Children of the Program by Brad Cox Read Free Book Online Page A

average-sized, shirtless individual emerged.  He was dirty, wore a black helmet, adorned with a rooster-inspired orange comb, and stood with devilish poise.
                  Slowly removing his silver-tinted aviator glasses, the beast pulled a joint from his inside leather jacket pocket and commanded his steel horse to hush and heel.  The heart of the radio remained beating, while The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil” killed the dead air with an awaited dialog.  Dark history surrounded Jagger's poetry, which made its eerie message seem awkwardly cliché.  The cruel summer sun only reinforced the notion that they were in hell!
                  The man slowly walked toward the transfixed group.  They were noticeably tense, sitting with crossed legs on the mysterious ivory sphere.  He peered down with a cobra's disdain and magnetic eyes.
                  “Name's Dez,” he gruffed.
                  “Hi,” they responded, with begrudging acceptance.
                  “I really don't feel like I belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.
                  “You don't,” responded Simon.
                  “Do any of you scarecrows have a little fire?” asked Dez, patronizing their suspicions.
                  “I always carry a light.  You never know when you might find yourself in the middle of the desert and asked by a Hell's Angel for fire.  Ironic, really?” sassed Ash, curious if Simon caught her mocking quip.  “First, soldier, I think we'd all like to know a little bit more about you.  First question, are you Evel Knievel?”
                  “Well, I have about 99 dollars that belonged to someone else, I'm withdrawing from dope and I've been on my uncomfortable bike for roughly seven hours in this godforsaken heat.  I think you know why I'm here, darling,” he barked, allowing his words to idle.  “Now, can I get that light?”
                  “Give him the light,” said Neco, distracting Dez's focus and cooling the vibrations.
                  Dez arrogantly whet his budding marijuana tongue and lit the roach.  He tossed back Ash's white lighter, refusing to cease eye contact, and sauntered from the uneasy group.  He nested in the rocks, to enjoy his grass in peace. 
                  In what appeared to be a collective moment of deja vu, Magnus came barreling toward the circle.  His motorcycle, fully operational.  Though his entrance was far more subtle than that of his cancerous colleague, he still managed to raise a few eyebrows, fueling the speechless group's suspicion of what the getaway mile demon's club had conspired to do with them.  A human sacrifice, orchestrated by a notorious motorcycle gang, seemed entirely plausible.
                  “I definitely don't belong here,” said Rand, under his breath.
                  “I already told you, that!” joked Simon.   Petty banter drew them closer.
                  “What do you got there, hot shot?” asked Dez, unimpressed.
                  “Do you have a problem?” responded Magnus.
                  “Not yet!  Let the territorial pissing begin...”
                  Magnus shed a much smaller shadow, content to kiss babies and shake hands with the confused company.  He didn't have the energy to cast the same bravado as Dez.  His approach was the cool rain of a passing storm.  His jaded heart hadn't been completely soiled by his ruffled upbringing.  There was still a glimmer of hope in the iris of his emerald eyes, despite the darkness lurking behind his easy smile. 
                  “The dreams got so bad that I tried to overdose and succeeded,” offered Magnus.  He knew they were looking for answers, but were fatigued by questions.  “When I died, a bright light took me to a beautiful