There’s Never A Dull Moment In The Cantina
A blustery storm blew in along the coast of California like the black sheep of waves. Three riders pulled up to the Cantina and dismounted as the wind shifted gears and blew their gloves off their seats. They had ridden to Los Angeles to escape the northern winter cold and the constant drizzling wet shit and snow. As the threat of rain neared one of the riders said, “At least we don’t have to shovel rain.”
“We’re at war and now this shit,” Dismal Dan muttered and tried to light a Marlboro. “I don’t know if I can make it. I gotta call my ol’ lady.” He was 6 foot of dank depression. His hair was long, scraggly and shit brown, like the deep circles around his drug soaked eyes. If he wasn’t addicted to some broad, he was to alcohol and drugs. Meth had rotted his stinkin’ teeth.
Ron leaned down to the pavement and retrieved his tan leather work gloves he used for riding. “Let’s get a drink while were stuck here. This’ll blow over. You know, it never rains in California.” He stood just over 5 foot 6 inches of blistering blond shortness. He had the demeanor of a bad ass and the baby face of a teenager at 29.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sharky said and threw his helmet in the bushes. “I hate those fuckin’ things.” He was skinny and tall as a beanpole, wiry as fly-casting rod and a born-again drifter.
“It’ll get soaked, ya dumb sonuvabitch,” Rotten Ron said strapping his helmet and gloves to his bedroll and hauling the whole package toward the big oak Cantina doors. As he reached the wrought-iron handle he felt the first spray of wind swept sideways rain. Dan threw his half smoked cig in the weeds and stumbled after Ron.
Disgruntled Sharky plucked his wet beanie helmet from the shrubs and followed. The Cantina held the air of a bad day gone sour. Mandy and Nyla hardly looked at their new customers. Usually they were bubbly and welcoming but not this day. There was something in the air besides the gray clouds sealing off the windows from the sunlight. Eight members from a southern bike club had stormed the cantina from employee entrance and sealed off all the exits except the front door. A big fat blubbering Mexican pressed the blued barrel of a .357 revolver against Marko’s temple, “Sit down, boy.”
Marko did as he was told and observed every movement. The three loners strolled in the front doors as a short stocky member jogged toward the entrance. He jumped to the side and allowed them in through the big oak doors. Unaware, the three brothers sat a table in the center of the room. “I thought this was a hot biker hang-out,” Ron said, “It’s fuckin’ dead.” Then he noticed an outlaw in the corner of the room with his boots resting on the checkerboard tablecloth, leaning back in the rustic wooden chair with a sawed-off shotgun across his chest. He glared at the loners through narrow sunglasses.
Suddenly Ron was distinctly aware of his potentially violent surroundings. There were a number of outlaws spread out around the bar, all armed. Ron’s knees began to quiver. He looked at his brothers wide-eyed. “You see…,” he said unable to enunciate his words his mouth was so dry.
Dan looked at Ron quizzically and lit another cigarette, “You’ve always been the badass. What gives?”
The little outlaw that fucked-up the front door security looked toward the corner booth where four outlaws sat smoking. They took a fifth of Quervo Gold from Nyla and several shot glasses. They were the officers. One a grizzly bear of a man with a 6-inch scar on his left cheek and a full black beard looked at the short outlaw and smiled, “Maybe one of them knows the bastard we’re looking for?”
The little outlaw approached their table as the sun drifted over the ridge to the east and the Cantina became suddenly dimly lit as if by fate. Three feet from the loners’ table the stout little man with a shaved head and long Fu Manchu mustache reached across his tight muscular belly and yanked a long bowie knife out of a fringed, black leather sheath. The blade glistened in the dim lighting as he positioned himself for an attack. The short bastard was fireplug stout with thick Popeye forearms and no neck. His eyes were bright as hot metal pokers and narrow. “Where’s Indian John?” He mutter so angrily he seemed to be spitting, “I want to cut that snitch motherfucker from ear to ear.”
Ron pushed himself back in his chair terrified. Dismal Dan lit another cigarette and looked at Sharky. “Can’t we get a drink? Fuck, it rains and now no drinks.” Sharky never pretended to be tough. He was just a biker who loved the open road. If relationships, work, politics or people challenged him, he rode on.
“Shut the fuck up,” the outlaw spat circling the table toward Dan. “I like to cut. You wanta be the first?” He seemed to be salivating as if a hungry lion peering at his next prey.
“Look asshole,” Dan said, “we’re not from around here. We came in to check out Bandit’s Cantina and get a drink. That’s it.”
The outlaw’s forehead turned crimson, veins pulsed against his thin skin, beads of sweat slithered across his brow. He had to move on this loner or lose respect in his brothers’ eyes. He lunged forward, his massive arm cocking back to swing the Damascus steel blade…
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