I have written a series of short stories. This particular one I could see as an HBO film.  
It's April 2004 and I just finished serving jury duty.  
I was down the hall from the Tyco trial and how ironic since Tyco is mentioned in this story. 
"Chopping the Street" is where black leather meets white collar and the story explores what 
society deems criminal and ends with a laugh at the gossip industry.

My stories have not been published yet.   I edited out the sex which was extremely important 
to the story (I couldn't find a body double -- just joking)  because unlike male authors -- 
well...it is geo-sexual political  --we still ain't equal.  This story is for mature audiences.

THIS IS FICTION!!!!!!!!!!!!!    Not real.  I have never even kissed a motorcycle bad boy.  

March 02, 2006 Update: last year, I kissed a motorcycle bad boy.. on mothers day.

August 21, 2003 
+This is a purely fictional tale and any similarities to anyone or group, club etc. is purely

Chopping the Street: One megamillion at time... an unconventional motorcycle outlaw love
story... about transformations of all kinds including taking an international motorcycle club and
making it over into a global investment service firm on wheels

Sept. 11 had forced even the most isolated New Yorker out of their apartments and
life had changed dramatically.   Some began talking to neighbors they never
bothered to say hi to on the street and some began to notice neighbors they never
had seen.  Two years later Ally Walker hardly recognized herself in the mirror...the
most terrible experience of her life and the aftermath corresponded with what felt
like an on going mid-life crisis...yes, she was 40 and she wished 20 was her
mid-life crisis.  She couldn’t imagine making it to 41.  She had done every kind of
job possible in New York City except for waiting tables and prostitution and
prostitution was beginning to look at lot more appealing then waiting tables.
Actually, Ally was so /////// passionate about /// she couldn’t ever imagine
taking money for it but dam if she could she would be very rich. She was in her
////// prime.  That wouldn’t be a big deal if she didn’t live in lower Manhattan
where the majorities of single men her age were gay and she didn’t mess with
married men.  

Her single childless 40 year old body had slimmed down from all the stress, ripped
from years of martial arts and along with a sex drive in overdrive, her body felt like
an alien from another planet.  Ally was shocked by the intense //////// she felt
when she focused in on any expression of male virility and the lusty  returns from
guys she was receiving for the first time.  She was always a great athlete but during
college she became a chunky aka invisible but maintained her athleticism and
stunning long muscular and sexy legs.  Her boobs were real and they were her
largest endowment.  Actually her  sexual enthusiasm was even bigger than her D
cups and right now her sexual sonar was focused in on big nordic biker guy, 6 ft 4
with long blond and gray hair and beard to match that had just walked in to check
out the new coffee house in the neighborhood.   In the city men and women were as
muscular as possible; a visual message that said “don’t //// with me!”  Muscles
are urban jewelry and baby this nordic god has beautifully ripped jewels at least
what she could sex, I mean see.  Dam, if only she had x-ray vision, sex-ray vision to
go with her sexual sonar.

The longer you lived in New York City the more you resembled a turrets
sufferer--no filters, and sometimes that is a good thing.   The stud was with his
buddies, equally ripped and busily  tattooed but all she could see was him.  Eye
lock... Her puss got wet and her long pointy tongue popped out of her mouth down
to her chin and she arched her back and rolled her eyes.  He walked over and she
stood up on her tiptoes and rolling her tongue  across his lips licking him up to his
ear and whispered the bathroom is right behind me.  He nodded and followed her
into the hallway into the bathroom.  Ally turned on him, skirt hiked up and leaped
on to his body rapping her legs around his waist, tongue wrestling his gorgeous
mouth like it was her last moment on earth.  He was perfectly proportioned.  She
could feel ///// ////// and it was dam big just like the rest of him...He loosened his
pants and her hands went around his muscular hard ass.  He said, “watch your
head!”  He hoisted her up on his shoulders and she bent her neck so she wouldn’t
hit her head on the high ceiling of the bathroom.  Her ultimate fantasy, a muscular,
virile,  tattooed guy, strong enough to lift her up on his shoulders.  
He /////////////////////////////////arm to muffle her screams of delight. 
She shook with bliss. He put her down and /////////////////////////////////////////////
/////////////////////////////condom//////////////////////////////. ////////////////////
/////////////////////////////////////////.  /////////// is shoulder unaware that she 
was biting into him and clawing his ass and
back... He groaned happily in her ear and cleared his throat.  “My guys and I are
leaving on a trip today, now actually, after we get coffee.  We will be back the
beginning of next month.  Stop by. ”  He gave her his address and she followed him
out of the bathroom.  She saw blood on the back of his shirt from her scratch marks
and the person waiting for the can rolling his eyes...but looking envious.  His guys
smiled with pride and she thought to herself, if I dropped dead today this was a
fucking highlight, literally.  Dam, he must live near to me.   Why had I never
noticed him before?  That was New York.  But even if she had noticed him,
pre-sexual overdrive, pre-shed pounds and a new blonde streak , she wouldn’t have
been given the time of day.  

Later,  she walked by the address and she realized it was the house of a motorcycle 
club called “The Lethals”, an international biker club.   She had noticed the house
but it had never really registered for the last twenty years living here accept a realtor
had once told her this street and the street the police precinct was on were the two
safest streets in the neighborhood.

In the month he was gone she read everything she could on “The Lethals” but first
she read every newspaper published in New York plus “The Financial Times”.  She
had enormous contact with wall street temping all these years and “The Wall St.
Journal” and “The FT” were more entertaining than any soap opera on tv.  The
more she read on the motorcycle club and rival clubs, the more freaked out she
became and then she realized they were a lot like most businesses especially in the
early 1900’s before all the checks, balances and income tax were established...and
she laughed bitterly to herself.  The books on the clubs only went up into the 1980’s
and then the stopped completely.  Had they gone more mainstream or just smarter
about existing below the radar? 

What was breathtaking were the bikes and what they represented -- freedom,
rebellion and all the “f//k yous” most of us dreamed of saying but didn’t.  The
bikes were stripped down to the bare minimum and they were reconstructed and
painted to express the maximum.  Sex, fierceness and beauty welded with rebellion. 
The more she read the more she understood they were a subculture force that
greatly influenced culture world wide...a culture they rejected and rejected them and
consumed them.  The more politically correct, repressed and desexed society and
the workplace became the more appealing outlaw biker culture.  Motorcycle sales
continue to rise and so do more accidents, mostly by posers and wannabes.  Even
“Lictoria’s Secret” was using the biker theme to sell their underwear.

She thought of him.  The nordic god bad boy and the incredible great sex they had. 
Her body was in heat and all she could really think about was the heat he and she
radiated.  She never had driven a motorcycle but she fantasized about being on his
holding onto him...pressing her face into his back trying not to drool with happiness
from her mouth...both mouths.

Basically she goes back when he gets back.  He is unattached super stud, bad boy,
and President of the club pushing the big 50.  He pops a viagra before their major
f/ck fest is  scheduled to begin at his place...the motorcycle club house.  In the
middle of their  major sexual olympics he literally dies of a heart attack.  The
doorbell rings and it is the Feds literally at the door to arrest him but they can’t
because he dead.  In the meantime,  the guys are greiving hard and also freaking
because they have to make a big financial decision in the midst of death and chaos
and they blurt out their worries in front of Ally...the chunky invisible woman...the
story of her past life.  However she has read every financial reporting for the last 2
decades and been a fly on the wall of more temps jobs then one would want to
imagine and she guides them to make a decision that makes them a windfall.  She
also concluded that they should invest in cel phones in technologically evolving
countries where they have Clubs and she makes even bigger bucks for them. She
expands to investments abroad in satellites dishes to state of the art entertainment
devices that are portable and also cel phones.   Needless to say they make her
president...although it hush hush because they are sexist pigs and she doesn’t even
drive a motorcycle but money talks, so does brains and even more money.  She
transforms them into a global investment services firm on wheels so powerful
that even the most prestigious wall street banks around the world have to sit down
with her and the club.   She enjoys this because there is a thin line between the
phony political correct, arrogant world of white collars workers and the outlaw
motorcycle club and forcing the elitist snobs to see the  line is thin delights her.  
Was the false veneer of political armor, decorum and operations dissolving?  No. 
People see what they want to see or vice versa.  Ally was confident she was doing
some unconventional consciousness raising on both sides of “the street” and
making everybody megamillions so she was seeing best behavior at both sides of
the table but she saw little difference between the white collars and the black
leather. They would give to the same charities.  She just knew after closing the
newest big mega money making deal, they would have a Bacchanal adventure on
bikes out in the wilderness and the white collars envied their freedom as they had
their quieter, or not so quiet  parties with servants of all kinds.   The mega-wealth
was above the law and they knew how to look and behave to get way with
“activities” below the radar...I mean above the radar but even they got busted
occasionally.   Today’s “New York Post” reported corporate corruption cost New
Yorkers 13 billion plus.  They sited Enron, Adelphia, Tyco, Global Crossing and
World Com.  This was the criminal activity the Feds successfully or not so 
successfully prosecuted.   

Ally marries a younger biker with magnificent tattooed arms and yes, she gets her
own Harley Davidson, actually a classic -- a 1936 knucklehead restored; like 
studying Wall Street, she studies motorcycles.  Now she can take a bike apart and
put it back together and make it better. Her preferred form of motorcycle
transportation is her husband driving them on his wildly painted made over 1977
FXS Low Rider Harley Davidson because globally financial dealings in the
megabillions can be taxing.  She loves resting her cheek against his muscular
back, her eyes closed, arms wrapped around him in a passionate hug.  She tries not
to drool on his leather vest.  Here is to happy endings of all kinds.

post script:
1) rumor...she was jumped by a lethal club member and his girlfriend.  They are no
longer part of the club due to permanent health issues.  The martial arts studies
paid off.

2) there are rumors she is an international arms dealer

3) there are rumors the Feds came to her for advice on international dealings

4) she is pregnant with twins -- true and they will be biker babies.

copyrighted by Suzannah B. Troy © 2003

I wrote The Going last year too.  It  is a short story.  
Here is the poem I wrote that accompanies it. The poem is a passionate unconditional 
love letter to New York City with all it's intense diversity from people to the 
architecture to the most amazing details and richness and sorrow  one can witness 
just walking down  the street.  I can't imagine  life without NYC. 


The Going 
you can long for death,
life can be so excruciating,
painful and without hope,
so much suffering
but when it is time for
the going
even if it is going 
with the sweetest compassionate of souls,
the tears do come,
you know
you know everyone is going to die
and now is fine,
no more suffering
but all of the sudden 
there is a realization
of how much
i miss you miss
it is not just people
it is the neighborhood
the trees
the New York City idiosyncrasies

copyrighted by Suzannah B. Troy © 2003

I wrote The Going on Oct 23, 2003.

I wrote this for the NYPD and our New York City Detectives, the greatest Detectives in the World who with many fire, police, ems made the ultimate sacrifice Sept. 11
and did not receive the respect due on the seeminglyunending fence downtown with their name, rank and dept. all these years.3/06  Here are some excerpts
from this fictional shortstory...
"The Going
Detective Vete has left a message for me; actually two messages.  The phone doesn't ring
anymore, as if I have no friends left in the world so they are the only two messages.  He sounds
like he has acid reflux far worse than I do.  Actually he sounds like he has they worst case of
acid reflux in New York City.  It must be a tough job being a policeman in New York.   He
sounds caring and nice.  He does have what I call New York throat.  A term I made up for those
with terrible throat burn from inhaling all the horror of that day and the months following plus
the grief.

Detective Vete sounds  like he has had a long day.  A day in the life of a New York City
Detective is one I can't imagine.  I have heard they are the Greatest Detectives in the World;
under paid and under laid...

The police did so much Sept. 11 and the days and months following.  One aspect was the
morgue.   It wasn't just investigative work but also guardian ship -- a body or the smallest piece
of DNA of a daughter, a wife, son, father, brother, sister -- the Detectives were there like NYC
pinch hitting angels standing in for Angels and for the relatives of the deceased;  for all of us
who can't -- wouldn't go -- they do go there.

Detective Vete is calling me in regard to an unpleasant experience I had on the street this
summer -- the menacing individual ..."

"People don't want to take responsibility for their prejudice and hate and they want to
poison you with it."  " I couldn't help but wonder who raised this monster." 

"I was in a sleep
like state -- I had taken a sleeping pill the night before and it has helpful lasting effects.  I
couldn't respond in my usual hot headed way.  I really don't want to go any further with this story
but to say I walked over to the Ninth Precinct on Avenue C and filled out a report -- it was
minimal...and eventually Detective Vete called me...twice as if he had a long long day -- acid
throat filled gurgle kind of day and I was the last call on the list.  I had separated from friends
either because they died, got married, or I became intolerant of them or vice versa.  My number
is unlisted and my answering machine has no name identifying me.  I called the Precinct but I
kept mispronouncing the name so I gave up and told the voice on the other end I am sure he
would call me back.  Did I tell you this already... I can't remember."

Well, he didn't call me back but I did get a registered letter in the mail asking him to call me; I
mean I should call him.  I didn't notice until after we spoke on the phone...and I went to write
him a short thank you note for taking the time to speak with me that the address of the Precinct
seemed wrong.  It was the 9th's address on 5th street before they moved.  Was it pre-Sept. 11? I
can't remember exactly but at some point they had moved to Alphabet City.  I know this is wild
but some point in the interim they moved out but not completely -- someone converted one area

".... remembering the happy memories are treasures". 

I had mailed a thank you note to Detective Vete.  Speaking with him on the phone some how
made me feel a bit safer in the world.  He had written the 5th Street address on the letter he sent
me.  He must have made a mistake.  An emotional typo.  And I did too because I mailed my note
to the address of the empty precinct, to that building which I thought didn't exist anymore.  I feel
a compelling  need to walk over there now; a reality check.  I need to see what had happened to
the building.  Was Detective Vete playing some kind of joke on me?

While walking over my cel phone was ringing.  It was Buddy my Sept. 11 fireman friend.  We
became friends because of Sept. 11.    I am an emotional pyromaniac so it makes sense to have a
best friend that is a fireman.  I can't burn a bridge with him.  I try to get rid of him but I can't.  He
is married and he respects my rule, "no married men!"  and he is kind of like my best girlfriend except I don't have
one anymore and he is very virile.  He complains about his wife and her perpetual dis of
him..."  He just wanted to fight fires and all I needed to do as a friend
was remind him of that.  I did congratulate him on finally getting some respect and attention well
deserved.  It wasn't money or a house in the hamptons or an expensive car;
for the fireman it was respect and recognition and continuing to fight fires."

"I walked over to the building and I wondered if Detective Vete had lugged a portable type writer
over and written my letter in the ghost building where I once had a fling.   It is truly a ghost
building now. It is chained up -- a shell.  Eerily vacant -- the beginning of transition.  It is the
past and future of the 9th.  The front of the 9th was so beautiful it was actually used by a
fictional tv show.   Which show?  I can't remember. 9th on 5th Street is where I went when a
mugger tried to rip me off unsuccessfully.  Was Detective Vete the police officer I spoke with
way back when?  I can't remember.

Did I tell you after the 9th moved to Avenue C but before it became a complete ghost building I
had hot nookie there in the makeshift weight room? My memory...and now I was standing here
in front of a boarded up door looking at a ghost building.  My cel phone rings.  It is Buddy the
fireman again.  I comfort him.  Don't worry about your wife dancing on your grave dising you.
You are doing what you love doing, being a fireman.   He says he has a hard time remembering
things.  The entire city has Alzheimer's I think... Disassociation. Your brain is protecting you for
now until you are ready to deal. I tell him where and why I am heading over to 5th street because
if I don't tell Buddy then who would know?  He comforts me.  He is an enormous comfort to me. 
I tell him he is rescuing me from my internal rubble.   Someone is approaching me on the steps
of the ghost precinct so I hang up.  Now this is too corny to be believed but the someone who 
walks up to me and says hello has a uniquely gravely, gurgly acid reflux NYC voice.....it can
only be Detective Vete.  I introduce myself but he knows it is me and I nervously say Detective,
in spanish your name, Vete means to go,  future tense.  He nods.  He knows I know.  We are
going into the building -- the ghost building of the 9th precinct on 5th street... the building that
was the 9th and will be the 9th once again in the future.
I need to turn away from him and take one more look at all the beauty.  It seems so
extraordinarily beautiful, the neighborhood.  I feel tears on my cheeks...tears that are goodbye
kisses or hello kisses, wet kisses. I have to hug him very hard before I walk into the building  with him.   

These are an excerpt from The Going -- a short story and poem I wrote and it is a ghost story of a woman that has died Sept. 11
with a fireman that was trying to rescue her. 

They died together.  They can't accept they have died so they haunt the East Village where she lived and he worked. 

As she suffers thru the process of coming to terms with her death she relives "winning the sexual lottery" --

incrediable loving hot sex with a younger man and  when she if finally ready -- the Detective -- a tribute to the Detectives at the makeshift morgue

by NYU Medical Center after 9-11 -- the Detective with the spanish name that means "to go" comes to guide her to her heavenly descent to Eternal Peace.
                                                                The Going

                         She is single and alone in New York City.
                         She has won the lottery...the sexual lottery and she is also
                         about to find out facing one's death isnt about going it alone...if she can remember 

Suzannah B. Troy

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