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the end of the trail

This guy lost his job, had to move in with his mom.. and then, the ultimate indignity: He had to sell his bike to a yuppie.

He had owned a Harley since he was 20, and weekend cruising with pals was his favorite recreation.

“The buyer said he wanted to take it away in the back of a trailer,” Mr. Evans recalled, “and I said, ‘That won’t happen.’ ”

“Instead I drove it to his house, threw him the keys, came home and got drunk.”

Link. I wonder if he considered pulling a London: Delivering the bike to the putative buyer and then setting it ablaze while he and his buddies shared a few cold ones.
At the end of the trail a man who had killed fifty horses wanted to buy, but we looked at him and at our own,--mountain cayuses from eastern Oregon. Five thousand he offered, and we were broke, but we remembered the poison grass of the Summit and the passage in the Rocks, and the man who was my brother spoke no word, but divided the cayuses into two bunches,--his in the one and mine in the other,--and he looked at me and we understood each other. So he drove mine to the one side and I drove his to the other, and we took with us our rifles and shot them to the last one, while the man who had killed fifty horses cursed us till his throat cracked.

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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on January 16, 2008 10:28 PM.

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