Resistance Movement

Resistance: a secretion that come from the rebellion gland

Jack eased into the saddle of his Vespa and took the last swig of his Coke before throwing it in a hook shot into the green plastic bin that lay 15 feet away with a satisfying clunk.

He flicked up the stand and gave it a kick. The bike coughed a large plume of black smoke into the air and spluttered like a drowning man breaking the surface. When its revs eventually smoothed out he released the accelerator and let it die down to a gentle putt-putt. He fastened his scratched open-face helmet, cursing as the clip bit into the tender skin on his neck just below his chin, as it always did. Scowling he looked up and gazed around the parking lot and up the road that led away from the pub and twisted its way toward the city. He noticed that he was not alone.

A lanky youth with slicked back hair regarded him with challenging eyes as he, too, fastened his helmet and prepared to ride. He was seated on a Suzuki 650 painted entirely black except for the engine and chrome twin exhausts. The youth kicked the bike and it took instantly, revving to a frenzied pitch, all while the rider looked tauntingly at Jack.

"Wanna race?" he asked, "Oh, sorry, didn't notice your bike, if it can even be called one. When last did you wind the rubber band?"

Jack felt a wave of anger rise in him. Smart ass, he thought, just let it slide. He's young doesn't know any respect and you're not the one to teach him. Let him be on his way.

The youth spun the 650 round in a 360, spraying gravel and dust over Jack so that the small stones bounced of the polished paint, chipping it in tiny white spots. Then, with a shriek of laughter he hit the power and shot off down the road, leaving Jack in the quietening parking lot watching the dust settle.

"He's not worth it Jack," he said to himself, "he's young...Sod it!"

Jack twisted the accelerator hard, gunning the engine before he dropped the clutch. The 50cc wailed like a runaway sewing machine and its back wheel squealed on the tarmac, fighting for grip. When the last of the loose gravel beneath the tyre vanished and the tyres found a solid section of surface, Jack swung the bike round in graceful arc,... and gave chase.