Date: Wed, 21 Nov 2007 16:42:55 -0800 (PST) From: Wombat Subject: 'The Old Valley Road Hotel #37' {Wombat} ( MM SciFi Anal Size Musc Biker ) [ 37 ! ?? ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The Old Valley Road Hotel. By Wombat. ------------------------- Any constructive comments are appreciated. I'm at 'bungala_wombat@yahoo.com.au'. ------------------------------------ Chapter 5 part 2. ------------------------------------ ------------------------------------ Part 37: Trucking along ------------------------------------ The eastern horizon lightened with the approaching dawn. Derek sat up and watched the stars disappear one by one in the lightening sky. The air was breathlessly still. It was going to be another hot day. Derek watched the sun rise from the top of the sand hill where he sat. By the time Scott departed from Cave Bear's caravan, the sun had already risen. The landscape of sparse farmland was awash with the brilliant golden light of the sun sitting on the horizon. Fence posts were transformed into golden pillars connected by wires of gold. Derek was entranced by the beauty. When the magic moment had passed and the landscape was lit by normal white daylight, Derek packed up his few things. He put on his sleeveless jacket and mounted his bike. He rode along sandy tracks northeast until he reached Hay. If he had returned directly to the Sturt Highway the rising sun would be shining directly into his eyes. That was not a pleasant prospect. He rejoined the Sturt Highway about a kilometre west of the large service station at Hay. Derek pulled up at the big 24-hour service station that was just south across the River Murrumbidgee from the town of Hay itself. It was also a well-used truck stop on the Sturt Highway. Derek saw more than a dozen big trucks parked there as well. They ranged in size from a rigid truck, through several semitrailers (trailer trucks) to the behemoths of the road, the B-doubles weighing in at about 65 tons. A B-double is in effect a doubly articulated semitrailer. Derek had his bike filled with petrol and parked it next to the restaurant. The big trucks towered over him. He walked inside and treated himself to a plate of steak, eggs, bacon and sausages and a cup of strong brewed coffee. The restaurant was about half full of truck drivers who had pushed several tables together to make one long table. Some other men sat alone at tables eating breakfast with their noses in newspapers or magazines. The early morning sun shone in through the big windows. Holding his breakfast tray, Derek looked around for a vacant table. He was aware that the truckies were watching him with interest. The other men appeared to ignore him. "Hey, Roadknight! Come over 'ere." A truckie's voice rang out. "There's room for you 'ere." Derek joined the truckies' table. They were interested that he was travelling alone all the way from Adelaide back home to Ringtail Springs. All of them had heard of the town. They did not see many lone bikers on the road. They talked about things they saw on the road while they ate their breakfast. Bazza drove one of the B-doubles parked at the stop. He was a lean older man of average height. His greying dark hair was crew cut. He told of a curious incident where once two months ago he was driving his truck along the Hume Highway on the run to Adelaide. A guy in a burgundy Toyota Landcruiser was 'playing silly buggers' by keeping pace with his B-double and stopping a old fellow in a little BMW sports car from overtaking him. The BMW driver was getting really frustrated. This stupid game had been going on for some time when a crew of Roadknights on their motorbikes came up behind them. The Roadknights zoomed quickly past either side of the Landcruiser and the sports car and disappeared over the hill. When they sped past, the driver of the Landcruiser appeared to lose control. His four-wheel- drive swerved all over the road and came close to clipping Bazza's 65- ton B-double. The BMW had dropped well back. The Landcruiser pulled quickly over to the breakdown lane on the right. Bazza clearly remembered seeing the Landcruiser driver's white face. The sports car zipped past. "What did those Roadknights do to that poor silly bastard?" Bazza asked Derek. Derek remembered the incident. It happened on the day that Hal's friends had arrived at Valley Road and Derek had been inducted into the Roadknights. Derek had been on his first ride as a member. He linked up with his friends. They unanimously counselled him to say nothing. "Don't know," replied Derek. "They probably gave him one hell of a fright, I guess." "Nah! I reckon it's more than that," said Bazza. "I've seen quite a few incidents on the road with people in their four-wheel-drives playing silly buggers with bikers. In fact, a couple of years ago poor old Jonesy had some bastard in a Landcruiser squash a biker against the side of his truck. It was a B-double like mine. It killed the poor bastard of course. Big hairy bugger he was. Got killed stone dead. The wheels of the trailers went right over him and squashed him. Quite a few tons there. Spilled his guts out on the road, the whole bit. Poor old Jonesy had a hell of a time after that. It was ages before he could get in a truck again without getting the shakes. And the fucking cops gave him a hard time because he didn't get the number of the Landcruiser. Some of the pigs actually accused poor Jonesy of running the bikie over himself." "Yeah, that was fucking terrible," said another truckie. "Poor old Jonesy." Bazza looked at Derek directly. "What is it about you blokes? I've never seen any Roadknights involved in incidents like that. And when Roadknights come up to some crap going on the road, they always sort it out, like that time a couple of months ago. I've seen that happen a few times." Stoney, another truckie spoke. He was a thickset man with very short brown hair in a crewcut; he was in his forties. "I was doing the run over to Perth in March this year. I came across this bloke in a fairly new Ford Fairlane that had broken down. It was about one o'clock in the morning when he flagged me down. There he was, right out in the middle of the Nullarbor, middle of fucking nowhere in the middle of the night. His mobile phone was out of range. He couldn't raise any help. He was getting a bit panicky by the time I turned up. Turned out that his high-tension cable had come loose. No wonder the car wouldn't go! Easy fix! Then he tells me a Roadknight hexed him. Made some hocus-pocus sign at the car and it stopped dead. What do you reckon was going on?" "What?" replied Derek. "You asking me? How would I know? That sounds pretty bizarre to me, people hexing cars and all that in the middle of the night. How do you know it was a Roadknight? And how do you know that the guy wasn't spinning you a yarn? Maybe his mechanic goofed up and the cable let go in the middle of the Nullarbor." Peter: << That's right. Play dumb. Don't let on to a thing. Give alternative explanations. You're doing really well. >> "That bloke was probably scared stiff that the Nullarbor Nymph would get him. You know, being out in the middle of the Nullarbor in the middle of the night," said Cam from further down the table. He was a young truckie in his mid twenties. He was strongly built with spiked blond hair and blue eyes. "Stiff is the operative word if the Nullarbor Nymph got 'im," said Bazza with a grin. Cam leered. "I wouldn't mind if she got me," he said. The other truckies laughed. "No, you wouldn't, you randy young bastard," said Trevor, another truckie. "But it'd be the last time anyone'd see you alive. She'd suck you dry and leave you all shrivelled up in the middle of the desert." Trevor was a burly middle-aged man with short dark hair and dark eyes. "Whoopee!" said Cam with a grin. Stoney shrugged and looked at Derek. "Dunno. There's definitely something about you Roadknights though." "I heard a story in the pub at Dunedoo about a bloke in his pickup truck who took a few potshots at a Roadknight on a bike," said Cam. "He was blazing away with his pump-action shotgun and the Roadknight just laughed at him. Not a single pellet hit him. The Roadknight just rode away unscathed. What do you think of that?" "That bloke was too shickered to shoot straight, most likely," said Stoney. "I thought pump-action shotguns are illegal these days," said Trevor. "They are," replied Stoney. "Some rednecks in the bush still have 'em, though. They'd rather die than give 'em up." "Sounds like that bloke could do with a smack or two around the head," said Derek. Stoney looked at Derek and laughed. "Jesus! A big bloke like you would give him brain damage." "I reckon any bastard who goes blazing away at people with his popgun is brain-damaged anyway," said Trevor. "A few more whacks around the head wouldn't make any difference." "It might if Muscles here knocked out the last working brain cell," said Stoney. "That'd be the end of him." "Nah! It wouldn't," replied Trevor. "Those bastards survive without a functioning brain anyway." "I've never seen or heard of a Roadknight getting injured or killed," said Bazza. "I've never even seen one involved in an accident. What is it about you blokes? How do you do it?" "What about that war that was going on between the Roadknights and those other motorcycle gangs?" asked Trevor. "You guys were beating up all these other bikies and putting them in hospital. How do you do it?" "That seems to have quietened down now," said Cam. "Yeah. There's a truce on now," replied Derek. "Yeah. I wonder why," said Cam with a grin. "I heard the other gangs were running out of people. Good thing too! I reckon we could do without some of those scruffs on the road." "To get back to your questions," said Derek. "We Roadknights are highly trained. We aim to reach the peak of physical and mental development. We are rigorously trained in riding a bike well, and in fighting too, if it comes to that. If every motorcyclist were as well trained as we are, then hardly any motorcyclists would have accidents. I think none would get killed. I mean, how many cops do you see getting knocked off their bikes and killed? None that I can think of. They're pretty well trained too." "I wouldn't mind knocking off a few coppers myself," said Cam with a wicked grin. "What about that bikie copper that got killed in Sydney a while back?" asked Trevor. "'Bout five years ago, I reckon," put in Stoney. Derek shrugged. "Yeah! One." "Yeah! One more than the number of Roadknights," said Trevor. "What I mean, Derek, is that you blokes really are different," declared Bazza. "Every male Roadknight I've seen is very good-looking with big muscles. The women are a different story. Bloody gorgeous, I tell you." Bazza grinned. He went on. "But the blokes! I mean, look at you, Derek. You're built like those Mr. Universe type musclemen you see in the magazines. I reckon you've got bigger muscles than Arnold Schwarzenegger had in his prime. I hope you don't mind me saying this but you're bloody good-looking too. You really look like a film star. In fact, I reckon you must be the handsomest man I've ever seen." "Yeah! He's got a face the camera would love," laughed Cam ironically. "He sure is a real pretty boy," rumbled Tank. Everyone turned to look at the big, wide and very strongly built truck driver sitting at the end of the table. He had a shaven head and blue eyes. He was not good looking. His age looked to be late thirties. Blonde chest hair showed above his blue singlet. "Hey," continued Tank. "Are those muscles of yours real?" "Yeah. Of course they are," said Derek with a wry smile. Tank glowered at him. "Well, guys on steroids are pretty weak. They fade pretty quickly." "I don't use steroids," replied Derek calmly. "OK, then." A wolfish smile spread across Tank's face. "Let's just see how good those flash muscles of yours really are. How 'bout you and me have a little arm wrestle then?" Murmurs ran around the table when Tank stood up and moved to a nearby vacant table. Derek picked up that Tank was the New South Wales Amateur Arm Wrestling Champion. Derek stood up and removed his jacket. His torso was bare. He was a massively impressive sight. Every muscle bulged from his splendidly well chiselled torso. His shoulders were thick and powerful, as were his arms and chest. Veins stood out all over. Derek was 'ripped', as bodybuilders say. The murmuring increased. The other truckies marvelled at his musculature. Some whispered to their mates that this might be the man to take Tank down a peg or two. Tank's strength was fearsome and he was disliked as a bully. He had a beer gut that bulged through his blue singlet over his jeans. His arms and shoulders appeared thick and strong but there was no definition. He stood about two inches (5 cm.) taller than Derek. Tank sat down at the vacant table ready for Derek. He was not much impressed by Derek's physique. He had beaten men as big and muscular as Derek before. "Hey, what do you two weigh?" called out Trevor. "Twenty three stone," replied Tank. (322 lb. - 146 kg.) "And you, Derek?" asked Trevor. "135 kilos or twenty-one stone three." (297 lb.) "I guess you two fellows are pretty evenly matched then," said Trevor. Derek sat down opposite Tank and the truckies gathered around to watch. Tank put his elbow on the table with a thump. He held his forearm vertically waiting. "OK, pretty boy," growled Tank with a wolfish grin. "Let's see what you're made of." "Solid muscle," replied Derek with an equally wolfish grin. He was not the least bit intimidated by Tank. His friends were telling him telepathically not to defeat Tank too quickly. Slamming Tank's hand onto the table in the first second would make it bleeding obvious that there was something extraordinary about Derek. A number of the truckies present were already suspicious that there was something unusual about the Roadknights. The stories told around the table attested to that. It would not be a good idea to increase those suspicions further. Derek put his elbow on the table and grasped Tank's hand. Tank's arms were a little longer than Derek's. Immediately, Tank put the pressure on. Derek felt him trying to push his hand over backwards with considerable force. Derek held firm. He let his hand move back about half a centimetre under the pressure. He felt Tank's elbow lift from the table. Trevor saw it. "Hey, Tank, you're cheating," he cried. "We'd better start that one again." "Yeah, Tank, not good," said someone innominate in the crowd. "Play fair, Tank," said someone else. Tank glowered at Trevor. Derek and Tank grasped hands again and restarted the match. Tank's face was set. He knew Trevor and the other truckies were watching closely. Derek grinned at Tank. He liked Trevor, who seemed to have appointed himself as referee. He thought of him as Trevor Truckie. Tank quickly tried with all his strength to force Derek's hand back but Derek hardly moved. Derek built up the pressure on Tank's hand. Slowly, very slowly at first, Tank's hand was forced back. Derek increased the pressure more over several minutes, forcing Tank's hand back a little faster. Inexorably he forced Tank's hand back towards the table surface. Tank grimaced as he summoned all his strength to force Derek back. It was to no avail. Suddenly Tank's strength ran dry and Derek forced his hand backwards to the table surface with a definite and victorious thump. The watchers whistled and cheered. It had been a great show. Tank was gasping. He was exhausted and bewildered. He had not come up against a man like Derek before. This pretty boy was very, very strong. Derek stood up and held out his hand to Tank. "Thanks for the match," he said. "It was a good one." Tank reached up and shook hands. "What the fuck have you got in your arms?" asked Tank. "Fucking hydraulic rams?" "Nah," replied Derek with a wry smile. "Just real muscle." He was acutely aware of the truckies watching him intently. He looked directly at Bazza, Stoney and Trevor and flexed his arm. His biceps bulged spectacularly. "See that?" he asked rhetorically. "61 centimetres of pure muscle, or 24 inches if you prefer inches." "I know your muscles are bigger than Tank's," said Trevor. "I can see that. But he has beaten blokes as big as you before. It's a long time since he's been beaten. And it took a Roadknight to do it." "I just know how to do it," said Derek airily. "I've been trained." Trevor gave a wry smile. He liked Derek but he was not entirely convinced. They all sat down at the table again, talking and drinking their coffee. Tank rubbed his shoulder ruefully. Derek silently sent him a subtle healing vibration. That eased the strain and ache. Afterwards the truckies climbed into their trucks and drove off. Many headed north through the township of Hay on the Mid-Western Highway to Sydney via West Wyalong, or through to Brisbane. The remainder went east on the Sturt Highway to either Sydney or Canberra. It was still early in the morning. Scott was still pottering about in his huge freakish body doing the chores at home. Derek rode north across the Murrumbidgee River into Hay. Fox: << You're a champion. >> Chainsaw: << You're a wonder. What a show! >> Derek bathed in the admiration of the two recent recruits. They were two lovely young men. It was early on Sunday morning and nothing was open in Hay. The town was still asleep. Derek tooled up and down the main street, then rode back across the river. He reached the large roundabout and turned east onto the Sturt Highway. While he rode he glowed in the love and admiration of Fox and Chainsaw and their mates Red and Roo. Derek was responsible for recruiting them into the Order and the Roadknights. Derek had recruited Fox who had in turn recruited his mate Chainsaw. Fox and Chainsaw then recruited Red and Roo. It had begun when Derek had accompanied Hal down to Adelaide from Melrose. Hal had Community business to attend to and Derek had not been to Adelaide for many years. They stayed in the Community House in Norwood. Derek took advantage of the opportunity to explore Adelaide on his motorbike. One fine day he had gone for lunch with his grandparents, Dr Reginald and Mrs Ottilie Pascoe. They lived in a pleasant brick bungalow with white stucco walls in Lower Mitcham, a quick stroll down the hill from the Mitcham railway station. His grandfather used to catch the suburban train into Adelaide then change trains out to the Defence Science and Technology Organisation at Salisbury where he worked as a principal research scientist before he retired. Dr Pascoe held a Ph.D. in aeronautical engineering from Cambridge University in England. Soon after World War II he had been appointed to a post at what was then the Weapons Research Establishment at Salisbury, which is north of Adelaide. He worked there and part of the time at the Woomera Rocket Range as a rocket scientist. Woomera is 500 kilometres (300 miles) northwest of Adelaide. He was the boffin whose beautiful daughter broke many a young British scientist's heart when she married Derek's father, the dashing young Australian Army captain. When Derek pulled up on his motorbike in front of his grandparents' house, he saw that it looked just the same as it did when he last saw it as a teenager more than ten years previously. The huge golden cypress tree was still in the front garden. The only difference was that the front lawn had disappeared to be replaced instead by a thicket of Australian native shrubbery and ground cover. Derek remembered the tree well. As a boy he used to climb the tree pretending it would reach the sky. He would hide in its branches and spy out on the world around him. He would pretend that the quiet suburban street was a battleground and he was a scout spying on the enemy. As a boy he enjoyed his stays with his grandparents both in Adelaide and when his grandfather worked on the rocket range out at Woomera in the northwestern deserts of South Australia. Derek's grandparents were delighted to see him. The motorcycle drew some comment. His grandmother referred to it as 'one of those noisy American things'. His grandfather said with a laugh that it sounded like a low flying Lancaster bomber. Both were mightily impressed by his physique. That drew much comment. His grandfather remarked what a magnificent specimen Derek had grown into. His grandmother speculated from whom Derek had inherited his size. Derek was more than half a head taller than his grandfather. Both his grandparents had been born in England. They had migrated to Australia just after World War II when his grandfather had taken up the post at WRE. Even after living for fifty years in Australia his grandmother still spoke with an impeccable English Home Counties accent. His grandfather's accent had broadened just a little in his time in Australia. Their daughter was born in Australia. She had married the dashing young Australian Army captain and became Derek's mother. Lunch was ample and pleasant. Before, his grandmother had fussed around finding a chair strong enough to take Derek's weight. He ended up sitting on a massive Jacobean oak chair that his grandmother had acquired from one of the antique shops around Adelaide. It was four hundred years old. Derek was prevailed upon to stay for dinner. They had spent the afternoon catching up on the stories. The grandparents were curious about Derek throwing in his job with the Defence Department and buying an old hotel in rural New South Wales. He said nothing about his sexual adventures with other men. He preferred to leave that discussion to when his parents returned from the United States. He would do that face to face if necessary. After dinner when it was dark, Derek carried his grandfather's heavy and bulky astronomical telescope up the street to the Mitcham railway station yard. It was open and dark there. No trees or buildings blocked the view of the sky. Astronomy was one of his grandfather's enduring passions. He delighted in showing Derek the stars and planets. At one stage Derek heard the distant roar of the diesel locomotives hauling a freight train up the hill from Adelaide. The diesel horns trumpeted the train's approach. A few minutes later his grandfather said, "Bugger! There's a train coming." Derek laughed out loud. He had never heard his grandfather swear before. His grandfather hastened to explain. "When I was principal research scientist, I had to maintain my position. I could never swear in front of my junior colleagues. And Ottilie doesn't like me using strong language within her hearing. Of course, I couldn't swear in front of you when you were a boy. That would never do." Derek grinned broadly. They were lit up by the fearsomely bright headlights of the locomotives hauling the train up the straight from Goodwood. Astronomical observations were impossible until the train passed. "Yes, I know, Derek," laughed his grandfather. "'Ottilie snottily blew her nose', you used to say when you were a boy. You were a real bright-eyed little tyke back then. I'm glad to see you're still as bright-eyed as ever." He clapped Derek on the shoulder affectionately. With a blast on the air horns, two powerful diesel locomotives hauled the long freight train across the level crossing into the Mitcham railway yard. The train thundered straight through without stopping. The diesel locomotives roared as the throttles were opened up and the train accelerated up the slope at the other end of the yard. The train disappeared around the bend as it made its way up the western slopes of the Mount Lofty Ranges on its way to Melbourne. The train gone, Derek and his grandfather continued looking at the stars. The exhaust note of the locomotives could be heard for some time until the train penetrated through the tunnels into the Mount Lofty Ranges. The yellow planet Saturn shone brightly in the eastern sky. Derek's grandfather focused the telescope on it and proudly showed Derek the planet in its ringed glory. Through the telescope it was a spectacular sight. It brought back many memories from his boyhood when he had stood out in the cold desert nights at Woomera admiring the planet through his grandfather's telescope. They were precious memories. Derek did not tell his grandfather that he had flown out to Saturn and had beheld the ringed planet close up in all its glory. It was an unforgettable sight. Derek had flown through the magically intertwining rings and had seen the icy ring particles ranging in size from specks to houses. He had swooped low over Saturn's cloud tops revelling in the sight of the rings arching across the Saturnian sky. He had spent a couple of days exploring the complex system of moons orbiting Saturn. Derek also had visited Jupiter and had admired the gigantic banded planet close up. He had plunged deep into the planet and had surfed on the gigantic tsunami-like waves hundreds of metres high in the huge deep glittering ocean of liquid metallic hydrogen that enveloped Jupiter's rocky core while continuous lighting flashes illuminated the unearthly scene with brilliant flickering multicoloured light. Jupiter was visible. The white planet shone brightly low in the eastern sky. His grandfather would never have believed him if Derek had told him about his trip to the giant planets. In any case, Derek was honour bound to keep his super powers secret. As fond as he was of his grandfather, he could not tell him anything of his super powers. It was late when Derek farewelled his grandparents and returned to the house at Norwood. The following day was fine and hot. Derek had decided to check out all the hotels on the Norwood Parade, the main street of Norwood. He had one drink in a few hotels. He arrived at the Duke of Wellington Hotel and went in through the front door. The cacophony of banal tunes emanating from the poker machines in the games room assaulted his ears as he opened the door. He opened the door to the front bar and walked in. The quiet and cool when the door closed was welcome. Immediately he walked in, he was the subject of all eyes. He was wearing blue denim jeans with his black leather bike boots and his sleeveless blue denim jacket emblazoned with the insignia of the Roadknights on the back. The jacket was open at the front displaying the thick bulging muscles of his chest and abdomen. It had slits on either side to allow for the big thick wide back muscles. He had left his helmet in the pannier of his bike. In the bar were quite a number of older women and men. They all appeared to be of retiring age. Many were having a quiet drink in between sessions on the poker machines. They all stared at Derek, taking in the very handsome, well-tanned and very powerfully muscled biker who had just walked in. Derek had a shaggy mop of dark brown hair with sideburns down to the bottoms of his earlobes. Derek flashed an amiable half smile to no one in particular and walked to the bar. Hal had told him that Coopers Beer was very nice. Derek got a pint of the Coopers Pale Ale from on tap. He took a sip and decided that this is all right, better than most. Telepathically sorting through the clamour of minds, he became aware that one group of four old men were looking at him intently and having an animated discussion about him. They were sitting on bar stools around a table next to a window well away from the bar. Before Derek could focus on the substance of their conversation, one of the old men yelled out, "Hey, Muscles, come on over here." He waved at Derek indicating that he should join them. With his glass of beer in his hand, Derek strolled over to the group with a half smile. The other drinkers stared at Derek as he crossed the room. "Jesus, he's a handsome brute all right," whispered one of the old men to his mate. "Yeah, lock up your daughters, mate," laughed his mate behind his hand. Derek reached the group. "G'day," he said in a friendly manner. "I'm Derek." He held out his hand to them. For a few seconds, the old men stared in wonder at the fantastic musculature of Derek's arm. They recovered and each shook his hand in turn. One of the men, Charlie, was beaming from ear to ear. He had called Derek over. He was a man of average height, bald, solidly built and in his seventies. All the men were either bald or had little hair. "My mate Alby was saying that Australian men aren't built like they used to be. He reckons that they're all skinny runts these days and you just don't see the big strong sun-bronzed Aussies any more like you used to during the war. I was telling him he was wrong. Then you just walked in here, Mr Muscles himself, and shot his argument down in flames. Perfect timing, sir! I congratulate you." The four old men were named Alby, Bob, Charlie and Des, or, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta. Once they were air-gunners flying in B-24 Liberator bombers in the Royal Australian Air Force during World War II. These aircraft had four piston engines driving propellers. They were long-range heavy bombers that were used by the US and British air forces as well as the Australian air force. At the age of eighteen they were in action in the Western Pacific against the might of Imperial Japan. The four joined up in the Royal Australian Air Force together as teenagers from South Australia. Together they trained as air-gunners. Together they joined one of the Liberator squadrons. Together they flew in the same aircraft. Together they survived enemy action. By working as a team, they shot down many enemy aircraft. The worst damage any of the Liberators they flew in suffered was a few bullet holes. Airmen fought to be on the same plane as Alpha, Bravo, Charlie and Delta because they were considered lucky. When the war in the Pacific ended with Japan's defeat, the four air gunners, all aged nineteen, had to adjust to civilian life. That was hard at first after the excitement of war. The four inseparable mates were all still alive and they celebrated by drinking together in their retirement at the Duke of Wellington Hotel. It was known as 'The Wellie' to its regulars. Alby was a plump man of average height and bald like his mates. He had been a successful real estate agent and had built his firm up to a large size. He had been bought out by a large British-based multinational real estate company and retired a very rich man. Bob was a short solidly built man wearing glasses. He had owned a cherry orchard in the Adelaide Hills. He sold up and made enough to retire comfortably. Charlie had been the property manager with the South Australia Police Department. He joined the South Australian Public Service as a clerk upon leaving the air force and had remained a public servant all his career until he retired comfortably on his public service pension. Desmond (Des) was a small thin man with a rim of white hair around his bald pate. During World War II he had been the tail gunner in the Liberators. Once he had suffered a few minor shrapnel wounds when a Japanese Mitsubishi Zero attacked his bomber from the rear. The Zero was a formidable fighter plane but it was a suicidal tactic. The Liberator pilot jinked his plane so that the other gunners could bring their guns to bear on the fighter as well. They had the satisfaction of seeing the Japanese Zero burst into flame, disintegrate and the pieces plunge into the New Guinea jungle. The Japanese pilot did not bail out. After the war Des went to work for the South Australian Brewing Company. He had risen to the rank of General Manager. He retired when the brewery was taken over by a large multinational corporation owned by British and Japanese interests. Derek had to explain about the Roadknights. He was complimented when Bob said that Derek was a cut or two above your average bikie. Alby told the story of the 'Latrine Run'. Their Liberator was sent to bomb a Japanese encampment north of the mountains in New Guinea. When the bomber arrived, all the Japanese soldiers were shitting in the latrines as part of the rigidly enforced daily routine. The bomber came in low lining up on the straight lines of latrines full of Japanese soldiers. Not a soldier moved as the Liberator roared in low over the tops of the palm trees. Their officers had not given them permission to move. The Liberator unloaded its bombs on the Japanese soldiers literally caught with their pants down. Bits of bodies flew everywhere. The underside of the bomber was covered in Japanese shit and guts. When they returned to base, they found the severed head of a Japanese soldier in the bomb bay. The airmen had great fun kicking the head around the airfield in an impromptu game of soccer. The commanding officer spoiled their fun when some fool kicked the head into his office through the open door. He made them bury it. Derek grinned. It was definitely a tall story. Derek knew that with his telepathy. But it was a story that had been told many times before. Derek hated to spoil their fun. "You don't believe him," said Bob looking directly at him. "I can see it in your eyes." The old man did not miss a thing. He could see Derek's eyes twinkling. "It's a bloody good story," said Derek diplomatically, still smiling. "Tell me, how do younger people react these days when you tell them about playing soccer with the head of a Japanese soldier?" "They're shocked," said Charlie grinning broadly. "'Oh, grandpa, how could you do such a thing?' they say. It's very politically incorrect." "Yeah, it was wartime," said Alby a little defensively. A few more war stories got trotted out by the old men. Derek bought them a round of drinks. Des told a long and involved story about giving the comeuppance to an American officer based in Townsville in Queensland. This officer had been screwing many of the local girls. He was particularly handsome, almost as good-looking as Derek. Most of the city's young female population was in love with him. They were not interested in the Australians. The lads at the air base dressed up a very good-looking young pilot as a girl and took 'her' into Townsville. 'She' was picked up by the American and taken up to his hotel room. The American had his cock out ready to screw 'her' when the Australian pilot grabbed the American's balls and gave them a good hard squeeze. The screams could be heard all over Townsville, it was said. The American ended up going to hospital. He was put out of action for months. He never touched an Aussie girl again. Alby was looking out of the window into the street that ran along the side of the hotel. The Duke of Wellington Hotel was built on a street corner and fronted onto The Parade. When Des had finished his story, Alby turned to Derek and asked nonchalantly, "Is that your motorbike parked out in the side street?" Derek replied that it was. He knew what was coming. He was not worried. "Well, there's some feral street kid playing around on it," said Alby with a slight smile. "He's having the time of his life." He was expecting Derek to burst out of the bar and chase the kid off his bike. Derek got up and looked out the window over Alby's shoulder. On his bike was sitting what looked like a skinny boy. He had collar-length lank dirty blond hair. He was wearing a bulky jacket that was far too thick for the hot day and a pair of very faded blue denim jeans that had holes all over. While Derek watched, the kid tried to kick-start the bike. Nothing happened. The kid did not have enough weight to move the kick-starter. He sat on the bike making 'vroom, vroom' noises while he pretended to ride it. The other men got up and looked out the window too. "You know," said Derek dryly. "Some people would pay hundreds of dollars for a pair of jeans like that. They're very fashionable." The old men looked at Derek. Their mouths opened in surprise. Derek was being remarkably calm about this. The remark about the jeans bewildered them. "What do you mean?" demanded Alby, used to being in control. "I mean that the dolly bird shops sell jeans like that kid's wearing to cashed-up young misses for hundreds of dollars. If you walk into any of the trendy clothes shops here along The Parade for instance, you'll see jeans just like that, but with price tags of hundreds of dollars." "Bugger me," expostulated Bob. "What's the world coming to? Girls paying huge sums of money for jeans you'd see on some skinny-arsed street kid? They've obviously got more money than sense." "They call it street chic," said Derek. "You can't tell me that feral would've paid those amounts of money for his jeans," declared Alby. "No, of course not," replied Derek. "He would've got them for nothing from the Salvation Army or somewhere like that. He's been wearing them for ages until they've become holey and cool." Bob looked at Derek quizzically. "You're a deep one, young Derek," he said. "But what about your bike?" asked Charlie. Derek reached into his jeans pocket and fished out a set of keys. He held them up clinking. "There's no way he'll be able to start it," he said. "What if he hotwires it?" asked Charlie. "No way he'll get it going. There's stuff in it that will stop anyone from starting it without the keys." "You mean it's got some of that electronic doodadery that'll stop it starting?" asked Bob. "Something like that," replied Derek. "And there's no way he can lift it. I can, but then I weigh more than three times what he does." "Nice one," said Bob. "You know, those fucking feral street kids are a damned nuisance," said Alby emphatically. "Something ought to be done about them. They go vandalising things and stealing things. They're uncontrollable. They even spray-painted graffiti on my letterbox. You know, some of these countries in South America have got the right idea. People go around the streets and get rid of these ferals. They clean up the streets and get rid of these pests for good." "You mean like death squads?" asked Bob quietly. "Yes, exactly," declared Alby, warming to his subject. "You get these civic minded citizens and police banding together and ridding good decent citizens of these pests and undesirables. Kill 'em and get rid of them. Dump their bodies on the rubbish tip. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. And while we're at it, get rid of all the other rubbish in society, like the homosexuals and hippies and greenies and drug addicts and rock singers and unemployed and..." It was too much for Charlie. He thumped his fist on the table. The beer glasses clinked and rattled. "Now just hang on a bloody minute," he expostulated. "This is Australia. We are a democracy, a free country. We just don't do things like that here. We're not some tinpot shit-heap of a banana republic under some corrupt and evil shitty little military dictatorship. We're Australians. I'm proud of it, even it you're not, Alby. What the fuck do you think we fought the last war about? We fought against the fucking Japs and Germans to keep our country free. That's the sort of thing those bastards wanted to do here. And I'll fight to my last breath to keep Australia free." "Look, Charlie, it's just plain common sense," said Alby. "The bloody government wastes our taxpayers' money on mollycoddling these parasites. Any government with the balls would get rid of them instead of wasting our taxes being all sweet and reasonable. There's no percentage in getting emotional about it all." Des looked at Derek with a crooked smirk. "Don't mind these two," he said. "They're always arguing." To Alby he said, "Don't wind Charlie up like that, mate. It's bad for his blood pressure. And it's bad for yours too." "I think it's fair and reasonable," declared Alby firmly. Charlie snorted derisively. Derek looked at the kid sitting on his motorbike. The kid was a candidate. He looked like a boy who may just possibly be into his early teens. However, God was giving him the go ahead to recruit the kid into the Order. In Derek's mind was a vision of a straight railway line with green signals ahead as far as the eye could see. Full speed ahead. God wanted the kid brought before him to become a superman. The signals were all clear, even though he looked like a skinny pathetic little prepubescent kid. The feeling became stronger. It seemed that in Derek's vision the kid was framed in a gunsight. The target was acquired. God wanted that kid. Yes Sir, Derek would get that kid. He had a fleeting impression that he was a robot being programmed to fulfil its mission. God laughed. The robot feeling was replaced by the feeling that Derek was a big shepherd dog being sent to bring a lost lamb to his Master. Derek finished off his beer. "Gentlemen," he said. "It has been a great pleasure talking with you all." He shook hands with them all. They all complimented him on his breeding, fine physique and manly bearing. Derek continued. "That street kid on my bike looks fairly desperate for a ride. I thought I'd take him for a spin." "Sounds fine to me," said Alby cheerfully. "Take him up into the hills, strangle him and dump his body somewhere. Just make sure it's somewhere discreet. We don't want all these trendy do-gooders getting upset about street kids' bodies polluting the waterways." "Don't bloody listen to him," grumbled Charlie. "I'm not a murderer," said Derek. "I may just see you gentlemen here again. Bye." He walked off towards the side door. Derek considered that Alby had become bit of a Nazi in his old age. Alby was not joking. He meant what he said. Derek decided that he was going subtly rub Alby's nose in it when he returned. He could feel the old men's eyes boring into his wide back. They all thought he was an absolutely splendid example of Australian manhood. They were all very impressed. "He's a real son of the soil, that one," commented Bob quietly to his friends. "A true blue Aussie." Outside the hotel, the heat hit like a hammer blow after the cool of the bar. Derek adjusted quickly. The street kid was sitting on Derek's motorcycle pretending that he was a big tough bikie riding down the highway. He did not see Derek come up quietly behind him. "G'day, mate," said Derek cheerfully. "Want to go for a spin?" The kid whirled around and saw Derek's huge form behind the bike. He leapt off and tried to run away. He was limping badly and fell over in the street. Derek realised that the kid could not run at all. There was no way he could have escaped Derek. Derek saw that the kid's leg had been partially broken with a greenstick fracture. The break still had not healed properly. The kid was still in some pain. Derek opened the pannier and lifted up two helmets. He looked at the kid lying on the bitumen in front of the bike. "See," he said. "I've got two helmets. Sure you don't to go for a spin?" The kid struggled with difficulty to get to his feet. Derek put the helmets on the bike seat and gently lifted the kid up onto his feet. He noticed the kid's big blue eyes. To Derek the kid looked like a skinny starved boy aged about eleven or twelve, thirteen at a stretch. The kid looked fearfully up at Derek's huge muscular form. He was like a wild animal. His blue eyes were wide with fear. Derek knew that he would have to approach the kid very gently without any threat at all. The kid could not run because of his bad leg. He felt trapped by the huge bikie. Derek sent out soothing vibrations of love, peace and safety to the kid. He sent the thought that the kid had nothing to fear from him. "Where will you take me?" asked the kid suspiciously, softening just a little. "Wherever you'd like to go, within reason," replied Derek with a grin. The street kid looked over the powerfully built, denim-clad biker. Derek's body was truly awesome. The kid took in Derek's rippling, thickly muscled arms, the massive bulging curve of the pectorals, the mountainous washboard of his abdomen, the thick bull neck and the wide powerful shoulders. He observed Derek's shaggy mop of brown hair. He took note of Derek's kindly, twinkling brown eyes and open cheerful grin. He thought that this guy doesn't look so bad. He might just chance it. Derek held out a helmet to him. The kid took it, put it on and fumbled with the straps. Derek tightened them for him. ---------------------------- Continued in Part 38. ----------------------------