The Sheriff stroked his stubble as he stared into the distance. 50 Miles of open desert in every direction. The mid-morning sun beamed down on his broad brimmed hat. A casual grimace move his face enough to shoo away the cluster of flys forming. Pulling his slacks back up and rebuckling his belt, he returned to his iron horse after his toilet break. Mounting his motorbike, he felt the familiarly uncomfortable texture of his lead seat and turned the key. The dull hiss of boiling water followed by the crunch of the cogs sliding into place signaled the beast was ready to go. "God bless the Confederacy!" said the Sheriff in his thick Southern accent, and kicked forward as he powered into the distance.
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