Phantom Rider Of Highway 33

By Tim Symington

Three short stories by Tim Symington; each of a different topic.

 

Phantom Rider Of Highway 33 is set on the turf of the notorious Hell's Highwaymen motorcycle gang, which is suddenly contested by a mysterious and fearless lone rider causing havoc and humiliation. The bikers' president, Viper, and his henchmen, Crusher and Creep, vow their revenge, come hell or high water.

 

Demise Of A Ladies' Man is set at an historic Feminist Convention in the staunchly conservative Kingdom of Sebla, resulting in an ideological clash between the opposing strident factions, with the potential to turn nasty, even deadly.

 

Player Versus Coach follows the careers of two polar opposite rugby players; Gavin the veteran who strove doggedly to achieve his goals, now coach, and Curtis the young superstar player whose exceptional talents make him arrogant, and his coach's nemesis. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Symington
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224453511

Tim Symington

Tim Symington lives in Rotorua, New Zealand, with his wife Rebecca. Between them they have a dozen adult children, and well over a dozen grandchildren.

Book preview

Phantom Rider of Highway 33

To any passing motorist, the sleepy little town of Serene appeared a pleasant enough place, good for a refreshment break and refuelling, before continuing east along the picturesque Highway 33 towards the seaside holiday park at Hampton Beach, some 120 kilometres away. Yet for those who lingered longer in Serene there was a pervasive sense of unease. It was a tiny town that had once, back in the late-19th Century, experienced boom-times during the heyday of coalmining, but since then had eked-out a depressed existence, with farming the region’s economic mainstay. Basically in Serene there was a dairy, a petrol station, one hotel, an old town hall, a dilapidated church, a farmers’ wholesale, and a tiny police station; no cinema, no sports ground, no supermarket, no chemist, and a small recently-closed primary school. The residents, for their shopping and routine business, would have to travel north the 40-minute drive to Stonehurst, the next closest town.

Serene however did have one surprising real estate anomaly, the opulent St. Christopher’s Retirement Village, which stood in stark contrast to the rest of the decrepit town. For some reason many retirees flocked there to live-out their golden years, as juxtaposed to the sporadic exodus among the rest of the sparse population. But why? The only other point worthy of mention by the travel guides, was that Serene was gateway to Highway 33, for motorists commencing their two-hour jaunt to gorgeous Hampton Beach; but to be aware that no facilities were on that highway for refuelling or accommodation – so best to meet those requirements first in Serene.

Highway 33 was one of the country’s most beautiful roads, known as a traveller’s paradise – whether  to holidaymakers, long-distance cyclists, biker groups, day-trippers, nature-lovers or photographers – its scenery offered multiple engaging vistas along the way, from clover-covered pasture lands, rolling hills, upland native bush, and an interesting road that began as a straight, but increasingly became curvy with dips and bends through gullies, and then the gentle ascent through podocarp forest over Bennett’s Pass, then winding down through the eastern bush to marshy plains and finally the ocean air and sand dunes at Hampton Beach – a veritable travellers’ delight.

Yet for all that, in the past two years much highway traffic had drastically decreased, especially motorcycle traffic. The locals had a justifiable theory as to why; the arrival of a notorious 1%er biker gang named the Hell’s Highwaymen. They were a blot on the region, but for fear of reprisal no-one dared say that too loud. They had set-up their gang-pad in an old warehouse one kilometre outside Serene, on the beginning straights of Highway 33. The pad stood directly beside the road, and all passing traffic was in full view of the sullen bikers’ patrolling eyes. All hours of the day and night coarse woeful persons were coming and going, exchanging cash for cannabis, consuming alcohol, with music thumping through the walls, accompanied by a constant apprehensive tension in the air. People hated to drive past the pad, because the feeling of intimidation was so heavy; even the local farmers, who had no choice, rued their necessary journeys to and from Serene and Stonehurst. But by-and-large the bikers left them and other innocuous travellers alone; it was other bikers that the Hell’s Highwaymen particularly despised and menaced. 

The Highwaymen’s president was Gareth Vincent, a man in his mid-50s, known as Viper to his enemies and the general public, and as Boss to his fellow-Highwaymen and subordinates; his word was law, and no-one contravened it, except on pain of dire results.

Viper’s vice-president, and also the club secretary, was Pete Satch, 196cm (6ft 5in) tall, in his mid-30s, with hands the size of baseball mitts, known as Crusher; and although his physical presence was impressive enough, his mind was more so, overseeing the club’s financial affairs, and devising strategies to ensure the police had minimal chance of discovering their illicit business enterprises – especially their marijuana plots hidden away beyond the forested dirt roads of Highway 33.

Viper’s prime enforcer was the bull-necked, barrel-chested David Chisolm, aged early-forties, known as Creep; having spent over half his adult life in prison, with multiple scars and tattoos as the symbols of his incarcerations. Creep’s reputation was notorious as one not to be offended or confronted (as several night club bouncers had discovered after waking up in an ambulance); his icy stare alone was enough to cause one’s blood to run cold, and an evil aura emanated from his body. Everyone feared Creep. Yet he was the most loyal supporter of his club and captain, and if need be would lay down his life for Boss – or conversely, wreck the life of anyone who threatened him. And even though Viper made the pad rules, and in theory Creep enforced them, there was actually not much need, as to break them would have very unpleasant consequences, such as anything from a black eye to being put in a coma, or worse.

Viper’s rules were simple: uphold the honour of the club, no other bikers on our turf, no narks, no underage girls, and no methamphetamine. Earlier in the year one young wannabe gangster was heard to disparage the rule about no meth:

We smoke weed, he complained, so what’s the diff with P?

He suffered two broken ribs, a chipped eye socket, and ten stitches to the forehead, courtesy of Creep, who was in a charitable mood that night by only slugging him twice. No-one ever questioned that rule again! But among the club’s forty-some patched members, prospects and associates, there was a collective pride for their formidable reputation as being the scariest, nastiest, ‘don’t-mess-with-us’ biker gangs in the country.

Viper, Crusher, Creep, and the other higher ranking bikers loved to sit out on the pad’s deck, beers in hand, while watching the road as pallid-faced motorists drove by, obvious anxiety etched over them, with nervous parents hissing at their kids not to stare, and tense farmers willing their tractors to go faster; it was hilarious to Viper and his comrades to see the silly fearful reactions their very presence commanded. But, their humour soon turned sour the moment a motorbike engine was heard coming their way. Several times an unsuspecting rider would approach, only to be startled by a couple of Highwaymen zooming out to meet him; if lucky the poor fellow would heed the warning and hurriedly turn back to town unscathed.

One time a group of about fifteen riders noticed the Highwaymen’s headquarters some 500 metres ahead, slowed, and pulled-over to peer intently toward the pad, then one Highwayman revved-up and sped out, which immediately caused all fifteen bikers to do a quick u-turn and take flight back the way they’d come. Though irritated by the mere thought of another gang even approaching their ground, Viper and the others broke into guffaws at the scene – no rivals could match them for imperious intimidation; they smugly revelled in their untrammelled domination of the highway. But, that was all about to be tested – and changed – in a way they never could have imagined. 

It all started one peaceful summer’s day; not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath of wind, the only sound the faint chirping of birds and lowing cattle over the otherwise empty countryside. The scene at the pad was unusually quiet: a few guys tinkering with their bikes, some playing cards, others playing pool, some sleeping-off hangovers, others aimlessly standing around soaking-up the morning sun while smoking their cigarettes. Yet despite the tranquil setting, within themselves the idle bikers were really champing for some action. Suddenly they got it, for out of nowhere a distant rumble broke the silence – like the shockwaves of an earthquake – growing ever louder with each passing second, until the sky was filled with a booming din. The shocked Hell’s Highwaymen stood frozen, filled with dread and adrenalin, at the instantaneous assault of deafening sound that cut right through to their bones. Was a Boeing 747 or a spaceship about to shoot over their heads, or land on their pad? This was all their minds could conceive in the brief moments that the frightening ear-splitting eruption occurred. All heads were turned skyward, eyes fixed near the pad’s roof, expecting any second a craft of some sort to engulf them; they braced for the worst. But the next instant, there was complete silence. The shaken Highwaymen’s frozen stance collectively slumped. Yet they still were transfixed eyes towards the roof, as if awaiting any sign of the now-silent former noise-maker. Then, just as suddenly as the rumble in the sky had appeared and then disappeared, again, the silence was broken – zoooom – as a lone biker on a Harley Davidson sped past the Highwaymen’s pad. The gangsters’ heads whipped around in unison to see the lone intruder ride away along their highway, who, up until that moment had been completely undetected. Everyone was stunned at the bizarre mind-blowing occurrence that had just unfolded before their ears and eyes. Instinctively, everyone looked at Viper, the boss; what would he do? Viper too was momentarily in a state of static consternation; but sensing the inquiring eyes of his men glued to him he snapped-out of his stupor, and yelled:

What the hell are you waiting for? Run that clown off the road!

With that order from the boss everyone jolted from their catatonic daze. Three young guys fired their bikes and screeched-out of the yard and onto Highway 33 in pursuit of the lone biker – who by now was almost out of sight. No matter. The three pursuers would catch-up and run him into a ditch; and in the process win the approval of Boss, and a greater respect from the other senior bikers. It wasn’t long before the three were getting closer to the one. He was now only 100 metres ahead, and they were gaining fast. The road ahead had a dip that made the loner disappear from view, but he would reappear into his pursuers’ sight within five or six seconds, as the road ascended up again – then he was theirs’ to finish-off. But as the three tore down the dip themselves, the other rider was completely gone. There was no sign of him, even though the road stretched ahead in plain view for at least another half-kilometre; it was impossible to have ridden to the far bend and out of sight in such little time. The three bikers came to a stop, and removed their helmets to strain their ears for any sound to ascertain where he had gone. They looked at each other with incredulous frowns, slowly shaking their heads. They kept looking back and forth along the road, not knowing what to do next.

Suddenly, the lone biker sped past them from behind with a great burst of engine noise, and all three nearly jumped out of their