My story is admitedly a bit strange, but there's nothing strange about vintage Indian motorcycles. Just look!
Ringo revs the throttle, easing the bike past the sagging barn door.
Hail balls bigger than Satan’s gonads slam into the roof, shuddering the rafters.
The red Indian roars between my legs, then shivers silent. Rain drips off leather. Hisses on hot metal. Ringo spotted the old barn just in time, right before the killer ice rocketed to earth.
“Wasn’t planning on it ‘till I heard your sweet ride.”