Big Ger spoke in a rough way to disguise how soft he was. His six foot and a bit frame coupled with his bearded face gave him the look of a Hell’s Angels gang member. He didn’t have the price of a tank of petrol never mind a motorbike. His long greying hair crawled half way down his back. He was in his fifties now and worry lines stretched from one side of his forehead to the other. His black leather biker’s jacket had seen better days with a large tear just under the collar and white water marks covering the left side. His nose was bent out of shape and flattened like a boxer’s; he’d broken it more times than he could remember. A slight scar was visible just under his right eye since an incident when a drunken woman attacked him with a bread knife. He was fortunate to have his sight, blurred and all, at times as it was. His faded and soiled jeans were ripped at both knees and the sole of his left boot had partially fallen away from its glue. He had placed a black rubber band around the end to secure it in place. He wished that he could hide the rest of his faults as easily but time had caught up with him and there was nowhere else to hide.
Extract from a short story
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