either. Once upon a time long before you or I were a pup and then some, we overcame the silver bullet thing. I mean, in the spite of what you’ve seen in the shows, Hollywood, and shit like that, you’re in for one hell of a shocker when your silver hallow-points has no effect on us other than messing up our clothing. Not to mention, pissing any of us off.

Like I said earlier, I am a pretty easy going guy. I’d rather smile, laugh, smoke weed, and hang out at the Gallows talking shit, and meeting other members of packs from out of state sorts.

We all have specialties, I mean, you know, what we do in our more natural, or perceived in your eyes as, “Unnatural” we have our own names, handles, and skill sets. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking and you’re already wrong.
When we are in our natural state, we are cunning, fast as lightening and the weakest among us is as strong as any ten men you may want to chose. The brothers and sisters of my pack and those of my kind call me the, “Grimstalker.”

Trust me, every since I was a pup, I made it a profession in tracking down the free-range rubes that tend to get a little too close to things of ours, our business, our way of life, our land. Oh, for the fuck of Christ, trespassing on my land really raises the fucking hackles on the back of my neck.

Sitting up at my cabin here in the Black Hills you have to go off the beaten path, the roadway, and follow an old mining road and then turns to a path and a bridge over a small creek just to get to my land. I have no use for “visitors” of the human kind let alone uninvited assholes. Trust me in saying, I can hear a real dumbass walking up from the road far below. If the wind is blowing right, I’ll pick up the scent of the poor son of a bitch. Then your goddamned ass is all mine.

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This is where I turn from a guy catching some porn on the tube to my namesake. I jump up and already I can feel the change come on. I keep it in my pants if you know what I mean. Then on my way out, I grab my stainless mattock. It’s a custom job like a stainless tomahawk or one hell of a bitching hatchet with one unfucking-forgiving business end. You’ll never see it coming, you might hear it buzzing through the air and maybe, just maybe the sun will dance ever so briefly just before I take the top of your fucking skull clean off.

Again, you’ll be still alive when my gifting separates some of that grey matter of yours. Then as you slide down next to a tree, you’ll be sure to see me. Though because of the missing portions of your fucking brains, you’ll be not doing much else except look up at me as blood flows from your mouth and ears while shitting and pissing yourself in doing so. It usually happens to most people and I don’t hold that against anyone just so you know.

Then with my claws I dig into your exposed brain for a fucking taste and that is when you fade away right when I got a good paw full of your brains as your body has its fits, seizures, and shit. I’ll let you die as I eat and fetch my mattock right above your body pulling it from the tree along with the top of your skull and scalp. The scent of fresh blood in the air — your blood that is. You won’t know it, but very soon, day or night, we’ll be feasting upon your remains.

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