•••••••••••••••••••••••Requests Open!••••••••••••••••••••••••
Will update upon receiving requests. Check chapter cleverly titled "⭐️Requests Open!⭐️" for more details (it's the 10th chapter!)
You can never have too many classic rock one shots, can y...
Muse: German Journalist and Motorcycle Enthusiast Anke-Eve Goldmann Musician: English Musician and Drummer of Led Zeppelin, John "Bonzo" Bonham Time: Early Seventies
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The unmistakable scent of burning gasoline and the rumbling sound of a roaring engine filled the otherwise quiet neighborhood street. Baffled old folks turned as a fit, leather-clad figure shot by, face obscured by motorcycle goggles and a Buco half-helmet.
The masked biker came to a smooth stop in front of a hole in the wall pub on the street corner, making use of her kickstand and swinging a toned leg over the seat.
"The Irish Tavern." The woman mumbled to herself, reading the faded green letters hung above the entrance doors. She let out a sigh as she turned off her engine and tucked the key of her prized bike into a tiny leather pocket. She'd been riding all across Mexico, Canada and the United States, now finding herself somewhere vaguely in the midwestern U.S.
The rambler wasted no time removing her helmet and goggles, desperate for a cool drink after hours of riding in the summer sun. With both feet anchored on the sidewalk and her thighs angled against the seat of her chopper, she titled her head back and shook her short brown waves free.
Satisfied with her efforts to rid herself of the wretched 'helmet hair', she threw her goggles into her helmet as if it were fruit into a basket and began trudging into the establishment.
The heavy right door of the pub swung open by the force of her gloved hand, causing a gush of air to cool the sweaty drunkards. Following the hymn of the door, a tiny bell sang above her head while her steel-toe boots drummed against the wooden floors, the peculiar song drawing the eyes of the pub-dwellers to her towering frame.
Boom!
The door slammed behind her, the racket sounding like a gunshot in the heavy silence. It had the same effect as a gunshot, too, with eyes bulging and trained on the girl.
Slow and heavy steps echoed through the once rowdy atmosphere, and the commander of attention had yet to acknowledge a soul.
The bartender, a meek and mild mannered man of just less than middle age, froze in his action of drying an expertly blown whiskey glass. If this were a cartoon, sweat beads would've been racing down his face while he pulled at his shirt collar. An exaggerated gulp sent his oversized adam's apple bobbing up and down his lanky neck.
It was clear to her that bikers such as herself weren't common in this little town.
Still without a word, the vagabond smacked her left hand firmly on the bar, an effort to secure the attention that she already had. Her other hand was busy holding her helmet to her waist, fingertips absentmindedly tapping away at the glossy black material.
"A beer." Her voice, unexpectedly sweet, visibly calmed the barkeep. The girl chuckled under her breath at his sigh of relief. She didn't want to scare people, only to keep them from pushing her around.
