Super Soul Sister

brick structure and the most notorious watering hole in the upper Midwest. In less time, I knew why Larsson called. What hinted at a manageable spectacle from afar was terrifying up close: the scaling flames from the bar grew faster and hotter in the time it took to find Larsson. Amidst

the frenzy of firefighters, police, Berserker Bike Club members and onlookers, the police chief barked orders in every direction. He had to. Inside the fray, I learned the fire was the smaller problem.

With the fire warming our backs, a human half-circle gathered around one person. A head taller than any in crowd, Stanley Ellefson swung an axe with his two fingered hand as he waved a revolver overhead with his other. The half of his face that was unmarked glistened with sweat, while the layers of scar tissue that covered the other half of his face and neck were dull and dry. His mouth, what was left of it, returned the taunts from the bikers.

For a moment, I pictured in my mind’s eye the twenty-four year old that was firefighter Ellefson, before he rushed into the burning Ericsson Home for Children seven years ago.

“The Amazing Stan” the papers dubbed him. I looked quickly from the crowd back to the fire as a night wind carried a searing reminder of its presence.

“Know him?” Larsson screamed.





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