Reeling In Yer Readers Lesson #2

Sitting now, his back leaning into the cedar wood of the beach house, looking out at the leaf-strewn backyard, taking in the towering gum trees framing the gardens, and being near-blinded by the brilliant and dazzling white of Kylie's four wheel drive, he heard the unmistakable sounds of motorbikes; their throaty, stereosonic rumble denoting their large number. A herd of motorbikes? A pack of motorcyclists? A murder of bikies? Or a natural causes of bikies, if they were of the octogenarian sort?

The dust and noise reached cacophony-level as the .... group .... of motorcyclists drew near the beach house. Cockatoos sqwawked, small branches fell, and the dog ran raging on his lead as he snapped and barked at the terrible din.

Still sitting, Michael craned his neck and grimaced at the spectacle. From where he sat, on the back veranda facing the communal tennis court, he saw them in all their dangerous glory. There were seven of them. An assortment of choppers and big, bold bikes. No expert, Michael imagined each bike was chosen for their ability to instill horror and their affinity with twisted, living metal behemoths breathing fire and belching smoke. The stuff of nightmares, that kind of thing.
None of them had taken off their helmets, or their gloves, and each stood straddling their motor beasts. The occasional one would twist his throttle, like a whip on a thoroughbred, and there would be a roar in response.
The back door flew open and Ash, Jet and Max flew out, their mad scramble of arms and legs almost taking out the dog.
"Wow!!" Jet bellowed in a voice of excitement worthy of two exclamation marks. "Daddy! They are NOISY!"
"Motorbikes Daddy! Motorbikes! Santa rides a motorbike," piped up little Max, and for a moment  the scene dematerialised as Michael wondered where on Earth Max had picked that little gem up from.
"Daddy," Ash's whole arm sneaked around Michael's forearm and he looked at her.
"Its okay, Angel," he reassured her. "They're just passing through. They'll be gone soon."
As if he had super-human hearing, able to hear the gentlest tone amongst the harshest of aural environments, the lead bikers head snapped around to them. Ash gasped and clutched him tighter.
"No, Daddy. You don't understand. I WANT one," Ash breathed.
"Daddy," Maxie said in all seriousness. "Santa has one. Why dont you?"
That was it, it was the last straw, Michael had had enough. First, the kids were enjoying themselves too much down here, then they were not noticing when he went back to the farm to pick up the mail and put out the bins, and now they were so excited by a group of noisy, filthy and ,no doubt about it, naughty bikers that they were prepared to push him into their midst.