Got the bike today. ‘42 Monsun. Old piece-of-shit Reich bike. Magic powered, got some rosary beads from the convent down on Reagan that should get me as far as Tucson, maybe. The bastard broke down a couple of miles down the I-10. Pulled over and opened it up and spent two hours in the sun scraping forty years of caked resin from the altar chamber. Having fun.
A man in an old Chevy Vril helped me jump start the bike. I still lose power sometimes and these slow-ass Chryslers and Fords start passing me and honking and I give them the finger. I like this country.
Motel outside a town called Junction. Very quiet, very hot. The motel lady heard my accent and switched to Spanish. Answered her in English. I'm getting rid of the gun. I’m pretty sure the little girl saw it when I was packing the saddlebags. It’s fine. Her own Opa probably has his own gun. Mine sure did.
Long day tomorrow.