And as we gathered in the small building talking about the erratic drivers and what was going to happen, and the important evidence that I had captured with my digital camera and was now transcribing into the policeman's very shiny and new emergency cellphone, the door banged open with a clatter of wood against wood, and at least half a dozen men wearing black jeans and black leather dusters stomped in. Perhaps 'strutted' would have been a better word, as they walked in formation, and arrayed themselves facing the room, moving first the left leg and then the right leg out in a hip-thrusting demi-kick before coming to rest with feet tilted 45 degrees in second position, hands aggressively on hips.
They began to dance in perfect unison as their leader stood almost still, ranting out a manifesto that was in dire need of an editor. Their long hair flew. They all had multiple hair wraps, in identical black, deep red, and white, descending from their split-ended manes like whips or tentacles and lashing each other as they tossed their heads, for all the world like cheerleaders.
40 year old, male, motorcycle-riding cheerleaders.