EXT. TYPICAL SMALL TOWN MAIN STREET, CIRCA 1962, DAY
A SERIES OF QUICK CUTS THROUGH SEVERAL CLOSE SHOTS
The soda jerk looking over his shoulder at the sound;
The old timers, one lowers his pipe, the other reaches for his glasses as they turn toward the commotion;
The dog that was chasing the children, stops and looks, gives a yelp and scurries off;
The young couple turns to look, the girl drawing in close to her boyfriend.
Now a biker gang fills the street, a horde of modern day Visigoths pouring into the town center on their choppers raising a cloud of dust. The racket grows, drowning out everything in a bone rattling commotion. The bikers start to park their bikes with disciplined precision, two and three at a time pulling up to and gently backing up against the curb, each giving a defiant, noisy twist or two of the throttle before shutting down.
CLOSE SHOT, THE LEADER OF THE GANG
He is forty-something, wearing an old leather bomber’s helmet. Removing his goggles he reveals heavy, weather beaten slits for eyes. A misshapen nose bears an old scar across its bridge. He scans back and forth, with the air of someone who’s about to devour a meal. He gets up from his bike and turns away, revealing his “colors”, stitched across the back of his weatherbeaten cut-off denim vest, reading: