Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond. 

The Predator

A half-dozen gather at the side of the road on their motorcycles beneath the pulsating midday sun. The heat shimmers in the air under that bright light. The earth has a reddish tinge to it here, arid looking, though they are far from any desert, unless one counts the concrete that makes up the highway and the streets that they ride through. A small town, the sort one passes without bothering to learn the name. Each of them wears a Predator mask as a helmet, heavy, unwieldy things that give them the look of a doll, their heads out of proportion with their torsos. Some are in shorts and t-shirts and flip flops while others are wearing something that resembles the Predator body armour without being an exact costume. No one pays them any mind. The men sitting under an awning at the nearby pancit shop don’t even glance over. In a practised unison they swing out onto the highway joining the steady flow of traffic, Predator-locks flowing in the wind.