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“Daddy Grendel is dead,” said one of them. “The fuel truck is gone too,” said another. “These rednecks are no good to us now,” said a third. “Without Grendel, it will be impossible to get them organized. The Wolf Pack has fucked us.” They addressed a tall man with a gray streaked beard. He wore heavy boots, tight pants and a vest, all of which were black leather. On his vest there was the insignia of a green oriental dragon. The way everyone looked at him, I assumed he was the leader. He had a stern, almost annoyed expression on his face. “Well, we can’t give up,” said the leader. “The Neocons want those oil fields, and until we get rid of the hippies, we don’t see a dime.”
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