Concrete Rattle
The thunderous troupe galloped across the long and stoic plane, armed to the teeth and charging directly into the heart of an infernal and effusive beast. The clattering and rolling of the momentous gang of corporatized talent reached a din and the sound reflected by metal reverberated further across the landscape. The rumble grows and grows and grows as the riders ferry ever-faster towards the precipice of the enemy. The cross the threshold with weapons in hand and in silence they pierce deeper into their target.
The riders of the Acela braved high speed travel only to reach their mark in the Capitol City and charge deep into the heart of business and politics. As the last stop announcement is heard they crowd the portals like a landing party about to land upon European soil. The doors open and the whistle is blown. Pandemonium. The riders brace for impact as they mind the gap and crash-land onto the harsh concrete plain. They hurry as they escort the payload towards industry and the city that lies at the edge of the concrete platform. Four wheels of a carry-on bag howl and thunder mercilessly as the cacophony of luggage rolling sounds like horses trampling the prairie. The low metal ceiling and being bound on both sides by metal chariots, the concrete rattle of the riders shrieks out to the city as a war cry.
The riders, with their luggage steeds, power towards the station and the next battle to be had deeper in the Capitol. A final concrete slope delivers them into a warm enclosed hallway where the pounding of the wheels abruptly stops and a cool marble floor turns the brave war party into quiet assassins. They creep quietly into a loud arena and scout for their next move. Resupply, troop movements, or attack? The tech-Comanche and the political-minuteman share a quiet brotherhood as they peel off to join their respective tribe. To victory they ride.
Soon enough, that noble chariot will be there for the riders. The end of the week will bring another concrete rattle, slower and swelling. The riders, returning from the hunt travel back up the concrete ramp and buoyed by the successes and spends of the week walk and limp to the metal beast. A deeper note from the slow rolling of the carry-on wheels lends a guttural and masculine character to the rattle, only the strong have survived. They board the chariot and ride into the sunset. This isn’t a retreat, but only a regroup. The next hunt will be soon. Before long the train platform will come alive with the riders and the concrete rattle again.