August 3rd, 2009
Big Rig Punk by Billy Nakasaki.
It’s a sunny spring day in Chino, California as I put the last of my gear into my Honda Civic. I give my mom, one last hug and pull out of the driveway. My old man stayed in the house. He’s pissed that I’m heading out and thinks what I’m about to do is stupid, dangerous, and low class. I waved good-bye as I head out and turn the corner; a feeling of great sadness threatens to break away to the surface but I hold it back, cau’z hard fuckin’ core punks don’t cry. I open the window to let the fresh cool morning air in. For once it isn’t filled with smog or the smell of millions of people that call the L.A. Metroplex home.
The midnight blue Civic flies down the freeways at redline to the terminal in Fontana. It’s my first day on the road and I don’t want to be late. The guard at the gate tells me to store my gear in the drivers’ lounge and put the Rice Rocket in the 4-wheeler storage lot. After throwing my gear down, I park the racer under some trees and start to cover her under the custom car cover. I pat her gently and kiss her since I won’t see her again for at least two months.
When I get back to the main terminal I, head to Driver-Check-In and find out that my trainer hasn’t arrived, yet. So, I’m told to wait in the drivers’ lounge. By now there are several drivers (Truckers) in the lounge watching T.V., talking, or playing cards. When I open the door and walk in the room literally stops. I’m 6′3″ (actually 5″8″) with a green Mohawk, brown eyes, studded leather jacket with spikes a blue shelve and a green shelve, Oxblood GripFast Boots, green torn cammo shorts with patches of Rancid, the Business, Oxymoron, Dropkick Murphys, plaid ass flap, and a bid sneer on my face. Most of the drivers are stunned, except one short dude who’s sizing me up. I lock eyes with him and the staring contest begins. He blinks first, but gets the first word…
August 3rd, 2009
Skunk The Punk by M.
I’d been to my mates for a hot weekend session full of leather and rubber and I was driving along a quiet road during early evening. I had an urge to stop for a piss and knowing that there was an old unmanned service area up ahead (the last for a while) I decided to stop…
February 22nd, 2009
Punking Mike by Max Hewitt.
“Look, Mike, we live in the same town, we go to the same university. You and I are going to be together a lot in the next three years. So you are going to be my boy.” I guess I was pretty na√Øve. I still didn’t now what he was getting at. “Your boy?” “Yeah, Mikey, my boy. My bitch. You’re gonna be my cocksucker, my pussyboy, my asslicker — whatever I want…
February 18th, 2009
Street Punk by Dewayne836.
Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have mouthed off in front of him. I knew better.
He was a cop, and I was a punk, and we both knew the rules. You want out, you suck cock. Trouble was, I was straight. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for a guy’s rights and all, but I just didn’t figure myself mouthing all over some ex-army braggart’s hard, and uncut cop cock.
“That’s it, Ayrn. Get your ass over here.”
Fuck. I was new bait now. If only I’d kept my mouth shut. My girlfriend was right: If I fucked as good as I bitched and groaned, I’d have a wife for life…
February 15th, 2009
Big Rig Punk by Billy Nakasaki.
It’s a sunny spring day in Chino, California as I put the last of my gear into my Honda Civic. I give my mom, one last hug and pull out of the driveway. My old man stayed in the house. He’s pissed that I’m heading out and thinks what I’m about to do is stupid, dangerous, and low class. I waved good-bye as I head out and turn the corner; a feeling of great sadness threatens to break away to the surface but I hold it back, cau’z hard fuckin’ core punks don’t cry. I open the window to let the fresh cool morning air in. For once it isn’t filled with smog or the smell of millions of people that call the L.A. Metroplex home.
The midnight blue Civic flies down the freeways at redline to the terminal in Fontana. It’s my first day on the road and I don’t want to be late. The guard at the gate tells me to store my gear in the drivers’ lounge and put the Rice Rocket in the 4-wheeler storage lot. After throwing my gear down, I park the racer under some trees and start to cover her under the custom car cover. I pat her gently and kiss her since I won’t see her again for at least two months.
When I get back to the main terminal I, head to Driver-Check-In and find out that my trainer hasn’t arrived, yet. So, I’m told to wait in the drivers’ lounge. By now there are several drivers (Truckers) in the lounge watching T.V., talking, or playing cards. When I open the door and walk in the room literally stops. I’m 6′3″ (actually 5″8″) with a green Mohawk, brown eyes, studded leather jacket with spikes a blue shelve and a green shelve, Oxblood GripFast Boots, green torn cammo shorts with patches of Rancid, the Business, Oxymoron, Dropkick Murphys, plaid ass flap, and a bid sneer on my face. Most of the drivers are stunned, except one short dude who’s sizing me up. I lock eyes with him and the staring contest begins. He blinks first, but gets the first word…
