I ran across this short story while writing an article on homelessness. Bukowski-like and evocative,
Jay Thiemeyer held my attention:
"The Gypsy belle, and for all I know, B, came to an unseemly
end. One day I passed by on my way to the orange tree
which would furnish my breakfast chaser for the Russeika,
and all that was left of the Gypsy belle was charred rubble.
Apparently, the two biker clubs had gotten together for one
final decision-making dance and the product was that
neither of them got anything but a couple of folks dead, lots
in the hospital and the jailhouse, and the loss of a fine
drinking establishment."
Read the rest (in a PDF) at
StreetRoots. If, for some reason, it isn't available there, you can download it
here.
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