On the way home, a four-pot chopper (in my day it were all H-D or arthritic English twins & singles) came howling the other way. Well, howling until Biker Bill took his hand off the throttle, at which point it went Clat! Clat! Pop! Rorp-rorp! Clat! because the carbies had been hauled out from underneath a pile of nudie-prod mags in the back of the
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