SCMG Tribute

They are strange assemblage of men with no immediate apparent connection.  Aside from being mostly middle-aged, they seem a random sampling of American manhood. If you took an interest you would discover a huge variety of backgrounds.  One a college professor, another a writer and even a sign painter. An electrical engineer, a boiler operator, retired cop and the list goes on.  What common force could possibly serve as a catalyst to create such a strange entity, the Slimey Crud Motorcycle Gang?  It is a lifelong addiction to a mechanical contraption, a self-propelled gyroscope, one of a man’s simplest inventions.  This machine is a sensory amplifier that force-feeds a cacophony of audio, visual and tactile inputs at a rate limited only by the operator’s nerve and skill.  Yes, they are getting old and should probably put down this opium pipe of sensory overload.  Easier said than done, my friend, all are convinced they can still draw deep, obtain the euphoria and survive the test.  Now, more than ever they need the judgement necessary to see the edge, the abyss, and react accordingly.  And so they gather together, this tribe of adrenaline junkies, gather to recount the most recent thrill, the most recent terror and sometimes the most recent disaster.  They stand surrounded by their drug, immersing themselves, their pulse quickened by the proximity of some many inviting steeds that await the caress and urging of these men, these junkies, these SLIMEY CRUDS


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