Last night at 2:00 a.m. in the morning the Bikernet Corporate bell clanged at the entrance to the Los Angeles Harbor ghetto Bikernet International Headquarters. We scrambled for our sawed-off shotguns recently loaded with massive 12-guage slugs.
Clammoring down the steel ship's stairs we set up an armed perimeter around the gate and on the roof. There was no one to be found, but off in the distance a blacked-out dresser burned away from the boulevard stop at C Street and Broad Avenue.
A manila envelop was shoved under the gate and we immediately sicked our terrorist and explosive trained, balding and squealing Chow-wow-wow dog on the folder. It ran over it, out the gate and down the street after the 2003 FLH. Two blocks up the bike slid to a stop, the dog caught up, jumped a saddlebag and we haven't seen it since. Good riddance.
This is what we found inside the crumpled folder, actually H-D corporate correspondence from the '30s and flywheel blueprints with the official W.S. Harley stamp of approval on the back from 1930, with a note. A montage of letters cut from a Time magazine said in broken code: Snake, you lazy SOB. This is the last time I slip you archival material and save your job. Get off the booze and get your shit together. There was also a rare letter from the Easyriders archives–a bonus.
Bandit looked at the note and set his shotgun down. “How long have you been pulling this shit?”
I didn't want to answer. I wasn't into confessions. Hell, if I got started, it would never end. “What,” I said?
“Never mind,” Bandit said. “See if you can find you some Peashooter parts.”
Bob T. lives somewhere in the desert with his family in a couple of '59 Cadillacs welded together. Somehow he ends up with this shit and has been my connection ever since we met at the Der Wenersnitzel he worked at in the late '60s. Hope his connection never runs dry, or I will be out of a job, collectin' aluminum cans for a beer. I don't like to think about it, so you better enjoy this stuff.
–Snake
