2012 ChopCult Writing Contest: Call for Entries

[KevMoore]

Motorcycle Conflagration

(Please note, I am removing this story from consideration for fairness, since it was run on Chop Cult)

Motorcycles are a polarizing form of transportation. Broach the subject and you will find people fall into two groups. On one side are the folks who think they are loud and dangerous, ridden by dirt-bag miscreants who eyeball women. On the other are those who lecture how the vehicle offers ultimate freedom, complete with the self-bolstering undercurrent of a social outsider. But like most matters in life, the truth is an alloy of these viewpoints. And the real beauty of a motorcycle comes from the random and at times dangerous events that occur along the way. This is the stuff that makes stories and legends for years to come, told and retold with steadily growing warpage of the facts.

This is one of those stories.

One day my phone rang. It was David. “Eh Mate. Whadda say we ride to Cottonwood, Arizona next week for The Smokeout?" He asked as if his mouth was full of marbles like all improper Brits. The motorcycle rally would be the same as the rest: overpriced consumables, crowds of poorly-socialized gorillas, and the inevitable apparel stating such crowd-pleasing favorites as Show me your tits and If you can read this the bitch fell off. But rallies are little more than an excuse to go somewhere on a motorcycle. The trips are about riding together and living unplanned for a few preciously free days.

“Just you and me?” I asked.

“Nah, Gilby’s comin’. You could meet us in LA on your way from San Francisco.”

I said yes and packed my things.

My journey of 1004 miles from Berkeley to Cottonwood began with the proverbial single step right into the ‘MacArthur Maze,’ a cheeky nickname for the junction of interstates 80, 580, and 880. This masterpiece of civil engineering has an uncanny ability to produce traffic jams at the least provocation, especially when fueled by Californians, a breed of driver who firmly believe they are entitled to occupy the fast lane regardless of speed or ability. Navigating such pandemonium on two wheels takes great skill and patience. But how could I exhibit such a virtue as a mother next to me turned completely around in her seat to yell at her kids? A highway patrol officer drove right past her on his cell phone laughing, maybe about the fact that as a cop he did not need to follow the law. A lifted Chevy Suburban with mud tires and a Harley-Davidson sticker in the back window cut me off, reminding me of one of the great truths in life: Huge trucks with Harley stickers are typically driven by folks who do not own a motorcycle and behave like they have something to prove. I kept to the slow lane, the only one that moves with consistency.

Exiting the Bay Area revealed route 101, a beautiful thoroughfare of alternating farm land and rolling hills that transforms from elephantine redwoods in the north to wind-sculpted Blue Oaks and pungent smelling eucalyptus in the south. There are even the occasional palm and cork tree. The landscape and myriad of trees, many of which were introduced from Australia, Europe and Africa, created a spectacular backdrop for a road trip.

Just south of San Jose the road entered the Santa Clara Valley, the heart of Steinbeckian California. Dusty farms dotted with migrant workers picking produce and tending crops lined my passage. Occasionally a person looked up, drawn by the engine rumble, though most ignore my existence. A jackknifed truck sat dormant in the opposing lane, surrounded by scattered crates disemboweled of lettuce. Some men collected the heads while other swept up the leaves. The entire stretch of highway contained random produce strewn along the road like remnants of some great war of vegetables. Gilroy, a town famous for garlic, enveloped my nose with the rich and homely smell of welcoming kitchens.

From Washington to California route 101 is peppered with enough amenities to ensure a comfortable transit. That is unless you are a person with a propensity for finding any stretch of road deficient of a gas station. Travelling south on a barren stretch of the highway, my small handmade gas tank ran dry and the bike sputtered to a halt. Checking the petcock, it was already on reserve! How could this have happened when I and I alone ride and work on my bikes? Clearly some lowlife scoundrel insinuated themselves into my shop and flipped the switch. It was the only logical explanation.

Waiting on the roadside for a AAA truck to deliver gas to your motorcycle crushes all undercurrents of a social outsider.

Gassed up and back on the road, 101 came to San Luis Obispo Bay. The highway graded up past a set of retired railroad tracks to reveal the endless majesty of the Pacific Ocean. At Pismo Beach I stopped for food and shelter. Skipping the quarter-driven showers, the ocean happily removed the road’s grimy remnants. Bobbing gently in the surf with nothing more than boxer shorts on, I watched the sun set.

In Los Angeles, Dave and Gilby were packed and ready to go. After listening to my recount of running out of gas, we agreed an extra can of gas was needed for the stretch to Cottonwood. Of course the can needed to be carried on my bike, since it was for me. And luckily I had prepared.

Earlier that year, my cousin gifted me a 1981 Honda Goldwing that could only be described as a real standout. It came complete with flat tires, rusted shut brake calipers, and gasoline in the tank that was so old it smelled like turpentine. The only way the engine would run was starter fluid – a superbly volatile mixture of hydrocarbons, diethyl ether, and carbon dioxide – dumped directly into the carburetor in amounts copious enough to set fire to Satan himself. Once the engine did turn, it shot fire from the exhaust, sputtering and stumbling like an asthmatic old man with a gimp leg. The bike did have one redeeming attribute though: Nice hard bags. And in the weeks prior to the ride, I mounted a single hard bag to the motorcycle using vacuum clamps. It was next to the rear wheel on the right side, since the left side would not accept it because of the license plate. When finished, the bag was three inches above the shot-gun-style exhaust pipes, plenty of room for heat to be carried away by the rushing wind of the open highway. And from San Francisco to Los Angeles this well-grounded hypothesis was validated. The cool breeze of the 101 in fall had left the bag unmolested by exhaust heat. My understanding of thermodynamics remained triumphant, or so I thought.

Our path from Los Angeles went due east by Joshua Tree National Park, where gnarled trees reminiscent of Dr. Seuss dotted a landscape ceaselessly assault by sunlight eager to transform its energy to heat. Gently undulating miles of road were bound by spiring mountains standing like sentinels in the distance. We rode through transfixed by the desert tapestry and the hot air rushing over our skin; friends on the open road in the vast and still wild west.

Needing water and gasoline, we stopped in Twentynine Palms. Exercising proper English, one would hyphenate ‘twenty-nine’ in the town’s name. However, this tiny Southern California hamlet has decided they have no need for such superfluous fanciness. And as the name suggests, there are palm trees there. The main road through town, aptly named Twentynine Palms Highway, is lined on both sides with mature, well-groomed palm trees. It was there in the Mojave desert that we learned just how much hotter the air had become.

(Story continued below)

[KevMoore]

Dave pulled up to the inside line of pumps in front of a car with a young Asian couple. Gilby chose the outside line of pumps with me behind. Hopping off my bike, I found Gilby standing before me with huge saucer eyes visible behind those ever-present aviator sunglasses. He began frantically waiving a pointing finger at my bike. Casually turning to see what he was carry on about, I found the Goldwing hard bag emitting what could only be described as liquid fire from a gaping hole in the bottom. Far worse, the fire was rapidly collecting in a puddle just feet from the pumps.

Silencing Gilby is one of my outstanding achievements in life. This is a man who spent his life as a rock musician, at times playing with mega bands. The type who purchase hair products by the gross, have groupies that behave like lemmings, and use pyrotechnics indiscriminately. One simply can not spend decades doing this without seeing some pretty crazy stuff. And while Gilby will freely admit that he dropped out of high school, he is quite well spoken and has no impediment to inserting his viewpoint in debate. Take any topic, any group of people, or any location, and Gilby will materialize out of thin air to ensure his right to exercise free speech. Yet now he could not muster a single word.

The fire was growing, spreading towards the pumps.

Now might be a good time to explain how a series of grossly miscalculated steps resulted in our motorcycle bonfire. The assaulting heat of the desert combined with the heat of the exhaust pipes had slowly begun to melt the bottom of the plastic Goldwing hard bag. As the hole grew and heat pored in, the gasoline in the can expanded, escaping into the bag and out the hole. Now gasoline does not simply combust with moderate heat. It needs an ignition source to begin burning. In this case ignition came from the shot-gun-style exhaust pipes, which when the bike was shut off expelled the last remnants of fuel-air mixture as a lovely blue-green flame with a charming ‘pop’ sound. It was this tiny flame, a simple afterthought of the running engine, that forged our own private hell.

The world transformed into a slow-motion theatre with a series of near-coincident events. The attendant inside the station began doing a chicken dance at the sight of the fire. The Asian couple yelled something and jumping into their car, peeling out of the station with one door still open. Dave, comprehending the scope of the situation, ran towards my bike and missed being hit by the escaping Asian couple’s car by a last-second vault over their hood Bo Duke style.

Understanding why a person would run towards fire at a gasoline station demands knowledge of the inner workings of a man like David Perry. As a former member of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, subtle military behaviors still permeate his everyday actions. He works regimented and long days. He has an overpowering need to color categorize his shoes. Above his desk hangs a painted picture of his mariner grandfather. Given the chance, he will describe the man at great length with glossy-eyed reverence. Dave has an inherently high energy level, similar to a hyperactive child who stumbled upon a box of unguarded pixie sticks. Once he cajoled me into running a twenty-kilometer race through the woods while it rained. The course took us up mile-long hills of clay-rich mud that stuck to our shoes with unrelenting accumulation. When he finished this joyous event well ahead of me, he turned around and ran back so he could finish the race by my side, cheering me to go faster. I contemplated punching the evil bastard. With barely operating motor functions remaining, I crossed the finish line and Dave began bouncing around transfixed on the fact that we must now go to the pub. And of course, we did.

Dave grabbed a window squeegee from a tub of cleaning fluid and started smacking the flaming bag on my bike. After a few whacks, he ran back to the container, dunked it, then came back and returned to smacking. Gilby, agreeing this was a wise course of action, grabbed another squeegee and followed suit.

As more fire poured out of the bag, the need to get rid of the gas can became evident. The flames were now to the pump housing. Popping off the top of the hard bag, a column of fire erupted to the awning, forming a tiny little black spot on the white surface. My hand went deep into the bag, grabbed the can, and launched it towards the street. It was a bad shot. Rather than making it to the road, the gas can hit the trunk of a palm tree and exploded. Twentynine Palms was in distinct danger of becoming Twentyeight Palms.

The trunk and surrounding side walk were ablaze, creeping further and further into the street. Cars skidded to a halt with brakes locked. One person threw their car in reverse, returning from where they came with the transmission gears howling. Another did not stop at all, but just did a squealing U-turn and drove down the wrong side of the road. Across the street, a woman walking with a boy grabbed the youngster’s hand and drug him urgently away as he gaped at the ensuing wonder.

Frustrated with battling the growing fire with a squeegee, Gilby grabbed the entire container of window-cleaning fluid and dumped it on my bike. Dave dumped another, effectively quenching the blaze. The bike was left scarred, but it was not so bad. It had been created pale with a rough-hewn demeanor and so took brilliantly to the sooty and burnt remnants, which to this day remain as a ghost of stupidity past. The Goldwing bag on the other hand was decimated. It had melted to the ground in a puddled mass like oversized black drapery. I had nothing left beyond the clothes on my back.

We stood and watched the tree and sidewalk continue to burn as the police, fire, and ambulance brigades arrived, wielding a cacophony of siren salad. They ran around doing their business as we tried to stay out of the way, each envisioning the level of accommodations at the Twentynine Palms jailhouse.

In time, the fire was out. The gas station was safe and the palm tree intact despite a newly-acquired patina of black on its trunk. The fire chief ambled over, and taking off his hat drew in a deep breath. Before he could speak, I summoned the only known response from a catholic upbringing – guilt – and launched into a diatribe of explanation, excuse, and, most importantly, apology. He listened with relaxed intent, not allowing expression to escape his gaze wrinkled from years in the brutal desert sun. Several police officers and fire fighters joined in to listen, enjoying the sight of a cornered animal. And why not? I nearly blew up their town and decimated one of their beloved palms! Short of breath and out of words to defend myself, I shut up.

The fire chief cracked a smile and said leisurely, “Mad? We’re not mad, son. Hell, this is the most excitement we’ve seen round here in years.” They began to laugh, and slowly Dave, Gilby, and I relaxed as we realized we were not going to be thrown in jail. The chief halted our effervescent banter with a hand and said, “One thing, son. Next time this happens, go ahead and use that.”

Following his finger, a fire extinguisher hung two feet above my smoking motorcycle.

[D1rtyVegas]

I'm sorry, I pawned my old Smith-Corona. Here's 'The Breakdown.'

It was too hot for this shit. Mid-July, dead in the water beside fresh black top, under the oppressive Florida sun was not a place I had hoped to wind up when I woke this morning; here yet I was. More specifically, here we were. Kitty twisted a grimy canvas shoe in the white gravel of the berm and smiled that smile a woman uses when she knows there’s nothing she can say that won’t provoke an argument. What could she say, really? “Baby, the bike stopped?” “Is it fixed yet?” “What’s wrong?”

She wasn’t a whiner. She wasn’t easily irritated by the unprovoked attacks life throws at people and she usually had enough faith in me to know that as soon as I figured something out, I’d tell her. But something in the way the sweat was beading on her cleavage told me I’d better get to work on it. She may have been patient, but she wasn’t going to suffer indefinite discomfort on behalf of my pride.

I’d known Kitty for something like eighteen years. Looking back, I probably fell in love with her the moment I saw her, but life is never charitable enough to play its hand in one go. After surviving the world's most awkward flirtation, we dated like only a pair of newly-minted adult outcasts can date. We flew down the road on battered old motorcycles, we made out in public, we raged and we swore, we clung tightly to each other and damned the world, we had no plan, and no clue; then it was over, sort of. We were always friends, though it was a strange friendship, at times more like a marriage; we got along almost effortlessly, but when we argued it was a no holds barred emotional outpouring. There were years we didn’t speak, usually over some petty incident that had escalated into all out war, but we never really left each others orbit, always coasting along side by side very pointedly ignoring each other, never doubting our mutual anger wouldn’t last forever.

Then suddenly it would be over.
One of us would deliberately track down the other and place themselves directly in the way, tempers would momentarily flare, each of us standing there unsure what to say to the other, weighing whether our strange relationship outweighed the bitter glory of being right. Seconds would tick by, then one of us would smile and it would all be over, the tension would disappear in a hug that was just shy of too long for ‘just friends.’
Between the two of us, we had survived serious illness, suicide attempts, marriage, divorce, parenthood, financial distress, triumph, failure, and everything else you could think of. Against both our wishes, we somehow grew up and even learned how to camouflage ourselves as perfectly normal human beings, provided the world didn’t look too closely.

When my marriage had imploded after five years, I had fled to the Florida coast at her invitation; no strings, no promises, no plans. I needed a place to learn to be myself again, to breathe, to recover, and she extended the invitation with no questions.
Now, here we were, back at square one, nearly two decades later we were just a couple of punk kids again broke down by the side of the road with no back-up plan.

I tore my eyes off the bead of sweat sliding between her tits and turned to stare at the carburetor. It stared smugly back at me. It knew it was off the hook this time and if it could have pointed, it would have leveled its finger at the ignition system. “We’re good on fuel,” it would have said, “talk to the guys in charge of fire.”

I rose from my crouch and fumbled for my cigarettes as a silver SUV whipped by just shy of ninety. The wind from its passing washed over us like a hot, wet blanket and it disappeared into the infinite prospective of sugarcane country. Kitty rolled an arm up from her side and extended her middle finger at the dwindling vehicle.

“Assholes,” she growled. “They never even slowed down. For all they know they ran right over me.“

I unhooked the tool roll from the forks and threw it on the gravel beside bike. “Nah, they’d have stopped long enough to beat me to death with a tire iron, drag our bodies into the cane, and maybe make a pact to never speak of this again.”

She lifted her sunglasses and rubbed at her eyes, blinking them against the tropical sun; their usual stop-your-heart-blue color was a faultless match to the tropical sky. It made her seem less like an unfortunate passenger in this mechanical mayhem, and more like a bemused goddess, so bored with her heavenly paradise that she mistook the trial of mortality for some sort of party game she could play with her resigned worshipers.

“Oooh, then I could wreak supernatural havoc on them from beyond the grave! Kinda wish they would have hit me now.”
“Yeah, except I think I have enough trouble for right now. Don’t need a carload of vacationing suburbanites swinging tire tools at me.”

She grinned and rolled her eyes at me. “You are no fun at all. Any way I can help?”

I lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the old pan head, and kicked open the tool roll. “Get in the backpack and find the coil I’m hoping I threw in there.” She undid the flaps on the old Alice pack I kept lashed to the towering sissy bar and began rummaging through its contents. I sat down cross-legged on the shoulder and pulled off the spark plug wires, ignoring the fact that the antique motor was still pinging with the heat of its hundred and twenty mile run.
“So, it’s the coil?”
“It’s as good a guess as any,” I replied.
“That’s fucking comforting,” she leaned over to hand me the coil, sweat dripped from her face onto my arm. Her tone wasn’t angry or accusatory but I knew she would feel a little better if I had an actual solution.

“If this doesn’t work, I guess call Freddy and have him bring the truck.”

“Too bad you didn’t already have him stuffed in the backpack. You sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Yeah, the only other parts in that backpack are two quarts of oil, a couple spark plugs, and a spare drive chain. Since we’re not leaking oil and still have a chain, it’s this coil or Freddy’s truck.” She smiled and plopped down beside me. “Besides, for all I know this is the coil that Milwaukee slapped on the thing when they built it.”

“I’m doubting it,” she countered. I dropped the old coil between us and she picked it back up to examine it. “Although it looks like it could be.”
In the heat, sitting this close, her smell was a mixture of strawberries and the tang of fresh sweat. It was not unappealing.

“A sixty-three year old coil? Stranger things have happened I guess.”

“Sixty-three years? So what, the motor was built in ’48?”
“Most of it, probably the guts have been replaced multiple times.”

“I think when we get home you should replace them again.” She leaned in to wipe the sweat off my cheek, and then she kissed it. “Seriously, I’m getting hungry, Freddy is two hours away, and if this doesn’t work I’ll have to resort to cannibalism.” She clicked her teeth together and playfully bit my shoulder. In spite of myself I smiled. I knew her well and her playful demeanor was a veiled complaint. I kissed the top of her head and started the struggle to get to my legs working again while she picked up the tool roll and dumped it into the backpack. She was in a hurry.

“Let’s see if I was right,” I struggled upwards, fighting the pins and needles in my thighs. She stood and moved out of the way, lingering long enough to kiss me for luck.

As I righted the bike, a string of shiny new Harleys swooped by, the rider of the rear bike actually taking the time to wave. “Thanks for the help!” she screamed at the procession of electra-glides.
“Please, about the best they could’ve done was call road service, and we’d already thought of that. Now a parts delivery truck, that I could’ve used”

Kitty smiled and stretched. “You know, I think it's neat that you know how to do what you just did. Most wouldn’t. It’s one of things I always liked about you.”

“Most would, if they had to, but only an idiot would take the time if he didn’t have to.”

“Babe,” she smiled demurely, “only an idiot would pour so much time into a sixty year old motor whose only reliable feature was leaving its owner stranded on the side of the road.”

“Yeah,” I smiled at her and slammed the kicker down. Nothing happened. “But it takes a bigger idiot to ride with the first idiot.” I slammed it down again and the old pan head sputtered back to life. I pushed down the surprise I felt on my face and flipped the kick stand up. “You ready to head back?”

“I think there’s a little diner on down this road, maybe about thirty miles.” She pointed down the road, opposite the direction of home.

“Okay.”

“And you’re buying. Consider it your punishment for being an idiot.” She leaned into my back and nestled her head against me while I kicked the old chopper into gear and gave the mill Hell, accelerating out onto the black top, trying to outdistance the tropical sun. Just before the sound of the motor and the rush of wind made conversation impossible, I heard her murmur, “but it’s okay, because you’re my idiot.” Followed by a much louder, “Hurry up, I’m HUNGRY!”

[imaloser]

The Last Friday

I probably didn’t need to go at him that hard. I can feel something dripping on the toe of my boot and as I look down, I realize it’s this guy’s blood dripping off my fist. I probably shouldn’t have gone at him that hard. Everything is quiet. The clowns from in the bar aren’t yelling anything. Hell, I can’t even hear the cars on the street. I can see their mouths moving and I can see the guy’s girl, black eye and split lip dripping blood as she cries over her douche bag boyfriend who I just stomped the hell out of. But the only thing I hear is the gurgling breath that rattles outta this woman-beating piece of shit. I look at him real close and I can see now that I really shouldn’t have gone after him that hard. The left side of his face is not right, kind of squished in looking. His nose is more of a lump with two holes in it, than something a man would breathe through and his jaw is way off to the right side of his neck. I stare at this guy as the woman who’s ass he just kicked rolls him onto his side and a god damn river of blood pours outta the crooked gash that was his mouth. Shit. I really got after this clown.
I know where the complete disdain for men who hit women came from. I remember cleaning my mom’s blood off the floor from dad tuning her up. I just got home and could tell Pops was at it again. The screen door was hanging onto the frame by one hinge and there was burnout marks from his big Shovel that he only left when he was pissed or drunk on the driveway. Most days I could pull dads anger onto me and make sure my mom and sister were safe, but I wasn’t there that day. Walking in the front door I was greeted by a trashed out living room, the kitchen table flipped over and a splatter of blood all over the floor. I found the bathroom door closed and could hear Mom inside sobbing and the water running. I hated hearing her cry like that; great gulps of air followed by that mournful wail that can’t express how much pain she is feeling. I fucking HATE men who hit women.
I hear a bike start up. That’s the first thing I can hear. As I look over at my bike, I can see Jake running towards me yelling something and Russ on his bike gunning it outta the parking lot. What the fuck is Russ running for? He didn’t do anything. Pussy. I can feel myself being jerked around and it’s beginning to irritate me. As I jerk my arm away I can barely hear Jake saying, “We gotta fuckin go!” Since its Jake I let myself be guided to my bike but I can’t quite figure out how to make it work. How do I get my leg over? Where does the key go? How do I choke this fuckin thing to make it start? I’m sitting on my bike and I still can’t hear anything but I can see red and blue lights reflect off of the tank as I just sit there and stare down at my bike. The lights make the flake in my paint look amazing. All of the sudden, my tank is gone and is replaced by the pavement and I have this heavy weight on my neck and back. I feel them wrench my arms back and at this point I realize that I’m busted. I shouldn’t have gone after that dickhead so hard.
The sounds and scene come rushing back as the stand me up. I can see and hear everything now. I can’t remember his name, but I hear the bouncer telling this fat cop something like, “I tried to stop him.” I can see that there are 4 cop cars in the lot and an ambulance. I look for the woman beater and can’t see him because he is surrounded by medics and his woman sitting on her butt sobbing hysterically. I can see the people gathered around staring at me in horror, like I had wiped out an entire village of Care Bears or something. The same people who yelled at the guy for punching the shit outta his lady. Fuckin cowards didn’t do anything to stop him, just yelled. Then I see Jake and he looks worried. He may be smaller than me, but he is 6’ and 220lbs, Jake doesn’t worry about anything but riding and buying beer, why the hell is he worried now?
Showing up at the Police Station is the same old shit, but this time the fat bastards’ are looking at me with…what, wariness , caution even fear? Whatever. Bunch of pussies. I take my glamour shot, ink up my fingers and shuffle off to my cell to wait for the judge on Monday. I had to run into that woman beater on a Friday. Fucked up my whole weekend, damnit. This screw comes in and tells me to follow him before I can dose off. What the fuck is this about? As he guides me down the hallway, I see my reflection in the window for the first time. Like a walking crime scene. My hands are covered in crusty blood up to my wrists, my shirt is torn and I have bloody hand prints on my chest, and my elbows are covered in the same crusty shit as my hands. I looked at my hands a couple of times and I never saw the blood before now. Well, that ain’t good. I try and rub my hands together to knock some of the crust off and the cop who is walking me down the hall grabs me and says I have to stop scrubbing. Whatever. I get into this interview room and wonder what the hell this is all about? If they think I’m going to rat someone out for a Simple Assault, they are barking up the wrong tree. Never gonna happen. Im sitting there wondering what the hell is going on when two detectives walk in with a camera and a notebook, “What the fuck is this all about?”, I ask as they have me stand up against a wall and start taking pictures.
“Congratulations Fuckhead. You graduated to the Big Time. He’s dead.”
I really shouldn’t have gone after him that hard.

[Hermit883]

Dave's Trip

Dave’s Trip

Page 1

Dave woke late with a splitting headache. He walked into the kitchen looking for something that could pass for breakfast. The refrigerator empty, he turned to the counter where he found a plate containing two unappetizing slices of pepperoni and mushroom pizza. He couldn’t remember how long they’d been there, but it was long enough to develop a distinct odor. The pepperonis were curled and colorless and a discernable growth of suspicious mold covered the mushrooms. He swatted away a fat fly, picked up a slice and choked it down. His gag reflexes nearly rejected the fetid meal, but he held it down. Leaving the other slice laying on the counter, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, walked to the door and stepped out into the porch.
After the door slammed shut, the house quiet, the patient fly settled back down on the remaining slice to resume its meal, unmolested.
Dave walked around to the shaded side of the trailer where his trusted Shovel waited for him like an expectant lover. He climbed on, hit the toggle, choked the S&S and kicked it over. It coughed once and expelled what appeared to be a cloud of multi-colored butterflies from the exhaust. Dave shook his head, attributing the mirage to last night’s cheap whiskey. He kicked the Shovel again. This time the engine caught and started the staccato series of explosions that added to his headache, but fortified his soul. He rode out through the dilapidated neighborhood, avoiding familiar potholes.
Dave twisted the throttle and cut through the crumbling urban landscape. He picked up speed, split lanes between a pair of pickups and jockey-shifted into third, the cool breeze lessening his headache, but doing nothing for his queasy stomach. He stopped at a light and waited, goosing the throttle to keep the still-cold engine from dying. He watched the stoplight, waiting for green, when it began to appear distorted. Nearly imperceptible at first, but then there was no mistaking it. The stoplight looked like it was melting like candle wax, pieces of the metal frame dripping to the street and splashing on the pavement, like molten lead, just a few feet in front of him. Dave now began to question his sanity as the red orb of the stoplight finally lifted into the air like a child’s helium balloon and sailed away on the gentle breeze over the trees and out of sight.
Dave tried hard to regain his composure, straddling the delicate balance between rational thought and panic, as his sanity unraveled in front of him. He feared he was slipping into madness. Then, through the foggy haze of semi-coherence it occurred to him, maybe it was that damn pizza and those mold-covered mushrooms! That’s it, he was under the influence of powerful hallucinogenic mushroom mold. Quite simply, he was tripping his ass off!
The light turned green and Dave instinctively rolled on the throttle and continued his journey through the dilapidated city, which now took on an ominous, apocalyptic character. The street signs wept openly, their mournful cries audible above the din of Dave’s motor. His bike moved through the streets propelled by unseen forces, transcending space and time while furtive eyes peered out from behind hidden places. He glanced at his rearview mirror, fascinated by the multi-colored contrail streaming out behind him for many miles. He became distracted, gazing upward at the rooftop workers, broken men in yellow raincoats furiously nailing strips of bleeding flesh over well-worn rat holes, stemming the rain flow in the scorching sun. He looked back at the road ahead just in time to see a matronly lesbian crossing the street in front of him, pushing a shopping cart filled with North Korean toasters and Communist dogma, a basket of exotic fruit balanced precariously upon her head. Dave braked hard, but too late. He laid the shovel down. The stench of burning rubber and cries of orphaned children filled the air that morning as his bike skidded along the pavement, sliding with great force under a parked UPS truck. Dave’s head hit something hard and unforgiving. Then, everything went black.
.

Dave found himself being drawn to an intense light, so brilliant that it was overwhelming, yet comforting in its familiarity. As his eyes adjusted he realized he was standing before the Throne of God. High above him on a golden altar was the Lord Himself. A legion of winged cherubs circled him like moths around a July porch light. His white beard shone with the intensity of a million arc welders, as he carefully shoveled diet cheesecake into his mouth with a plastic spoon. Dave stood there trembling in His presence.
A long time had passed before Dave dared to looked up again, and finally he could remain silent no longer. Through trembling lips he began his tear-filled confession. “Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. I’ve lied, cheated and stolen. I’ve drank hard liquor, smoked controlled substances and abused over-the-counter cold remedies regularly. I‘ve squandered my wealth on prostitutes, loose women and strippers. And that one chick looked like she was twenty and swore she was eighteen!”
“SILENCE!” Said the Lord, and the sound was like that of omnipotent thunder echoing off distant mountains. “I’m well aware of your petty iniquities, that‘s not why you‘re here.” The Lord continued, “You risk facing eternal damnation for far more serious sins. You have voluntarily watched episodes of Dancing with the Stars, and downloaded Nickleback songs to your Ipod. Worse yet, you’ve dumped used motor oil on your neighbor’s begonias and purchased cheap, knock-off Chinese motorcycle parts from discount warehouse catalogues, sullying your good name doing dishonor to your craft. Do you deny these charges?”
Dave hung his head, his heart heavy with shame. He offered no excuses for these heinous acts. Through sobs, he tearfully replied, “I’m Guilty.”
After what seemed an eternity, the Lord spoke:
"My son, you’re genuinely repentant, and since I’m a benevolent deity I shall give you another chance. Now go, and sin no more!"
The light’s brilliance receded, fading slowly to black.
.
Dave was hearing voices. Quiet and distant at first, then gaining in volume. He began to recognize them as his neighbor’s kids. The muffled voices turned to giggles as Dave regained consciousness and his eyes blinked open. He looked around, trying to gain his bearings, then realized he was in his front yard, sweating in the midday heat. He rose to his feet unsteadily and staggered towards the trailer.
He walked in and flopped down on his couch collecting his thoughts. He concluded the only logical explanation. He had eaten some moldy mushrooms, never left the house and the whole thing was nothing more than a bad, psychedelic trip. Dave stood up and walked to the kitchen counter, picked up the remaining slice of pizza and threw it into the trash. He climbed into bed, lay down and slept the sleep of the exhausted.
.
Outside a fly buzzed around in confused circles finally landing on the seat of Dave’s Shovel. Dave hadn’t noticed it, but the entire left side of his bike was paint-scraped and chrome broken.black.

[HatchA74]

Dave’s Trip

Woah.....!

[Guest]

Love it!

[Guest]

As the old guy laid out on the ground,he couldn,t focus on things around him.As he sat up, the guys he was working with, came over to help him to his feet.Man what a shitty way to start off work .He was fine a few minutes ago ,next thing he knew .He was looking at Charleys face.Whats wrong man?He didn,t know what just had happened ,but when the paramedics showed up .the old guy fought with them not to take him to the hospital.If you take me to the hospital it will break me ,the old guy said .After the paramedics checked him over, they agreed to let Charley drive him to the hospital ,after checking in he was amitted.Laying in the hospital bed ,Oz started to day dream. Thinking back to his 18 th birthday,it was one of his best.He was stationed in Alaska at the time.The old 66 triumph was easy to start if you knew the drill,at that age, Oz had not learned this .He would kick it alot ,and if he was lucky the old bike would start for him.Once started, the old bike ran fine .Takeing advantage of the extra daylight,doing what he could ,he tried fixeing up the old bike.Man what a place to be on his birthday,.It was a sunny spring day with clear skys.He was off of work that day ,all was good, beers at the club .His buddy Troy ,took him aside and said ,hey ,I have something for you.!Troy held out his hand ,in it where a bunch of little purple pills.Troy just smiled,Oz had heard about this stuff,it would take you away for a few hours.Oz wasn,t sure but here it goes.Takeing two of the pills ,Oz downed them with a beer chaser.Troy knew what the pills would do.He was smileing, knowing Oz took one too many.As the two friends started playing pool ,Oz felt a tremor run up his spine ,.The Oz and Troy both now where laughing their asses off,and there wasnt anything funny to laugh at.As the kalidescope of colors danced in front of his eyes, Oz thought, this is pretty far out.Man whatever that was ,it was kicking in heavy now.Troy was on the other side of the bar, getting a couple of beers.I looked his way ,shit he,s starting to look a little weird now.As the day blurred into night, the two guys laughed it up.As the girls in the Shamrock, were on the buy me a drink gig,Troy and Oz bought them till they where slurring their words.The girls in the bar were not locals but came up from Cali,they knew what the duo had taken ,by the wild look in their eyes.At the Shamrock,the guys where haveing a blast.As the hours went by, they where deeply in the grasp of the lsd.Every dancer was takeing on their own looks, and each one was cheered on by the laughing fools.The funny thing ,was watching the drunk chicks ,try to do their acts.By this time it was getting late but that didn,t matter the bar was open 24 hours.Oz went outside to check the bike.As he was outside, he thought what a great night for a ride .As the moon climbed the sky, he looked over the old bike, it had taken on its own hyptonizing gleem .As Troy was in side ,screwing with the dancers ,Oz got his rideing gear on,then tried to get the old girl running .Kicking until he was out of breath, he thought now what ,he looked down ,he was so far out ,he forgot the gas .Now gas on ,one kick, the triumph roared to life,as he sat there with the bike throbbing between his legs ,Oz thought here we go.Down the empty road he went ,not sure if what he saw was real, or part of the acid trip he was on.The town had one main road, about 15 miles end to end.As he rode back and forth that night ,he didn,t count how many times he went down that road.The bike was doing good throbbing on the deserted road ,then it sputtered to a stop .He turned on the reserve,cranked the old bike up and pointed her home . Click went the hospital beds light.Snapping Oz out of his day dream.The doctor was telling him he had almost died ,a ulcer was bleeding in his stomach,that caused the blackout.After the doctors poked and checked him,Oz started day dreaming again. It was the first one ,after he was out of the service.The holiday was on a weekend,he was rideing out to the coast to see his new girl.She wasn,t a knock out ,but Oz dug the thin girls.He had met her thru a friend.She was still young and wild.The first time the two got it on ,the Oz was in lust over her.The two had made plans ,to move back to his hometown.It would only take half a day to get her back with him.As Oz rolled into town, he thought of the fun the two would have that weekend.Now Chrissy lived in south side of Hampton,and Oz,s friend Sully lived in Smith field .It wasn,t a long ride to her place. At ten that day ,Oz tried to hookup with her .The parents said she was out with friends.Now why had she left, when she knew Oz was comeing to get her?Ok he thought ,I,ll be back later.While Oz hung out with Sully, he just blew it off,thinking she,ll be back soon and all will be cool.After the third trip to her place ,and no Chrissy , Oz ripped down the road he was totaly pissed,why had she stood me up?Out of his mind in rage, Oz flew thru the fields ,south of the James river.He was trying to blow off steam,his plans screwed by the skinny little hooker.He had pushed the sportster hard ,he was going way too fast.As the car was pulling out in front of him it was all he could do, to try and stop the harley.He stood on the rear brake ,,which went into a screaching slide.Then back end grabbed ,and spit him off into a tumble on the hard top.When he first stopped moveing, he thought, no this couldn,t have happened.Yet he was laying there on the road.When he opened his eyes, he was looking at a cars bumper.Jumping up as fast as he could ,he checked himself over, only thing he saw was a bad case of road rash.Looking over at his bike,it was laying on it,s side gas running out of the carburetor that was torn off the bike.Getting to the bike, he cut off the gas and tried to pick up the bike.He felt that his wrist was burning as he tried to get the bike upright.No way, the scoot would get him home.As he looked around at the people there,he saw them .the asshole who pulled out on him,the old woman,,the guy with the truck,,A truck! It all had happened in a heart beat ,but there he was broken scoot and no way home.Now Oz didn,t ask for help from strangers ,but with a broken scoot ,him standing by the road ,he wasn,t shy .The guy with the truck said if you live close by ,I,ll haul you home if you want.Now this was a time to get out of there, before the man showed up.The two loaded the bike on the truck .They went to Sully,s place .After the guy helped unload the bike ,the Oz stared at the harley,thinking that all of this happened, because he was pissed off,and takeing it out on his bike.As he stood in the shower that night,he realized how close he came to dieing that day. Click went the hospital light,it snapped him back out of the dream .The nurse said hey lucky, your going home today ,Oz thought to himself, honey ,you dont know how lucky I am

[me]

Not sure if poems are an acceptable form of a short story...

Where you were is precisely what I saw
Fun and rebellious, riding till dawn,
I could see an old soul in your eyes but now that soul is gone.
Where you were is precisely what I saw
I wanted to be like you, you had no shackles, your mom the neglectful hero of our time, inconsistent with her rules, giving us loopholes in a bind.
Where you were is precisely what I saw.
I never new your pain; did you? Like a plant with insufficient water, you grew.
Where you were was precisely what I saw
Your favorite song was Free Bird, O how you were a free bird.
Where you were is precisely what is saw.
We went our separate ways but fait reeled us back in, I watched you live your life than give it to the wind.
Where you were is precisely what I saw.
Down the winding vein to take us back to our traditions, an uncalculated error put us all into submission.
Where you were is precisely what I saw.
Deranged thuds echo in the cavern, the sacrifice of you in the background would suffice if you were you, but twice.
Where you were is precisely what I saw.
The only way out was a journey through your space; I saw you laying there, in red stained vinyl, your life had been erased.
Where you were is precisely what I saw.
I think of you ever once in a while to wallow in the pain; but come back quickly when I see my wife, my son, I still ride and it is never in vein.
Where you were was precisely what I saw.

[Guest]

Heartland Hoedown - Part One, Drink Til Ya Drop !


¶ I joined Chop Cult and then I met some dudes from my area, well at least my state. Last May I was lurking around here on CC. I decided to see if there were any dudes in my area that were also members of this fine establishment known as Chop Cult. I found a few, Doc14, KFab, and the Lords of Loud. They were even hosting a Freakout Hellride, they called The Heartland Hoedown. I had absolutely no real idea what the fuck a Freakout Hellride consisted of, what to expect, what to take, or what I was getting myself into. Regardless, I decided this was something I was going to attend. I was also encouraged to come out by KFab.

¶ My bike wasn't actually road worthy, and not only is it a Brit, its a bastard 3 cylinder, so I was a little concerened that I may not be that welcomed, knowing most of the guys there would likely be on Harley's. But I didn't care, I decided to take that chance. So I loaded it up in the truck and headed to their compound. It was about 10PM on a narrow gravel road, when I passed by a large shop building where I could hear faint sounds of what I thought to be partying. I made it to the end of the road, not much place to go other than the way I had just came from. I headed back the way I had just came. As I approached the shop like building again I noticed a few bikes parked outside and again heard faint noises of partying. So I thought to myself, this must be the spot. I pulled in the drive, and within seconds a guy on a motorcycle comes out and asks me who the fuck I am, after I told him, he closed the electronic gate behind me.

¶ I found a spot to park, thankfully they had an area that I could easily unload the bike. I got out and was almost instantly surrounded by like eight or ten dudes. Needless to say I was a bit intimidated at first, but didn't let it stop me from whatever carnage was about to unfold. After introductions, and unloading the bike, I asked if they wanted to partake in some herbal relief, a couple of dudes said sure, so I obliged. Though they told me, Come on inside, the others will want to meet you ! I replied, But I only brought one, I'm guessing there's a lot more dudes inside, lets finish this first. They wouldn't hear it, and before I knew it I was whisked into the enormously large shop. I went on inside, there were quite a few dudes inside. They had several bikes inside and more were parked out back. Some were bikes that guys had rode out there on, some were works in progress. Introductions were made, and within minutes I had an ice cold beer in my hand. Now normally I don't drink, but when I do its usually in quantity. This was just something that I had been needing to do for a good long while, that's right, tie on a good one.

¶ The place seemed to have a good feel to it. I wasn't overly concerned about my surroundings, though still somewhat cautious. There was this one guy who kept trying to talk to me, but all he would say was, He was from Cali. I didn't mind too much at first I just blew him off as just another drunken fool. He was pretty annoying, by now Im about twelve to fifteen beers in, as he approached me like the 5th or 6th time to tell me he was from Cali, I looked him square in the eyes, and told him; I don't give a fuck where your from, your in motherfuckin Oklahoma now, Leave me the fuck alone!

¶ So the night progressed drinking, smoking, tripping, and carrying on. At some point an attempt to make a bonfire out of old hollow core doors came into play. Not a lot of fire, though one guy, decided it'd be fun to tackle a hollow core door being supported by two fifty five gallon drums while wearing a motorcycle helmet, awesome memories! I made my way to the truck around two or three A.M. to crawl inside and pass out for the night. After making entry into my truck it hit me. Ralph was here to visit, and he wasn't going away anytime soon. After yaking for what seemed like an eternity, likely only twenty or thirty minutes, I passed out in the cab.

[Guest]

Heartland Hoedown - Part Two, Lets Get Weird !

¶ The next morning I awoke, the sun was so bright, my head pounding like a jackhammer was inside it trying to break out. Groggy, disoriented, and not real certain what had transpired the night before, I decided it was time to get up. I had to shit really bad and made my way to the shop, which was locked up tighter than a virgin in a chastity belt. Great, I think to myself as I made my way to the nearby woods. After taking care of business in the bushes like a wild coyote or something, I decided I needed a nap. I laid down by their pond, and fell back asleep. I woke up about an hour later, the sun was hitting me full on now, and I was getting pretty warm. I got up and made my way to the shop to see if it was opened yet, thankfully it was.

¶ I went inside and there were a few dudes stirring about, and I noticed a mysterious blood stain on the floor. It seemed like not much longer and the majority of folks were up and around. I was informed that Mr.Cali had a slight mishap, thus resulting in the blood stain. I was also informed that they were all going to go into town to eat breakfast at a local cafe. The majority of them by now had allready left and I decided I'd go to town also, in the truck. When I got to the gate, it was still closed, only opened enough that one guy could sort of hold it open, so that everyone else could pass through. I decided I didn't want to try to remove the electronic arm, and risk fucking up their gate, so I turned around and headed back to the shop. There were still a couple dudes left, so I hit them up. Hey are ya'll going into town? They both nodded and replied Yeah! I started to ask to hitch a ride, but they both had solo seats, so I just hit em up for a pack of smokes and gave them some money.


¶ I headed back into the shop, I was sorta checking out some of the projects they had going on. There was one guy and two chicks, one chick being the wife of the dude. The dude said he had carb issues and he needed to tear them apart, clean them, and reassemble them. I told him I'd help out, but I'd likely hand ya the wrong tool, fuck something up, and /or get in your way. He replied, No worries, I know what I'm doing. We shot the shit for awhile as he worked on it , and his wife conversed with the other chick that was there. About then this real clean guy rolls in on a cherry all original Harley (unsure of make/model) He parks and comes inside, looks around for a second and says, Well, where's everybody at? I told him Ahh, everyone went to town for breakfast. He said Oh, ok, and milled around the shop for a little bit. It wasn't much longer and the entourage returned. Upon returning they asked aloud who's cherry original Harley was sitting outside, the clean guy replied, Its mine ! A few words were exchanged, and mr.clean decided he was uncomfortable with his surroundings, and within a wink of an eye, he had vanished into thin air.

¶ The afternoon played out much as the night before drinking, smoking, tripping, and having a good time. A few of the guys decided to go for a dip in the pond, I figured what the hell I could use something to freshen up. Well all the other guys stripped down to their undies and went in. I decided to make a pair of cutoffs, I made my cut offs and made it back down to the pond, they were all out in the middle drinking beer floating around on a hollow core wood door. While one person stood ashore throwing beers to the drunken swimmers as needed. I started easing my way in, at first it felt good, then it hit my boys, and damn it was cold, I thought it'll be ok just go on in. Big fucking mistake, I went under and when I came back up, I was literally in shock. My heart started racing, it felt like it was going to explode out of my chest and become chum for whatever monster catfish that were lurking in the pond. I was also having difficulty breathing. I don't know what polar bear club those guys belong to, but my hats off to them, crazy fuckers.

¶ After nearly freezing to death in the pond, another gent who had a very similar experience to mine in the frigid water, and I decided it was time to open up the shooting event. By the time I got dried off and redressed, I was hearing shots coming from the pond. I strapped the Glock on, and headed down. One guy was shooting an AR15, like you would shoot at an indoor range, like 1 shot every 10-15 seconds. Another gent was blasting a Benelli 12 gauge. When the firing came to a stop, I said, I want to play too, He insisted I have a go with the 12 gauge, so of course I obliged, sweetest shotgun I've ever fired! Then, I proceeded to whip out the .45 from concealment, and let all 10 fly, in about 15 seconds flat, and when that clip was gone, I popped in the next, after that 10 was gone, I slipped in the 30 rnd mag. I was just letting them fly as fast as I could pull the trigger, that's how I was taught to shoot. After I was done, someone said loudly, Don't fuck with that guy !
I just reholstered my weapon, and walked back towards the shop.

¶ Everyone seemed to sort of mingle about through the day, there were several women and small children milling about. One guy was welding and grinding on a battery box, while a couple of the others worked on mounting a rear fender, and making fender struts. At some point they decided we needed more beer, as the keg from the night before was cashed out. A couple of the guys went on a beer run in a truck. Upon arrival back at the shop, they backed up to the bay door, I almost couldn't believe my eyes. They said they couldn't get another keg, so they just bought cases instead, a lot of cases, enough to damn near fill the whole truck bed. I thought to myself, god damn, that's a lot of beer.

¶ By mid afternoon I was getting the munchies, I don't know why. Someone said they were going to town and was asking if anyone needed anything. I said, Sure heres $5, I need a coke and a chocolate bar, or something with sugar in it. I could feel myself starting to get weak and woozy from low blood sugar. Though I've never been diagnosed as having diabetes or hypoglycemia, I was getting concerned about how I felt, after all I'd had no breakfast. A guy who was standing next to me, who must have been really high, or something, whips out a 20 or a 50 I don't recall, and says, Yes ! Candy ! We need Candy ! Get as much candy as you can for this much money ! About an hour later the folks who had gone to town had returned , they had a huge bag of candy, and a box of liquor. I thought to myself, oh shit the next round is about to commence, and I was correct in my estimation.

[Guest]

Heartland Hoedown - Part Three, Smoked Out !

¶ Later in the afternoon one individual came to me and asked if I wanted to throw in on dinner. He asked for five or ten dollars for chicken and corn, and proceeded to inform me that his chicken was Juicier than pussy! I forked over a twenty and said, Get plenty , there's a lot of big dudes here! He returned about an hour later with like twenty pounds of chicken and multiple bags of frozen corn. Early evening was setting in and he fired up the grill. At first he was only using his hands to rotate the chicken on the grill, then I handed him my knife and told him, Here you don't have to burn your fingers, he seemed apprecitive. After eating and smoking, I started drinking beer again.

¶ By now its evening time, the sun has gone down, and I get the feeling shits about to get really weird. Doc fires up his bike, and pulls it over to a small clearing near where all of the bikes are parked, and does a burn out. Then two others each did one. The air was filled with smoke, you couldn't hardly see anything, and most everybody quickly evacuated outside to fresh air. After returning inside when the smoke cleared, there was tire pieces thrown all over the place, even on several of the bikes parked inside, though no one seemed to care, as they were all such a kick ass burnouts.


¶ I don't think anything would have prepared me for what I would witness next, even though it was advertised. Two guys pull there bikes in to the back wall of the shop. Park alongside one another, and kill thier engines. I thought this seems a little odd, but we'll see where it goes. Well then they announced, As Advertised, Naked Drag Racing! I thought no way, these two dudes aren't going to do that, no way in hell! The two contestants stripped down to nothing but boots, hopped on thier trusty steeds, and fired them up. I thought, These motherfuckers are not crazy, thier flat out insane! They ripped out of the shop, went out a distance turned around two fifty five gallon burn barrels and headed back in, coming to a screeching hault near the back wall of the shop. They both exited there steeds, quickly redressed, and then shook hands. Now some of you may be thinking to yourself, How gay ! I didn't think it was gay at all, and no I'm not gay. Just good ol' boys getting fucked up and having a bit of crazy, weird, insane, fun.
*Naked drag racing video excluded, out of respect to the participants involved.

¶ I thought shit, these motherfuckers are nutzo, whats next? About that time we were informed that a few of thier other friends would be joining us soon. They started the raffle, to help out their buddy who got jammed up. They certainly had some bad ass prizes that had been donated by several folks, I bought 4 tickets. Right about then thier other friends showed up. No, not just two or three guys, like 30 more guys. It seemed they just kept rolling into the shop, and when they were all in, the entire shop was filled with bad ass bikes, like sixty bikes or some amazing number. These guys looked pretty rough, like guys you wouldn't want to fuck with. Guys you'd better watch what you say or do around them. Guys that look like they'd been on the road, for an extended period of time, or more like they just lived on the road. I thought to my self, Oh shit, this could get really fuckin hairy, really fuckin quick! For the first time since my arrival I was more than a bit concerened about my overall safety and well being. But all in all, they were some pretty kool dudes too. After many beers and a few drinks, I passed out in the cab of my truck, around 1 am.

¶ I awoke the next day, dazed and confussed as usual. I made my way to the shop which was already opened up. I remembered seeing a coffee pot on the counter the night before. Found the coffee and made a pot. Many dudes were extremely thankful for me making coffee. As folks woke up, they gathered thier stuff, packed thier belongings just as tightly as before. They were slowly leaving out, a few at a time.

¶ One guy aproached me, and asked, So is that your old Triumph over there?, I haven't heard it run, or seen it move all weekend, can you fire it up? I said, Sure I can fire it up, but it won't drive. So I primed the carbs, hit the ignition, and kicked it and she came to life first kick, I let her warm for a few minutes, then reved her a few good times. Several other guys made thier way over, and we shot the shit for a few. Then I loaded her back into the truck, said bye to those that were still there, thanked everyone for having me and my shitty, non functional bike to thier shindig, and I parted ways. I've not been back out there since, though I wouldn't mind. They all seemed like just real damn nice guys, I couldn't have asked for a better time. It's certainly a time I will remember, forever!
Fear None, Respect All !

[longlivepunk]

The Saddle-Tramp

It shook and kicked like an unbroken stallion trying to buck its rider, but it sure wasn’t as healthy as a horse. This old knucklehead bled and coughed and smoked, just like the young punk who chose to ride it. Tonight they raced down the dusty open road, not getting along well, but happy to be together.

The boy was no outlaw, he never claimed to be tough or lawless, he just was who he was and was happy with that. Or at least he’d made his peace with it. That’s part of the reason he loved that old busted knuck so much: it didn’t have shiny bits or anything to dress it up like all the big chromed baggers he saw around. You could see from the rust and oil that this was an old bike that had seen a lot of miles, and had the wear and tear to prove it. There was no question about that.

They didn’t have any destination to speak of. There was no rally to go to, no campsite to find, and definitely no job to make it back to. The young man rode until he was tired, slept in the tall grass of the ditch with his simple bed-roll, and then kept on riding. It had been like this for weeks now, and he’d had to resort to basically begging for work at job sites whenever one came along doing clean up just to feed himself and keep gas in the tank. Truth be told most of the time he was hungry, but there was always gas in the tank. He made damn sure of that.

Maybe one of these days he would find a town he just couldn’t leave or a girl he just couldn’t live without, but he couldn’t really see that happening. For now he just rode, and that was good enough. The weather was getting colder, so in his own meandering way he was slowly headed south to new horizons and more welcoming temperatures. He had eaten the last of the cheese and the loaf of bread he had bought in town a while back and was now down to a small bit of water and one can of sardines, which was hot from sitting in the ragged saddle-bag just above his exhaust pipe. He would have to stop in town soon, and the signs said that there was one he’d never heard of coming up in the distance.

He rolled into the quiet little town on his loud old shit-kicker and immediately started getting looks. He had gotten used to these unpleasant faces peering at him, but they had slowly changed the longer he was on the road; starting as simple annoyed expressions due to the volume of his exhaust but now being full of disgust and distrust. You see for as long as he had been on the road the boy had only the clothes on his back and the odd creek to clean up in, and it showed. With his greasy hair and patchy beard you could almost guess how he smelled before he was near you.

Now the bike idled up to a small restaurant, and the rider held the brake and dumped the clutch. The old engine jumped and stalled and the young man smoothly threw his leg over, standing up and getting ready to go in. He had about ten dollars and some change to his name at this point and was hoping it was enough to get him a burger and a beer and that the manager might know where he could find a spot of work. As he walked toward the door he could see the wait staff inside whispering while the patrons near the window shared their looks between him and the beat-up old Harley, all except for one old man and the child with him, who was jumping up and down in the booth with excitement and pointing to the bike. The little boy and his grandfather didn’t give the rider a second look; they were fixated on the bike. The old man had a sort of knowing expression on his face as he started to wipe his mouth with his napkin and get up from his seat. He said something to the head waitress and headed for the door with the little boy. He and the rider shared a nod as they passed and much to the rider’s surprise the waitress served him lunch with no hassle.

The burger was fantastic and the beer was just what he needed at this point in the trip. He looked out towards his bike and saw the old man telling the fascinated little boy all about it. The boy looked like he wanted to touch it but was scared, he would reach a hand out and get close and then pull it back quickly and look up to his grampa who would still be talking, seemingly telling the boy a story. After a while the two stood up and walked away.

There was no work to be found around these parts so the young man got up from his stool at the bar and thanked the waitress then started to leave the restaurant. As he made his way toward the bike he noticed the old man and little boy walking back towards him with something in their hands. They exchanged hellos and the rider asked the boy if he’d like to sit on the bike, which immediately lit up the kid’s eyes as though you had told him that you were going to have Christmas right at that moment. He lifted the little biker up by the armpits and plunked him down on the worn old leather saddle. The little boy sat there stunned for a second just touching the grips and looking at the controls and then immediately went into the “Vroom-VROOOM” routine we all know.

The old man and the rider shared a chuckle and started to talk about riding, bikes, trips they’d been on and where they’d like to go. It turned out the man had a similar bike back when he was younger and had some great stories to tell. Each of them was always surprised how bikes could bring generations together like nothing else seemed to. No matter the age; the passion and the experiences always seemed similar, and yet individual at the same time.

After chatting for a while, the grandfather picked the little boy up off the bike who was still beaming and dreaming of the day he could ride. It was time for the young man to get back on the road. He started to ready himself to ride and the old man said “If you plan on going much further you’ll probably be needing these.” He and the boy handed some assorted parts and a small roll of cash to the rider and each shook his hand before standing back to watch the kick-start. The bike fired up on the second try and the rider smiled and waved to the pair on the sidewalk: bikers of the past and future. He roared out of town, making a bit of a spectacle for the little boy, and he was back on the road. Seeing new places and meeting people like the ones he just had seemed like a great reason to ride. There were plenty of towns ahead of him, but he would never forget the one he just left.

[UncleMonkey]

Dropping a Ton - Part One

Ton glared at the reflection in the back of the minivan. It was times like this that he wished the Shovel had mirrors. He had picked up the reflection of the tan van several miles before but now it was getting the best of him. A new black Caddy SUV pulled past in the passing lane. Ton casually checked over his shoulder and fell in behind. True to form the van changed lanes to keep pace. Whoever they were they weren't very smart. Ton eased off the throttle to space back from the SUV to scan the road ahead. Nothing but California freeway. He spotted the polished stainless steel back of an eighteen-wheeler signaling for the off ramp. Ton scowled at the reflection in the SUV grabbed a handful of the S&S Super B splitting the lanes cutting the minivan off as he rocketed down the off ramp. In the mirror back of the eighteen-wheeler the van was in hot pursuit. They now knew he was on to them. He had hoped the off ramp would bottle neck up allowing him to split the lanes and get away. Instead the off ramp gracefully merged onto surface streets.

Ton slapped the jockey shift down a gear split the lane with on coming and cut down a side street. He felt a scratch across his side followed by a hot jab to his left shoulder telling him they had opened fire. His left arm seared with pain as he tried to grab the jockey again. The Shovel would have to grunt it out in third. Ton spotted an alleyway nearly clipping the Jeep that was approaching. The hand wrapped drag pipes barked viciously at the buildings as he twisted the motor above where it belonged. Ahead he spotted another intersecting alley. Ton locked up his rear tire and kicked the rigid frame sideways dumping the clutch as the chopper cleared the building. Too much. The Shovelhead continued around lying down onto its side skidding across the harsh asphalt. Ton stepped off the mayhem and drew his .357 heading back to the corner. The van squawked as it rounded the corner. Ton slammed the hammer down three times sending the van careening into a dumpster. He rushed forward ripping open the rear door catching the other two before they could return fire. The Shovel gasped its last breath as gravity dragged the fuel away spilling it out onto the ground. Ton checked the driver, Bad M/C. They were a long way from their turf. Ton snatched the bandana from the driver's head to mop some of his gasoline from the ground before shoving it in the throat of the van's tank. Ton righted the Shovel taking one last look at the flames licking the van side.

Ton snarled mule kicking at Marcel, the Club doc. Marcel's primary training was a plumber not a doctor but he was all the Club had right now. Marcel sadistically splashed more iodine on Ton's shoulder. The small ammunition had embedded itself against the shoulder blade. Marcel worked at it with his stubby fingers with the grace of a teenager popping a pimple. "Sit the fuck still." Marcel barked. Ton unsheathed his knife intending to sink it into Marcel's soft side but thought better placing it between his teeth biting down hard on the bone handle. Other members of the Club were filing in as Marcel finished knotting the last stitch. JD dropped the gavel bringing church to order. Ton carefully explained what had happened as Marcel worked at immobilizing his arm. The Bad M/C was a small rag tag club mostly made up of members who didn't make the cut when their own clubs were patched over by the Club. Bad blood was still strong because of the snubs. They had carved out a small territory to the north west of the city mostly dealing drugs to the immigrate farmers who populated the area. Attacking a full Club member would be dealt with harshly but first JD wanted more information. As quick as the meeting started it was over. Marcel and JD helped Ton to the small apartment that the Club maintained in the back for when members weren't going to make it home.

Ton's eyes snapped open. The rumbles of dual Thunderheaders were not of the Club's. He strained to hear emptiness of the clubhouse. Perhaps it was just a passing bike, somebody out for a ride. The clinking of a padlock falling to the ground told him otherwise. He instinctively groped the nightstand for his 357 but found nothing. Snake had taken it to dispose of it so it couldn't be traced. For the first time Ton felt alone and naked. In the barroom he found no one though the place looked open. Ton dropped to the floor as the first rounds of automatic gunfire shattered through the glass windows that encircled the top of the walls. As bullets sprayed overhead Ton dragged himself with his one arm to under the pool table. The sounds of war would bring the police; bring questions the Club did not want answered.

Tammy awoke to the snapping of fireworks. As she glanced out her second floor window she saw the rockers of Bad M/C’s running away. As a single mother she was reluctant to move in next to a notorious motorcycle club. Her fears were alleviated when she found it to be one of the safer neighborhoods on the bad side of town. The bikers kept to themselves and she even bedded one or two when her bed became too lonely. From her perch she could see the forks of Ton's chopper parked in the lot. She quickly slipped on a robe, checked that her kids and slipped over to the compound. The side of the building was sprayed with automatic gunfire. She couldn't help but smile that so much energy was exhausted firing into bricked windows. From inside Tammy could hear breaking of glass underfoot as she called if anyone was there. Ton unlocked the door and collapsed into her arms. She was taken back that he already seemed bandaged up from the gunfight. The fear in his eyes told her otherwise.

JD stood defiantly before the officer answering with simple yes/no but did nothing to reveal anything. The officer was pushing the point. He was a low level cop on a beat. The gang squad would overtake everything when they arrived and he hoped to get his name on the report, get his name noticed. JD answered his cell without saying a word and tossed a glance beyond the back fence of the compound. "Tell mom I love her and I'll see her soon." Tammy watched from her window as JD slide his phone back into his pocket. At least the Club knew Ton wasn't in the building. She slipped under the sheets with her impromptu visitor.

Snake and Mongoose's choppers thundered down the road. They hoped that Ginger, a performer at Dancer Dancer, that they knew liked to slum it with members of the Bad M/C would shed some light. Mongoose pointed out the new Harley's in front of the club as they rounded the corner. Snake ready for a fight as they stepped inside. Disappointment came to find a couple of posers in fresh new leathers inside. Snake and Mongoose presence made the wannabe’s feel part of the crowd, that they were badass like the 1%. Snake dismissed them as there was more pressing matters. The afternoon dancers were the usual stretched marked single moms making a few dollars while the kids were in school. Ginger was the exception. At night she was just another dancer but in the afternoon her twenty-two year old unspoiled hard body easily made ten times as the other girls combined. The dressing room emptied quickly as the two bikers entered unabashed. Mongoose dropped a small packet of cocaine on the makeup stand but his body language made it clear to Ginger she wouldn't get it until they were finished. She spilled her guts.

Bobby had been the president of The Few Good Men M/C when the Club decided to expand, an expansion patch over that didn't include Bobby. He had bounced around as a low-level drug dealer until he found his way into the Bad. The all white M/C had many leaders but in recent years leaders had been disappearing until Bobby finally took the head of the table. He despised the Club for taking his away and now had struck an alliance with someone big out East. Snake let the words soak in before giving the nod for Mongoose to pass the coke. Ginger greedily dipped her nail into the powdery substance. Satisfied she let a wanting glaze climb the bikers. She parted a tempting smile offering them herself. They hesitated with desire but Club came first. Until they got to the bottom of the Bad fun time would have to wait.

JD flipped his phone open and moved away from the men replacing the windows in the clubhouse. Rapper was one of the few people from the east that JD tolerated, even respected to a certain degree. Had Rapper been born on the west coast he would have easily been a member of the Club but as circumstances had it he was a president of a chapter of their bitterest enemy? "We need to talk," stressed JD "in private." Rapper suggested the Hooters in Hollywood. JD was taken back and hoped Rapper didn't pick up the hesitation. "Be there in an hour." JD snapped the cell phone shut. Rapper was in town and not across the country. Perhaps there was some truth in the ramblings of the coked out stripper after all.

[UncleMonkey]

Dropping a Ton - Part Two

Marko Knucklehead bobber growled as he picked up the sound of JD's Pan coming down the 101. The Knuckle barked as he shot down the short on ramp onto the freeway slipping in effortlessly beside his president. Working as a stunt driver at Universal Studio Back Lot, he hoped this meeting would as short as the trip over to Hollywood Boulevard. Inside JD quickly scanned the crowd but didn't see Rapper. Hooters was packed with the same lookie loo tourists that Marko detested about Universal. He followed the host's eyes up to the second level. They found Rapper in full colors alone at a table elbows deep in King Crab legs. He didn't bother to stand. "What brings you to town?" Rapper knew what JD was asking. It was a courteous to check in with fellow dominate clubs when traveling in their territory.
"Family, kid wanted to see Disneyland. Marshall and his mom are over at Universal. What's up?" Rapper answered between leg cracking
JD surveyed the situation. "Problem with some local boys. Tried to take out one of my guys twice yesterday."
"Sounds like a personal beef? Check your boy to find the root of evil."
"Word is east is muscling up these guys."
Rapper finished sucking meat from a stringy leg. "We have no interest out here. You guys are to well situated. International. We’re backing Bikies down under. Who are these locals?"
"Bad M/C," Marko answered. Rapper shrugged the name off. "Bunch of slouches. Couldn't cut it in the Club."
"How'd they make it as a M/C?"
JD didn't like the question. The truth was the Bad snuck in the back door by resurrecting a dead club name that was still on the books. "Doesn't matter. So you're not looking to expand west of the Mississippi?" The barb was to let Rapper know who the dominant club in North America was here. Rapper smiled but shook his head no. JD and Marko bid their farewell. Outside the boys kicked over their bikes. JD slipped on his shades. "Whadya think?"
Marko eyed the pirate across the street posing for pictures. "Don't need colors when on the down low."
JD let out a sigh and snapped the throttle. "You know what to do."

Marko slammed hard against the concrete floor as glass shattered down onto him. "Cut!" Marko raised his hand and waited for the all clear from the gun wrangler Raymond. Marko liked working as a stunt man. It kept him sharp and alert. Today's scene was the big finally shootout Marko lingered waiting for the other firearms to be wrangled before he approached Raymond pulling him to the side.

Raymond was apprehensive. Being a gun wrangler was a position of trust with not only actors and studios but also with law enforcement. All guns needed to be catalogued and modified so that they could never be mistakenly loaded and used as a real weapon. Grudges run deep in Hollywood. Marko was persistent. Raymond finally conceded a couple of dozen AK-47 from an up coming movie. It would mean more work because the guns would have to be reamed, ballistic and then modified for the film but the Club was willing to pay for the quick turn around.

Ton and Tammy sat at a table secluded behind the clubhouse pool table. Ton was rehabilitating his left arm by sliding his hand up and down Tammy’s leg under her short skirt. She blushed at her uncontrolled out burst as Ton assured her no one knew. Everyone knew. It was a packed place tonight as all available members had turned up as a show of force for their brother. Twenty-three of the meanest motherfuckers to walk the earth were going to purge their turf of a parasite. Ton leaned forward kissing Tammy's soft cheek before sending her home.

Bobby paced nervously in the front room of the rundown house. The cell phone remained silent. He sensed Rapper's irritation as he sat on the sofa waiting. "You don't expect biker's to keep accurate time do you?" Bobby nervously laughed. Rapper disappointment was there to let his host know that this would not be tolerated in the future if the Bad hoped to patch over. The cell phone vibrated to life. Bobby barked orders into the mouthpiece as Rapper's phone came to life in his own pocket. He glanced at the number. JD.

Mongoose landed a size 12 on the door sending splinter raining across the Bobby's front room. Snake flooded the room with bursts of rounds. Bobby and Rapper placed their hands over their heads but didn’t move as JD and Ton shoved the trembling body of the other end of Bobby's phone call through the door. Ton eyed Bobby from point blank. "You fuckers thought you could kill me?" Ton landed a hard right to Bobby's ribs doubling him over snatching the revolver out of the back of Bobby's waistband.
JD towered over the heap of man. "Your club is over." Ton leveled the gun at Bobby’s head and squeezed the trigger.
Rapper smiled. "Nice to see you boys know how to handle your shit. I was here trying to get to the bottom of this but…" Rapper watched as Mongoose stripping off the bloody colors of the deceased.
"Yeah we take care of our own." JD casually took the revolver from Ton and unloaded a round into the last of the Bad before turning to Rapper splattering his gray matter on the wall. “We take care of our own.