A Bronson Tale

Bronson suddenly spotted Celia wheeling a small hound and pushing her way through the circle of Howlers towards him. ‘Arthur Snout,’ Bronson whispered to himself, ‘is that really you?’ This was not the young pup he remembered from the orphanage days; here, staggering towards him, looking dazed, was Lonely Dog grown up.

The bikers were about to forcibly eject Celia, but Bronson raised his hand. ‘Let them through!’

Celia stood before him, gasping, ‘It’s Lonely! He needs your help! Get him out of town – tonight!’ She pointed behind her.

Lonely was staggering up the path clutching his bloodied arm, his guitar strapped to his back. He smiled weakly, faltered and fell.

In a bound, Bronson was by the wounded Hound’s side, scoping him up in his huge hands. ‘What happened? Who did this?’ he snarled.

‘There isn’t time!’ Celia cried, gesturing at the road surrounding the Green. ‘They found us!’

Ruddegan’s Toms were spilling out of long black sedans, brandishing clubs and machine guns, running, shouting, circling the park.

Bronson’s eyes were smoldering like a fuse about to ignite. ‘HOWLERS!’ he boomed. ‘LET’S RIDE!’

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