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Pulling out onto a country road, Tara's conscious of a biker riding her wake. A Hell's Angel, long hair streaming, fiery decals adorning helmet and fairings. Tara clenches her teeth. Whatever minion of Satan this is, she WON'T be stopped.

Tara guns her engine and glues herself to the midline. The dark biker struggles to stay on her tail mile on mile.

Then - Yikes! - Tara's front wheel hits a chip. She wobbles, regains balance, brings the Indian to a swerving halt, primed for confrontation. The biker rockets on past grinning, saluting the classic machine.

"Douchewheel," Tara mutters, kicking the starter.

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