Joey, running late, rode his Sportster hard up Washington Blvd heading inland. The once proud city crumbled around him with crime, grit, trash, drugs and homelessness. He darted around destitute RVs, parked and rotting in front of once active marble foyers to penthouse suites in slick high-rise buildings. The once proud city lay in trashy ruins where no one honored anything including law enforcement.
A drug addict, the needle still sticking out of his forearm stumbled into the street. Joey slammed on his drum brakes and skidded to miss the dying addict as he collapsed on the once busy and active thoroughfare. He slid sideways, dodged the dead druggie and peeled up Washington until he could see the concrete pillar, freeway overpass crossing over the wide asphalt 4-laner. He hit his rear brake again hard and leaned left under the freeway where a large area was designated for skateboard stunts.
Abandoned from the sport, the concrete area splattered with tagger art, kids no longer came to skate and practice world class stunts. A homeless and drug infested encampment jammed with tents, cardboard homes, stained mattresses, needles, empty bottles and cigarette filled the area, except for the large dirt and trash open area in the center where 20 or so Climate Doom activists staged their protest.
Joey noticed two bicycles and one electric bike, kids dressed all in black but sporting high-dollar, Italian foot wear, leather belts and Rolex watches. A Mercedes Sprinter van stood by with $1000 wheels. New BMWs and Porsche sportscars filled the lot area. The owners weren’t happy about the onlookers and wanted to move their cars to the Macy’s parking lot. Macy’s had closed, but the parking lot was still handy until the city commissioner vowed to tear it down and build homeless housing.
Joey couldn’t figure it out. Who would vote for destroying a city? He searched for a spot near a chain-link fence where he could cable his bike to a galvanized pole. He approached the Sprinter van as a young blond wave of a beautiful girl stepped out and handed Joey a small cup of coffee. “Hold this will ya,” Ally said. “Thanks for coming. We’re about to walk up that onramp. There’s coffee and donuts inside, if you want…”
She whistled and the others gathered around her. She had big blue round eyes, but they weren’t friendly, but direct and questioning. “Listen up,” she said. “We are going to march up the onramp into the lanes of the 405 until we stop traffic. When we do, we will unfurl our People Against Fossil Fuels Banner. Hopefully, by then the media will arrive and I may have a moment to make a statement to the press. Are we ready?”
She obviously knew most of rich kids in the group. They all knew her. “As soon as we are finished and return to the van, I have a grand cash for each of you.”
Some of the crowd nodded approvingly. Others didn’t seem to give a shit. A grand was nothing to them. Joey could use the funds but didn’t understand being paid for this protest. A tall youngster, maybe early 20s took the rolled-up vinyl banner under his arm. “Down with Fossil Fuels,” he screamed and marched toward the on ramp with his pals.
Joey touched Ally’s arm and she turned in his direction. “I don’t get this,” Joe said. “Aren’t plants living because of CO2?”
“You don’t get it,” Ally said and ran her slender arm around his. “Everything is made by or with Fossil Fuels. We get it, but we want to tear it all apart and take control.”
“But why,” Joey said. “Life was bitchin, the way it was.”
“Sure, it was,” Ally said pulling him toward the steep ramp. “We had it made, but we needed an excuse to destroy everything. Why do they blame homelessness on hardworking home owners? We needed an excuse to fill the cities with drug addicts and destroy the cities. Hell, that’s why we demand to defund the police. This is a war for power. We need to destroy everything so we can take over.”
“Do you think it will work?” Joey asked his reddish freckled face crunched into a questioning roadmap.
“Who cares,” Ally said. “We’re bored and sex has too many issues.”
Joey shrugged but followed. The neighborhood kids bullied him about riding his fossil fuel Harley. He buckled and started to listen to their rants about the Climate and the doom. He read one book and figured they were all full of shit and preying on the ignorant. Claiming CO2 was a pollutant was like making water into poison and trying to ban drinking it.
But the formidable passion consumed him for a minute and he followed the negative rhetoric. He seemed surrounded by a green plague, but when it came to action only 20 followers took action and even a handful were in it for the money or media attention. He wandered up the ramp in his plaid shirt surrounded by rich kids in designer denims and Rodeo Drive black silk shirts.
At one point Ally bumped into Joey. She was hot as a firecracker and difficult not to stare at. But behind the luscious façade she was mean and determined, probably the daughter of a rich movie actor. She pulled on his plaid sleeve and he leaned in her direction. “You know oil isn’t made from fossils, don’t you?” Ally said and rolled her eyes. “Fossil Fuels don’t exist. How can we ban them?” She burst out laughing. In her desire to take down everything, she knew the level of bullshit being used. Maybe it was all angry mayhem for the fun of it. Joey nodded and stood up straight. They strolled deliberately up the steep ramp.
Across the city in San Pedro, Ringo jammed on his Panhead chopper from Lincoln Blvd to Sepulveda and ultimately Pacific Coast Highway. He slammed into Bandit’s Cantina parking lot like a demon on fire, his old leather vest flapping in the cool coastal wind.
The parking lot was packed with riders, over 100 milling around tentatively. Ringo tossed a leg over his ride, stood and lit a cigarette, walking briskly inside. Bandit, Marko, Buster, Speedy and Jeremiah sat at a long table, like the brothers at the last supper. All their cell phones rested on the nicked oak surface in front of them.
“I ran into a kid riding to meet the protest in Santa Monica,” Ringo said.
“Good,” Bandit said. “We are waiting on intel regarding the position.”
Just then Jeremiah, a member of the Teamsters Union was interrupted by his phone vibrating across the table. He grabbed it, “tell me.”
“Thanks,” Jeremiah said and closed his phone. They are marching up the Washington Blvd West bound onramp.
“Let’s roll,” Bandit said and walked outside.
Marko hollered, “Wind ‘em up,” and straddled his chopped FXR. Brothers and sisters from Long Beach to Compton fired up their bikes and rolled to the Harbor freeway onramp including mixed-race riders from the Chosen Few MC. Members of the MMA and ABATE motorcycle rights groups were prevalent. Bandit took the lead with Marko at his side. Margaret the bartender held onto another white vinyl banner as she straddled Bandit’s highbar Roadking.
The Saturday morning traffic leading into the city was light and Bandit signaled changing lanes from one to another until he entered the fast lane. The pack followed like the body and tail of a rumbling metal snake. Less than ten minutes and the snake of riders signaled right and weaved across four asphalt lanes onto the 405 freeway north toward Santa Monica.
Bandit and every rider involved knew the score and what was required. On the 405 they made their way to the carpool lane and all 100 plus riders moved carefully like trained warriors on chrome steeds into position. They knew the open lane wouldn’t last.
Joey and the gang of protesters walked up the West bound onramp to the top, where traffic spit past them at over 60 mph. Thick, unobstructed and menacing, too close contact with two-tons of steel could easily annihilate a human in the time it takes a single sparkplug to fire. They bunched up at the top and motorists started to react. Some tried to change lanes away from the protestors and cars started to honk and skid to avoid a collision.
The ballsy kid with the banner found a gap and stepped into the right lane or number four lane. Some cars started to slow. He stepped into the lane but noticed there was no driver holding the wheel of the approaching electric Tesla. He spotted the owner reading something and ignoring the wheel.
The automated car over-reacted as the kid tossed the banner in the air and dove for the emergency lane. The automated vehicle wasn’t programmed for flying protest banners. It skidded and crashed into the concrete abutment and slid to a stop. Traffic slowed and the kids started to make their way onto the freeway.
Don, the tall protestor collected the banner. He pissed his pants in fear, rolled up the banner and gave it to another protester. He made his way off the freeway. He was done.
By the time the riders reached the LAX airport area traffic backed up and the organized pack of riders knew the drill. The pack carefully broke up into lane splitting groups. One group took the slow lane, another the next lane, and so on until Bandit and 20 riders rolled carefully in the narrow lane between the fast car-pool lane and the number two lane.
They slowed but kept moving through the traffic, which in another two miles came to a dead stop. This day was no slouch for Los Angeles families. Kids headed to dojos, there were baby sitters trying to reach jobs, teenagers headed to sporting events, and other bikers tried to make their way to blues clubs and Bartels Harley-Davidsons for an oil change.
Whenever the brothers and sisters ran across another rider they slowed and reached out with a Bikers for Fossil Fuels sticker. “Protest up ahead,” Bandit hollered to a loner. “Feel free to join in.”
To a rider, whether a Harley rider, sport bike or touring, they fell in line with a thumbs up signal.
Bandit, sweating bullets, pushed his speed as much as possible. He didn’t know what to expect, but he did know he stood by the citizens of Los Angeles and against the fear mongering alarmists trying to kill a once beautiful city.
The kids stopped the first two lanes but honking and screaming followed. The two faster lanes attempted to keep moving. Starting on the right shoulder the blonde began to unravel their banner and pushed it out into the highway. She knew she would find a supporter in a car who would stop in the number two lane.
Motorists became more agitated and angrier. They had shit to do and people to see. More and more folks became engaged and informed. They knew CO2 wasn’t a bad thing and the movement began to crumble. The brothers pushed forward splitting lanes.
Bandit could sense the aggravation and anxiety in his riders and the motorists. He didn’t want anyone hurt. He just wanted to stop the madness and let folks do their thing, unencumbered and free. He sensed how close he was and sped up.
The blonde found her supporter to stop the second lane. All hell broke loose as they attempted to raise their banner and a news helicopter entered the airspace above the freeway. She wanted the fast lane, but as she stepped onto the dividing flourscent line with its protruding reflectors she stumbled and started to fall. Traffic still moving at over 40 mph in the fast lane kept coming.
A blacked-out twin cam Road King pulled up and Bandit quickly maneuvered and caught the girl before she fell to the concrete in front of another quickly moving SUV. He lifted her terrified form and briskly kicked out his kick stand and other brothers pulled to the front between autos and trucks. Ringo came flying up between the second and third lane and rode directly into the back of the anti fossil fuel banner ripping it out of the hands of the protesters. He revved his Pan, popped a Wheelie and the banner flew down the freeway shredding against Ringo’s fishtip pipes, hot engine and in the wind. He saw Joey, yelled at him and gave him a thumbs up.
Front riders pulled out and carefully helped a couple of brave protesters to the side of the freeway out of harms way. Margaret and other riders unrolled their banner against the concrete medium in the center of the freeway set down a couple of coolers and the party started. Riders carefully assisted protesters off the freeway then signaled for the traffic to flow once more while handing out Riders for Fossil Fuels stickers and pamphlets about Climate truth and the benefits of CO2.
Joey and the disappointed protestors watched as the swarm of leather-cloaked bikers took over the scene and moved the protesters aside. Ally shaken, was glad to be alive. They made their way back down the curved concrete onramp to the skate park gone drug crime scene. The cars were stripped of high-dollar mags or chromed spoked wheels. Windows were busted out and the interiors ransacked. The upscale sprinter van stood jacked, the wheels gone and the interior ravaged.
Joey scared shitless scrambled to where his Sporty was still strapped and locked to the galvanized post. He couldn’t figure it out. His tool bag was still in place and so was the Bandit’s Cantina, Bikers for Fossil Fuels sticker stuck to his gas tank.
He unlocked his ride, kicked it to life, turned his grip to advance his magneto and rode up the onramp to join the party. Life was still good in some parts of the city.
