Halfway awake, halfway still dreaming, I rode a thin-tired motorcycle through green hollows and hills littered with dark gray boulders as smooth as glass. A herd of something came up from behind. There were many of them. Lions.
It wasn't just a pride. It was clusters of prides moving relentlessly in one direction, heedless of me or a small family of deer nearby. The lionesses, the cubs, the lions with their shaggy manes--they moved forward toward a nearby town, leaping over barricades and fences like thoroughbred horses and then disappearing down a street that had wound over a hill.
The town was silent and empty except for me and my motorcycle which emitted a low buzz, waiting. I stayed on the side of the street, wondering if I should follow the lions to see where they were headed when several cars, gangster-like except that they were red and green splattered with mud. Each car was filled with sweaty men, unshaven, with wild looks in their eyes as they whooped and hollered, closing down on their prey.
I sped after them, and in that little town, the noise of the vehicles was deafening. A rifle was strapped to my back and with one arm steering and one arm reaching back, I took the weapon out and aimed it to my side. I neared the red car. The driver was intent on getting past the hill. One of the passengers in the backseat poked his head out, his greasy moustache flickering in the wind. He leered at me and I pulled the trigger, twice.
The tires blew out and the car screeched to a halt. I was already far ahead, hoping I could catch up with the next car.
