Gaz slid his bike forward. This promised to be interesting.

Petra brought the gang to a halt at the base of a hill. The combined revving of their engines, intermingled with the ambulance’s sirens, created an intimidating cavalcade as the other bikers approached.

There were more of them, and they had Bitumen Gutpunch more or less surrounded, but Gaz knew that Petra was not one to be phased by that.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

The guy who at least seemed to be in charge was momentarily taken aback by this.

“Err… aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?”

“No, we were just heading into town to refuel, we weren’t expecting to be met by some second rate shitsack and his pet assortment of cripples and rejects! What’s to stop me having my sniper blow your brains out right now?”

“Umm… my sniper? Look, you want fuel. I represent Newton, who’s taken over the Clam. You call in your sniper, and we can deal.”

Gaz’s hand rested on his pistol. He was really hoping Petra would ask him to shoot this sucker.