Franklin's Fall

FRANKLIN’S FALL

Frank was running. He leapt on his motorcycle and pressed the starter. The cylinders spun, but no fire. They were gaining on him. They were always after him. He would be cut, smashed, crushed, and crucified. There would be blood. He had tried to hide, to banter, plead, grovel, and even beg. Nothing worked. Like wolves, they could always smell his fear. Now they were after him, closing in, gaping fangs outstretched to rip him limb from limb. He frantically pushed the starter and, at last, the engine sprang to life. He loaded a gear and roared away from them. The bike was freedom, a thundering steed, putting distance between him and his tormentors. The DOHC, 636 cc, four-stroke beast propelled him skyward. Now he was free. Speed was his liberation. And then everything stopped as the bike waivered, spinning in the air. Down he fell, down and ever downward until he hit the pavement. The teeth of the concrete road leapt up to devour his flesh as he slid forward, rolling, tumbling, his torn body leaving a long line of flesh and blood trailing behind him.