Another night on patrol in New Orleans

The street lamps cast a yellow glow in the foggy gloom of night.  WK is on on patrol, his two legs astride two wheels that propel him forward, always forward, toward the next adventure.  Is it day or is it night?  It is New Orleans, where sleep is the opiate of chumps and suckers.  A rat race is no race.  No cage can hold humble ambition.

The night air crackles when the ignition is lit.  It thrums with the hum of the Littlest Ninja on the East Bank of the Mississippi River as man and machine careen through throngs looking for good times and finding less than they bargained for.  A man on a motorcycle owns this city.  He plants the flag of his disposition and salutes it as it waves in the placid breeze.  On Humanity Street, he pauses.  He licks his finger and heads toward Frenchman Street to delve into the heart of a city of mystery and marvels.