March 12, 2000
By Bandit |
Hey,
We’re coming out with the news a day early this week, because tomorrow will be bananas. Yes, tomorrow we’ll be spending the entire day at Jesse James, shooting the shit out of everything: There’s that bike he just built; we need another segment of the Great Chop-Off between Bikernet-East and Bikernet-West. There’s a promo shot with the actors from Asphalt Cowboys, a portrait of my lovely self with Jesse James. There’s more tech, and more tech shots. All for the readers of Bikernet. Not bad, eh? Oh, and one of the staff is having a birthday and that will fuck us all completely through the weekend.
Here’s the latest from the site. A new rowdy fiction is up, and an article on Daytec, the frame manufacturer should be flying onto the site momentarily. In addition, the projector room is finally ready to roll. You’ll be able to check out all of our film projects, get involved with one of the movies, enter a contest to be have a star-struck walk on part in one film, and check out the progress of the others.
On another front, we’ve completed three book outlines for the agent in New York. Now it’s his turn to go to work to feed the starving author behind them. Hell, a diet of old pushrod covers gets boring after a while.
There’s a ton of red-hot projects on the horizon. We’re actually looking into a collaboration design of products with JIMS Machine and Tim Condor; we’re working on a rolling chassis design that we hope to bring to the market and make it affordable for the guy on the street.
In the meantime, with a new set of shocks for the Touring Chopper, it handles better than ever, too bad the paint is smoked where the fender heated up against the tire. I’m tearing into my Panhead. Baisley Performance built a set of dual carb heads for that puppy and it’s time to see what they will do. I stripped it yesterday. The heads are magnificent and two polished 42mm Mikunis will give the almost stock ’48 a different look. Other tinkering is going on, but it’s time to get to the news, the girls, the whiskey, and another blast on one wheel over the Vincent Thomas Bridge in San Pedro.
Here’s the news:
DEAR CUSTOMER– It has been brought to our attention by several Internet watchdog groups that the content of your site is in questionable good taste and makes repeated references to flagrant violations of both law and order. As your network provider, we would like to remind you that one of the stipulations in our agreement to provide you with iIternet access is that you maintain a level of acceptable decency at all times and that you obey all local, state and federal laws.
Please review the contents of your site and remove any and all references to lewd behavior, illicit drug abuse, murder, sodomy, sex with animals, Japanese motorcycles, John Towle and/or the Chinaman, overpriced melons, prostitution, sex with minors, especially those related closely to you, and disparaging remarks made toward the great leaders of our hallowed nation, like Bill “The Liar” Clinton.
If you do not do this voluntarily, we will be forced to go through your site and replace each offensive or vulgar remark with a pretty flower icon. Remember, globalization requires us all to fall in lock step for the Ubber Furher, big business and issue neutrality.
Yours truly, Big Brother
DEAR BANDIT AND STAFF– I work for a non-profit organization in Michigan dedicated to protecting the individual legal rights of Americans. Primarily we help obtain legal representation for those who can not find it on their own, and we try to educate the public as to their legal rights.
I am working on a brochure (“Live Free…And Ride”), aimed at informing bike enthusiasts of their legal protections. I would like to include some of the information from your site. Please e-mail me if this is permissible. I would be happy to include information containing a link to your site.
This will be for distribution in Michigan only. We do not in any way charge for these brochures. Your information would be extremely helpful to bikers everywhere. Your site is fantastic!!!
Thank You, Kate Crane Attorney Referral Service, Inc. Advocate Legal Services katcrane@gte.net
No problem Kate, go for it. We will do anything we can to assist bikers with legal protection. In fact, I’m in jail right now, and could really use some help. Ya see, it’s a long story, but I’m innocent, really I am. Call any girl in San Pedro with an attorney’s name. She’ll know what to do–thanks, Bandit.
A TOP TEN FINISH FOR HARLEY-DAVIDSON IN DAYTONA–The Harley-Davidson VR 1000 Superbike Race Team left the Daytona 200 on Sunday with results that bode well for the rest of the season. Picotte finished in ninth place, while teammate Scott Russell ran hard until stopping due to a vibration problem.
On tracks such as Daytona, Picotte said, “It’s clear where the team will need to improve. I know our team will be working hard to increase horsepower,” he said. “At the same time, not every track is like Daytona.”
Indeed, the Harley-Davidson Superbike Race Team will soon be heading into a schedule more favorable to the sharp-handling VR 1000. The next stop on the AMA Superbike circuit will be held May 5-7 at Sears Point Raceway in Sonoma, Calif., where Picotte took third in 1999. “We had a great set-up at Sears Point last year, and that should help us be well-prepared this season,” Picotte said. “It’s always exciting to go back to a track where you’ve had success.”
NASCAR STARS HEADLINE VICTORY IN DAYTONA– Today NASCAR Winston Cup star Kyle Petty led nearly 200 Victory bikers on a ride through Daytona Beach. Petty joined Polaris Industries/Victory Motorcycles CEO Tom Tiller and Daytona radio personality Frank Scott of WHOG-FM for Victory’s second-annual Daytona customer ride.
As part of the morning festivities, one lucky biker, Kathy Grogan of Cocoa Beach, Fla., won a new Victory Motorcycle. Petty, Tiller and Scott announced the contest winner at the Victory truck and trailer prior to revving up for their ride.
After awarding the motorcycle, Petty, Tiller and Scott led the Victory caravan to Bethune Point Park for a barbecue lunch. Tiller rode a Victory motorcycle customized by master builder Arlen Ness.
“Now that’s what I call a Victory lap,” said Petty. “I’ve been talking with hardcore bikers here at Bike Week, and it’s easy to see Victory is really breaking out of the pack.”
THE BLONDE ATTACK–Yo, here’s the humdinger blonde joke to end all others–Zebra
A young ventriloquist is touring the clubs and stops to entertain at a small bar in a small town. He’s going through his usual run of stupid blond jokes, when a big blond woman in the fourth row stands on her chair and says: “I’ve heard just about enough of your degrading blond jokes, Asshole! What makes you think you can stereotype women that way? What does a person’s physical attributes have to do with their worth as a human being? It’s guys like you who keep women like me from being respected at work and in my community, of reaching my full potential as a person … because you and your kind continue to perpetuate discrimination against not only other blondes but women at large … all in the name of humor!”
Flustered, the ventriloquist begins to apologize, when the blond pipes up, “You stay out of this mister, I’m talking to the little bastard on your knee!”
TWO-THIRD OF NEW MOTORCYCLE ARE ON-LINE– According to a JD Power & Assoc. study, more than two out of every three new motorcycle owners report having access to the internet, with more than half of those indicating they used the internet to shop for the bike they eventually purchased. Consumers in the sport and dual-sport segments show a higher propensity to use the internet. They tend to be younger and more educated than new motorcycle owners in other segments and are more likely to have access to the internet.
According to recent market study performed by the drunks in the garage at Bikernet, most of those bastards on line, are sneaking into the internet while at work. The rest of the time, they complain about not being paid enough and what a prick their boss is.
HAWAIIAN JEWELRY CONNECTION” The whales are at their peak and putting on a grand performance, so we have decided to pull out the kayak and get in the middle of it on Saturday.
“My still unfinished Web site is cathleenbunt.com, and I’d love to sell some bikers jewelry, but I only use gold and they’ll have to be into a somewhat classical style.
“Hey, I don’t mind being the wild woman from Maui. — all the best, Cathleen
She was wild, but don’t tell anyone–Bandit.
MORE STRANGE LAWS– There are men in Guam whose full-time job is to travel the countryside and deflower young virgins, who pay them for the privilege of having sex for the first time… Reason: under Guam law, it is expressly forbidden for virgins to marry. (Let’s just think for a minute; is there any job anywhere else in the world that even comes close to this?)
In Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her adulterous husband, but may only do so with her bare hands. The husband’s lover, on the other hand, may be killed in any manner desired. (Ah! Justice!)
Topless saleswomen are legal in Liverpool, England – but only in tropical fish stores. (But of course!)
MAXIM STOCK QUOTES– Here’s another bit from Maxim magazine. They created there own guy-driven mutual fund called the Maxim 2000 which includes stock such as Home Depot, “They open three stores a week”. And soon the hardware store chain with have a major on-line shop.
Pfizer for their Viagra score especially if “given the reports that Viagra may be as effective for women as it is for men.” Bud, the king of beers, need I say more, and of course Harley-Davidson. Here’s what they had to report on our life’s blood:
“There’s no stopping the stock at cruising speed. In recent years Harley (symbol: HDI) has managed to expand outside the biker market. It sells leather, cheeseburgers, even insurance. The stock was up some 50% in ’99 and is still growing. Harley recently repurchased 2.4 million of its own shares, which means it’s investing in its future.”
Other stocks mentioned were: Qualcomm; Carter Wallace (they make Trojans); Cablevision and MGM Grand.
Dear Whiner (John Towle), I read your gripping account of black misfortune in the news this week and simply had to reply. In your woeful documentation of unspotted strife and high grief, you mentioned that you had your last worldly possession snatched away from you by the powers of legal evil, your 1947 Edsel automobile. Treachery! Now you’re on foot. I can imagine, being such a dumpy, sawed-off slob, what a dismal fate it must be to have to walk. Do your legs even work anymore?
From you incessant sniveling it’s obvious your giblets do not. Ruck up you crybaby maggot eater! You rat fuck whiner shit-for-brains! Why don’t you get off the pot and come clean. You married a WOMAN for Christ’s sake! What did you expect? Eternal bliss? Endless joy? Ceaseless fantasia?
Even the Chinaman is smart enough not to legally engage himself to a fuckin’ broad. Man, the next time I go to Korea, I’m taking you with me. You clearly need an education, you dumb motherfucker. You can buy a shot of ass with a glass of rice whiskey for a 1,000 won over there. You know what the exchange rate on a won is right now, you crybaby bitchkitty? A thousand to one. That means for one American buck, you can get a gut full of whiskey and a mouthful of fine Asian sushi that’ll “suck you wong time.”
You sound like Bandit. That empty-headed smallbore rider has had what, six wives? The guy would own Bel Air by now if he’d had the brains to just BUY the pussy on the open market. But no, he has to go and pay 100 times what the twat is worth on the open market by actually purchasing the vehicle.
Now quit your bellyaching and get busy drawing some fuckin’ cartoons, picture boy. You’re making everyone at the Titdome (Bikernet.com East) sick to our stomachs. With love, Zebra, Bikernet.com East, Miami Beach Eurotwat Division
DENNIS HOPPER ON EASY RIDER–I a recent Maxim interview Dennis Hopper said the following regarding an Easy Rider sequel, “Well, they can do a sequel without me. It might turn out great, but it seems like a pretty bad idea, if you ask me.”
HEY, HERE’S SOME JOKE’S FOR YOUR NEXT NEWS PAGE–As a blonde headed man, I’ve had many opportunities to be involved with women of the same color and I can honestly say, none of them ever knew I was a blonde. Wait, what was I saying? Zebra
Q: WHY CAN’T BLONDES WATER-SKI?
A: When they get their crotch wet they think they have to lay down.
Q: What’s the difference between a blonde and a telephone?
A: It costs 30 cents to use a telephone.
Q: Why do blondes get confused in the ladies room?
A: They have to pull their own pants down.
Q: What is the first thing a blonde learns when she takes driving lessons ?
A: You can also sit upright in a car.
Q: WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BLONDES AND TRAFFIC SIGNS?
A: Some traffic signs say stop.
Q: What’s the difference between a blonde and an ironing board?
A: It’s difficult to open the legs of an ironing board.
Q: What’s the difference between a blonde and a brick?
A: When you lay a brick it doesn’t follow you around for two weeks whining.
Q: What does the Bermuda Triangle and blondes have in common?
A: They’ve both swallowed a lot of semen.
Q: How do you plant dope?
A: Bury a blonde.
Q: Why did god give blondes 2% more brains than horses?
A: Because he didn’t want them shitting in the streets during parades.
Q: How do you make a blonde’s eyes light up?
A: Shine a flashlight in their ear.
Q: WHAT ARE THE WORST SIX YEARS IN A BLONDE’S LIFE?
A: Third Grade.
Q: What’s the difference between having sex with a blonde and eating Jell-o?
A: Jell-o wiggles when you eat it.
MILLER BREWING & HARLEY-DAVIDSON PARTNER TO PROMOTE RESPONSIBLE RIDING– Miller Brewing and Harley-Davidson are joining together to promote responsible motorcycle riding in a program that will feature Miller Lite stock car driver Rusty Walleye. Miller Lite will make a contribution to the National Motorcycle Safety Fund based on Walleye’s performance on the racetrack in the three events in which he drives a Miller/H-D car.
Dear Mr. Bandit– I am trying to get my wife’s head unstuck from between the back tire and the back fender. I’ve tried extended burnouts, power jacking and high speed runs across town. Nothing works I simply cannot get her unstuck. I’m getting frustrated and the old lady won’t quit whining! People stare at us now at all the runs and it’s not the good kind of staring. I’m afraid I’m going to get into trouble with the DMV, too. Also, my insurance says they won’t cover her now, because she falls into the “additional chrome” category and my policy won’t cover add-ons. Any suggestions? Dave Jones, “Geek” Alabama
AMA’s Membership Exceeds 250,000– As of late February, total AMA membership rose above 250,000 for the first time in their 76-year history, marking an increase of more than 21,000 members, or 9%, over this time last year. The AMA has a history of pursuing, protecting and promoting the interests of motorcyclists. For more information, call (800) AMA-JOIN or visit their Web site at www.AMADirectlink.com.
Hey, we now have a legislative update running on the site and updated weekly by Mike Osborn, Oz@bikernet.com. If nothing else, every biker should be a member of his local motorcycle rights group. Write Mike if you need an address for your local MRO. These guys keep us in the wind year after year. Do it, and don’t come back until you have, goddammit.
DAYTONA CORRESPONDENT REPORT–Over and back Wednesday, over and back for Sunday’s race, in HFM corp. suite.
Quick takes…
What was once visceral, now corporate. Too many people, too sanitized, too orchestrated.
Remember when the ad slogan “Clean Restrooms Inside!” was enough to get you to pull over? Yeah, like that.
Hard to remember back when clubs claimed bars on Main Street, and woe be transgressors.
When the Cabbage Patch was known for pink slip drags, not dumb-ass coleslaw wrestling.
Some cat, maybe 6 feet, hauling around an 8-foot cross made in wood shop. T-shirt proselytizing about Jesus and sin, etc. Oh, this inside ER corral.
Too many over-the-hill ex-dancers waddling around in leather halters and mini-skirts.
Can you tell Titan from Royal Ryder from Pure Steel from, what’s this, War Eagle? Me neither.
All of this is just an old coot yakking. I talk about the old days. I’m the last one you’ll see rolling out a blanket with leathers for a pillow, anxious for a night under the stars. Uh-uh. I want turn-down service, room charge bar tab, clean sheets and plenty of hot water in the morning to even out the aches.
Stopped by E-H. Bad karma, right across from H-D. Waited around for 20 minutes or so to talk with Dave H. but he was out blasting around on the new glide front end. Which is sooo much better looking. ‘Ya gotta wonder.
Saw guy at Aprilia, but my pick for best corporate demo ride setup is BMW. They’ve got their market covered like vice cops at a hookers convention. A very innovative operation, with plenty of inspiration for others to copy.
Spent more time with Mike Berg. Guy’s off the scale. Willy G stopped by his booth. Folks had better be paying close attention to TMC. Time was they could care less what aftermarket did.
More later, -John
EXCELSIOR FLAG FLIES IN DAYTONA–Following are excerpts for the Orlando Sentinel: “Fans of Excelsior-Henderson, one of America’s first brands of motorcycles, may have reason to be optimistic.
“The company is not only providing test rides during Bike Week in Daytona Beach, it’s also using the world’s largest motorcycle event to introduce a new, lower-priced cruiser–a major surprise.
A cash crunch forced Excelsior to halt production late last year after about 2,000 bikes were built. Dave Hanlon said he could not comment on the status of the Excelsior’s reorganization plan other than to say he remained hopeful that a plan would be approved by shareholders and creditors.
The rumor mill among dealers and enthusiasts has a German company ready to take control of Excelsior.”
It seems a shame that the two new marquees in this country, Indian and E-H, would be owned by foreign entities. Certainly we have the wherewithal domestically.
THE FINAL BLAST– That’s it for the news. I know, it’s mostly bullshit and lies, but at least it comes with a toothless grin and a rib-breaking slap on the back. Listen, this weekend will be non-stop. No I can’t tell you who I’m seeing or what she looks like, or how many there are. It just wouldn’t be fair.
The above reports on Daytona Bike Week 2000 leave out one somber fact, that 12 riders were killed. Immediately the reports were that they were all inexperienced yuppies. That may be a contributing factor, but my belief is that when it’s your time, you’re history, and it doesn’t matter if you’ve been riding 30 years or 30 minutes. Hell, I should have been run over about 40 times by now, and I’m still alive–I think. Anyway, my heart goes out to those riders and their families. At least they were doing what they loved.
Speaking of that, the sun is out, the girls are waiting, let’s ride, goddamnit!
–Bandit
March 9, 2000
By Bandit |
Hey,
Damn it’s nice outside. The sun makes allthe boats in theharbor appear cleaner that they are. Thenight’s mysteriesare reduced due to the recent abductionof Agent Zebra whois back in Miami raising havoc with Billyof Choppers Inc.This last week I pounded out the thirdin a series ofmadcapped articles for Horse Magazine.If they’ll grant methe ominous privilege, I’ll reprint theback issue storieshere for you to review, although, theygo way beyond whatGumba the cat will allow me to print here.
I was putting the final touches on an interviewwith HarryFisher the Colonel of the Victor McLaglenMotor Corps,when there was a banging on the shed door.Two girls ranout of the back of the house jumped thefence and ran tothe Burrito Factory on the corner to hideuntil they got acall from me. I grabbed at any drawerin the shanty andpulled. There’s a gun in every drawer,every closet, underevery bed. I yanked out something so bizarre,it mighthave been a rusting bear trap. I wasn’tsure how tooperated the slide. I shoved it back inthe drawer andpulled the Spyderco on my hip, snappingit open. I yankedthe front door open and there stood threeof the meanestsonsabitches I’d ever laid my roadmapeyes on. I wasstunned. The kid in front, with the baseballcap onbackwards snarled at me. I was too frightenedto figureout what he was saying, but the back ofhis baseball capread “World Famous JIMS Products”. Hehad to be alright.
I tried to remember what happened lastweekend, who I waswith, what joint I was thrown out of.I couldn’t remembera thing–bad answer. Mr. Baseball capand his cohortgrabbed me by the arms and mumbled somethingaboutdropping my body at a Mexican Restaurantin East L.A. Mybody? What happened to good old AmericanCats? “Gumba,” Iyelled as they drug me to a rumbling Suburbanat the curb.Then I realized who the ring leader was,Kim Hotinger, abig thick man with a graying goatee. Hissister once workin the same joint I did. Terror struck,my knees wentweak, what could I have said to her? Someonehit me on theback of the head with a pipe and I wentout. We better getto the news:
BIKERNET COMLINK ACTIVATED–ZEBRA HERE…
THE GREAT BIKERNET CHOP-OFF–TheGreat BikernetBikernet.com west and Bikernet.com eastlock horns,chopper style. No, there hasn’t been someunfortunateaccident in the Bikernet World Headquartersgarageinvolving a band saw. This is somethingmore far reaching(so to speak) with much greater implications(punintended). In what might very well bea showdown of thetwo top custom chopper builders in theworld, BikernetWest and Bikernet East, commanded by Banditand myselfrespectively, have squared off to seewho can crank outthe most hardcore, outlaw chopper forour run to Sturgis,2000.
Bandit will be calling on the extensivetalents of JesseJames (yes, he’s a direct descendant ofthe mass murdererfrom Missouri) and his Long Beach goosenecker monstershop, West Coast Choppers. See the linkon the Bikernethomepage to go to Jesse’s website. I willbe looking toeast coast engineering expert and go-fastgiraffespecialist, Billy Lane and his band oftrash-can boreoutlaws at Choppers Inc. Go to Choppersinc.comto seeBilly’s website (a link will be comingshortly to Bikernetas well and we look forward to addingBilly and his crewto our site of A-list companies).
I tossed the gauntlet into a puddle ofJack about a monthago in L.A. and Bandit accepted the challengewith hisusual 1%er gusto. We were trying to figureout what to dothis year for Sturgis which would representBikernet andits corporate motto of “Have fun or dietrying”. We talkedabout riding stock antiques. We talkedabout buildingShovels. We’d been spending a good amountof time atJesse’s place in Long Beach for variousreasons, somelegal, and Jesse was already tearing downtheexceptionally cool, but virtually unrideableBandit II.
We also have been in close communicationwith Billy on theeast coast and I was planning to run outto Miami Beachand grab a place to establish a Bikernetpresence on theother side of the highway. Then it hitme, why not haveboth chopper shops create their most unique,most elitework, with absolutely no limits and completeauthority togo far beyond boundaries, then let thepeople decide. So,it was agreed, we would each build a verycustom chopper,one that illustrated our personal preferencesin ridingand style. We’re planning (providing we’reboth stillliving) to ride the monsters north. We’llbe riding fromMelbourne, Florida and Bandit from SanPedro, California.We’ll meet at Two-Wheelers in Coloradofor one longdrunken brawl, then a 450 miles ride northand east, so wecan put the bikes on display at the OKCorral ofmotorcycling–Sturgis. Ballot boxes willbe available andbikers will be able to cast their votefor their favoritechop.
To spice things up beyond simple pride,the loser pays forthe other bro’s entire trip. With my usualimmenseconfidence and complete disregard formisfortune, I planto wrack up enormous bills in anticipationof Banditfronting all my costs when I whip hisass. And of courseyou can expect him to do the same. Itshould be a monstershowdown. Both Billy and Jesse are provensuperpowers whenit comes to big horsepower stretch necks,with seriousengineering skills and exceptionally creativeminds thatresult in motorcycles which make grownmen drool andweaker riders seek cover. Both buildersride their ownmachines and ride them hard. In fact,it could be saidthat the front tires on either Billy orJesse’s personalchoppers are formalities, as they rarelyspend any time onthem. As Jesse once told me in his shop,”We’re our ownR&D department when it comes to stresstesting. If a partcan be broken, we’ll break it long beforeit could everget to a customer.” If Billy told me hehad 1,000 miles onhis back tire, I would estimate him tohave about 100 onhis front tire.
We’re even going to provide a separateweb page for theshowdown, which will allow you to seeside by sidecomparisons of the bikes as they evolve.I’m sorry to sayBandit is already way out in front withthe constructionprocess, and you can view the beginningsof the Bandit IIIin the bikernet garage. Billy and Jessewill each be givena special place in their respective sectionsto writeupdates on anything which they feel mightbe pertinent orof interest to our three hundred thousand-plushitters whoread Bikernet each month (yes that’s over30,600,000worldwide hits annually and climbing,a Bikernet personalbest). You can count on a couple of things,the contestwon’t be boring, Bandit and I won’t playfair, and themachines will be outstanding.
Zebra, Bikernet.com east, Miami Beach 12:34a.m.,somewhere over Texas
Ehlert Publishing GroupAnnounces LaunchOfWomen’sMotorcycle Publication–Maple Grove, Minnesota(March 1,2000) ? Ehlert Publishing Group, Inc.has announced thelaunch of a new magazine targeting womenmotorcycleenthusiasts. The premiere issue of WomanRider will makeits debut in early July.
Woman Rider will launch as an annual in2000, with acontrolled distribution of 40,000 copies.Plans call for aconversion to paid subscriptions and afour-time frequencyin 2001. The initial 40,000 distributionwill come fromEhlert’s database of women motorcycleowners. Woman Riderwill join Ehlert’s stable of motorcyclepublications thatinclude Rider, American Rider, CruisingRider and ThunderPress.”The motorcycle industry continuesto grow at ahealthy rate, with 1999 retail sales up24% from a yearago. A big part of that growth is comingfrom the women’ssegment,” explained Group Publisher DickHendricks.”Current statistics show that one in every12 motorcycleowners in the U.S. is a woman. Women madeup nearly 10% ofnew bike purchasers this past year. Thetime is right fora quality, lifestyle magazine for activewomen motorcycleenthusiasts.”
Genevieve Schmitt has been named editorof Woman Rider.Schmitt previously served as editor ofthe now-defunctpublication Asphalt Angels. She is anactive motorcycleenthusiast who has also produced and reportedmotorcyclesegments for “Bike Week,” which airs onthe Speedvisioncable network, and for “Travel Daily,”which airs on TheTravel Channel.
Two little potatoes are standing on thestreet corner–How can youtell which one is the prostitute?
It’s the one with the little sticker thatsays “IDAHO”.
HARLEY-DAVIDSON CVO SPREADS ITS WINGSWITH THE NEWSCREAMIN’ EAGLE ROAD GLIDE– Harley-Davidson’sCustomVehicle Operations(CVO) Program continuesto soar with theintroduction of its newest customvehicle-theFLTRSEIScreamin’ Eagle Road Glide. In designingthe FLTRSEI,theCVO team looked to the Screamin’ EaglePro Stock race teamforinspiration. The result is a radical,yet street-legal,custom thatshowcases Screamin’ Eagle highperformanceparts and reflectsHarley-Davidson’s racingheritage.
The CVO program, which created the enormouslysuccessfulCustom FXRline, was established in orderto testHarley-Davidson’s ability to producehighlycustomized andaccessorized, low-volume, niche motorcycles.Theoverwhelming success of this eliteline has proven thatHarley-Davidson’sCVO program is here tostay, fulfillingcustomer dreams with custommotorcycles.
The FLTRSEI Screamin’ Eagle Road Glidefeatures a highperformance1550cc Twin Cam motor in silverand chrome. Thepowertrain utilizesScreamin’ Eagle performancepartsconfigured in a special street-legalpackage,includingbig-bore cylinders, flat-top pistons,intakecalibrationcartridge, and air cleanerfor a 10% increasein horsepower and 14% gain intorque.
The Screamin’ Eagle Road Glide also featuresmore than$7,500 inGenuine Harley-Davidson customaccessories andoffers two exciting custompaint schemesto choose from: aBlack and VR Racing Orange and ArcticWhiteor Three-toneRed-both with Screamin’ Eagle racing graphics.Theadditionalaccessories include:
* Touring Mufflers with Shark Fin End Capsand Full ChromeShields
* New Seat with Color Inserts (red only)and matchingRider, Passenger andTour Pak Mounted PassengerBackrestPads
* New Cloisonn? Tour Pak Lid Emblem, 1550ccAir CleanerInsert and NewConsole Inserts
* Painted Inner Fairing on Red Version
* Fairing Lowers
* Silver Sparkle 9-Spoke Cast AluminumWheels
* Black Wall Tires
* Fairing Lower Storage Boxes-color matchedon red paintscheme
* Saddlebags and Tour Pak Liners
* Tear Drop Floating Brake Rotors-Frontand Rear
* Aluminum style Chrome Billet Mirrors
* Smoked Low-profile Windshield
* Painted Saddlebag Filler Strips
* Silver Painted Front Brake Calipers withChrome Inserts
* Chrome Dip Stick
* Girder-Style Shift Levers
* Silver Gauge Faces
* Detachable Passenger Backrest with Pad
* Cruise Control
* Chrome and Rubber Style Hand Grips, RiderFoot BoardInserts, Brake PedalPad and Shifter Peg
* Chrome Instrument Bezels on auxiliarygauges
* Chrome O.E. Style Handlebars
* Detachable Shorty Tour Pak with Liner,PassengerBackrest and InteriorLight
* Tour Pak Spoiler with Integrated BrakeLight
* Polished Stainless Steel Shift Linkage
* Chrome Front Axle Nut Covers
* Braided Stainless Steel Front Brake Line
* Chrome Hand Control Levers
* Chrome Handlebar Switch Housings
* Chrome Lower Fork Sliders with ChromeCow Bells
* Chrome Passenger Footrests with Chrome3-slot Footpegs
* Chrome Rear Master Cylinder Cover
* Chrome Lower Fairing Mounts
* Matching Indoor Motorcycle Storage Coverwith Screamin’Eagle Graphics
The Screamin’ Eagle Road Glide has a limitedproduction of1550units, each with a suggested U.S.retail price of$22,495 (California pricesslightly higher).The 2000FLTRSEI carries Harley-Davidson’s standard12-month,unlimited mileage warranty and will beavailableatHarley-Davidson dealerships throughoutthe United Statesand Canada.
For additional information on the Screamin’Eagle RoadGlide andHarley-DavidsonGenuine MotorParts and GenuineMotor Accessories, visit the Harley-Davidsonwebsite atwww.harley-davidson.com. To find a dealernear you, calltoll free1-800-443-2153 in the U.S.
STRANGE CUSTOMS–In Lebanon, menare legally allowed tohave sex with animals, but the animalsmust be female.Having sexual relations with a male animalis punishable bydeath. (Like THAT makes sense.)
In Bahrain, a male doctor may legally examinea woman’sgenitals, but isprohibited from lookingdirectly at themduring the examination. He mayonly seetheir reflection ina mirror.
Muslims are banned from looking at thegenitals of acorpse. This also applies to undertakers;the sex organsof the deceased must be covered withabrick or piece ofwood at all times. (A brick??) The penaltyformasturbation in Indonesia is decapitation.(Which head?)
HA LEATHERS–I just bought my secondvest from Little Joe,who has been making leathers for bikersfor over fiveyears. It’s startling what a man can dowhen he puts his30 years of experience into each product.I’m notmentioning this because of something hedid for me. Thisis a man who has been a Hells Angel forover 20 years andhas put everything he knows into designingleather wearthat looks good and performs well. Weall know theproblems we can have with leather shit,well you won’thave those problems with Joe’s products.Give him a call,and he’ll send you a flier, (800) 329-8101.
JON TOWLE CHECKS IN
ALRIGHT TROOPS, LISTEN UP! As someof you know, most of myworldly goods have been surrendered orconfiscated by thepowers that be due to a marriage gonesouth and a hugedebt racked up by a certain female thatshall remainnameless (okay some of it could have beenme).
One of the few things I have left is mycar…..a nice onetoo. Well guess what? bye bye mother-fuckingcar! They’retaking my only mode of transportationboys and girls.
Due to the fact that I trust almost nobody,I ask you finefolks for leads or offers of a cheep setof wheels foryours truly ( let’s keep in mind thatI do have a littlepride and only speak English…just kidding).I willrebound from this living hell in time,but right now I’vebeen sucker punched in a big way, if youcatch my drift.thanks for any help, your angry pal,
Jon Towle-(jon@bikernet.com)
WEEK THREE OF MAKING– “Burnin’Daylight, L.A.” As with alllarge projects, “Burnin’ Daylight, L.A.”,the first in aseries of biker videos from Bikernet,is not without itsproduction problems. Motorcycle crashesand arrests haveplagued the making of this outlandishvideo, though theyhaven’t dampened spirits notably. Butthis week an eventdid take place which managed to slow productionfor atleast the first few days. Bandit disappeared.Marko, TheDestroyer, and the director, was stormingall over theplace trying to find the missing outlaw,while Zebra usedthe time to catch up on missed phone callsto his womenout of state (on Bandit’s home phone)and make friendswith a couple of new ladies he met recentlyduringfilming. “Tryke groupies” as Zebra callsthem.
“They’re just innocent young ladies whoare attracted tomotorcycles and guys with long knives,”Zebra told mematter-of-factly as he chatted up a younglady withenormous breasts at Bandit’s pad in SanPedro. “I’mwilling to take these young girls undermy protective wingand teach them the secret love makingtechniques of theancient Chinese. At least I think it’sChinese, itinvolves chopsticks and Bandit said somethingabout sushibefore he split. Where’d he go? Who knows?Bandit just upand rides sometimes. Maybe Texas. He’llbe backeventually. I don’t know what the bigto-do is all about.It’s Marko really. He’s from Argentina.You know howLatins are. Very excitable. I tried toget him to drinksome whiskey and knock off a piece offresh pussy, buthe’s too wound up. Fuck him.”
“I’m just trying to control my rage,” Markorespondedvehemently when I questioned Bandit’swhereabouts. “Tosimply disappear right in the middle ofmaking a movie isfucking unreal. It’s insane. The guy isentirelyunpredictable. I can’t work like this.We’re spendingthousands of dollars a day on this fuckingmovie and oneof the two principles just vanishes. I’mgoing to killhim. I swear to God I’m going to killhim.”
When I asked Marko what it’s been likeworking with Banditand the Zebra to date he flew into a rageand punched hispickup truck before responding.
“It’s been fucking awful! They won’t doanything I tellthem to do. They’re always off fuckingthe models whenwe’re trying to shoot them. Bandit musthave picked up 40women in two weeks. One was maybe 17,maybe. Sure, she wasa hottie, but 17? That’s prison time,man.
Zebra shoots everything. Yesterday he shota fucking$6,000 digital camera! $6,000! That fuckingthing didn’teven belong to me! It belongs to Playboy!I’m going tohave to pay for that. Then Bandit spilledJack Daniels ona roll of film and we had to re-shootan entire sequence.They’re completely rogue, they’re outof control all thetime. I never know what they’re goingto do next.”
When I inquired as to why Zebra would shoota camera, TheDestroyer again punched his pickup.
“I’m trying to hard to control my rageright now, Joe.It’s so hard. The fucking guy- he- fucking,who knows?!Some crazy shit about a giant lizard thatwas hiding inthe camera or some sort of shit. Apparentlyhe and Banditgot into some LSD or something when wewere filming. Ithink they gave some to the models too,because later inthe day they were all freaking out andrunning all overthe set naked. I don’t know. Can you imaginethat? LSD?During a photo shoot? After the shoot?Fine. But during?Jesus! I’ve worked with bikers on a dozenprojects before,like “Choppers and Chicks”, but I’ve neverseen anythinglike these fucking guys. We’ll never getthis fuckingthing done. Never. I’m just trying tocontrol my rage.”Stay tuned for more updates on “Burnin’Daylight, L.A.
Joseph Smithee, film correspondent at largereporting forbikernet.comWeek Three, “Burning’ Daylight,L.A.”
POETRY IN MOTION — I went througha hot rain, trying to findthe essences of my soul, only tofind pain.
I went through the darkest night, waitingto hear theBlack Bell toll.
I’ve been in a countless crowd. Still,I was covered in ashroud.Breathing but feeling nothing.Except a cold windat my back. Feeling thecards of life againstme, begin tostack.Hearing the hoof beats of the LastRider in adistance.
It’s my time to feel the saddle’s fit &pull on the ghostrider’s bit.Let out a cough, and bloodI will spit. In thewind, my heart & horse thatbecomessteel will mend.
Finally together we will blend. Going downour long emptyroad, I laugh, myhair flys, I no longerfeel the load.
Keep it together Brothers.
–JD
AMERICAN QUANTUM SIGNS 10 NEW DEALERS–Melbourne,AmericanQuantum Cycles signed up 10 new dealersat the PowersportsDealer Expo in Indianapolis in February,bringing theirtotal dealer network to 61. The 61 dealersputs AQ aheadof their business plan of 68 dealers bythe end of thefiscal year.
Way to go, guys.
Hey Bandit (& clan), great site– I’veheard about it andknew that you had branched out, lookslike you made theright choice. It was great to see yourarticle onSportster horsepower (see garage). I’mglad that youadmitted that most bikers started outon a Sportster.Seems most have forgotten that. My wifeand I love ours.She rides a hopped up Hugger, was an 883but we cut ourlocal speed guy loose on it and now she’spushin’ around75 hp. Not bad for a street runner. Minewas a fairlystock 1200 Custom, till a cager decidedto rearrange thebike and my leg. It’s in the shop nowgetting put backtogether and should look tough when it’sdone. HP upgradeswill have to wait. About rigid riders,would love to readanything about the rigids. After payingoff my basic ride,I’m gonna start a rigid chopper. Not surewhat engine(probably Shovel) but it’s gonna be astripped down,no-shit real fuckin’ bike.
Hey, check the garage and above for thetwo rigids goingto Sturgis this year–Bandit
WORLDS FUNNIES SEX JOKES– by populardemand, We will runthe standards of the industry in threesegments. There’sonly nine, man. Enjoy ’em.
A man is in a hotel lobby. He wants toask the clerk aquestion.As he turns to go to the frontdesk,heaccidentally bumps into a womanbesidehim and as hedoes, his elbow goes into her breast.They arebothstartled and he says, “Ma’am, if yourheart is as softas your breast, I know you’ll forgiveme.” She replies,”If your penis is as hard as yourelbow,I’m in room 1221.”
A young man walks up and sits down at thebar. “What can Iget you?”the bartender inquires. “I want6 shots ofJagermeister,” responded theyoung man.”6 shots?!? Are youcelebrating something?” “Yeah, myfirstblowjob.” “Well, inthat case, let me give you a 7th on thehouse.””Nooffense, sir. But if 6 shots won’t getrid of the taste,nothing will.”
A businessman boards a flight and is luckyenough to beseated next toan absolutely gorgeous woman.They exchangebrief hellos and he noticessheis readinga manual aboutsexual statistics. He asks her about itand she replies,”This is a very interesting book aboutsexualstatistics.It identifies that American Indians havethe longestaveragepenis and Polish men have the biggestaveragediameter. By the way, myname is Jill.What’s yours?” Hecoolly replies, “Tonto Kawalski, nicetomeet you.”
COME IN, OVER–I read Zebra’s latestramblings. Don’t knowwhere he is or what he’s been snorting(or drinking,smoking and porking),but he is definitelyNOT in Korea.The characters shown in his writings arenot Korean, butChinese. Living in Taiwan, I should know.Those kinds ofcharacters you will see mostly in placeslike China,Taiwan, or Japan since their writing isbased on Chinesecharacters.
The notorious Agent must have been on somethingif hebelieved you or anybody when they saidKorea is balmy.Yeah, right fella! Korea is only balmyduring the summer.Now it’s winter and your nuts get so coldthat when theyhit together they sound like ice cubestinkling in a glassof Jack Daniel’s! If you want balmy, headfarther south toThailand, Malaysia, or the Philippines.Of course thenZebra wouldn’t get any work done, he’dbe too busydebauching himself and all those lovelyAsian beauties,swilling that cheap whiskey, and generallygetting a worldclass case of the clap!
Now here’s a little news item you mighthave heard about.This young pop star named Cheng, who issupposedly verypopular in Asia, was on a L.A. to HongKong flight. Iforget the airline. Anyway, as soon ashe’s in his seat,he starts drinking like crazy. ChampagneSome wine, andseveral glasses of cognac. So he startssinging loudly,grabs the arm of a passenger next to him,and begins toyell. The guy goes to complain to thecrew about thebehavior and smoking in the first classcabin, and prettysoon the co-pilot comes to try and stopthe guy and getsgrabbed around the throat. Later the pilotjoins in andhas to brain the guy with a flashlightto shut him up! SoHelvetica”>the flight had to land in Anchorage, Alaska.For somereason this forced the pilot to dump 6,000pounds of fuel!
The singer, as a U.S. citizen, faces apossible sentenceof twenty years and a sizable fine. Idon’t know aboutyou, but I think it’s a really bad ideato start a fightor any kind of trouble when your 40,000feet in the air!And who was flying the plane when theasshole was causingall this trouble!? I’ve heard since thathe paid a fineand was released. Personally, I thinkfor all the troubleand inconvenience he caused they should’veflushed himdown the can as they passed over Alaska.
That’s it! Keep riding and writing, Sun
NEW ENGLAND MOTORCYCLISTS AND MRF STOPHELMET LAW–The NH House of Representatives killedthe latest proposal for ahelmet law in the state. Following twohearings, the billwas given status of “Inexpedient to Legislate”by aunanimous vote. Not one of the 400 Housemembers,including the sponsors, thought the helmetlaw billmerited further consideration.
The MRF and other motorcyclists’ rightsorganizationscontributed testimony to the hearings.full story
DEAR RESIDENT–I am an avid readerand I would like tocomment on this Zebra character. He seemslike a wonderfulperson with a great deal of misunderstoodenergy. Perhapsa few weeks in the Betty Ford clinic andsomeunderstanding would be better than yourperpetual chiding.You may be driving him deeper into hisstate of aggressivebliss. You may also want to try gettingout of his fuckin’way when you ride on the open road, becauseyou ride likea girl and he’s sick of having to blowby your fat asseverytime he rides with you.
The anonymous reader…
DARWIN AWARDS– In February, accordingto police inWindsor, Ontario, Daniel Kolta, 27, andRandy Taylor, 33,died in a head-on collision, thus earninga tie in thegame of chicken they were playing withtheir snowmobile.
In Betulia, Colombia, an annual festivalin Novemberincludes five days of amateur bullfighting.This year, nobull was killed, but dozens of matadorswere injured,including one gored in the head, and oneBobbittized. Saidone participant, “It’s just one bull against[a town of] athousand morons.”
PADERBORN, GERMANY – Overzealouszoo-keeper FriedrichRiesfeldt fed a constipated elephant Stefan22 doses ofanimal laxative and more than a bushelof berries, figs,and prunes before the plugged-up pachydermfinally letfly, and suffocated the keeper under 200pounds of poop!!!Investigators say that the ill-fated Friedrich,46, wasattempting to give the ailing elephantan olive-oil enemawhen the relieved beast unloaded on himlike a dump truckfull of mud. “The sheer force of the elephant’sunexpecteddefecation knocked Mr. Riesfeldt to theground, where hestruck his head on a rock and lay unconsciousas theelephant continued to evacuate his bowelson top of him,”said flabbergasted Paderborn police detectiveErik Dern.”With no one there to help him, he layunder all that dungfor at least an hour before a watchmancame along, andduring that time, the keeper suffocated.It seems to bejust one of those freak accidents thathappen.”
BUELL RACING SETS SITES FOR 2000–as the title sponsorfor AMA Pro Thunder Series. The comingyear promises to beanother action-packed racing season forthe BuellMotorcycle Company. Following a successful1999 season,the Wisconsin-based company will expandits racingparticipation this year by sponsoringthree series inwhich Buell motorcycles compete: The AMABuell Pro ThunderSeries, the PACE Formula USA Buell LightningSeries andthe ADBA Buell SS/XL Series. Don’t missa race.
AVON TYRE CHART--After many programmingheadaches our HTMLWizard, the Doctor of Deadlines, the Terminatorof TimeTables, finally launched the super simple,nothing-to-itAVON Tyre fitment chart for your never-endingreview.That’s right under the AVON page you’llfind a chart withthe entire line of AVON tyres, the overallwidth of eachtire, the diameter, the rim size needed,and well check itout and see for yourself.
YOU LUCKY BASTARDS–THAT’S IT. That’scorrect, I’veactually run out of news for this week.Of course rumorsare abundant, bullshit stacked to theceilings, but giveme a break, after a massive Machaca Burritoand a coupleof shots of Tequila, I can’t wait fora siesta and thehappy hour to follow. Sure, I’m forgettingsomething, butI forget my mother’s birthday every year.I’d forget tofeed Gumba everyday, unless she bit myankles in themorning.
What’s more important than a good runningmotorcycle andFriday night–fast approaching. Let’sride!
–Bandit
March 2, 2000
By Bandit |
There I was minding my own business. Agent Zebra was in Seoul, Korea, acting as a pimp for a male escort service. Renegade was tearing the touring chopper apart in the garage. Works Performance is building the shocks a half-inch longer and setting the bottom out dimension so the damn tire doesn’t smoke the rear fender. I was waiting on chrome from Cindy at the famous Century Motors in San Pedro when all hell broke loose. Zebra was back in town, Marco the maniac was squealing through town taking the Agent to Bartels’ to rescue the Street Stalker. Bartels’ had completed a masterful job of returning the black beast to full working order after the terrible car people had demolished it. We needed two more running bikes for the evening. The Agent was dragging along Christian D’Andrea from the production company A Band Apart, part of the Miramax pictures group.
I called Wrench, “Is the Pan running?”
“Of course,” Wrench snarled over the sound-powered phone in the garage, “you bastard, it always runs.”
Renegade stumbled into the Pedro shed grumbling about the chrome not being done. “Where’s the parts, you big ugly…?”
“At the chromers, you dumb sonuvabitch,” he snapped.
We all are so cordial around the World Headquarters of Bikernet.com. “Listen you knife-drawing maniac. Go down to Century and threaten their lives, if they don’t get the parts back. And don’t come back without them.” Renegade is a monster of a man with jet black hair and a constant, consistent red-freak attitude. He slammed me against the wall, pulled his knife and had it jammed under my goatee faster than a humming bird blinks.
“We’ve been friends for a long time, but I don’t take shit from anyone, not even you, brother.” His eyes were coal black and piercing like the knife point causing a trickle of blood to run down my neck.
I coughed, “Then you shouldn’t have any problem getting the parts back.” The pressure was mounting around the headquarters. There were no deadlines anymore. Well sorta, with the site we had deadlines constantly. But it’s only us clowns making ’em happen, so the mellow atmosphere has been loose and easy. This was an anomaly to our daily routine and we were loosing control. Renegade stomped out of the shed rocking the rickety hardwood floors on his way out. I went immediately to the phone and dialed like a madman. “Century Motors?” Cindy came on the line.
“Mrs. Motors?” I said quickly.
“Mr. Bandit,” she responded formerly.
“Renegade’s on his way to get those parts that were to be chromed. He’s pissed…” the phone went dead.
By the time the bastard with “no-patience!” tattooed on his arm almost tore the front door off the hinges entering the shop, Cindy had ’em bagged and ready for the big man.
By 6:30 the Excelsior-Henderson was rolling. Jenny from Dallas, Wrench’s assistant, had checked the oil in the Pan, tested the battery, and broke the seat mount. She also fixed it then shorted the brake wire out so that when we depressed the brake the bike quit. Bare wire against the fender hinge. Fixed. We were ready for the quest from Hollywood.
So the bastard from Korea rolls up on the Street Stalker, the Pan and E-H are humming, and I find out that this kid has ridden maybe once when he was six. As he pulled out for a cruise around the block we took bets that he’d pile into a bunch of trash cans, run aground on a curb, or miscalculate a corner, glance off a rusting Cadillac hulk and center-punch the striped pick-up truck across the street. Fortunately, no one would storm out of any of the leaning one-bedroom bungalows on the block screaming, “Look what you’ve done to my car!” Hell, all the cars on the block are stolen.
Christian made it, we saddled up and flew over the Vincent Thomas expansion bridge, much like the Golden Gate Bridge in Frisco, and into Long Beach for pool and tunes at the Blue Cafe. Then we dragged the virgin rider hanging onto the bars as if he were a flag in a gale, while we escorted him to every dive bar in town. When the night was over we made two conclusions: Either he’d buy a scoot Saturday morning, leave his wife and join Sons of Satan, or he’d lock the door to his office and never come out again. We haven’t heard from him since.
Let’s get to the news:
THE SEARCH FOR A DURFEE GIRDER–Yes, I’m looking for a Durfee Girder for the Sturgis West Coast Choppers project. I actually found one through Phil in Maine. Then I lost touch with Phil. Damn. If you know Phil or where I can find a Durfee Girder, let me know quick (bandit@bikernet.com).
EXCELSIOR-HENDERSON IS BACK–This release blasted onto my Panhead desk this morning: E-H invites you to visit with them during bike week in Daytona, which is rocking right now. The Road Crew is set at the parking lot on the east end of the Daytona International Speedway.
You can test ride a Super X or Deadwood 2000 model. Both models will be there in stock configuration and fully accessorized. Hey, and they’ve change the front fender and it will be available on some of the models.
A new model will be unofficially unveiled on site. This unnamed motorcycle has a completely new and different front suspension and front fender, not yet seen in the Excelsior-Henderson line.
For those of us who hate to see American ingenuity go to waste, it’s good to hear that the Hanlons are still slugging it out.
BRIAN BAILLIE LEAVES THE PLANET Brian was the marketing guru for S&S Cycles, and a most compassionate, hard-working brother. He dealt with everything and everyone involved in the industry to promote the tradition of the S&S name. He was a young man; he passed away a couple of days ago of a heart attack, while attending a basketball game. We’ll all miss Brian, the astute way he handled business, the gracious manner in which he took care of so many tasks. He was in a stressful position and mentioned the stress of the dealer show followed by Daytona Bike week recently. Just goes to show that you have only one life. Money is nothing compared to the precious minutes we have and lose never to recover. Ride forever, Brian.
HORSE MAGAZINE–I’ve kicked off a series about two bikers who live in Los Angeles on the pages of Horse Magazine. It’s horrible, what happens to these innocent sonsabitches. Watch for it.
SONNY BARGER– is selling his autobiography online, autographed. That’s the word but I’m not sure how you can get an autograph online. He’s the icon of the era, it’s about time someone let him tell his own story instead of all the hype we’ve heard for all these years. Check it out: http://sonnybarger.com/index2.html
WAYNE CURTIN JOINS HARLEY-DAVIDSON AS MANAGER OF GOVERNMENT AFFAIRS– As part of our ongoing efforts to position Harley-Davidson Motor Company to meet the challenges facing our business in the coming years, I am pleased to announce that Tim Hoelter has been named vice president, government affairs. Tim’s title change reflects the responsibilities he is assuming for leading Harley-Davidson’s legislative and political affairs efforts, particularly as they relate to our product lines and service offerings.
Tim joined Harley-Davidson in 1981, holding the position of vice president, general counsel and secretary for 15 years. In recent years he has been working closely with Washington to open overseas markets to our motorcycles, serving on the Department of Commerce’s Industry Sector Advisory Committee on Consumer Goods for Trade Policy Matters.
In connection with this organizational realignment, I am also pleased to announce that Wayne T. Curtin has joined Harley-Davidson Motor Company as manager, government affairs, reporting directly to Tim Hoelter. In this newly created position, Wayne will be responsible for helping plan and execute Harley’s domestic government affairs agenda, managing the Company’s PACs, assisting in gaining approval of Rider’s Edge in various states, and developing positive working relations with key allied groups including rider organizations and industry trade associations. Wayne comes to Harley-Davidson with an extensive background in motorcycle public affairs issues. He is a past trustee of the American Motorcyclist Association and former vice president, government relations of the Motorcycle Riders Foundation, Washington, D.C. He is a member of the subcommittee on motorcycles and mopeds of the Transportation Research Board and continues to serve on the management committee for the AMA’s political action committee. A graduate of the University of South Carolina, Wayne will complete his work towards a master’s degree in public administration while employed by Harley. He and his wife, Rosemary, have relocated to Milwaukee from Columbia, South Carolina.
Jeffrey L. Bleustein Chairman and CEO
MUTHUH’s RIDES– has fired up its Web site for all of ya that can’t get enough riding in real life. Or maybe your old lady won’t let ya go to the rally this year. Whatever your problem is, Muthuh (as in “he’s a real big Muthuh”), has a site that lets you get damned-near real-time travelogues on rides throughout the country. These trips are uploaded with journal and pictures each night when a ride is under way. This year he’s got planned trips to Daytona Beach, the Run For The Wall, Sturgis, and Biketoberfest, with a bunch of smaller overnighters and day trips mixed in between. All right, before ya get all righteous about it, the four major rides are gonna cost a mere coupla bucks, usually $4.95, but all the little ride journals are free and there’s a portion of all of the rides that goes to a charity YOU choose when ya sign up. Go check out www.muthuh.com for the skinny, or just sign up for the mailing list to hear about what Muthuh’s up to. The purpose of the rides are to have a little fun, adventure, let ya know which roads are particularly nice rides and see pictures from that day’s ride. As Muthuh says…”It’s not the destination, fool…It’s the RIDE!”
BEST SPAM AD OF THE WEEK–Treat yourself or loved ones to America’s finest hams or turkeys since l984. These are the best quality and best tasting honey glazed-spiral sliced ready to serve hams and turkey breasts available. Whole smoked and oven roasted turkeys also available. We ship to all 50 states to your door. The perfect meal or gift.
To order please call 1-888-828-9424 or 1-760-436-9202 Mon-Sat 10:00 a.m.-6:00 p.m. — Sun 10:00 a.m.-4:00 p.m. P.S.T.
MOTORCYCLE DAREDEVIL “SUPER JOE” REED HOSPITALIZED–in fair condition today after he was injured in a practice jump.
Witnesses said Reed, who previously has performed stunts with his 5-year-old son, was attempting a solo 30-foot jump Saturday night when his front tire hit the landing ramp too soon.
He had been scheduled to perform a series of jumps during the weekend at the Reserve hotel-casino.
Reed suffered several broken bones, said Reserve marketing director Michelle Shriver.
In July, Reed jumped his motorcycle 13 feet between ramps while blindfolded and accompanied by his 5-year-old son, “Super Joey,” who rode straddling the bike’s gasoline tank.
Spectators, including Joey’s friends from his day care center, chanted “Jo-ey! Jo-ey!”
TOP NINE SIGNS YOUR PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE IS UNDER-QUALIFIED
9. Promises to improve foreign relations with Hawaii.
8. Runs a series of attack ads against Martin Sheen’s character on “The West Wing.”
7. His #1 choice to work on his cabinet is “That Bob Vila guy.”
6. Outstanding record as governor of Rhode Island nullified by the fact that no one really cares.
5. Anybody mentions Washington, he asks, “The state or the D.C. thingie?”
4. At the debates, answers every question with a snarled, “You wanna wrestle?”
3. Vows to put an end to the war in Pokemon and free the Pikachu refugees once and for all.
2. Says the Pledge of Allegiance as quickly as possible, then shouts, “I win!”
1. On the very first question of the debate, he attempts to use a LIFELINE.
CAMPBELL WANTS POLICE TO BUY AMERICAN Colorado Senator Says Foreign-Made Motorcycles Just Aren’t Good Enough
Sen. Ben Nighthorse Campbell (R-Colo.) has launched a crusade to convince the Capitol Police to purchase more American-made motorcycles for its fleet.
Campbell raised the issue Tuesday at a hearing of the Senate Appropriations subcommittee on the legislative branch. Although he’s not a member of the subcommittee, the fiery Senator-a member of the full committee-made his presence felt quickly.
“These little foreign bikes, they break down and look like junk,” Campbell said, directing his stare at members of the Capitol Police Board as they waited to testify.
Campbell, who served as a sheriff’s deputy in Sacramento, Calif., in the early 1970s, is irked because he included language in last year’s legislative branch appropriations bill providing $103,000 for the Capitol Police to purchase new motorcycles and encouraging the department to purchase American-made bikes. Out of the current fleet of 46 motorcycles, just three are American.
At the hearing, Campbell-a motorcycle enthusiast whose family owns eight bikes-complained that the foreign cycles did not have the power to support lights or sirens. Therefore, they can’t be used to make traffic stops or to escort foreign delegations.
“I’m gonna rag it till we get rid of these pieces of junk,” Campbell declared. “They’re an eyesore. … Millions of people from around the world come here, and I don’t want our police laughed at.”
From A Band APART– I gotta tell you how grateful I am for Friday’s ride. It was fucking magic.
You guys were as gracious as the day is long. Of course, for lore-building purposes, I’ve embellished the evening’s events ever so slightly when I recount my adventure to friends-it now includes a beating where I kill a man, where we ride in pack formation and drive a cop off the road, etc.
I spoke to the boys at Smith and I’m wrapping my head around 1%ER. Best, Christian
RIP TRIBUTE Gentlemen: I just read the news, about the passing of The Ripper Roo from Berdoo. Definitely sad news, he will be missed, his adventures of the road, and his love of life. I got a feeling, he will be out there In The Wind, with all of us, as we travel to Sturgis, or just down the road to visit our Bros. Ride free forever, Mike Evo, Cohoes, New York
READ ABOUT THE GAS OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Last year on April 30,1999, a gas out was staged across Canada and the U.S. to bring the price of gas down, and it worked. It’s time to do something about it again. O
nly this time let’s make it for three days instead of just one. The so-called oil cartel decided to slow production to drive up gasoline prices. Let’s see how many CanadianAmerican people we can get to ban together for a three-day period in April, NOT TO BUY ANY GASOLINE, during those three days.
LET’S HAVE A GAS OUT. Do not buy any gasoline from APRIL 7, 2000 THROUGH APRIL 9, 2000. Buy what you need before the dates listed above, or after, but try not to buy any during the GAS OUT. If you want to help, just send this to everyone you know and ask them to do the same. We brought the prices down once before, and we can do it again. Come on North America, let’s stand together.
WE CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. Even if you receive this 100 times, keep passing it around, this way you know everyone is being informed and no one will forget!
Hey ya’ll- I’m reading a book by Hermann Hesse called “Steppenwolf.” There’s a quote by Joseph Mileck in the introduction where he tries to sum up Hesse’s outlook on life in our times. It hit home with me and I wanted you to hear it…
“Spiritually and culturally, the twentieth century had always appeared most bleak to Hesse. Our era was for him one of moral depravity and intellectual mediocrity, of surface glitter, smug comfort, sham conventionality, and foolish optimism. It is a materialist age where science has become a religion and the final criterion of value is function. Man has lost his soul in this world of money, machines and distrust.
He has exchanged his spiritual peace for physical comfort. With his imagination stunted and his feelings stifled, he no longer appreciates beauty, nor is he capable of real artistic creation. All vital rapport with God and nature has been lost, reason has supplanted faith, and society has forgotten the individual.”
The man had vision, eh. -Tim
What’s the difference between beer nuts and deer nuts? Beer nuts are a $1.25 but deer nuts are always under a buck.
What three two-letter words denote “small”? “Is it in?”
Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex? Mace will do that to you.
Why did O.J. Simpson want to move to West Virginia? Everyone has the same DNA.
BIKER ANTI-DISCRIMINATION LEGISLATION ADVANCES IN ARIZONA– By a vote of 6-0 on February 3, 2000, the Senate Transportation Committee unanimously approved SB1475 to send Arizona’s biker anti-discrimination bill on to the Senate Commerce Committee, where the legislation passed by a vote of 6-1 the following week. SB1475, the Equal Access Anti-Discrimination bill sponsored by Senator Keith Bee, who was the keynote speaker at last year’s NCOM >Convention in Phoenix, is expected to be heard on the Senate Floor soon.
”We used the Biker Anti-Discrimination legislative packet from NCOM to determine the exact language that we needed here in Arizona, and we’ve picked up a lot of support in the legislature after adequately explaining our message,” said Roger ”Priest” Hurm, Chairman of the Board of the Modified Motorcycle Association (MMA) of Arizona, and member of the National Coalition of Motorcyclists (NCOM) Board of Directors.
”We’re not against dress codes, and we’re not trying to tell businesses how to manage themselves,” explains Priest. ”We’re just saying that you cannot refuse public services to a person just because they ride a motorcycle or look like a biker.” Actually, the state legislature has two pro-motorcycle bills up for consideration, thanks to the hard work of an Arizona motorcyclists’ lobby >team, comprised of a registered lobbyist from each of the state’s three motorcycle organizations (ABATE of Arizona, the MMA of Arizona, and the Arizona Confederation of Motorcycle Clubs).
SB1074 would dedicate $1 per registered motorcycle to the Motorcycle Safety Fund to be used specifically for safety education. The bill, sponsored by Senator Tom Smith, has passed unanimously out of both the Senate Transportation Committee and Appropriations Committee, and it too will soon be voted on by the full Senate.
”Our goal is to add to the fund in the future to help subsidize motorcycle training and make it more affordable for all,” said Priest. ”We’re gonna bring two new Arizona laws with us to Frisco,” he promised, in reference to the upcoming NCOM Convention in San Francisco in May. NATIONAL COALITION OF MOTORCYCLISTS (NCOM)
THIS IS A GREAT DEAL–NOW THAT I FOUND THE SITE. I TYPE LIKE A CHICKEN PLAYIN’ PIANO. WITH YOUR SITE I CAN POINT AN CLICK. I AM GLAD TO KNOW THERE IS A PLACE TO GO FOR THOSE OF WHO LIKE TO BUILD ‘EM OURSELVES. I AM STILL GOIN’ OVER THE SITE YOU HAVE, I’M NOT A NET NUT BUT THIS LOOKS GOOD. I WILL BE BACK WHEN I CAN TO ENJOY THE STORIES AN’ ALL. KEEP IT UP, BANDIT AN’ CREW. -TOM
CITIBANK FORCES GUN WITHDRAWAL– Financial giant no longer serves “businesses that deal in weapons.” A new corporate policy at Citibank, one of the largest corporate banks in the world, prohibits “maintaining accounts for businesses that deal in weapons,” according to a letter sent from the Las Vegas branch of Citibank to a local pistol club owner.
The letter, dated Feb. 7, said the Nevada Pistol Academy would be forbidden from doing business at the Citibank branch as of Thursday, Feb. 17. The “Notice of Account Closure” said the bank was closing the academy’s checking account and instructed account holders to refrain from making further deposits or writing checks on the account.
After the closing date, “any additional funds remaining in your account on the date of closure will be sent to you in the form of an official bank check,” the letter said.
Chris Lorenzo, director of the academy, said he received the bank’s letter “within 3 or 4 days of opening my account.” He told WorldNetDaily that no one at the bank informed him of Citibank’s policy when he opened his account.
When he called to ask about the cancellation, “they gave me the runaround,” he said. WorldNetDaily placed several calls to Citibank officials with no response.
The letter also stated, “If you have any questions regarding our decision to close your account, please contact our 24-hour customer service telephone number, 800-756-7047 or Text Tel/TTD 800-756-0382.”
FIVE REASONS WHY NEW YORK IS QUIET ON SUNDAYS
1. Jews are all visiting relatives on Long Island.
2. The Italians are putting flowers on graves.
3. The Irish are all sleeping off hangovers.
4. The Puerto Ricans can’t get their cars started.
5. The Poles think it is Tuesday >>
BLIPS FROM THE FACTORY–
Rusty Wallace and Robin Yount to Take Part in Daytona HOG Event NASCAR Winston Cup driver Rusty Wallace and baseball Hall of Famer Robin Yount will be in Daytona Beach to attend the Monday evening Harley Owners Group reception at the Ocean Center as well as a media event scheduled for the same day. Both celebs will take part in the welcome ceremony and meet HOG members at the reception.
TANDEM RIDING BAN Harley-Davidson and the United States Seek Repeal of Japan’s Tandem Riding Ban Harley-Davidson and the U.S. Government made a joint presentation to Japan’s Office of Trade and Investment Ombudsman (OTO) Market Access Council November 24, 1999 in Tokyo asking that Japan’s ban on motorcycle tandem riding on expressways be repealed. Expert witnesses argued that continuing the ban actually forced motorcyclists with passengers to use less safe routes of travel. According to a study conducted by Dynamic Research, Inc. (DRI), a safety research firm retained by Harley-Davidson, riding on motorways in Japan is 13 times safer than riding on ordinary roads and city streets, which have intersections, opposing traffic flows, poor visibility, and mixed vehicle usage. The study also showed that tandem riding actually increases a motorcycle’s stability at motorway speeds, and that motorcyclists who carry a passenger tend to drive more carefully than single riders.
FIRST BUELL BLAST OF THE LINE– The first Buell Blast motorcycle came off the line January 26, 2000 at Buell Motorcycle Co. in East Troy, WI. The first motorcycle went to Erik Buell, chairman and chief technical officer of Buell Motorcycle Co. The second Blast went to Jeff Bleustein, chairman and CEO, Harley-Davidson Motor Co. The third and fourth will be going to the Harley-Davidson Archives and the Trev Deeley museum in Canada. The fifth Blast motorcycle produced will be the first one sold.
MEMORIAL FUNDS ESTABLISHED FOR FALLEN DIRT TRACK RACERS– The motorcycle racing community lost two great people last season when Davey Camlin and Toby Jorgenson died as the result of injuries sustained in separate dirt track racing crashes. Contributions to the Davey Camlin Memorial Fund may be sent to Melissa Camlin at 1303 37th St., Rock Island, IL 61201. Cards and letters may be sent to the same address. Contributions to the Toby Jorgenson Memorial Fund may be sent in his name to the Mokelumne Federal Credit Union, P.O. Box 1717, Lodi, CA 95241. Cards and letters may be sent to the Jorgenson family at 5031 E. Palmer Ave., Stockton, CA 95125.
Nola Vander Meulen Once the object of affection of a Bikernet staffer was recently promoted to a manager position in H-D’s new Rental and Tours Department.
The staffer is still locked in the Pedro basement where he’s sentenced to serve his life tuning Cushmans and doing our laundry. We’ve promised the Factory that said individual will never embarrass Nola again.
SPORTSTER WINS CHAMPIONSHIP CUP SERIES– Dean Hagemann, amateur rider for Kegel Motorcycle Co. Race Team, won the Regional and National Championship titles while riding a Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle. This is the first time ever that a Harley-Davidson Sportster has won a Championship Cup Series in the Lightweight Sportsman and Lightweight Supersport Divisions in C.C.S history. The race took place at Blackhawk Farms Raceway in Rockton, IL on September 26th.
AROUND THE WORLD ON A SPORTSTER Andrzej Sochacki recently completed a round-the-world tour of 35 countries and four continents aboard a 1996 Harley-Davidson XL 883 Sportster. He took one year, three months and eight days to complete the journey, and put 56,000 km on the Sportster, which he named Adam. Sochacki, 52, claims to be the only world traveler to complete five around-the-world journeys aboard five different forms of transportation: automobile, airplane, sailboat, train and now, motorcycle.
ELECTRA GLIDE NEARS 400,000 MILES– Albert Vercruysse, 83, resident of Salem, Oregon, has recorded 396,000 miles on his 1988 Electra Glide-on the original Evolution engine. Albert attributes the accumulation of miles to coast-to-coast rides for MDA and to living in Salem, where the weather allows him to ride his bike on a daily basis. In order to keep his bike in top shape, Albert’s dealer performs all maintenance work on the motorcycle. Albert has been riding for about 22 years; his first riding experience occurred in 1977 at the age of 61. Since then he has owned four bikes, all Electra Glides (1980, 1982, 1984, and 1988).
USPS CONSIDERS A LINE OF STAMPS– The United States Postal Service Citizens’ Stamp Advisory Committee is considering the production and release of a series of Harley-Davidson motorcycle stamps in commemoration of Harley-Davidson’s 100th Anniversary in 2003. The committee is currently reviewing two separate Harley-Davidson stamp proposals and plans to make subject and design recommendations to the Postmaster General. If the series is approved, the Harley-Davidson stamps would be announced approximately six months prior to their official First Day of Issue release.
P.J. O’Rourke said– it was OK to go down for a reason but never for a cause. You have access to lots of folks. I would like to have you think about the shitbirds in China. They are getting our money and sending us crap, killing people whom they don’t like and giving us the finger as they read our nuke secrets. If every biker would just look for the little bitty label that says “Made in China” and put it down, it would make a difference. Hey, think about it. Wouldn’t you like to piss Clinton off and screw the Chinese? Almost forty years in some saddle and I can’t let it go. Sorry to hear about Rip. He was cool. Tim Gowder Oak Ridge, TN
POETRY CORNER–This is a small remnant of a massive poem about, well, you’ll get the drift…
ONE BY ONE THEY ARE BARTERED AWAY…. JOBS TO CHINA….TAIWAN….NORWAY; AMERICAN DREAMS ALONG WITH THEIR JOBS; SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER BY BEAUROCRATIC SLOBS….
CONGRESSMEN, PRESIDENTS, CEOS AND JUDGES…. BITTER & GREEDY AND ALL BEARING GRUDGES; HOPING TO FIND RICHES BEYOND EXPECTATION…. IN SELLING AMERICA….OUR ONCE GREAT PROUD NATION.
WHERE ARE THE GOOD GUYS….THE ONES IN WHITE HATS? WHERE ARE THE STATESMEN….PROUD AND EXACT? WHERE ARE THE COWBOYS THAT RODE THE GREAT PLAINS? WHERE ARE THE HEROES WHO NEVER COMPLAINED?
THE TALKING HEADS ON TV SETS…. HAVE BLINDED YOU AND I…. THE HOLLYWOOD GANG HAS PAINTED PICTURES TO BACK THEIR SINISTER LIES.
BUT, LET ME SAY THIS LOUD AND CLEAR FOR ALL THE WORLD TO HEAR…. WHEN ENOUGH IS ENOUGH I GUARANTEE…. THEIR THUNDER YOU SHALL FEAR….
by George Fry
MORE ON RIP–Thanks for the word on Rip. I wish I could have had the privilege of meeting the man in person, but I will have his many stories from the road and many useful tips to remember him by. Thank you, Rip, and ride with the angels. You fought the good fight.
BAD NEWS CLIPS–In Guthrie, Okla, in October, Jason Heck tried to kill a millipede with a shot from his .22-caliber rifle, but the bullet ricocheted off a rock near the hole, and hit his pal Antonio Martinez in the head, fracturing his skull.
In Elyria, Ohio, in October, Martyn Eskins, attempting to clean out cobwebs in his basement, declined to use a broom in favor of a propane torch and caused a fire that burned the first and second floors of his house.
Paul Stiller, 47, was hospitalized in Andover Township, NJ, in September and his wife Bonnie was also injured, by a quarter-stick of dynamite that blew up in their car. While driving around at 2 AM, the bored couple lit the dynamite and tried to toss it out the window to see what would happen, but they apparently failed to notice that the window was closed.
TRAILBLAZERS BANQUET– Circle Saturday night, March 25th on your calendar for the finest 21st Century Banquet. Sure, the real new millennium doesn’t begin until next year, but what the hell. The location is the same as last year, the Sequoia Club in Buena Park. The dinner tab is $35 each, if pre-paid. If you’re caught at the door it’s 40 bucks. The hour of charm kicks off at 6:00 p.m. with dinner served at 7:00.
If you’re arriving to bench race and drool on the motorcycles on display, they’ll be arriving from 3:00 on. This year’s theme is honoring BSA, along with some of those who made the brand famous, from riders to dealers. In addition to honoring the lads from Birmingham Small Arms fame, we’ll also be inducting our Hall of Fame nominees.
Please join us in kicking off the 21st Century in true world class style at our forthcoming Banquet. For info you can call (714) 962-7028.
OUTLAWS’ M/C SITE– Check out the Outlaws Motorcycle Club site. It’s well done and bad ass. www.outlawsmc.com/.
THE ULTIMATE INSURANCE– From Maxim magazine comes the ultimate insurance story written by Richard Baimbridge. Insurance company Goodfellow, Rebecca, Ingrams, Pearson comes a $1 million dollar policy against insurance abduction. “According to company spokesman Simon burgess, the London firm has sold more than 42,000 policies worldwide for $100 each, with 90 percent of the business coming from the U.S. The company also offers a full line of coverage for mundane concerns, like being stricken with impotence on Valentine’s Day. Recently 600 prostitutes took out policies insuring them against employment-threatening backache. ‘”We insure against any eventuality-we never turn down a risk,”‘ says Burgess.
“A St. Lawrence Agency, located in Florida, will insure you for $10 million against UFO abduction for a single lifetime premium of only $19.95… In 1991 an abduction claim for an individual in upstate New York was approved. ‘”He met all the requirements for proof,”‘ says president Mike St. Lawrence, ‘”including a possible implanted alien tracking device.”‘ The lucky abductee now receives one dollar a year for the next 10 million years.”
LAST SATURDAY–I rolled north along the coast to visit a restoration expert, Fred Lange. He was once noted for his Indian restorations, but has since turned his attentions to Harleys in their teens. Now get this. There are companies in Europe and the U.S. making reproduction gas tanks, seats, fenders and front ends for these bikes. I was after a set of flat track tanks, a seat, a fender blank and perhaps a headlight for a oldy-looking Shovelhead I’m building with Rick Fairless at Dallas Easyriders. Pricey stuff, but available. After a tour of his facility we rode down the coast for dinner with the famous crotchety restoration expert, Mike Egan in Santa Paula. If you need anything for old Harleys and have the big candy to pay for it call Mike (805) 933-1557.
On Sunday the sensual goddess of metal mayhem with the human form lit up the shed. Yvonne Mecalis, an extraordinary artist, and her husband came to the shed hanging off a San Pedro cliff and we hung out until Agent Zebra made a menace of himself pulling burnouts in the back yard on the Street Stalker so we cuffed him and escorted his scrawny ass to the airport-send him back to Miami where he’s working on a chopper with Billy at Choppers Ink. Then the race is on to Sturgis. Hang on.
Ride forever, Bandit
Feb 25, 2000
By Bandit |
That’s right, Rip passed on to the great chromed-asphalt-strip in the sky February 18. He was the on-the-road reporter for Easyriders for 20 years. A member of the Diablos motorcycle club for some 30 years, they allowed him to retire to persue his journalistic career with the magazine so he could ride with any group. Rip fought a valiant battle against diabetes related cancer for over three years, which ended Friday morning. Rip died in his sleep while his family stood by.
In September, Rip was nominated to the Sturgis Motorcycle Hall of Fame. Just hours after his passing, his family received the call. Rip will be inducted Aug. 9, 2000 into the Sturgis Motorcycle Hall of Fame. “I’ll never forget how humble and proud he was to be included as even a nominee,” said a family member.
Rip’s family is having a small intimate funeral service. It was his wish that bikers who knew and enjoyed his work support Rip’s Bad Ride as a showing of respect for him. The 3rd Annual BAD (Bikers Against Diabetes) Ride will be held June 11, 2000 in Los Angeles. East Coast events are being planned now. Rip’s family hopes for a banner year in Rip’s memory. If you can’t make it, his family asks that remembrances be sent to the American Diabetes Association, Attn: Laurie Stevens, 6300 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 100, Los Angeles, CA 90048. Cards for Rip’s family can be sent to April Eberly, 1816 Capri Avenue, Mentone, CA 92359.
On With the News
I spent the weekend battling the Chicago snowstorms on my way to Indy for the 32nd annual Dealer Expo. The Indy Dealer Show is all about sharing info about new products and service for bikers of all sorts. One of the problems with the historic Indy extravaganza is that there are booths and displays throughout the various floors of this building, in the halls, back rooms, conference rooms and closets. If you’re a bike dealer/shop owner, you need to come with your fast-walking tennis shoes on to cover the expansive grounds. The Harley aftermarket is spread all over the goddamn place. But here are some highlights:
Saturday morning I finally caught a jet with the balls to fly out of snowbound Chicago to Indy and stumbled into the show in the early afternoon. Custom Chrome is now building a performance engine and we should have an article on it in the next couple of weeks. Their design is to build an affordable engine for the market. I found out during the day that Patrick Racing, who builds a line of performance engines, only builds 200 a year. They are pure billet aluminum and he’s currently building a very different looking 113-inch monster. These monsters are built entirely in America and if you have a Patrick mill in your scoot, you know it from the way it runs–to the looks. Patrick is now making a very sharp exhaust system to match. The most crucial aspect of tuning for performance is the exhaust, ’cause usually it’s fixed, making its element of the ignition/carburetion/exhaust formula impossible to tune. If you don’t choose the right exhaust, you’re fucked. I suppose I could have soft-pedaled that, but fuck it. For information on Patrick’s line of motors call him at (714) 554-Race. Oh, as a point of reference Patrick makes 200 mills a year, TP Engineering builds 1,500-2,000 and S&S builds 20,000 engines a year. That’s a rolling fireball of aftermarket power.
Hold on–AVON tyres is fabricating a 250 series tire. Before long we’ll be able to ride on water.
Here’s a hot one. Custom Cycle Engineering, the manufacturer of the hottest, most comfortable, coolest risers on the planet, has now come out with an equally chopperized starter motor switch. It bolts directly to the starter and looks as if it’s apart of it. This way you get an absolutely direct connection to the solenoid and there is no wiring, no remote starter button, no bad connections, and no smoked wires. Call ’em for info on their dogbone risers or this new starter switch, which I plan to buy for my Jesse James Chopper for the ride to Sturgis (keep it simple damnit!). Ask for Rick (800) 472-9253.
When it comes to down-home shit and wild apparel the company that seems to be rockin’ the world is Chrome Specialties owned by Custom Chrome, Inc. Hell, they even have the balls to carry the entire line of West Coast Choppers digs and a line of Prison Blues. When you buy Prison Blues threads, a donation goes to the prison system. For the dope on it, check out www.chromespecialties.com.
Have you ever seen big Mike Griffin play guitar? He is the biker-blues Jimmy Hendrix. He’s unbelievable. You can catch the big man if you’re puttin’ to Myrtle Beach this year, May 18,19, and 20th, at the 2001 nightclub. Don’t miss Big Mike live in concert. www.BigMikeGriffin.com.
In one of the massive showrooms the engineers of this rolling nighmare put most of the clone manufacturers. I spoke to Roger Borget who, with his ambitious wife at his side, can’t build enough bikes. If you’re familar with his low slung monsters, you’ll know what a genius this guy is, and what a unique bike he produces. He is now making short front end versions of his bikes and they look pure low, wide and bad. Roger is located in Phoenix. I also spoke to Nick, “The Knife,” the president of Big Dog. He just slurred his words and dared me to start one of his bikes and ride it around the stadium. Oscar, the president of Pure Steel, told me all about his arrangement with Penthouse magazine. Titan has the Playboy contract and now Oscar worked out a deal with Penthouse to make a line of clothing for the slinky magazine and a line of limited edition bikes for the upcoming anniversary of the magazine. Whereas Big Dog has the fine reputation of building the most reliable, best cared for custom, Pure Steel has the rep for building the most tightly designed, best detailed manufactured customs on the market. These bikes look like a custom in every sense of the word. Check Pure Steel at www.pure-steel.com, and I’ll bet Big Dog is at www.bigdog.com. You may see some Big Dogs on Bikernet before too long. If your interests lie in a fast, very fast, reliable custom, ride a 107-inch Big Dog. You won’t be disappointed.
Here’s a couple of companies to keep up on. Baker Drivetrain houses the young man who developed the first 6-speed transmission. This was Bert’s second year in Indy. The first was a year of fear and trepidation. He’s a young man with a new product coming to the mountain, but the response was phenomenal and he’s back this year with a resounding success story. Check him out at bakerdrivetrain.aol.com. Another source for performance clutches and go-fast parts for 20 years has always been the proven Rivera Engineering. Now an old buddy of the industry works with the main man Mel. Ben Kudon is there to see that you get what you want, when you want it. Check www.primoproducts.com.
All right, it’s time to get to the news, but first I’ll mention a couple more companies. First Victory motorcycles. If you want to watch a company grow, watch the Victory company. In fact I would like to see Victory sponsor the Victor McLaglen Motor Corp. We’ll be putting those two groups together shortly. I spoke to Harry Fisher about the motor corp yesterday. This group of riders has been around since 1937 entertaining crowds at bike event and in parades ever since. Harry became a member in 1962 and undoubtly they will be performing at the Love Ride in November. They are finally going to allow a coporate sponsor on board to see them into the new millenium. Hell, they’ll be at every major event in the country puttin’ around with some 22 team members on one bike in a world-record stunt. Perhaps we’ll see if a Victory can hold up under the pressure.
I met with Billy from Choppers Inc. in Melbourne, Florida. He and Jesse James are the new bucks in the chopper world and they love every minute of it. In fact Bikernet is working with these guys to build two rigids for the ride to Sturgis this year. Agent Zebra and I will fight from coast to coast for votes to see who has the coolest chop on the globe this August. You’ll see the whole tamale take place as my step-son Jesse James launches his grizzled old dad to the Badlands for the 13th time. It’ll be the ride of a lifetime. You can find the wildness of Bikernet East at www.choppersinc.com. We’ll be featuring one of Billy’s bike shortly, if I can sober up the Agent long enough to write the story.
Oh, I want to thank Ron Bender for the go-cart competition on Saturday night in Indy. Ron owns Bender Cycle somewhere in the Mideast. We had a helluva time competing with the Custom Chrome gang, the evil bastards of Mid USA, the panty pirates from Nempco, and the guys in white from Biker’s Choice. I’m still getting over the 40 mph bruises.
All right, all right, one final thought. If you just feel nasty, hungover, and pissed off, send the man responsible for many of the fine Custom Chrome designs, John Reed, an e-mail. He doesn’t like friends, the industry, or people in general. I’m not sure if his wife even talks to him. He’s the nastiest man on two wheels and he’s proud of it. He’s like a strong bloody mary after a long night at the bar. He’s like menudo after the dry heaves. He’s worse than agent Zebra even on a bad night. Write him, will ya, auga@ix.netcom.com. You won’t have to say much. It doesn’t matter. He won’t like it. Oh, he designed the entire Mirage line for CCI. Give ’em hell. Now the news:
Lessons To Be Learned In February, Santiago Alvarado, 24, was killed in Lompoc, CA, as he fell face-first through the ceiling of a bicycle shop he was burglarizing. Death was caused when the long flashlight he had placed in his mouth (to keep his hands free) rammed into the base of his skull as he hit the floor.
According to police in Dahlonega, GA, ROTC cadet Nick Berrena, 20, was stabbed to death in January by fellow cadet Jeffrey Hoffman, 23, who was trying to prove that a knife could not penetrate the flak vest that Berrena was wearing.
Sylvester Briddell, Jr., 26, was killed in February in Selbyville, Del. as he won a bet with friends who said he would not put a revolver loaded with four bullets into his mouth and pull the trigger.
BROTHERS LOOKOUT, THEY’RE INTRODUCING THE CADDYPAC What is a CaddyPac? It is the first and only golf bag specifically designed for players who love the freedom of riding and the game of golf.
This new bag has a sleek design, holds a full set of clubs, and has plenty of storage space for shoes, balls, and tees. So what’s so great about this bag you’re wondering? This is the first and only golf bag that can travel from home to the course on your motorcycle.
Their special design allows for full safety, mobility, and balance as you ride with the wind in your face to your favorite course. And once you arrive, the CaddyPac can stay right where it is-on your back-for those of you who like to walk the miles of fairways and greens. But for the rest of you, take the bag off your shoulder, lock it into place, load it on your cart and it’s tee time.
Want to learn more about the Caddypac? Visit their Web site www.caddypac.com and for wholesale ordering log onto www.caddypac.comwholesale.htm
PLUG FOR TROCK TOOLS Bandit, In your Tech Tips section dealing with cam installation, Wordman could have used The Trock tools: valve travel checker and cam end play tool, which is new by the way. They are very affordable and easy to use.
Hangover Recovery Method #3333331385605937 When I used to work at Glaxo-the big pharmaceutical company-it was widely known amongst the employees that our big ulcer drug, Zantac, when taken before and after a drinking session, would absolutely eliminate a hangover…been there and done it too many times not to deny it-and now it is over the counter in half-doses…just take two…..researchers found that out when the ulcer test subjects-mostly drinkers-reported it as the #1 side benefit-they all said, “Fuck the ulcer, gimme more to keep my hangovers to a minimum!
Muthuh
ZEBRA TO HEADQUARTERS…This is Zebra, come in America. Am marooned in Far East. Requesting helicopter extraction ASAP. Low on rations. Lower on money. No scoots except for strange Desepls and NiSaps. Where’s all the tit you promised me? You lying bastard. I come to South Korea to establish Bikernet Far East and this is what I get? Jesus, man, it’s 40 below zero over here! You said it would be warm, “balmy” was the word you used. You call frozen anti-freeze balmy?! A man needs mittens on his nutsack just to get over the Kahn Bridge and I haven’t even started for the DMZ. You can establish North Korea yourself. My sources in Seoul tell me those fuckers are eating each other up there, things are so bad. Cannibalism man!
For God’s sake, where’s that chopper? This is a real mess you’ve landed me in this time, you sorry cocksucker. Yeah, I got your photos. And I’ll be putting them up your ass if I can smuggle them out of this distant Mongol outpost. The people who developed my shots from the party last night told me I could be “shot for subversive material” and then closed their doors and locked me out. Swine! Nobody ever said anything about all these commie rules! You lied to me, you evil bastard.
You said it was free Korean pussy and cheap island whiskey. The women here fear me. They call me Dimsum, which means “too big for life,” I think. Anyway, they ain’t putting out and I’m taking the first junk out of port. And just in case you need verification of my position in South Korea, I’m switching this keyboard over to its native language to let you have a look for yourself. Imagine trying to ride a Daewoo scoot in this fuckin’ madman traffic with street signs that look like this: ?*?*?????=???????”???*?????*?????????*?*????! There, what do you think of that? That’s the Korean alphabet and you can stick up your lying ass.
Balmy, I’ll show you balmy when I get back to the States. Balmy will be when your dump shed is burning down around your lying ass, that’ll be balmy all right. Oh and by the way, ???????*??! *?**?*??! That’s Korean for “You swim with the fishes.”
Zebra, Bikernet.com Far EastSeoul, Korea02.21.00
HARLEY-DAVIDSON ANNOUNCES TWO-FOR-ONE STOCK SPLIT AND QUARTERLY DIVIDEND: The Board of Directors today announced that it approved a two-for-one split of Harley-Davidson’s stock effective for shareholders of record on March 22 and payable on April 7. The Board of Directors also approved a quarterly cash dividend of 4.5 cents per share for shareholders of record on March 15 and payable on March 27.
Let’s celebrate. The sun is shinning, the stock is up, it’s time to ride.
A STORY ABOUT GRANDMA BANDIT Ol’ grandma Bandit wanted to join a biker club. She knocked on the door of a local biker club and a big, hairy, bearded biker with tattoos all over his arms answers the door. She proclaims, “I want to join your biker club.”
The guy was amused and told her that she needed to meet certain biker requirements before she was allowed to join. So they biker asks her, “You have a bike?”
The little old lady says, “Yeah, that’s my Harley over there” and points to a Harley parked in the driveway.
The biker asks her “Do you smoke?” The little old lady says
“Yea, I smoke. I smoke 4 packs of cigarettes a day and a couple of cigars while I’m shooting pool.”
The biker is impressed and asks “Well, have you ever been picked up by the Fuzz?”
The little old lady says “No, I’ve never been picked up by the fuzz, but I’ve been swung around by my nipples a few times.”
H-D VR 1000 Superbike Team Tests New Components Milwaukee (Feb. 22, 2000), The Harley-Davidson VR 1000 Superbike Team tested several new components at Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey, California, on Tuesday, February 15.
“The VR team continually designs, develops and tests new engine, chassis, suspension, electrical and drivetrain components,” said Team Manager Steve Scheibe. “We’ve had a busy off-season with an aggressive development schedule that enabled us to test several significant new parts before Daytona.”
The most visible of the new parts tested by the VR team at Laguna Seca was an all-new swingarm, which also required the modification of several key components, including the exhaust system, rear shock linkage, and bellypan. Riders Pascal Picotte and Scott Russell each tested VRs fitted with the new swingarm.
“We suspected we had a problem with the swingarm last season, which was particularly troublesome to Scott at certain tracks,” said Team Manager Steve Scheibe. “With his feedback, we redesigned the swingarm. Both riders reported improved handling with the new set up we tested last week.”
“The new setups we tested at Laguna were really, really good,” said Picotte. “The new swingarm and linkage improve traction and give better feedback.”
“I’m happy with the results of the test and happy with the new swingarm,” said Russell.
The Harley-Davidson VR 1000 Superbike Team will be testing today at Roebling Road Raceway in Savannah, Georgia.
WHY MEN ARE (JUSTIFIABLY) PROUD OF THEMSELVES
1. We know stuff about tanks
2. A 5-day trip requires only one suitcase
3. We can open all our own jars
4. We can go to the bathroom without a support group
5. We don’t have to learn to spell a new last name
6. We can leave a motel bed unmade
7. We can kill our own food
8. We get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness
9. Wedding plans take care of themselves
10. If someone forgets to invite us to something they can still be our friend
11. Underwear is $10 a three-pack
12. If you are 34 and single nobody notices
13. Everything on our face stays the original color
14. Three pair of shoes are more than enough
15. We don’t have to clean the house if the meter reader is coming
16. Car mechanics tell us the truth
17. We can sit quietly and watch a game with a friend for hours without thinking “He must be mad at me.”
18. Same work-more pay
19. Gray hair and wrinkles only add character
20. We can drop by and see a friend without having to bring a little gift
MICROSOFT AND HARLEY-DAVIDSON SET TO MERGE– The Board of Directors of the Microsoft Corporation, the world’s largest computer software provider, and the Harley-Davidson Motor Company, the world’s largest producer of V-Twin motorcycles [with push-rod engines, that go “Potato-Potato”], have voted to approve a merger that will create one of the world’s largest multi-national corporations.
“When you think about it, it only makes sense,” said Harley-Davidson Director of Communications Steve Piehl. “We both share the same fundamental design philosophies: Our products are large, antiquated, slow, full of bugs and break down at the most unexpected moments. We like to think of this natural marriage as synergy. Or syzygy. We’re not certain yet.”
Microsoft representatives declined to comment, pending a Justice Department review. However, incriminating e-mails will be available soon. There are rumors that senior executives see the merger as “One up the ass for that bastard Jobs.”
The new company will be known as Micro-Davidson and based neither in Redmond, Washington, nor Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but somewhere in between. Company representatives have been scouting sites along the Wyoming/South Dakota border. Instead of moving to an existing township, the cash-rich conglomerate plans to build its own. Micro-Davidson reps denied a rumor that they plan to petition Congress for statehood, but told Motorcycle on-line that buying a few counties is not out of the question. The Vatican City has expressed interest.
Currently in the works is an entirely new motorcycle model, the first from the new M-D. Named the MicroHog, the new cruiser will be powered by a brand new engine, the Twin Cam 95.1 – an air-cooled, push rod V-Twin containing an Intel Pentium III processor that will automatically load Internet Explorer 4.0 upon thumbing the starter button and overwrite all competing browsers while disabling most non-genuine Harley-Davidson parts.
Following Microsoft’s example, MicroHogs will not be owned outright by the purchaser, but rather licensed for personal use. Upgrades will be available, the price of which depends on the market. When upgraded, the bike will lose about 10mph off its top speed, unless you fit a new, much larger, gas tank.
HOG spokesman, Larry “Lardarse” McBigButt, said of the merger: “Y’all [incomprehensible] [distorted] [unprintable] [unintelligible], round heah, Boy!”
M-D’s software side will receive some pointers from the former Motor Company as well. “Instead of that soft, shrill squeak you hear when you boot your computer or open a new program, you will now hear a loud rumble and your keyboard will vibrate,” said Piehl. “And, of course, there will be a waiting list for the most popular programs.” It will now be possible to classify bugs as “character” and charge a premium for them. However, the moment you install your new software, you will be able to call in Screaming Eagle, who will fine tune it – by fitting an IMMENSE 300watt soundcard and BIG speakers.
You will have to work at your M-D workstation with your right leg cocked out at a ridiculous, child bearing angle, to clear the air intake for the CPU fan.
Fears have risen regarding the formation of the proposed high-low tech monolith. Software developers and aftermarket providers claim that the MicroHog’s design will not run competing programs or aftermarket accessories, effectively creating a monopoly in both personal computer operating systems and heavyweight cruiser motorcycles and accessories.
GREAT SITE We were recently in Florida serving food at festivals and different events. We had the opportunity to have as a patron at one of our festival sites, a biker from Ocala, FL. He and his lady enjoyed our food and asked us to cook for a bike run and 50th birthday bash for him. We did and I had a chance to meet some of the most patriotic Americans I have ever met in my 52 years on this planet!
Thanks, George Fry “Aunt Mamie’s BBQ” “Aunt Mamie’s Cajun Cuisine”
The Light Side Why don’t bunnies make noise when they make love? Because they have cotton balls.
Mom’s have Mother’s Day, Father’s have Father’s Day. What do single guys have? Palm Sunday
What does a 75-year-old woman have between her breasts? Her navel.
What’s the difference between a porcupine and a BMW? The porcupine has pricks on the outside.
What did the blonde say when she found out she was pregnant? “Are you sure it’s mine?”
Son of famed stuntman Evel Knievel– jumped a moving locomotive Wednesday in a 200-foot, ramp-to-ramp motorcycle stunt on live television.
An estimated 10,000 people gathered along the eastern Texas tracks to watch as Robbie Knievel took off on a motorcycle just before a Texas State Railroad locomotive plowed into the wooden ramp.
Knievel landed safely on the other side, then ran to the top of the ramp to wave to the crowd. “That was close,” he said, smiling and out of breath.
In a state that leads the nation in vehicle-railroad collisions, the stuntman offered several disclaimers before the jump. “Anybody out there that tries this is out of their mind,” the 37-year-old told the Palestine Herald-Press in Wednesday’s editions. Texas Railroad Commission Chairman Michael Williams asked Fox TV to show public-service announcements about train safety during the program because of fears the jump might trivialize the dangers. The agency says U.S. drivers are 40 times more likely to die in a collision with a train than in a crash with another vehicle.
“Robbie is a professional stuntman and this is not to suggest that anyone should try anything like this at home,” a Fox TV spokeswoman in Los Angeles, who declined to be identified, said Wednesday.
Dear Sirs, I would just like to write in and say how informative and interesting your site is. I especially like the tips on how to plant tulip bulbs in early spring. I would also say that you should write something about how to keep Girl Scouts from floating back to the surface when you bury them in the marshy soils of New Orleans. Yours, Martha Stewart
Kid Rock– nominated for Best New Artist and Best Hard Rock Performance, performed live at the 42nd annual Grammy Awards on Wednesday, February 23, and shared the spotlight with a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. After performing his nominated song, “Bawitdada,” and a cover of Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band,” Kid Rock left the stage in style aboard a 2000 Harley-Davidson FLHTCUI Ultra Classic Electra Glide with sidecar; http://www.grammy.com/grammycam/549.html Note: While I’d like to say Kid Rock’s Harley sidecar was the talk of the Grammys, sadly, it was not. It was just too hard to top the outstanding performance by Jennifer Lopez.
BURNIN’ DAYLIGHT UPDATE #2: Week two of the making of “Burning Daylight, L.A.” is well under way in Los Angeles and as near as this reporter can tell, nobody has slept since the filming began almost fourteen days ago. As we spoke last week, Zebra was seriously injured when a woman blew a stop sign in an SUV and nailed him as he blasted north on Pacific Coast Highway. The SUV T-boned Zebra at roughly 50 miles an hour and threw him across the highway, where he was then struck again by a truck traveling in the other direction. The Streetstalker was wrapped up in a tow truck sling, its pieces swept into a sack and thrown on the back and dragged off to Bartel’s Harley-Davidson in Marina Del Rey. Zebra was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital and X-rayed for cranial and neck injuries. He was later released with a fractured skull, a fractured elbow and a severe concussion and with orders to remain in bed for at least a week and to check back in with the doctors every day. Of course, Bandit immediately had a new scoot under the at-times incoherrent Zebra and the show went on. After a savage dose of straight jack Daniel’s, Zebra was feeling less like a busted mess and more like a biker again. Zebra also sustained a serious dent where his H&K .45 was rammed into his side sometime during the crash. A few hours after Zebra’s release from the emergency room, Bandit was arrested after a grudge race spawned by Zebra’s chiding during a drinking session at a biker bar in Long Beach. It seemed as if they’d gotten away with the mad run across the harbor, hitting speeds in exess of 120 miles an hour through town, but as they neared Bandit’s hilltop casa, a swarm of heavily armed San Pedro cops and Port Police descneded upon the entire cast and crew. Both ends of the street were quickly filled with nervous cops and sideways squad cars. There was initial talk of taking director, Marko, to jail as well, but with some fancy lying and a solid poker face, the Destroyer was able to keep himself out of the can with a warning for filming without permits. His expired Florida plates on his unregistered ’81 Vette, which he was using to keep up with the hopped-up scoots for filming, didn’t help matters. Bandit got popped for no insurance, expired plates, and a host of other violations, including drag racing, speeding, reckless endangerment, resisting arrest and threatening a police officer (“I’ll feed you your own nuts in your wife’s skull.”) Zebra managed to keep himself out of bracelets by slicing thorugh the oncoming roadblock and blowing off into the hills just as the net closed. Luckily Zebra got away clean and was able to make Bandit’s bail with the money from the nude photo shoot, which he and Bandit had loaned their motorccycles to do earlier in the day. Of course this leaves the lads short for the money to throw the party, but the accounting doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone as they charge ahead through the mud, the blood and the beer. I frankly don’t see them ever living long enough to finish the project, but we’ll keep you posted. Joseph Smithee, film correspondent at large, reporting for Bikernet.com Week Two, “Burnin’ Daylight, L.A.”
IN CLOSING– A storm blew through here last night, knocked all my shit off the deck, had me duckin’ for cover. In the rain Harry Fisher and I discussed the history and the future of the Victor McLaglen Motor Corp in an interview for Hot Rod Bikes magazine. I received a call from Indian, and I may be interviewing one of the new heads of that company. We’ll pry away at their direction and find out what’s going on. I also may be talking chopper lingo and shit with one of the founders of our wild era, Ed “Big Daddy” Roth.
It was good to see the industry smiling in Indy, good to crack a couple of ribs on the go-cart track, good to meet new people and see what’s up. Don’t forget to drop Rip’s family a card, e-mail that sonuvabitch John Reed, and ride like she’s finally waiting for you. When you’re finally at her side, treat her like she’s the only woman on earth.
Ride forever, Bandit
Feb 17, 2000
By Bandit |
E-Mail ValerieWhat’s up? Hell, I wish I knew. The sun decided to break out of theclouds, the Street Stalker is repaired, I’ve got parts being dipped inchrome for the Excelsior-Henderson, and I’m trying to fix the rubbing reartire on the Touring chopper, before I smoke the entire paint job, with thehelp of modified shocks from Works Performance.
You’ll notice we have a couple of construction sites going for S&Sand Daytec. More fiction should be up shortly. Finally this week should seethe Bartels’ Sportster Performance tech launched, and if the stars are inproper alignment, we’ll see “Snake’s Projector Room” come alive. That is,if the good Dr. Dewey is awake and functioning.
Ah, but there’s always something new at bikernet. Yes, the agentZebra has come up with an evil plot for the future. A competition betweenbikernet east and bikernet west. We are both building rigid choppers toride to Sturgis this year. On the way out and while we’re romping andstomping from one party to the next we will be collecting votes as to whichchop in the coolest. It might be which chop makes it, but I know mine willwith flying colors. Hell, I rode a Jesse James chop to the Badlands in ’97(see West Coast Choppers). You’ll be able to watch both bikes come togetherright hear on bikernet. Zebra’s is being built by Choppers Inc. inMelbourne, Florida. We’ve even got the girls involved. We’ll have a babehawking votes in the Badlands, one is here finding Mardi Gras beads to giveto voters, and Zebra is trying to steal parts from me as we speak. Shit,it’s only February, I don’t want to think about it.
Oh, and I promise to have Sam “Orwell” printed and on the streetsin a month, well, maybe six weeks. Listen, anyone want to buy my Excelsioror a ’46 Indian chief to help me out. That’s it, let’s get to the news.
Before we get to the meat of things, the following is an example ofhow this tight unit of creative heads works:
Bandit,We need to get a page on the homepage called “The GreatChopper Showdown”, with a sub reading, “Bandit and Zebra go tire to tire.”Inside there will be a Towle special showing you and I, on a stage,standing proudly next to our opposing, gleaming choppers. We should bothlook very defiant and proud. One side should read, “Bikernet.com West”,one “Bikernet.com East”. Then copy which I will write, will tell thebikers what’s going down and how to vote at Sturgis. See if you can getour whinny digital bitch to do this sometime before Sturgis.
Zebra
Dear ScumTowle, We’re having a contest to see who can buildthe “Baddest” chopper for Sturgis. We are going to have the bikers vote atSturgis. We need ballots. You are hereby ordered to cease with thesodomization of your niece and craft something which can be torn in themiddle, one end dropped into a ballet box, the other a heavenly keepsakewhich the biker can retain and rub against his balls on those cold lonelynights when the dope runs out and the demons come calling. Copy:(HEADER)BIKERNET CHOPPER SHOWDOWN VOTING TICKET(LEFT END) Slash along dotted line,put this end in the ballot box of the chopper of your choice. (RIGHT END)Keep this end to rub on your balls (tits) during the cold, lonely nightswhen your dope runs out and the demons come calling.
There also needs to be some sort of visual of Bandit and I standing nextto opposing, gleaming choppers. By the way, send my fuckin’ picture back tomy Miami (bikernet east) address toot sweet: I’m getting lots of staticfrom the old lady. Get cracking mo-fo.
P.S. I got chunks of guys like you in my shit.
Zebra
Now, that’s creative pussy-whipped genius at work. And now for the news:
IT’S LOVE BETWEEN FORMER COCA COLA PRESIDENT AND INDIAN–The board of directors of the Indian Motorcycle Company(R) announcedthe appointment of Henry Schimberg as the executive chairman of the IndianMotorcycle Company.
Schimberg, the recently retired president and CEO of Coca-ColaEnterprises Inc. (NYSE:CCE) — a Fortune 200 company and the world’slargest marketer, producer and distributor of beverages of The Coca-ColaCo. — is among the group of investors responsible for the rebirth of theIndian Motorcycle Company over the past year. Schimberg’s appointment wasannounced during a financial presentation at the Pierre Hotel in Manhattan.
“Henry Schimberg has had an exceptional career in the beverageindustry, building both companies and their brands,” said Indian MotorcycleCompany President Rey Sotelo in describing Schimberg’s role at Indian. “Welook forward to having Henry as a key leader and mentor of our managementteam.”
Schimberg said: “I feel success is determined by defining theoperational culture within a company and motivating its employees towardthe achievement of stated goals. I am looking to establish this consistencyof purpose with all departments and personnel at Indian.”
Schimberg returns to the boardroom and workplace after some sixweeks in retirement. A career-long veteran of the soft drink and bottlingindustry, Schimberg started his career as a driver-salesman for Royal CrownBottling Co. of Chicago. He rapidly advanced to management and executivepositions, and became president and COO of Johnston Coca-Cola BottlingGroup in 1982, a position he retained when it merged with Coca-ColaEnterprises. He was elected president and CEO in 1998.
UGLY JOKES–Which sexual position produces the ugliest children? Ask your mom.
How do you know when you’re REALLY ugly? Dogs hump your leg with theireyes closed.
What is the quickest way to clear out a men’s restroom? Say, “Nicedick.”
How do you know you’re leading a sad life? When a nymphomaniac tellsyou, “Let’s just be friends.”
V-TWIN HOLDINGS ANNOUNCED– it has reached a definitiveagreement to acquire five Bikers Dream motorcycle superstores, rights to theBikers Dream license at 16 independent Bikers Dream dealerships, and theBikers-Dream.com web site from Bikers Dream, Inc.(Nasdaq: BIKR) in atransaction valued at approximately $3.5 million. V-Twin said theacquisition is a significant advance in its strategy to be the leading motorcycle portalfor consumers and dealers alike.V-Twin intends to build a nationwide motorcycling business that combinesa strong retail network with customer affinity groups, e-commerce, directmarketing and on-line business-to-business services for dealers.
BikersDream will become a cornerstone of V-Twin’s activities in the “heavy cruiser”category. Herm Rosenman, Chairman and CEO of Bikers Dream, Inc., will lendhis experience and expertise to the growing company by becoming a Directorof the Board of V-Twin. The transaction will be accounted for as an assetpurchase, is planned to close later this month, and is subject to closingadjustments.
Bikers Dream superstores sell and service high quality heavy cruisersincluding Ultra Motorcycles, other U.S.-manufactured ‘customs’ and pre-ownedHarley-Davidsons in Santa Ana, San Diego and Sacramento, California; Dallas,Texas; and Conover, North Carolina. In addition to these five owneddealerships, V-Twin is acquiring rights to the Bikers Dream brand name whichis licensed by 16 dealers in 14 states that operate under the “Bikers Dream”
For additional information visit V-Twin’s web site athttp://www.vtwin.net, or contact: Lisa LaMagna, LaMagna Communications,Inc.,lamagna@mindspring.com, 516-668-4979; or contact Richard Paone, President,V-Twin Holdings, richpaone@aol.com, 212-539-0768.
REFLECTIONS–Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. ThenI look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all oftheir hopes and dreams. If I didn’t drink this beer, they might be out ofwork, and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, “It isbetter that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than to beselfish & worry about my liver.” Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk.That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. Time is never wasted when you’rewasted all the time. Reality is an illusion that occurs due to lack ofalcohol.Drinking provides a beautiful excuse to pursue the one activity that trulygives me pleasure, hooking up with fat, hairy girls. When I read about theevils of drinking, I gave up reading. Life is a waste of time, time is awaste of life, so get wasted all of the time, and have the time of your life.
ZEBRA CALLING RED MOTHER Do you read, Red Mot(radio dropout)?R(radio dropout)other, this is Zebra, do yo(radio dropout)ead, over? Ifyou are receiving this transmission, all is well in The Republic ofGlamour. Have established a beach head in Miami Beach, South Beach to beexact. Resistance was light, after a brief firefight with local insurgentsI managed to plant the bikernet.com flag in firm soil- just add water,makes its own sauce.
A gay dress maker complained that he held a lease orsome such nonsense on the region I colonized, but I dispatched him with afirm boot in the ass. I last saw the buggered lout heading north, weeping.Casualties were light, but much ordinance was expended and it could takesome time to rebuild relations with the folks who underestimated the powerof my herbal teas- which I passed out on arrival.
Have made contact withBilly Lane at Choppers Inc., in Melbourne. Construction to begin on ElTorro Zebra at once. Lane says entire motorcycle frame will be hewn fromtightly spun virgin vagina hair. The jugs will be commie femur bored out to100 inches.
By the way, Lane is a savage dope fiend and we shouldpublicize this extensively. My sources tell me he mainlines China White byinjecting it directly into the eyeball with a rusty rake tine. He also hasan addiction to chrome cleaner vapors, which is very hush, hush.
Forhandle bars we’ve decided to use the horns from an old bucking bull friendof mine, Widowmaker. Need a gardener. Please send the Chinaman immediately.Pussy count here is high, repeat, pussy count is high. This beach istopless, mister- no surprises. You should arrange a journey to our eastmostoutpost ASAP. Don’t expect much writing for the first six to eight months.In fact, you’re lucky I’m writing at all, considering the quality ofsupermodel tail strolling around with their knockers out. Come to think ofit, why am I writing to you at all? Over and out.
Zebra, reporting fromThe Republic of Glamour, Bikernet.com/east
THREE COPORATE LESSON TO LIVE BY:Lesson Number One: A crow was sitting on a tree, doing nothing all day. Asmall rabbit saw the crow, and asked him, “Can I also sit like you and donothing all day long?”
The crow answered: Sure, why not.” So, the rabbit sat on the groundbelow the crow, and rested. All of a sudden, a fox appeared, jumped on therabbit and ate it. Moral of the story is: To be sitting and doing nothing,you must besitting very, very high up.
Lesson Number Two: A turkey was chatting with a bull. “I would love to be able to get to the top of that tree,” sighed the turkey, “but I haven’t got the energy.”
“Well, why don’t you nibble on some of my droppings?” replied the bull.”They’re packed with nutrients.” The turkey pecked at a lump of dung and found that it actually gave him enough strength to reach thefirst branch of the tree. The next day, after eating some more dung, hereached the second branch. Finally after a fortnight, there he was proudlyperched at the top of the tree. Soon he was promptly spotted by a farmer,who shot the turkey out of the tree.
Moral of the story: Bull shit might get you to the top, but it won’tkeep you there.
Lesson Number Three:A little bird was flying south for the winter. It was so cold, the birdfroze and fell to the ground in a large field. While it was lying there,a cow came by and dropped some dung on it. As the frozen bird lay therein the pile of cow dung, it began to realize how warm it was. The dungwas actually thawing him out! He lay there all warm and happy, and soonbegan to sing for joy. A passing cat heard the bird singing and came toinvestigate. Following the sound, the cat discovered the bird under thepile of cow dung, and promptly dug him out and ate him!The morals of this story are:
1) Not everyone who drops shit on you is your enemy.
2) Not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend.
3) And when you’re in deep shit, keep your mouth shut.ROBBIE KNIEVEL PLANS TO LAUNCH HIS ALL OVER A MOVING TRAIN– Yesit’s true, the motorcycle daredevil will stand tall against a 1917 steamengine at Texas State Railroad State Historical Park during a prime timenational telecast on F. 23 on FOX. Yeah, he’s actually going for it. Jesus!
ILLITERATE? WRITE, TODAY, FOR HELP–
Auto Repair Service. Free pick-up and delivery. Try us once, You’llnever go anywhere again.
Our experienced Mom will care for your child. Fenced yard, meals andsacks included.
Dog for sale: eats anything and fond of children.
Man wanted to work in dynamite factory. Must be willing to travel.
Stock up and save. Limit: one.
Semi-annual After-Christmas sale.
3-year old teacher needed for pre-school. Experience preferred.
Mixing bowl set designed to please a cook with round bottom for efficient beating.
Dinner special -Turkey $2.25; Chicken or beef $2.25; Children $2.00.
BIKERS DREAM ANNOUNCES SOMETHING–Sales of new motorcycles from the company’s Ultra Motorcyclemanufacturing plant for January 2000 were up 51% over the comparable periodin 1999. This represents a 38% increase in the number of units shipped. Theincrease reflects increased demand for the company’s products, improvedcapacity and manufacturing efficiencies and the introduction of a new model.
This new model represents an industry first for an establishedmanufacturer, with its standard 113 cubic inch motor and 230 millimeterrear tire.
In connection with a lawsuit brought against Bikers Dream and twoformer members of its management by a former franchisee, verdicts wererecently rendered against the defendants. There are several post-trialmotions that are pending, including one seeking a new trial. Until thesemotions are decided by the court, no judgment will be entered against thedefendants. Rulings favorable to the company on these motions would result inpayment by the company of approximately $70,000, which it will not dispute.If the motions are not decided in favor of the company, it will appeal theremainder of the judgment, which may total approximately $600,000. Thecompany believes it has a sound basis for appeal, although no assurancescan be given.
BRIGHT-GUY AWARDS– In September in Detroit, a 41-year-old man got stuck and drowned in two feet of water after squeezing head first through an 18-inch-wide sewergrate to retrieve his car keys.
In October, a 49-year-old San Francisco stockbroker, who “totally zoned out when he ran,” according to his wife, accidentally jogged off a200-foot-high cliff on his daily run.
Buxton, NC: A man died on a beach when an 8-foot-deep hole he had dug into the sand caved in as he sat inside it. Beachgoers said Daniel Jones, 21, dug the hole for fun, or protection from the wind, and had been sitting in a beach chair at the bottom Thursday afternoon when it collapsed, burying him beneath 5 feet of sand. People on the beach, on the outer banks, used their hands and shovels, trying to claw their way to Jones, a resident of Woodbridge, VA, but could not reach him. It took rescue workers using heavy equipment almost an hour to free him while about 200 people looked on. Jones was pronounced dead at a hospital.
ALTERNATORS FOR PANHEADS–The following is tech advise on runningan aftermarket alternator on a generator motor. They put out the juice likea thunderstorm over the rockies, but there are some obstacles includingboiling small displacement batteries. The alternator will do that with oneof the puny 5.5A batteries, like I used to run. The regulator overchargesthem. I went to a 12A (you can use a14A of the same series, too). I had to cobble up a wood & metal spacer toraise the battery in the oil tank since the overflow wouldn’t fit downinside. (The rest of the battery clears by about 1/4-inch on each side.)
Then I used a cheap, but dense, computer mouse pad to protect the sidesof the battery and built a spacer for the front. The spacer allows me to easilyremove the battery while holding it secure while I ride. To limit up anddown travel under the seat, I used wood and the mouse pad material to builda tapered spacer that fits perfectly without applying any unnecessarydown force on the battery.
Like I said, right now, the battery supportsystem is not pretty–kinda looks like a prototype setup–but it worksslicker than snot. And that alternator hasn’t given me a lick of trouble,either.
The above info came from a bikernet reader, who is working on a completetech on installing alternators to generator motors–watch for it.
ZEBRA GOES INSANE–AT LAST–Dullard, I can imagine how frightening it must be for you to consider thefact that I shall soon have a motorcycle, El Zebra Torro, constructed byChoppers Inc., which will be far superior to anything which you have everridden in both horsepower and flair. Which is no doubt why you are tryingto sabotage it out of the gate by requesting such laughable reductions suchas a 180 back tire rather than the 300 which I initially requested anddropping the engine size from a respectable 200 inches to a wheezing 98.
How I chortle at your weak attempts to outrun me on the way toSturgis. Even with your 3000 mile head start (I shall be blasting off fromthe Republic of Glamour Bikernet.com East Coast outpost in South Beach), Ishall still soundly demolish you by arriving well ahead of your sputteringtricycle, you abysmal dink.
I hope you know that you will bebuying everything in Sturgis this year as well and do try to constructsomething that won’t pale when ridden next to our east coast chopper.
Give Jesse James plenty of breathing room to build a motorcycle of classand keep your female notions to yourself until he is done. Then try not tobuck off. Jesse seems to favor big horsepower from what I can tell. Thegauntlet is thrown. We shall let the people decide.
At Sturgis weshall put both bikernet.com choppers on display. Whichever bike isselected as “Baddest” by popular vote, shall also belong to the victor ofbills. In short, the loser pays the other guy’s expenses for the entiretrip. Good luck, scourge, and I suggest you start saving your penniesnow. Zebra, The Republic of Glamour, bikernet.com east, Miami Beach
ARLEN NESS BACKS VICTORY–Arlen built and rode a Victory customto Sturgis last year. It had the styling of one of his luxury liners. He’salso building a line of accessories for the thundering V-Twin built byPolaris, famous for snow-mobiles. Arlen and his son Cory are now offeringthe Victory line out of their shop in San Leandro, California.
People think Arlen is some kind of uppity yuppie, but he’s beenbuilding choppers since he was a mailman. Don’t let the flash get in theway of meeting one hell of a guy, and my bro Cory. Just hard workin’ folkslovin’ what they do.
Finally, one more thing on Victory. You don’t need to catch a train forthe Pacific coast to purchase a Victory, but you know, if you bought onefrom Arlen, he could make it look like no other. The news is that Victorynow has 300 authorized dealers throughout 49 states and the company willbegin establishing dealers across Canada this year. Watch for ’em near you.
Thanks for the note back– still miss you not being in ER. But gofor it, man. How’s Chopper Orwell coming along can’t wait to buy a copy. I lovedOutlawJustice and Prize Possession were great, and your web site isgreat.
In fact, I think I may be able to find my next scoot in your classifieds. Rightnow I have a 74 sporty will be looking for a 90’s FXR or Dyna, bye for now.
As you would say–ride forever,Your Bro in the wind, Andy Plavny( Peechsteel@ aol.com)
IN CLOSING–I’ll wrap this up with a thought for the day. If youdo what you love, everything will fall into place. I recently went to ascreening of “Pitch Black”, a fast-paced sci-fi adventure movie. Afterwardsthe director talked to the audience and took questions. I was curious’cause of the film projects we’re involved with. He made a point ofmentioning that it took him six years before he was able to produce hisfirst movie. It probably took Arlen six years before he made enough coinbuilding bikes, to drop his day job at the Post office.
I’m fortunate enough to be able to do what I love every minute ofthe day which includes riding, writing and tinkering with bikes. Lifecouldn’t be better.
All the material above doesn’t flow from my big floppy ears, muchof it comes from readers, and I want ’em to know I appreciated every joke,tech tip, or comment. That is except for the sand-snorting wanna-be tied toa chair in a warehouse in the Port of Maimi, while Cuban drug lords torturehim, for trying to molest their daughters as they walk home from school. Ikeep praying for cement shoes for Agent Zebra.
Ah, but ya can’t have everything.–Ride forever.
Bandit
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A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing Part 1
By Bandit |
Take a good look at this lead shot, then compare it with the finished engine at the end of the article. You’ll find no difference, and there lies the slick work by the magicians at JIMS. They’ve managed to stuff one hundred and six cubic inches into a stock case, using the stock bore, and we’re going to tell you how they did it!
To give you all a good look at what composes this kit JIMS R&D department laid out to the whole package for us to take a shot of.
Pay special attention to the oilers at the bottom of the picture, we’ll talk about them more later. These flywheels are completely redesigned and utilize aerospace quality 4140 forged steel. The pistons are also JIMS design and are also aerospace quality 4032 high silicon aluminum alloy. All assemblies come pre-balanced and ready for installation.
We gotta figure that if you’re gonna try this at home you already know how to get your engine out of the frame, so we’re going to focus on the bench work. We started breaking down the stock engine by pulling apart the cam case.
(You’ll find complete instructions on twin cam installation elsewhere on Bikernet’s JIMS site.) Then the cases can be split without removing the alternator.
JIMS tool number 1047TP makes this a snap.
While we encourage you to use new bearings, if you’re going to keep your old ones you’ve got to pull them off your old flywheels.
Now is a good time to take a look at JIMS oilers.
You can easily see the difference in the clearance necessary to miss the pistons on their downstroke. These oilers must be installed properly, the screws and there holes must be cleaned with Locktite primer before being assembled.
We took this shot of one of JIMS oilers, on the left, installed next to a stock oiler to really give you a clear look at the difference.
OK, now we’re getting to the good stuff.
We heat the bearings to facilitate their installation on the sprocket shaft, using JIMS tool number 97225-55 shown below.
The flywheel assembly is then placed in a holding fixture and the primary side case is mounted and the bearing clearance checked.
At this time we took a second to check the piston skirt downstroke clearance.
The other case half is prepared with sealer…
….and, using a seal protector….
….it is fitted to its other half. The case bolts are now installed and torqued.
The oil pump is reinstalled….
….and the twin cam assembly put in place.
BikerNet Fiction: The Set-Up by Jon Juniman
By Bandit |
Part I |
Francis “Ace” Calhoun awoke with the fear, accompanied by guilt, which was a bit odd. It wasn’t that Ace didn’t have plenty to feel guilty about. In his 32 years, he had been involved in as much debauchery as any 10 pimps or con men. He had slept with his best friend’s wife and his wife’s best friend. He’d gotten the clap from his boss’ daughter and given it to his daughter’s boss. Then, of course, there had been that notorious, drug-addled day back in ’87 when he’d stolen 23 cars. But none of this had ever bothered Ace before because he viewed morals in much the same way he viewed underwear — he knew they existed, but he?d never understood why others considered them necessary. It’s not that Ace was immoral in the traditional sense. It’s just that morals had simply never occurred to him, and he lived in a world where consequences were like getting caught in the rain — it just happened sometimes, and not necessarily as a result of anything you did. To Ace, the world contained two kinds of people, Ace and not-Ace, and he had no doubt about who existed to serve whom. Nonetheless, there it was, that itching sensation, accompanied by a premonition that retribution was at hand and that the hammer was about to come down. Fortunately, however, there was the ever-present hip flask of JD to stupefy that one rebellious nerve ending that refused to vibrate in synch with the larger picture of Ace’s persona. He took a mighty swig, pulled on a crusty pair of jeans and shambled stiffly out to the garage of the dingy apartment in which he stayed (under a phony name, of course). The garage was where The Beast lived… Ace’s bike was a dozen bad ideas all rolled into one. From the “Easy Rider” front-end to the worked 96 ci Evo engine, it cornered like shit and tried to power-wheelie every chance it got. It looked like a collision between a chopper and a medieval weapons locker; hand-made parts (including the hardtail frame) had been hack sawed and flame-cut with the jagged edges and sharp points left on. But once you got it up around 80, it was 520 pounds of pure, smooth hell, and there weren’t many vehicles on the road that could catch it in a straight line. Ace straddled the monstrosity, wrestled it upright and thumbed the huge engine to life. Minutes later, he was out on the open road, rolling down the pre-dawn highway, thoughts of divine retribution far behind him. With a little luck, he would cross the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey before the yuppies were even out of bed, then cut across to Wildwood and the HOG rally. Aaah, the HOG rally, where beer flowed like a river and the women (not coincidentally) looked mighty fine. Ace had his knees in the wind, the rumble in his ears, and was feeling like the king of the world. Glancing in the rear view mirror, he suddenly noticed that he had picked up one of those inevitable tailgaters who won’t give you any space and refuse to pass. Annoyed, Ace eased the throttle open. Seventy and the tailgater still hung in there. At 80 mph he began to fall away. Slowly, Ace’s irritability faded and the peaceful feeling of the open road returned. Then he saw the flashing red and blue lights. Shit! The goddamn cop didn’t even see the tailgater. (Or else he did, but hell, why hassle a taxpaying citizen when you can bust a big bad biker instead?) In any case, there was nothing to do but wrap the throttle around and hope for the best. Ace was wanted in at least a half-dozen states, and the bike had so many stolen parts in it that it was practically a rolling felony. At 120 mph, the cop was still hanging on. Ace was practically blind in spite of his shoplifted wraparound Ray-Bans. The wind-scream was deafening and the tears that streamed from his eyes evaporated even before they reached his ears. The pavement sped by in a blur and hard-shelled bugs impacted against his face and jacket like shots from a BB gun. At this speed, there was no margin for error. Everything, from a discarded beer bottle to a patch of oil, represented a life-threatening hazard. Then the engine began to cough and sputter, and Ace knew that he was really fucked… The high-speed chase came to an inglorious end as Ace coasted unceremoniously to the side of the road. In his rear view mirror, he could see the cop getting out of his cruiser with his revolver drawn, but the cop seemed to have understood at once what had happened, and Ace thought that he could see him laughing. The cop strolled over to Ace with no real sense of urgency, but nevertheless pointing the gun at Ace’s back. There was no point in even getting off the bike. Ace kept both hands on the ape-hanger handlebars where the cop could see them. No sense compounding his miseries by getting shot. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em!” the cop shouted. “Do you understand that it is a crime to run from an officer of the- ” “Yeah, yeah,” Ace replied, cutting him off. “You got me. Shit, I’m guilty as sin, why argue?” The cop smiled. For the first time, Ace noticed that he was dealing with a mean, pig-eyed fellow with a missing tooth, who was obviously enjoying the opportunity to humiliate a biker. The cop relaxed and stopped pointing the gun directly at Ace, although he didn’t put it back in the holster either. He eyed Ace up and down for what seemed like a very long time, as though carefully weighing some kind of decision. Finally, he said, “This can go down two ways. First way is I bust you for leading police on a high-speed chase, reckless endangerment, resisting arrest and anything else I can find when I check for outstanding warrants.” Ace inhaled deeply. Far away in the foggy extreme of his memory he remembered his grandmother saying that if you’re going to eat with the devil, you need a very long spoon. “What’s the other way?” he asked. “The other way,” replied the cop, “is I do somethin’ for you, and you do somethin’ for me.” He scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Ace. It said, ?Holiday Inn, 2831 Roosevelt Blvd., Rm. 254, 8:30 p.m.? “And just to make sure you’re a man of your word,” said the cop, “I’m impounding your bike.” * * * Ace stood on the pavement outside the gray monolith that was the Holiday Inn and looked at it for a long time. There seemed to be no doubt that whatever was about to go down would be something he would later regret. The only alternative, though, was to let the pig have his precious bike that he?d built, piece by piece, with his very own hands, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. Steeling himself, he took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt into the gutter and walked inside. Once in the lobby, Ace was aware that his long hair, beard and tattoos were drawing stares from the people behind the desk. Trying to look nonchalant, he strode over to the elevator, punched the “up” button and stepped inside. Getting off at the second floor, he walked down the hall toward room 254. He paused a moment, wondering what sort of heinous trouble was almost certainly waiting for him inside. Then he knocked. The door opened just a crack, but nobody beckoned him in. Whoever was on the other side of the door obviously didn’t want to be seen or identified. Ace pushed the door open and walked in. He was instantly struck in the face by a powerful halogen light that reduced the rest of the unlit room to jagged shadows. Some unseen figure clicked the door shut behind him and there were two silhouettes standing on the other side of the light. “You’re late,” rasped one of the figures. The voice belonged to Officer Pig. “Yeah, well, I had to take the goddamn bus to get here,? Ace replied. “Would you mind turning that fuckin’ thing off?” “Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Calhoun,” said another voice, which carried a hint of Spanish accent. “But it would be to our mutual benefit for you to remain ignorant of our identities.” The voice was low, resonant and smooth as aged brandy. “OK, enough of this X-Files crap,” said Ace. “You wanted me here. I’m here. What the hell do you want?” “A proposition, Mr. Calhoun,” said Mr. Smooth. “We have a job to offer you. We want you to drive a tractor-trailer from Mexico City to California. Of course, we would not expect you to accept our proposal merely to recover your motorcycle. The job pays $50,000 upon your arrival in the United States.” “If I refuse, I suppose you’re gonna put me in jail?” “Oh no, Mr. Calhoun. It’s much too late for that. Should you refuse us, by the time they find you, your own mother won’t recognize your remains.” Ace thought about this. He had considerable experience with posers and wannabe tough guys who tried to bluff their way through confrontations. Whoever Mr. Smooth was, he didn’t sound like one of them. “What’s in the truck?” asked Ace, as if he didn’t know. “That information is only available on a need-to-know basis,” replied Mr. Smooth. “However, I will tell you that there will be 10 drivers. Of the 10, nine will be decoys carrying crates of coffee. Only one will be carrying the actual merchandise, and none of the drivers will know whether he himself is a decoy. So you see, the risk is minimal, and the rate of payment is quite good.” Ace thought about the potential mess he was getting himself into, but the lure of the 50 grand was too great. “I’ll do it,” he said, “but I want half up front. And I want my bike back.” From the shadows, Mr. Smooth chuckled. * * * The following day, Ace cruised down a deserted country road, which is where he liked to go to think. Right now the hamster wheel in his head was turning even higher rpm?s than his engine, pondering this incredible turn of events. Mr. Smooth had, of course, refused to give Ace the 25 grand up front. He had, at least, returned the bike, which Ace had had to tow back to his garage to fix the traitorous son of a bitch. At any rate, Mr. Smooth was clearly not a man to be trusted, and just as clearly not a man to be crossed. It was not all that hard to believe that even a medium-sized drug kingpin would be willing to pay half a million dollars to his drivers; an 18-wheeler full of coke would surely make the half mil look like chump change. The question was, what was the real chance of Ace ending up with the hot truck? On the one hand, Ace was a fairly conspicuous person, so it would probably make more sense for him to be a decoy. On the other hand, since he was the new guy, he was expendable. Hell, they might just reward him by riddling him with bullets when he got to California, if he got to California. Although it was likely that the other drivers had been recruited in much the same way, and Mr. Smooth couldn’t damn well kill them all… Round and round he went, like a dog chained to a $50,000 stake, knowing that it was a bad idea but nevertheless unable to let go of the thought of all that green. One thing was certain, though: Mr. Smooth had Ace at a definite disadvantage, and Officer Pig was probably the key to figuring out the identity of Mr. Smooth. Ace slowed the bike to a halt, walked it around a Mack-truck-sized U-turn, then twisted the throttle and roared back home. * * * An hour later, Ace impatiently paced his apartment like a caged animal, a ringing telephone clamped tightly to his ear. After what seemed like an eternity, a voice answered on the other end. “Hello?” “Hey Buzzard, it’s Ace.” “What’s up, bro?” “You’re not gonna believe this…” Ace briefly recounted the incredible tale of the last 24 hours. “So whatcha gonna do?” “Well,” Ace replied, “for starters I want to figure out who the pig is. Can Scratch still hack his way into the cops’ personnel records?” “Sure. They ain’t changed their password in five years.” “Good,? Ace replied. “We’re looking for a fat cop, about 50, with small eyes set close together.” “Hate ta tell ya this, bro, but that don’t narrow it down much.” “Our man’s also missing a front tooth on the left side.” “OK,” replied Buzzard. “I’ll getta holda Scratch. We probably shouldn’t talk about this over the phone. Meet me at Gino’s tonight at 9 and I’ll tell ya what we dug up.” “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.” * * * Ace pulled up to Gino’s Bar and Grill, a run-down dive in a dilapidated section of town. He could see Buzzard’s ’53 Panhead chopper parked out front and he eased his own bike up next to it. He sat there, letting the big beast rumble between his legs for just a moment before hitting the kill switch and flicking the kickstand down with the well-worn heel of his left boot. The honky-tonk blare of the jukebox, the clacking of balls on the pool table and the raucous laughter of barroom banter wafted through the closed door and out into the moonlit night. Ace dismounted, clicked the fork lock into place and clumped up the short flight of rickety wooden stairs that led to the front door. Ace pushed the door open and scanned the dark, smoky room for Buzzard?s lanky form. Sure enough, there he was, drinking a beer and smoking a fat cigar in a booth near the back door, and right on the dot of 9. Old Buzzard was as reliable as ever. Ace felt somehow comforted by this. Big Dave nodded a silent greeting to Ace from behind the bar and, without waiting to be asked, poured a tall, frosty mug of Guinness Stout. Ace slid into the booth with Buzzard, and Big Dave sent the beer over with the new waitress, a tender little blonde with pouty lips and lobotomy eyes. Ace could tell at once that the news was bad by the grave look on Buzzard’s bearded, leathery face. He waited for the waitress to get out of earshot and said, “That bad?” “Worse,” Buzzard replied. “The pig’s name is Scanlan. Tom Scanlan. See, Scratch figured he’d talk to Snoop ’cause Snoop knows everybody. Turns out Snoop knew a guy that was once recruited by Scanlan, an’ he barely escaped with his ass in one piece. Anyway, the guy says that Scanlan’s on the payroll of an outfit that smuggles coke fer a Colombian cartel. Whenever they make a run from Mexico to California, they divide the real goods between 10 or 20 trucks, not ta put all their eggs in one basket. Those trucks are driven by clean-cut sorta guys who can usually make it past customs. Then they recruit another 20 or so decoys ta draw the heat, mostly high-profile types like ex-cons with swastika tattoos and grunge kids with long hair an’ nose rings.” “And outlaw bikers,” added Ace. “What happens to the decoys when they get to the States?” “Most a’ them don’t get to the States,” Buzzard replied. “The bosses plant just enough dope in the trucks to get the drivers busted. They get picked up at the border fer possession of contraband or some bullshit like that, an’ then they rot forever in some Mexican hell-hole of a jail. The few that do make it back are paid with a bullet in the back a’ the head, an’ then dumped in the river. That’s why they use outlaws an’ derelicts fer the job; nobody misses ’em when they disappear. Best thing you could do is disappear right now; go ta Canada or someplace an’ lay low fer a while.” “That would be the safe and smart thing to do,” Ace agreed. “But it ain’t what you’re gonna do,” said Buzzard, reading the malicious smile that spread slowly across Ace’s lips. “Hell,” said Ace, “I was riding along, minding my own business. I just wanted to get that tailgater off my ass, and next thing I know some asshole with a badge drags me down into this goddamn tar pit. If I have to go to Canada and lay low, it’ll damn well be for a good reason. Maybe I can’t get to The Big Man, but I can get that son of a bitch cop!” “Whatcha got in mind?” Buzzard asked. Ace thought for a minute, then an evil grin spread across his face. “You still got that camera with the telephoto lens?” Buzzard nodded. “Good,” said Ace. Ignoring Buzzard’s puzzlement, Ace slid out of the booth and walked over to the pay phone near the bathrooms at the back of the bar. He fished around in his pocket, came up with a quarter and jammed it into the slot. He punched in a phone number and, holding the tip of his left finger in his left ear to block out the bar noise, waited impatiently while the phone rang. Presently, he heard the telltale click of the phone on the other end being lifted out of its cradle, followed by a sexy, female voice, which said, “Hello?” “Yeah, Nina? It’s Ace. Not too bad… Listen, remember that time I bailed your brother out of jail? Well, I’m in a bind here, and this time I need your help…” * * * It was 5:25 a.m. and Ace was hidden in the bushes by the side of the road, not far from the spot where he had originally been stopped. He looked impatiently at his watch, which he had carefully synchronized with Nina’s and Buzzard’s. He slowly flexed and relaxed his leg muscles to relieve the cramps; he had been hidden in the bushes since before Scanlan had come on duty. I’m gonna owe Scratch and Buzzard for this big time, he thought. Ace looked down at his watch again to see the seconds roll dutifully by: 5:29:58, 5:29:59, 5:30:00. Mark. Nina’s red Mustang came over the ridge right on schedule, 20 mph over the speed limit. She passed the spot where Ace knew Scanlan’s cop cruiser was hidden, and within seconds the red and blue lights flared to life. The cruiser eased out onto the road, ran up behind the red Mustang and blared its siren a few times. The Mustang coasted to a halt by the side of the road, right near where Ace was hidden. Scanlan grunted as he heaved his ponderous bulk out of the cruiser. He waddled over to the Mustang and motioned for the driver to roll down the window. Ace could see Scanlan’s eyes get wide as the window rolled down and he came face-to-face with Nina’s perfect, round, braless 38 D?s, hard nipples poking through a thin, low-cut Spandex top. He smiled as he imagined the sultry, seductive look that he knew Scanlan was getting from Nina’s gorgeous blue eyes; Ace had been on the receiving end of that look himself, and he knew from painful experience what it could make a man do. Nina leaned forward slightly, pushing her ample cleavage into full view. “License and registration please,” said Scanlan, trying his damnedest to sound professional and nonchalant. Nina began to whimper softly. “Please, officer,” she begged, “I can’t afford to get another ticket. I’ll lose my license! I’ll do anything. Please!” Her gaze slid downward toward Scanlan’s crotch. Scanlan stood there, dumbstruck. Without waiting for an answer, Nina eased the door open and slid down onto her knees in front of the cop in one fluid, catlike motion. She ran her finger up and down over the growing bulge in his pants, then started to pull his zipper down. This brought him to life again, and he began to furiously undo his pants. By the time he heard the repetitive click-click-click of the camera shutter, it was too late. Scanlan was standing on the road with his uniform pants down around his knees and a gorgeous blonde kneeling in front of him, his tiny dingus sticking out from underneath his massive belly. On a little dirt road on an abutment overlooking the highway, Buzzard stood up. Scanlan saw the camera with the telephoto lens hanging around the lanky biker’s neck, and his little stick wilted instantly. Buzzard moved quickly out of view, and Scanlan heard the roar of a Harley coming to life. Before he could react, he heard a rustle in the bushes from the other side of the road. Nearly tripping over his own pants, he whirled around just in time to see Ace climbing out of the bushes and moving quickly around the parked cars. “That’s a shameful display, that is!” said Ace, grinning ear to ear. In the distance, Scanlan could hear the sound of Buzzard’s bike fading away. “Positively disgusting! Why, when I stop to think of a pervert like you taking advantage of that poor, helpless girl… Why, what would the chief think? Hell, what would Mrs. Scanlan think if she saw that picture in the morning paper? It’s more than any taxpaying citizen should have to bear, I tell you!” Scanlan’s face turned bright red. His nostrils flared with rage and hate, and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. His mind was a congealing mass of lead, paralyzed between conflicting impulses to pull his gun and to shove his dingus back into his drawers. Fortunately, he chose the latter. This was good; it meant that Ace’s Walther PPK could stay tucked away in the back of his waistband. “Goddamn son of a bitch!” Scanlan raged. “You set me up! Fuckin asshole!” Ace grinned triumphantly. “This can go down two ways,” he said. Scanlan winced as his own words came back to mock him. “First way is I send copies of that photo to the chief of police, the DA’s office and every newspaper in the city.” Ace waited, but Scanlan said nothing. “Second way is you fuck off and never get in my face again.” Scanlan looked down at his shoes. His shoulders slumped and he knew he’d been defeated. After a very long pause, he said quietly, “OK.” “Good,” said Ace. “Now get yer fat ass outta here.” As Scanlan turned to go, Ace said, “Hey Scanlan, one more thing.” Scanlan turned just in time to catch Ace’s rock hard knuckles in the side of his jaw. His head lashed backward from the impact and he fell into the dirt like a sack of potatoes.
Ace winced and briefly rubbed his fist. Both he and Scanlan would feel that tomorrow. He looked up to see Nina’s baby blue eyes gazing into his own. Smiling with satisfaction, he slipped his arm around her waist and said, “Come on, beautiful, I’ll take you out someplace nice tonight.” She smiled in return. Ace took one last look back at Scanlan, moaning in the dirt, then he slipped into the Mustang beside Nina. She threw it in gear and stomped on the gas, and within seconds they sped away. |
BikerNet Fiction: You Can’t Go Home Again
By Jon Juniman |
Despite this, he was actually quite a good-natured fellow; a hard-assbrawler and a multiple felon, true, but nevertheless a quiet, dependablesort (as outlaws go), holding fewer grudges against the world at large thandoes, say, the average postal worker.
At the moment, Buzzard was cruising up Route 842 in rural Pennsylvania,feeling the sunshine on his shoulders and easing his ’53 Panhead choppercarefully around the hairpin turns. The telegram was a tiny, crumpled ballin his pocket. Buzzard had no idea how they had located him, and thetelegram offered no explanation. It said, simply, come home, stop, fatherdying, stop, Uncle Roy, stop.
The Reverend Wolfgang Amadeus Toozfetz was a hard and uncompromising man.He didn’t like many things, but he knew what he hated, and he had no doubtwhatsoever that God hated the same things. He was The Man in Charge ofStraightening Out The Universe (trumpets, please), and he bore hisGod-given burden upon his broad shoulders with unflagging tenacity.
How and why Horace’s mother had chosen the reverend for a husband hadalways been a mystery to Horace. She was a small, pretty, delicate woman,patient and quiet, honest and uncomplicated. The reverend’s bulldog actoverwhelmed her completely; he forbade her everything he could think of and berated her mercilessly for the smallest infractions, such as going tothe market without her luxurious, blond hair tied in the mandatory sexlessbun. He would inexplicably relent at random intervals, suddenly becomingpleasant and kind, but no sooner would she let down her guard than thereverend would revert to his former self, berating her in his mostterrible fire-and-brimstone voice about how God hated disobedient wives.Horace had always reviled himself for not protecting his mother, but he was only a small boy, and his courage wilted instantly before the reverend’s 6-foot, 4-inch frame.
The farmhouses and lush, green fields rolled lazily by. Cows and horsesmeandered around, occasionally pausing to munch on a green tuft of grass.Buzzard eased the long, lean bike to a halt at the stop sign, then turnedleft onto 82 north. Route 82 was a much straighter road, so he eased thethrottle open and accelerated to a leisurely 45 mph.
Horace’s mother had always shielded him from the reverend’s wrath by taking the heat upon herself. Horace mostly stayed out of his father’s way,performing his chores to the reverend’s exacting specifications and therebyavoiding attention. This continued until Horace was 16, when his mother took ill.
From the corner of his eye, Buzzard saw a German shepherd launch itselffrom the porch of a small, white house and bound across the lawn toward him. He slowed down a bit and whacked the shifter down into third. When the dog was about 10 feet away, he let out the clutch and rolled the throttle, throwing off the dog’s planned point of interception and rattling the window panes with a blast from his upswept fishtail drag pipes.
The doctors had been unable to find anything specifically wrong with Mrs.Toozfetz, but her condition continued to worsen daily. On a bitter fallday, under a steely gray sky, Horace’s mother finally died. The countycoroner had explained the cause of her death with the ambiguous phrase”natural causes,” but Horace knew that there was nothing natural about it;she had died of a broken heart. And he knew without a doubt who thereverend’s next target would be, now that he had been deprived of hisfavorite victim.
After the funeral, Horace had snuck out to his Uncle Roy’s barn, whereRoy’s son, Johnny, had secretly helped him restore an ancient 45 ciFlathead, which Horace had bought from an old widow for $150. (Uncle Royknew about the Flathead, but kept Horace’s secret. Being the reverend’syounger brother, Roy was aware of Horace’s harassed and abusive home lifeand took pity on him.) Horace had snuck out to work on the bike at everyopportunity, using the money that he?d earned by working at the hardwarestore after school. This had been a risky endeavor. Motorcycles were thework of the devil, and if the reverend had discovered it, he would havebeaten Horace to within an inch of his life.
Now that Horace’s mother was dead, there was nothing to keep him in SouthCarolina any longer. He hastily packed all of his belongings onto the bike — a duffel bag full of clothes, some extra ignition points and spark plugs, aworn and dirty tool roll and $122.47 in small bills. He straddled the bike,kicked it to life, then eased it out of the barn and onto the main road. Henever looked back. The road ahead beckoned with promises of adventure andinfinite possibilities; his new life as a scooter gypsy had begun.
By the time Buzzard reached Coatesville, he decided to respect Uncle Roy’srequest and go back home. This would not be a happy run; the reverend,being the town preacher, had been a revered and respected figure in thecommunity. In small towns, everybody knows everybody else’s business, andpeople have long memories. Not being privy to all of the facts, everybodywould assume that Buzzard was guilty of the foulest betrayal — deserting hisloving father in his hour of need, an outlaw biker who deserved nothingless than 12 hours on the rack. Nevertheless, Buzzard decided to go. Hehad lived for 34 years with the strange burden of his unresolvedrelationship with his father, and he was determined to seize this lastopportunity for closure.
Early the next morning, Buzzard was in his garage, strapping a large Armysurplus duffel bag to the chopper’s tall, dagger-shaped sissy bar, crisscrossing the bungee cords back and forth. Having decided to go, he was eager to get started as early as possible. He made a last-minute mechanical check of the bike, then began stuffing tools into the weather beaten leather fork bag.
In high school, Horace’s chief tormentor had been Bobby Plachette, starquarterback and captain of the football team. Horace had never been taughthow to fight, nor would it have mattered if he had been. Plachette wasthree years older than he was, and was significantly taller, stronger andfaster. No matter how discreetly Horace had tried to sneak home fromschool, at least twice per week he would hear, “Hey whore-ass, you can run,but you can’t hide!” coming from behind him. Then the inevitableass-whipping would begin. Horace lived in constant fear of it. It hadutterly destroyed his self-esteem, making it impossible for him to havefriends or date girls. It ruined his performance in school and made himyet more miserable at home. Horace dared not tell his father, though,because the reverend had a strict policy of non-violence (which heparadoxically enforced with a leather strap), and to let the reverend findout that he had been fighting would only have compounded Horace’s miseries.
Plachette had graduated just as Horace finished his freshman year.Although a star quarterback in his small-town high school, Plachette hadnot been quite good enough to win a college athletic scholarship. Becausethe teachers had breezed him through the system, Plachette’s poor academicperformance made it impossible for him to get into college on his ownmerit. At the ripe old age of 18, the erstwhile pampered star,beloved by all, had become just another penniless nobody, a washed-uphas been with no marketable skills and no future. He seemed poised tobecome either the town bully or the town drunk, (both positions for whichhe was eminently qualified), when something happened to change hislife. He became a cop.
Buzzard straddled the chopper and jumped hard on the starter pedal. Theperfectly tuned Panhead rumbled to life on the first kick. He backed thechoke off slightly and waited for a few minutes while the engine warmed up.
Horace was glad to have left town before having any serious run-ins withDeputy Plachette. A long series of lateral drifts had eventually led himto a small apartment in New Jersey and a reasonably steady job as alongshoreman at the port. He put plenty of miles on the Flathead, it beinghis only means of transportation, and the antique scoot soon began toattract the attention of the local motorcycle aficionados. Within a year,he was riding with the Jersey Renegades and had earned the name Buzzard,since by this time he was over 6 feet tall and lanky, with a prominent beak ofa nose protruding from underneath his long, ragged hair. It was through hisassociation with the Renegades that he eventually hooked up with his firstreal friend, an infamous young outlaw by the name of Ace Calhoun. Buzzardwould soon sell the Flathead to a local Harley dealership that wanted todisplay it out on the floor. He got enough money from the sale to buy anold Panhead, still a classic scoot, but a bike whose larger engine had morepossibilities than the already overworked 45.
When the engine’s cooling fins were warm to the touch, Buzzard eased thebike out of the driveway and onto the road. Interstate 95 was the straightest shot down to South Carolina. Although it was a crowded and unpleasant highway,this was a Monday and most of the lemmings were at work. He decided that itwould be OK as long as he stayed off of the road during rush hour. And withthat, he sped away.
Buzzard roared down the mostly empty interstate. The traffic petered outonce he got past the airport, and he screwed it on through Maryland andinto Virginia.
In Virginia, an ugly storm was massing. From the east, a crescent lineslashed the sky, a telltale parabolic border delimiting the boundarybetween cool and warm air, clear sky in front and dark clouds behind. Acold front was moving in. Buzzard twisted the wick, hoping to outrun thestorm, but to no avail. Soon the sky was bible-black, and threatened toregurgitate itself upon man and beast. A cold wind picked up and small bits of highway trash danced across the road, caught in tiny, invisible whirlwinds. The thunder began to rumble, drowning out even the blast of the chrome drag pipes. By the time Buzzard got to Richmond, the rain was pouring down. A million tiny needles pelted his soaking leathers and stung his face and neck. It was all his poor headlight could do to penetrate the gray murk and feebly illuminate a few square feet of rain-drenched pavement. Buzzard grimly pressed on, left hand wiping the rain from his wraparound glasses, determined to make North Carolina by nightfall. But cold fronts pass quickly; within a half hour the wind dieddown and the storm dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared. The sun cameout, for which Buzzard was eternally grateful, warming his cold and clammyflesh.
Buzzard crossed the border into North Carolina by dusk. He checked into asmall motel, hungrily devoured a burger and fries at the hamburger standacross the street, then retired to his room. It was a cheesy little motel. The paint job was piss yellow and the Art Deco furniture was straight outof the ?50s, but it was comfortable and dry, and that was all he wanted.He hung his leathers from a coat hanger in front of the window to dry, thenslept the exhausted sleep that awaits every rider at the end of a long,hard road.
The next day he awoke full of enthusiasm. The sun was out and the birdswere singing. It was the kind of day made by God especially for riding. The coldfront had brought with it a mass of cool, dry air, lowering the temperatureto a comfortable 70 degrees. The leathers were stiff and hard but dry, andBuzzard pulled them on quickly, eager to get started. He checked out at thefront desk, ate an omelet at a local diner and blasted off onto thehighway, heading south once again.
Markham, South Carolina, remained a one-horse town, for the most partuntouched by time. Old people sat on rocking chairs on porches, looking asthough they had sat there since the beginning of time and would continue tosit there until the sun grew cold. Main Street consisted of a generalstore, a gas station, a tiny bar and grill and a small church where, untilrecently, the Reverend Wolfgang A. Toozfetz had preached every Sunday. Thetown was small enough that everyone knew everyone else, and since Markhamdidn’t connect anywhere with anywhere, the appearance of any strange face(let alone Buzzard’s) was enough to cause a stir.
Buzzard rumbled over the horizon like a ragged and bearded messiah, a madprophet from the mountains covered in leather and tattoos, riding upon aterrible chrome steed that drank gasoline and belched flames from theblackened depths of its fiery asshole, a grim harbinger come to deliver TheWord. His appearance on the scene was as disruptive as Attila the Hunriding his horse into the middle of the New York Stock Exchange. Housewivesstopped and stared, children pointed excitedly, old people scowled indisapproval from their rockers. Buzzard ignored all of this, casuallyblasting down Main Street toward Uncle Roy’s house (assuming, of course,that Uncle Roy still lived there), rattling windows on either side of thestreet and setting off car alarms.
Buzzard hadn’t been sure that he would be able to remember the way, but now that he was there, everything came back to him in a rush. Within minutes,he was cruising down Uncle Roy’s tree-lined street, and damn if that wasn’told Roy himself out in the front yard! The little brick house with thegreen shutters was just as Buzzard remembered. Uncle Roy was older, ofcourse, and grayer, and he looked much smaller than Buzzard remembered, buthe was definitely Uncle Roy. Roy heard the chopper roaring up the streetand stiffened apprehensively as he turned around, then took two full stepsbackward when he saw the grim figure bearing down upon him. Buzzard waved,and Roy stared, nonplussed. Buzzard pulled into the driveway, flicked thekickstand down and killed the engine. He felt a lump rise suddenly in histhroat; here before him was the only man who had ever shown him anyaffection or kindness. All Buzzard managed to say, somewhat lamely, was,”Uncle Roy… I got your telegram… I came right away.”
Roy was stunned. That cute little boy, so fresh in his memory, had turnedinto this big hairy monster, some half-human werewolf in greasy leathersand muddy boots. But he was that boy, home at last. After a long pause, Roygasped, “Horace! Horace, my boy! I… I didn’t think you would come…”Buzzard dismounted and stepped squarely into a bear hug. “Horace, it’s beenso long, we have so much to catch up on. Come on in, your cousin John’sinside.”
That evening, Buzzard was sitting at a small, round table near the back ofthe Markham Road House Pub, drinking a beer and talking excitedly with hiscousin about all that had transpired in the past 18 years. John wasmarried with two kids and had settled down to a quiet life as a countrymechanic, the only one in Markham. The reverend had stoically borne hispublic humiliation after Buzzard ran away, and neither Roy nor John hadever mentioned the Flathead. There didn’t seem to be any point. Thereverend had continued preaching at the church until he was diagnosed withbone cancer at the age of 64. He had managed to live a fairly normal lifefor 18 months after that, but the treatments soon stopped working and hisincreasingly ill health forced him into early retirement. They had sent himhome from the hospital once it became apparent that there was nothing morethey could do, and the reverend, at present, was in his own home, under thecare of a nurse, slipping in and out of consciousness and awaiting theinevitable end. Roy had hired a private investigator to find Buzzard’saddress and had then sent the telegram that was still crumpled up inBuzzard’s pocket.
“Well,” said Buzzard, “I came this far, so I guess the only right thing tado is stick around a while and hope I get at least one chance ta set thingsstraight before he goes.”
John nodded in silent agreement and took a sip from his beer. “Of course,you can stay with me or my dad as long as you want.”
“Thanks cuz,” Buzzard replied, “that means a lot to me.”
Then, from over his left shoulder, Buzzard heard something that he thought he?d never hear again. “Hey whore-ass! You can run, but you can’t hide!”
Buzzard whirled around and stood up in one fluid motion, fists clenched and teeth bared. Standing before him was a pudgy, middle-aged man in a uniform, armed, swaggering and arrogant. He was older and out of shape, but he was definitely Bobby Plachette. And he had a gold, star-shaped badgepinned to the breast pocket of his uniform…
Holy creeping shit. Sheriff Plachette.
Buzzard stood a half-head taller than Plachette, and his hard, knottedmuscles were wrapped like bundles of steel cable around his lanky frame from years of working at the docks. Plachette, by contrast, had obviouslyspent those years sitting in his cruiser eating donuts. Buzzard could easily break him in half now.
And here was the final absurdity: In spite of all this, Buzzard could still feel that old fear knotting his stomach and rising in his throat. It was as if Plachette’s very voice had the power to yank him backward in time andturn him into Horace Toozfetz again, a scared little boy being stomped intothe dirt.
The sheriff stuck his thumbs into his gun belt and swaggered around. “Yessiree,” he said, “when one of my men saw that motor-sickle parked outsideRoy Toozfetz’ house, I went in there an’ I sez, ‘Roy, we don’t cotton tooutlaws an’ drifters ’round these parts. Whoever owns this hunka junk, I’mgonna lock ‘im up fer vagrancy.’ Then ol’ Roy sez, ‘You ain’t gotta dothat, sheriff. It belongs to my nephew Horace.’ That’s how I knowed you wuzback in town, an’ I figgered I’d find you here.”
All eyes were upon Buzzard and the sheriff. Buzzard looked around, thenback at the sheriff and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m hereto see my father, so why don’t you just fuck off?”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, I’ll whip yer ass good. If ya wanted ta seeyer father, ya coulda seed him long before now. Like I sez, we don’t likedrifters around these parts. If you’re not outta here before the sun comesup tomorra morning, I’ll lock ya up fer vagrancy.”
Buzzard’s face twisted into a lethal snarl. The fact was, Plachette was armed and Buzzard wasn’t. “I ain’t goin’ noplace until I get ta talk to myfather,” Buzzard spat.
“Just remember, whore-ass,” Plachette replied, “sunrise tomorra.” Then heturned around and, chuckling to himself, swaggered out.
Buzzard deflated back into his seat and the other patrons went back totheir business. “How the hell did that asshole become sheriff?” Buzzard asked.
“Well,” said John, “you remember when he became a deputy?”Buzzard nodded.
Once in uniform, Plachette had discovered that he had a great affinity forthat line of work. All those years he’d been bullying people for free, andnow that he had a gun and a badge, he was getting paid to do it.
Not many years later, a small-time drug ring had moved its operation toMarkham to escape the heat that the new police chief of Charlotte wasbringing down in the city. The theory was this: Since drug problems weremore or less unheard of in small towns, the gangsters would have moreleeway to operate, free of the threat of a large, well-funded police force.This theory proved to be correct. Then-Sheriff Ed Channing was getting oninto his 60s and had little stomach for getting shot right before hewas due to retire.
Deputy Plachette and another deputy with the ironic name of Fred Manley had taken matters into their own hands, initiating a two-man crusade againstthe gang. They ticketed the gangsters’ cars from one end of the county tothe other, obtained search warrants on any pretense, and even sent thecounty building inspector to cite them for numerous trumped-upbuilding code violations. Within a year the gangsters decided thatthere was even more heat in Markham than there had been in Charlotte. Theirgoal, after all, was to make money, not to lock horns with redneck cops, sothey folded up shop one day and left Markham for good.
Plachette had once again become a town hero. Even those who disapproved ofhis methods had to admit that they were pleased with his results. Plachettewas elected sheriff by a landslide the following year, and Ed Channingquietly retired. Plachette, of course, was still a bully, and there werethose in town who called him a thug and worse, but in the end the people ofMarkham chose to cast their chips with a man who knew how to get thingsdone. He had been the sheriff ever since.
Buzzard had no respect for the badge as a symbol. Long years on the outlawcircuit had instilled in him that a cop’s authority, like that of any otherthug, is measured solely by his power to enforce it. Fortunately forBuzzard, Markham’s entire police force at present consisted of only twodeputies, plus the sheriff. Still not good odds, though, especially withall three of them armed. What Buzzard needed now was an equalizer, andthere was only one equalizer currently available…Ace Calhoun.
Buzzard was absolutely certain that Ace would come, that wasn’t whatworried him. He was in a quandary because it would be easier to call Acethan it would be to restrain him, and there was no way to predict what sortof savage hell might break loose once the genie was out of the bottle. Acewas a force of nature, inexorable and swift, and Buzzard was like a shamanwho knows that he can summon a storm but is not at all confident of hisability to control it once it arrives. Finally, however, desperation wonout over prudence. Buzzard excused himself and went to the pay phone at theback of the bar, dropped in several quarters and dialed a number.
“Hey, Ace? Buzzard… Yeah, I’m in Markham. Listen, I’m in a bind here. Ican’t stay on too long, but I’ll give you the story real quick…”
Potato, potato, potato.
It seemed to Buzzard that he had hardly closed his eyes when he wassuddenly awakened by that sound he knew so well. It was Ace, rumbling slowly up the street. Buzzard could tell that Ace was going easy on the throttle to keep his fiberglass-baffled pipes from barking and waking up the neighborhood. He?d probably eaten a fistful of cartwheels and then ridden like a maniac all night to get to Markham before the citizens (and cops) woke up. Buzzard swung his legs over the side of Roy’s couch and levered himself upright. He banged one shin against the wooden coffee table in the dark and whispered a stream of obscenities under his breath. Pausing momentarily to rub his injured leg, he stumbled hastily through the front door. Outside it was cool and dark, with the first red rays of dawn just beginning to streak the eastern sky. Buzzard waved to flag Ace down, and Ace coasted the last 20 feet, tires crunching softly on the gravel-covered driveway. He killed the engine and dismounted, staggering alittle. Even in the dark, he looked stiff and exhausted. Buzzard claspedhis friend’s shoulder warmly. “You OK, bro?”
“Yeah,” replied Ace. “I just need some sleep.”
“OK, let’s get yer bike outta sight and then you can crash inside.”
Buzzard swung open the door of the little red barn. He got behind Ace’sbike and together they pushed it inside next to Buzzard’s on the hay-strewndirt floor. Ace clicked a padlock into place on the bike’s triple tree,then followed Buzzard inside the house. Buzzard decided to take the floorand let Ace have the couch, and Ace collapsed like a marionette whosestrings have been cut. He would sleep like a dead man until at least noon.
Buzzard went back to sleep himself and was awakened again by the phone. Itstopped after two rings, meaning that Uncle Roy had probably answered it inthe bedroom. The clock on the wall said 10. Buzzard looked over at Ace,who was still sound asleep. Good, Buzzard thought, he was glad that thephone hadn’t disturbed Ace. He would need the rest.
A few minutes later, Roy came creaking down the old wooden steps. He wasabout to say something to Buzzard when he stopped, mouth open, surprised tosee that his living room now contained not one but two outlaws, as thoughnew ones had sprouted from the floor like mushrooms during the night.Buzzard put his finger to his lips, then motioned Roy into the kitchen where they could talk without waking Ace.
In a whisper, Buzzard hastily described his run-in with the sheriff andexplained that Ace was a friend who had come to help him get out of Markhamin one piece.
“You boys aren’t gonna do anything foolish, are you?” Roy asked worriedly.
“No, of course not. I didn’t come here lookin’ for trouble, you know that. But I’m a grown man now, and badge or no badge, I ain’t about ta take no crap from the likes of Bobby Plachette.”
“OK,” said Roy, “just be careful. Anyway, that was the nurse on the phone.She says your father’s awake and feels good enough to take visitors.”
This was the moment that Buzzard had simultaneously hoped for and dreadedmuch of his adult life. He took a deep breath and said, “Alright, let’sgo.”
“What about your friend?”
“He’s had a long night. Let him sleep it off.”
Buzzard followed Roy to his battered old pickup truck and slipped intothe passenger seat. He hoped they wouldn’t have the ill fortune to getpulled over by one of the sheriff’s men during the short ride to thereverend’s house. The sun was, after all, up, and Buzzard had missed hisdeadline. Roy didn’t look at all worried, which probably meant that thethought had not even occurred to him. Being a respectable tax-payingcitizen, Roy was not accustomed to worrying about things like being stalkedby cops, and Buzzard decided not to disturb his peace of mind by mentioningit. Roy threw the old rattletrap in gear and eased it gently onto theroad.
Within minutes they were at the reverend’s house. Buzzard knew the waywell; as a boy he had walked the short distance countless times to meetJohnny in the barn and work on the old Flathead. Roy parked the truck infront of the gray stone house, then walked up the short flagstone path tothe front door, with Buzzard following two steps behind. Roy pulled thestorm door open and knocked on the weathered oak door behind it. Buzzardwas vaguely surprised that everything looked so much smaller than heremembered. The door was eventually opened by a stocky, middle-aged womanin a nurse’s uniform. She seemed momentarily taken aback by Buzzard’suncivilized appearance, but she knew Roy, and so said nothing. The nurseled Roy and Buzzard down a short hallway that looked exactly the same asit had when Buzzard was a boy. The faded floral wallpaper had not beenchanged in 18 years, and pictures of all-but-forgotten relativeslined the walls. She led them up the stairs to the reverend’s bedroom andsaid through the door, “Reverend, your brother is here to see you.”
A raspy voice croaked, “Send him in, send him in.” The nurse stepped aside, and Roy led Buzzard into the room.
Buzzard couldn’t believe his eyes. The father he remembered had been ahuge, terrifying mountain of a man — tall, broad and built like a bull. Theman before him was an emaciated scarecrow, wrinkled and gray, old and sick.But that was nothing compared to the shock the reverend received whenRoy put his hand on the huge, hairy outlaw’s grimy shoulder and said,”Wolf, Horace is here to see you…your son. I’ll leave you two alone.”Then he turned and left the room.
The bedroom was as unchanged as the rest of the house. The bed with itswooden headboard was positioned between two antique wooden night tables,under a window that had been opened to admit the warm sun and a pleasantbreeze. Both night tables were strewn with all sorts of pills, and the roomhad the vaguely antiseptic odor of a hospital. “Horace?” the old mancroaked. He sounded as if there were loose nuts and bolts rattling aroundinside his shrunken chest. “How can you be Horace? Horace was a goodChristian boy.”
“No, it’s me, dad.”
“It’s really you?” The reverend paused, then scowled. “I suppose you’ve got a motor-sickle or some such damned contraption to go with those rags you’rewearing.”
“It’s parked at Uncle Roy’s house,” Buzzard replied.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re really Horace or not,” said the reverend,”but it doesn’t matter anyhow. You may be the son of the devil, but you’reno son of mine.”
“Nothing’s changed, then, in all this time?”
“I raised my son to be faithful and obedient. He would never have abandoned me to join some…some heathen homosexual leather cult.” The reverendlooked at Buzzard with the most profound loathing that Buzzard had everseen. “Go back to whatever hell hole you crawled out of…back to yourdope-smoking, fornicating friends. That’s where you belong, not here,worrying God-fearing folk. Don’t come back to darken my doorway any more.God hates disobedient sons most of all.”
Buzzard cursed silently at a life that he had long ago left behind. Hegrowled, “My mother was sweet and beautiful and kind. You killed her, youbastard, just as surely as if you’d stabbed her in the heart. You wouldhave done the same to me too, and we both know it. So now you’re going todie an old man, lonely and bitter, and no one will mourn you. Was it worthit? Is this the way you want to end your life? No, don’t bother answering.I hope whatever God you believe in has mercy on your soul.” Without waitingfor a reply, Buzzard turned his back on the reverend and walked out.
By mid-afternoon, Ace had revived. He ate a ravenous meal (which Roygraciously supplied), then went out to the barn to talk strategy withBuzzard. A confrontation with the sheriff seemed inevitable, since therewas only one road in and out of town. It was possible that they could sneakout under cover of darkness, but that would be difficult with Buzzard’sopen pipes, and would also expose them to the possibility of an ambush onsome back country road. Ace had packed a small arsenal, but it would stillbe three against two. Besides, Buzzard was not eager to get into ashoot out with the cops; it was just too risky. In addition, beating up a copis one thing, but shooting a cop is quite another. Even if Buzzard andAce won the shoot out, they would still lose in the long run. They wouldbecome cop killers, America’s most wanted, with their faces plastered onthe walls of every post office in the country.
No, it would be better to keep the guns out of it. The outlaws at least had the advantage of being able to stage the confrontation on their own terms,to choose the time and terrain. The best place would be somewhere withplenty of innocent bystanders. Then the cops wouldn’t be able to use theirguns, either. The odds would still be three to two against, but the outlawshad the element of surprise. The cops were looking for Buzzard, and theyhad never seen Ace.
So now Buzzard and Ace were back in the Road House, nervously sipping beerand waiting for the show to begin. Buzzard had parked his chopper outfront as bait. Ace had parked his out back, hidden between two largedelivery trucks. Initially the bartender had protested, but he saw thelight when Ace offered to rearrange his dental work for him. He decided tolet the law handle it, which was what was going to happen anyway as soon asthe sheriff saw the chopper parked out front. Buzzard sat at the bar whileAce hid in the shadows at a table in the corner. It was shortly after 5 and the after work crowd was starting to fill the small pub; store managersin starched shirts and ties, working men in jeans and boots. Soon the barwas bustling with activity. People were talking, smoking, laughing andeating, ordering mugs and pitchers of beer.
Buzzard suddenly saw the bartender crane his neck to look out the window at something, and he could see the red and blue lights reflecting off themirror behind the bar. Show time. The sheriff burst in, flanked by twoyoung-looking deputies, and shouted at Buzzard, “I thought I told you tagit outta town!” The room was suddenly deathly quiet.
“I don’t want no trouble sheriff,” Buzzard said. “I got what I came for.I’ll hit the road just as soon as I finish my beer, and you’ll never see mehere again.”
The sheriff smiled a shark-toothed smile. “Too late, whore-ass,” he said.”I told ya ta hit the road last night. Now yer gonna get what’s comin’ toya.”
Buzzard smiled. “OK, don’t say I didn’t give ya no chance.”
They never even saw Ace coming. He moved like lightning, melting out of the shadows like a lizard and swinging a small, shot-filled sap. He struck eachdeputy a precise blow on the base of the skull; just enough force to causeunconsciousness but not enough to do any permanent damage. They crumpled tothe floor like paper dolls. This threw the room into confusion. Somewanted to help the sheriff, others wanted to flee and a few just wanted towatch the show like gawkers at a traffic accident. Between them, there wastoo much chaos for anyone to do anything. The sheriff looked over hisshoulder, then back again, and fumbled for his gun. But the bar was packedwith patrons and there was no way to get a clear shot. Before he knew whatwas happening, he was hit simultaneously from the front and the rear, andhis gun and nightstick had both been wrestled away from him.
Ace took the weapons and stepped away, leaving Buzzard alone with thesheriff. Plachette realized with horror that he was not facing a frightenedboy named Horace. He was facing a huge, savage outlaw named Buzzard, andhis knees felt suddenly weak. Buzzard’s hairy lips parted, exposing sharp,white teeth, and he said, very quietly, “You can run but you can’t hide.”
There is a strange thing that sometimes happens to even the most savage ofmen when they see their nemesis brought low, and realize that he ispathetic and small. They are suddenly filled not with anger but with anawful, towering pity, and they realize that to sink to the level of theiradversary would be wrong, that the right thing to do is to be the biggerman. Unfortunately for the sheriff, none of these things happened toBuzzard.
Buzzard kicked his ass all the way out the door, then grabbed him by thehair and dragged him back inside. He kicked his ass up the bar, then kickedit back down the bar. He beat Plachette until he was exhausted fromswinging his arms. Then he let his adversary fall face down into thespilled beer, spit and cigarette butts that covered the sticky floor.
When he finally looked up from his work, he saw that Ace had been busyhandcuffing the deputies to the shiny brass bar rail and stuffing theirservice revolvers into the various pockets of his riding jacket, keepingone handy just to make sure that none of the patrons would decide to try tobe a hero. Buzzard handcuffed the unconscious sheriff to the bar railbeside his men, and Ace went to work severing the telephone line. This wasprobably unnecessary since all the law there was to summon was at presentlying unconscious on the floor, but better safe than sorry. The outlawsthen ran for the door and the crowd parted to make way. Once outside,Buzzard tapped Ace on the shoulder and said, “We better take the scenicroute. Bastards’ll be lookin’ for us.”
Ace nodded in agreement. Then he smiled and said, “Lead the way, Horace.”
Buzzard smiled back and replied, “You better not break my balls about that, Francis.”
Ace ran around the back of the building while Buzzard ran out front. Thegawkers in the bar were crowding around the windows to watch Buzzardstraddle his bike and kick it to life. Seconds later, he heard the sound ofAce’s Evo starting up. Buzzard pulled out of the parking lot, rear tirescreeching, and Ace blasted out right behind him. Together they roared away into the reddening dusk, under the cloudless sky, in the wind and glad to be free.
“Angels”
By Jon Juniman |
Ace sat at a booth near the back of the bar and sipped his beer. The Midnite Club, a private club in the French quarter of New Orleans, was where he liked to go when he had to lay low. Right now, Ace was laying lower than a snake’s belly, at least until the heat died down. He’d had a terrible run-in with the sheriff of a small town in South Carolina that had resulted in a heinous whirlwind of felonies and violence. He had even stowed his beloved chopper in a garage at a self-storage facility. The damn thing was a cop magnet even when every cop in the country wasn’t looking for it.
The Midnite Club was swanky, upscale and very, very private. The highly coveted membership was by invitation only, and all new applicants had to be vouched for by a current member in good standing. It was, needless to say, very expensive.
The club’s patrons were the hippest of the hip; 24-year-old millionaires from Silicon Valley, Wall Street power brokers, East Coast mobsters and Hollywood stars, with the occasional outlaw type thrown into the mix to add just a touch of danger, completing the scene of wild and erotic mystery. The Midnite Club was a place where the well-heeled could relax, unwind and be entertained by everything from jazz bands to live sex shows.
The club was owned and run by the strange and mysterious Papa Senegal. Papa was, in fact, not from Senegal. He was Jamaican, but Ace supposed that “Papa Senegal” had a better ring to it than “Papa Jamaica,” and none of the patrons gave a damn anyway. Papa Senegal had a fine sense of drama and played the New Orleans voodoo thing to the hilt. The club was decorated in occult black, with plenty of candelabras, skulls, mirrors and stuffed ravens sprinkled about. He was always fashionably late; just late enough to make the club’s newer members wonder whether he was going to show up at all. Then he would suddenly appear, long dreadlocks flying from beneath a tall top hat, wearing a tuxedo with tails and no shirt or cummerbund underneath, washboard abs rippling, carrying an ebony walking stick topped by a small ivory skull, smiling, shaking hands and passing out samples of everything from Cuban cigars to premium cocaine.
Ace worked sporadically for Papa as a procurer of the various commodities that were necessary to keep the club running, and he had negotiated some of his pay in credit, which was the only way he could have afforded to be there at all. Now Ace was watching the band set up and waiting for Papa to make one of his classy appearances.
Suddenly, there he was in the middle of the room as though he’d appeared out of thin air, smiling, milling around and pouring shots of 100-year-old scotch. A murmur of satisfaction went up from the crowd and Papa was temporarily hidden from view again. Ace waited until the crowd died down a bit, then he got up and walked toward Papa. Papa squinted at Ace, who was moving toward him in the dark, before his face broke into a wide grin of recognition. “Ess, my friend!” (When Papa said “Ace,” it came out sounding like “Ess.”) “Eet’s been a long time!”
Ace clasped Papa’s hand warmly and agreed, “Too long, too long.”
“Ahh Esss!” Papa screamed, “thee wan and onlee in-dee-spen-sable Ess!” clapping him on the shoulder. “Eet’s always a pleasure to see you! Tomorrow we talk business, ah? But tonight, tonight we have a good time!” That was fine with Ace; a good time was just what his jangled nerves needed, and it was widely agreed that nobody in New Orleans knew how to have a better time than Papa did.
As if on cue, the stage lights flared to life and the band started up — a wild jazz act with a swinging beat. Mostly-naked waitresses circulated between the small round tables taking food and drink orders, $20 bills sticking out of their G-strings like the plumage of some strange and exotic bird. The tenor man, a tall, gangly white guy with a protruding Adam’s apple, was blowing his horn like his life depended on it, jumping up and down, writhing, twitching and sweating, and the crowd was rising to an almost erotic frenzy as the tenor man struggled to grasp the elusive it, because they knew. An old man in a blue suit sat in a chair by the stage, stomping his feet and yelling, “Blow, man, blow!” at the top of his lungs. Papa tapped Ace on the shoulder and placed a glass of amber liquid into his hand. Ace nodded and smiled, and Papa went off to mill around in the crowd. Ace took a small sip; after all, it’s not often that a man has the opportunity to drink 100-year-old scotch. It went down smoother than silk, with no harsh bite at all. In fact, oddly enough, Ace thought that it almost reminded him of butterscotch. He looked over at the bar and smiled at a pretty young blonde who appeared to be by herself. She looked over and smiled back.
In a garbage-strewn alley in another part of town, the air was crackling faintly as before a storm, even though the sky was perfectly clear. A faint breeze kicked up, stirring scraps of newspaper around in circles and making a rustling sound. Then suddenly there was a body in the alley where there had been none a moment before. If anyone had been there, they would have felt the dull, sub-sonic thud of a concussion wave radiating outward from the figure, whose instantaneous appearance had displaced an amount of air equal to its own volume. The demon gasped for its first breath, then began panting like a wolf. It slowly uncurled from its crouch, painfully and awkwardly, like an infant struggling to learn control of its new physical shell. It tensed, then sprang and took off down the alley, covering 8 feet at a shot with its awkward, loping strides.
Ace slowly cracked one eye open, exposing his throbbing brain to the bright daggers of daylight that were stabbing in through the window. For one terrifying moment he had no idea where the hell he was or how he had gotten there. Then he remembered, New Orleans… Papa Senegal… Business. The long smear in front of him slowly focused into the hourglass form of a woman. Of course, the blonde from the club. That was why the tips of his fingers were tingling; she was lying on his left arm. For a long moment he wondered whether he should wake her or simply chew his arm off like an animal caught in a trap. Then he had an idea. He rolled over and pushed the mattress down with his right hand, slipping his left arm out through the indentation. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake. Ace dressed hastily, then quietly slipped out of the apartment, clicking the door softly shut behind him.
Ace handed the cabbie a $5 bill and stepped out of the cab in front of the Midnite Club. Seeing the club in the light of day, without its neon pizzazz, reminded Ace of an old coat that had hung on a hook on the back of his bedroom door as a child. In the dark of night, the coat had always loomed huge and terrible, casting menacing shadows across the wall like a vampire, but every morning when he awoke it would again become an ordinary, lifeless coat. The Midnite Club seemed to acquire the same sort of drab lifelessness when the city awoke in the morning like a whore, hacking, coughing and blowing trash around in the streets.
Ace made his way through a narrow alley and around to the service entrance in the back. He rapped on a beat-up sheet metal door, which was opened a moment later by a gigantic white man in a tux. Ace smiled and said, “Hey, Tiny, long time no see! How’s it hangin’, big guy?”
Tiny smiled back. “Ahh, same shit, different day, you know how it is, Ace. Heh heh… Papa’s waiting for you in the office.” he said, pointing with a thumb that was more than an inch in diameter.
A narrow spiral staircase, made of welded sheet metal and painted black, led from the service entrance to an office on the upper floor. The stairway was dark and the walls were bare cinder block, as gray and forbidding as any prison. But once you stepped past the threshold of Papa’s office, you stepped into a different world. All of the woodwork was polished mahogany, and the carpet was the color of red wine, which shone like blood against the white walls. Expensive paintings lined the walls, each in an antique, hand-carved frame, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, such as one might expect to see in a ballroom. The door was open and Papa sat behind a gold table lamp, which threw a small circle of light onto a large mahogany desk, which was rather like a banker’s. This room was Papa’s concept of luxury, much more so than the club itself; not vulgar ostentation, but tasteful elegance. Papa looked up from his laptop computer when he heard Ace’s boot heels punishing the staircase with a dull clang, clang, clang that echoed around the stairwell. He stood up and smiled, stepping around the desk with his right hand extended. Papa was dressed casually (for Papa) in expensive gray slacks and white shirt sleeves… Come to think of it, Ace couldn’t remember ever having seen him wear jeans. Ace clasped Papa’s right hand warmly. He was genuinely glad to see the old bastard again.
They chatted for a while, a ritual to which Ace had grown accustomed. Papa thought it rude to open a conversation with business, as is the American habit. After a while he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, making a steeple with his fingers, which Ace recognized as the sign that Papa was ready to come to the point.
“I have a small job for you, my friend,” said Papa. “I need you to go to a man across town and peeck up a small vial for me. Thee pay is wan-thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” Ace replied, “that must be one hell of an expensive drug. How ’bout a tiny sample for the courier? Like my grandma used to say, those who handle honey always lick their fingers.”
Papa shook his head. “Not thees time. Eet ees not a drug in the sense which you are theenking; eet ees a component for use in magick.” His eyes became very intense. “Eet’s powerful magick, eet geeve powerful visions! One must be equeeped to handle eet; a drop thee size of a match head would turn you into sometheeng out of a medeecal encyclopedia!”
Ace smiled. “All right, all right, I get the message. Jeez, I think you’re starting to take your own hype too seriously. Anyway, where is this guy?”
Papa handed Ace a slip of paper with a name and an address. Ace nodded, took the paper and started to go. Papa stopped him at the threshold and said, “Remember, no tasteeng!”
“Right,” Ace replied, “got it. No tasting.”
Ace had waited until after dark to get the chopper out of storage. It was probably a bad idea to be seen on it again so soon, but Ace had been taking buses and cabs everywhere for two entire weeks and he was dying to get his knees in the wind. He rationalized the decision by reasoning that he could stay on the back roads where it was dark and avoid attracting attention. His pipes were fiberglass-baffled and they weren’t obnoxiously loud if you were gentle with the throttle.
Ace putted slowly down the small commercial street, scanning the storefronts for Harry’s Occult Shop. The bottle, whatever it was, was already paid for; all Ace had to do was pick it up and take it back to the Midnite Club.
Presently, Ace spotted a small shop with skulls and jars of colored powder in the window. Bingo. Ace stopped in front of the store, killed the engine and leaned the bike over on its kickstand.
A small bell jingled on the door when Ace opened it. Harry’s Occult Shop was lit by dozens of candles that burned on candelabras throughout the store. Every wall was covered with shelves, which were crammed full of skulls, powders, candles, daggers and old leather-bound books covered in strange symbols. There was a gnarled old tree stump in the corner of the shop that made Ace jump when it moved and he realized that the stump was, in fact, a man.
“Uh, Harry, I presume?” asked Ace.
“Yeah,” the man replied. Hack, cough, wheeze. “What can I do for you, young man?”
“Papa sent me,” replied Ace. “I’m here for the pick up”.
Harry squinted at Ace for a moment, then said, “Yeah, yeah, hold on.” He shuffled into the back room, which was hidden behind a black velvet curtain. He emerged a moment later carrying a glass vial. He put the vial into a brown paper bag and handed it to Ace, who took it with a nod. “Interest you in some powdered bat wing?” asked Harry. “It’s on sale this week.”
“No thanks,” Ace replied, “I’m trying to cut down.” Harry chuckled in a most unpleasant way, and Ace was suddenly glad to be leaving. Harry made his skin crawl.
Once outside, Ace stood on the curb next to the chopper and peered into the bag. The vial was bulb-shaped, about the size of a baseball, with a long stem sealed by a cork stopper. He pulled the bottle out and held it up to the street light. The liquid inside was a faintly shimmering sapphire blue, which, from certain angles, appeared to be green. What the hell is it? Ace wondered. He had never seen or heard of anything like it before. Finally, curiosity got the best of him. Hell, there was no way Papa would be able to tell if he took just one little tiny taste. Remembering Papa’s warning about the dosage, Ace tore off a paper match and just barely touched the butt-end of it to the surface of the liquid. Then, with slight apprehension, he put the match in his mouth and waited for…
Nothing. It tasted faintly like almonds, but it didn’t do a damn thing. Ace replaced the stopper and put the bottle back in the bag. He wondered if he should tell Papa that he’d been ripped off, but then thought, better of it. Papa would find out soon enough anyway and there was no point in pissing him off by admitting to disobeying orders.
Ace straddled the chopper, thumbed the starter and the big engine roared to life. He eased the bike out of the parking space, whacked the shifter into first and headed for the highway. He was relatively sure that he wasn’t carrying anything illegal and he was eager to get back to the Midnite Club quickly in case the stuff had some kind of hellish delayed reaction.
The highway was mostly empty and Ace didn’t have far to go anyway. The cool night air was a welcome relief from the daytime heat and swamp-like humidity of Louisiana. The sky was clear, the stars twinkled brightly and the crescent sliver of the moon seemed to flash him a conspiratorial wink. Ace suddenly felt that this was the America that Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper had searched for in “Easy Rider” but had been unable to find. This was the real America, land of endless skies and wide-open roads, not the other America, the one where they made you piss in a jar if you wanted a job and threw you in jail if you didn’t pay your taxes.
The exit appeared like a specter, materializing out of the inky darkness. Ace slid the bike around the off-ramp and stopped behind a short line of cars waiting for the tolls.
It began faintly at first, quickly growing louder, a shrill scream like the rending of metal, accompanied by a loud, sibilant hiss, which nearly made Ace jump straight off of his seat. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw a tractor-trailer slowing down, pumping its air brakes as it approached the tolls. The trailer was a cattle car made of gray metal slats, and Ace could smell the faint but rising odor of shit. The brakes screeched and squealed as the truck approached. The din rose to a deafening roar and the brakes gave one long, last hiss as the truck stopped right next to Ace.
The goddamn smell was nauseating. Ace imagined that this was what it must be like to drown in an ocean of shit. He tried to breathe shallow breaths to avoid puking all over his bike. Then, a soft, wet sound emerged from the bowels of the truck. A sludge of greenish-brown shit oozed from between two of the slats, then poured sickeningly to the pavement, splat, splat, splat. The shit was coming in torrents now, splattering all over the ground and spraying drops of filth everywhere. Ace was gagging. Fuck the tolls, he thought, I’m getting out of here.
Then he saw two red points of light winking in the darkness inside the truck like a pair of burning eyes, right above the source of the shit. Cow eyes don’t glow like that, he thought, and even if they did, cows don’t have eyes in their assholes. Ace was transfixed by horror and nausea, like a gawker at a traffic accident, unable to look away. Then the eyes flared up and he could almost see inside the truck; the source of the shit was not an asshole, but a mouth, like a frog’s, but bigger than a basketball hoop, with small, pointed teeth. The demon belched one last torrent of shit onto the pavement, then wiped its befouled lips with a long, thin arm. It turned its baleful gaze slowly upon Ace and laughed, hrf, hrf, hrf.
His mind fused by panic, Ace whacked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle, squeezing through the space between a small hatchback car and the side of the booth, then he roared away into the night. In the rear view mirror, two tiny points of light followed his movements as he sped away.
Ace awoke the next morning not at all rested, having spent most of the night thrashing and sweating through nightmares about giant frogs and shit. He had washed the bike, laundered his clothes and taken no less than three showers before going to bed, an attempt to erase the indelible stink from his skin and hair. Even after all that scrubbing he imagined that he could still smell it, even though he knew that it was all in his head. Fucking hallucinogens, he thought; I’m getting too old for this. Indeed, and there was no time for it either. Papa was waiting for his delivery with $1,000 burning a hole in his pocket.
Ace pulled his jeans on and grabbed his shoplifted wraparound Ray-Bans. He suddenly had new doubts about the legality of whatever the hell was in that bottle, and it simply would not do to be seen by the cops, staggering around the streets of New Orleans with pale skin and bloodshot eyes, cringing from the light of the sun like a sick mole.
Right. Keep a low profile, he thought; get in a cab, give Papa his bottle of Satan-juice, get your thousand bucks, and then we’ll find out if there’s enough whiskey in New Orleans to drown out the memory of that goddamn horror show in the truck…
The short cab ride to the Midnite Club gave Ace the opportunity to somewhat regain his composure. The bright sunshine of a brand new day already made that horror in the truck seem silly and distant, no more than a cobweb to be casually swept away by the omnipotent hand of Good Old Reality. Papa had not yet arrived at the club when Ace knocked on the service door, but Tiny was there to take the bottle, and he had been authorized to pay Ace what he was owed.
So now Ace was walking down the street with $1,000 worth of bounce in his step, feeling the warm sunshine and whistling a little tune. He was, in fact, so preoccupied with the thoughts of how he would spend the money that when he turned the corner, he nearly ran straight into the angel.
It stood nearly 6 feet tall with long raven-black hair, eyes with no pupils at all and pale white skin like a corpse. The feathers in its wings shone like metal, all sharp points and lethal razor edges. It was an automaton, as lifeless as any killing machine. Behind its eyes lurked a terrible intellect that knew neither anger nor pity, a ruthless logic that always calculated the shortest distance between two points, and woe betide the man or beast foolish enough to stand between the angel and its goal. A maelstrom of energy swirled and crackled around the figure. Every primal instinct inside Ace’s skull screamed “run” but his limbs somehow refused to obey, and for one terrible moment, he was certain that he would be charred to a cinder, immolated right there on the sidewalk, leaving nothing behind but a pair of smoldering boot prints melted into the pavement like an obscene mockery of an Arthur Murray dance diagram. The angel turned its withering gaze upon Ace. Its dusty lips cracked open and a hot desert wind blasted forth. It spoke with a voice that made no impression upon Ace’s ears, but seemed instead to implant itself directly into his mind. Nonetheless, the voice was terrible to hear; it sounded like the dry grating of metal-on-metal.
A demon is loose in the city, said the angel. Thou hast been chosen to drive it out.
Not me, Ace protested in his mind. I’m a thief and a drunk, I haven’t been to church since I was 12 years old, I’m not any kind of a prophet.
The angel’s eyes flared to life, smoldering like two coals. “Do not give me that ‘I’m not worthy’ crap”, it shouted with a harsh new timbre in its voice, like bags of nails being dumped onto sheet metal. “Have thee any idea how many times I have had to listen to that rotten old swill?”
Sorry, Ace replied. But still, it’s a valid question. Of all the sinners in New Orleans, why me? You’re the freakin angel, why don’t you do it?
I cannot risk provoking a war, the angel replied. Therefore I have obtained permission to choose a man to act in my stead. Thou art the only one in the city who can see the demon for what it is; by tasting the sacrament, thou hast put thyself upon the threshold of their world. A chosen one is not always a saint, Ace. Sometimes, when something must be done, one is chosen simply because no other is able do it.
“I don’t believe it!” Ace shouted. “You’re not real! You’re just another goddamn hallucination!” He was dimly aware on some level that it made no sense to scream at a hallucination.
I haven’t the time to argue, the angel replied. With a lightning-fast motion, it whirled around and struck Ace in the middle of his chest with its open palm. The force of the blow swept Ace off of his feet and smashed him into the brick wall of the alley, knocking the breath out of him and pinning him against the wall. Its palm felt like ice, but Ace could smell a smoldering odor like the smell of burning chicken, and he knew that he was smelling his own flesh.
A few seconds later, the angel released him and Ace slumped to the pavement like a rag doll. His vision began to grow dark and the silhouette of the angel, towering above him, was beginning to dissolve like smoke. Fear not, it said. Thy hand shall be made strong by the hand of the Lord. Then Ace blacked out as the figure vanished, but he wasn’t really sure which happened first.
Newspaper. Big newspaper, filling his entire field of vision. Smell of newsprint. As Ace’s vision swam groggily into focus, he realized that he was lying on his back in an alley with sheets of newspaper covering his face. What the hell am I doing here? Right, the angel. Just another bad trip; don’t sweat it, you’ve seen worse on acid. Just get up, before anyone notices you and calls the cops; dammit, get up.
Ace swept the newspapers from his face and struggled to his feet. His whole body felt sore and there was a sunburn-like pain in the center of his chest… Oh, no. With trembling hands, Ace lifted his shirt. In the center of his chest was a red, hand-shaped welt, except that there were four fingers instead of five, and at the end of each fingertip was a small laceration right where the angel’s talons would have been. Holy creeping shit, he thought, I have to talk to Papa.
Papa examined the welt on Ace’s chest with great interest and a grave expression on his face. “What the hell is happening to me?” Ace asked.
“I have already told you,” Papa replied, “that thee drug is not really a drug in thee ordinary sense of thee word. Eet ees a holy sacrament; an instrument of magick which opens thee door between thee seen and unseen worlds. Many sorcerers would geeve everytheeng they own for that bottle.”
“Yeah, well, I would give everything I own never to see it again. OK, so the door’s been opened. How do I shut it?”
“You don’t,” Papa replied. “Thees ees not like returning a pair of pants. Eet cannot simply be undone. You have been chosen. Now you must see eet through.”
“Great, so now I’m an exorcist, too. I think I’ll put that on my card: Ace Calhoun – Obtainer of Rare Commodities and Banisher of the Undead – no job too small, no zombie too ugly. Call for special introductory offer.”
“Bee serious!” Papa snapped. “Thees ees no laughing matter!”
“OK,” Ace replied. “Fine. How do I get rid of a demon then? Crosses? Garlic? A silver bullet in the heart?”
“You have been watching too many Bela Lugosi films. Demons are powerful, but they are bound by certain rules. They are obligated to abide by their own contracts. They are clever but greedy, and their greed makes them careless. Eef you are patient and astute, the demon may be treecked”.
“Trick it? I don’t even know where to find it!”
Papa leaned forward on his elbows and smiled in a very unpleasant way. “Do not worry,” he said, “eet will find you.”
Although certainly no scientist, Ace did consider himself a rational man. As such, he had always lived his life comfortably sure of certain facts — the earth is round, there is no Santa Claus and demons don’t run around New Orleans like baboons that escaped from the Bronx zoo. Now he was experiencing the same kind of mental inversion that bedeviled the medieval Catholic clergy when Galileo informed them that the earth revolves around the sun; his basic a priori presumptions of the world were being turned inside out. However, Ace was a man who was well accustomed to rolling with life’s punches, so he chose neither to believe nor disbelieve the evidence of his senses, but instead to simply ride this strange torpedo to its conclusion. At some point, maybe he would wake up. Or maybe not.
At any rate, he now sat in a back storeroom in the Midnite club, munching a salami sandwich and reading intensely. He had read more in the past four hours than he had in the previous four years. He was, in fact, reading as though his life depended on it, which it very likely did. Tiny had set up a small table for him amid the shelves and boxes, and the table was piled shoulder high with books from Papa’s library; books like “The Necronomicon”‘ Malleus Malificarum” and dozens of tomes that defied description, except to say that they were bound in cracked, dusty leather and they were very, very old. Ace had never been aware that there was so much to say about demons, but what the hell, live and learn.
Ace leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice around in his drink and trying to relax. It was nearly midnight, which meant that the Midnite Club was in full swing, band and all. This band was a mellower affair than the previous one had been; four elderly black gentlemen smartly dressed in suits and ties, playing cool jazz with an easy virtuosity that came with many decades of experience. All around the club, crowds of people were eating, drinking and smoking, with an occasional card game here and there at the tables near the back. Ace impatiently scanned the milling crowd for a sign of anything unusual. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but Papa had assured him that he would know it when he saw it. At any rate, he had been orbiting around the crowd once every 20 minutes for the past three hours or so, and he was relatively sure that he hadn’t seen it yet. It was an effort of will not to pace the club like a caged animal. He was actually getting impatient for something to happen, even though he knew that he probably wouldn’t like it when it did.
Ace got up and elbowed his way through the crowd. He moved slowly, like a sleepwalker, peering into peoples’ eyes as he passed. He was aware that he was making people nervous, but he felt fairly certain that the demon would betray its presence through its eyes, which are, they say, the windows to the soul.
Ace was near the back of the club now, where the gamblers were playing cards and smoking cigars at little round tables, each with a lava lamp in the center which threw a circle of sickly yellow radiance around the players. One table was filled with Southern gentlemen who looked like Texas oil tycoons with white suits and 10-gallon hats. Another table was occupied by Mafioso. And another…
Ace’s heart stopped. The third table was populated by two geeky-looking fellows who were probably software tycoons, (one of whom looked remarkably like a fatter version of Bill Gates), and a biker type with long brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The biker was facing Ace, and his skin seemed to pulsate and wriggle as though it were alive. As he got closer, Ace saw that what looked like skin was actually a mass of crawling maggots. In fact, it looked to Ace like there was really no head there at all, just a pulsing horror of little white worms, pushed together by some unseen force into the shape of a human head. If you were to hit it with a baseball bat, the bat would encounter no bone, no blood, just a pile of insects that would splatter everywhere like a watermelon being shot with a .300 Weatherby magnum.
The demon looked up at Ace and smiled, its eyes flashing red. Its skin looked normal now as it said, “Gentlemen, I believe we have another player. Deal you in?”
It took considerable self-control for Ace to hold his voice steady and reply, “What are you playing?”
“Five card draw, fifty dollar ante, jokers wild,” the demon replied as it shuffled the deck with a card-shark flourish.
“Fine. I’m in.”
Ace flagged down one of the g-stringed waitresses and tried to look nonchalant as he bought $1,000 worth of chips. He sat down at the table facing the demon, with one programmer on either side. Each player threw a $50 chip into the pot, and the demon deftly dealt each player five cards with a snapping flick of its wrist.
Ace examined his hand with a stony poker face that had been carefully perfected in more taverns than he cared to count. He had a 3, 4, 5 and 6, all spades, plus a jack of diamonds. Four parts toward a straight flush and open ended to boot. That gave him about one chance in four of completing the hand as either a straight or a flush, pretty good odds but still a risky proposition. If it didn’t pan out, he would be left holding nothing.
The programmer to the demon’s left sneered in a disgusted way, then tossed his hand face down on the table to indicate that he was holding nothing and would not open the betting. Ace opened by throwing a $100 chip into the pot. ‘Bill Gates,’ who was sitting to Ace’s left, eyeballed his hand, then tossed it on the table with a grunt. That left only the demon, who smiled and raised Ace by tossing in two $100 chips.
Ace was not rattled because Providence was on his side. After all, hadn’t the angel said that his hand would be made strong by the hand of the Lord? He smiled cockily and did something an experienced player never does, he threw in $700 worth of chips. Hmmph, that oughta make the ugly bastard back down.
The demon looked at Ace and chuckled, then it tossed in a fistful of chips, seeing Ace’s $600. It paused, locked eyes with Ace and hissed, very quietly, “It’s not the money I want.” The software tycoons looked at each other nervously. “Are you a religious man, Ace?”
“Never have been.”
The demon flashed a predatory grin and rasped, “Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind betting me your soul.”
OK, thought Ace, this is it, the showdown, High Noon. “You’re on,” he replied. “You win, you get my soul. I win, you go back to wherever the hell you came from.”
“It’s a deal,” the demon replied. Ace wondered whether he ought to shake the demon’s hand to make it official, but the thought of touching that pulsating white skin filled Ace with unspeakable revulsion. The demon smiled, licked its lips and said, “Draw!”
Ace discarded the jack, flicking it face down onto the table. The demon also discarded one card, which meant that it was either trying to fill a flush or a straight, or else it was holding a pair or three-of-a-kind and was trying to make its hand look stronger than it really was. The demon dealt two cards, one to itself and one to Ace, deftly flicking Ace’s card across the length of the table. Ace reached over confidently, scooping up his card, then felt his heart sink into his boots when he picked it up and looked at it — 10 of hearts. He was holding a big, fat bust. Shit! Shit! Shit! Trying desperately to stave off internal panic, Ace threw his last $50 into the pot, delaying the inevitable for a few more seconds. Think, dammit, think! The demon smiled as it scrutinized Ace’s poker face, which Ace sincerely hoped was really as good as he thought. The demon called Ace’s bet and paused, savoring the moment. “Do you know what hell is like, Ace?” the demon whispered. It leaned in closer and Ace could see orange flames smoldering behind the empty facade of its eyes. “I’m going to tie you down to a bed of razor blades with a roll of barbed wire. Then I’m going to use a pair of rusty pliers to pull out all the bones in your feet.”
Ace leaned back in his chair, flashing his biggest, cockiest grin, and replied, “You’re pretty damn sure of your hand. What about your wrist?”
“What?”
“You got a bike?” The demon nodded affirmative. “I’ll race you for the whole enchilada, from here to the court house, winner takes all.”
The demon sized Ace up for a moment, then shouted “You’re on!” It threw its cards face-up on the table and laughed triumphantly. “Pair of threes! Ha! I bluffed you out!”
Ace smiled back. He showed his own worthless hand and replied with a bad Crocodile Dundee accent, “That’s not a bluff, mate. This is a bluff!” The demon cursed and sputtered, incoherent with rage. Ace flagged the waitress down again and said, “Hey, darlin’, would you mind watching my winnings for me? I’ll be back for ’em soon.” Ignoring the flabbergasted expressions on the faces of the waitress and the software tycoons, Ace stomped out of the Midnite Club with the demon hot on his heels.
On the curb outside the club, parked right next to Ace’s chopper, was a gleaming yellow sport bike, a hot-rodded Buell. It was obviously built with the singular purpose of speed in mind, and there was no doubt that the demon would have the advantage in the turns. However, Ace had picked the courthouse for a reason; a good bit of the ride would be comprised of straight-aways. The chopper, with its raked front end, couldn’t corner worth a damn, but in a straightaway its huge engine and long wheelbase made it a speeding missile. As Ace saddled up, it occurred to him that if the cops caught him racing, he would really be screwed, but the thought failed to land with any impact. It was a thought from another lifetime, a thought that seemed pale and insignificant when hell itself was breathing down his neck.
Ace straddled the chopper, pulled the enrichener knob all the way out and fired it up. The rich mixture forced the engine into the high rpm range, which made a staccato machine-gun sound that ricocheted off the stone face of the Midnite Club and echoed down the empty streets. He pushed the knob a quarter of the way in and the machine-gun tempo slowed to a loping potato potato potato, like a drummer playing paradiddles. Ace found the sound soothing. The demon fired up its bike as well, and the two of them sat there until both bikes were completely off choke. Ace pointed to the closest traffic light, which had just turned red, and shouted over the roar of the cycles, “When it turns green, we go!” The demon nodded affirmative and did a burnout to heat the rear tire, blackening the pavement and filling the street with acrid smoke. Ace didn’t bother; he knew that the demon would beat him off the line anyway. The speed of Ace’s takeoff would be limited by the fact that he couldn’t risk a power-wheelie; if the front wheel came off the ground, the impact when it landed again would bend the 12-inch-over forks, and that would be the end of the race. Ace wasn’t worried about it, though. He was betting that the chopper’s 50-to-100 time was far shorter than the Buell’s. The race was long enough that giving up a few seconds off the line wouldn’t ultimately matter.
The light that was aimed at the opposing traffic turned yellow, then red, and the demon gunned the Buell’s engine mercilessly. When the light turned green the demon popped the clutch and took off, lifting the front wheel 24 inches off the ground and instantly gaining a three-second lead.
Ace took off smoothly, quickly up-shifting into fifth. There were lines of tar across the pavement where some road crew had covered the thermal expansion joints in the concrete. As Ace accelerated, the sound of the tires rolling over the bumps sped up from a slow gadump… gadump… gadump to a loping wumpwumpwumpwump and finally to a singular sort of braaaap, all within about three seconds. At 3000 rpm, the high-lift cam turned on hard, and the chopper responded to the throttle like a bucking horse to a whip. Ace leaned his body forward and clutched the handlebars fiercely to prevent his ass from sliding off the seat and onto the rear fender. The wind scream in his ears rose to a deafening pitch, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. The demon also had its throttle pegged, but the Buell wasn’t designed to be a drag bike. Ace shot forward like a rocket, quickly closing the gap.
Traffic lights and street lamps sped by in a luminous blur as the racers blew every red light in their path at speeds in excess of 100 mph. If a car happened to pull out in front of them, there would be no time to stop. Both bikes would strike the car broadside, erupting in a volcanic ball of fire, showering the street with bright orange sparks and spraying bits of hot metal everywhere. There would be no need for body bags; there would be nothing left for the fire department to clean up except for a big red smear on the pavement and the occasional ear or finger hanging in the bushes or splattered against the curb. Ace desperately hoped that the highway on-ramp would appear soon.
After what seemed like the longest 60 seconds of his life, the big, green sign for the on-ramp appeared. The demon hit the clover-leaf interchange at 100 mph, leaning way over into the turn and dragging its leather-padded right knee on the ground. Ace maintained his speed until the last possible second, then braked hard and slowed to 50. Even so, the chopper’s low-slung frame only had about 4 inches of ground clearance. The right foot peg touched down when Ace hit the ramp, spraying a shower of white sparks behind him and costing him even more time.
By the time Ace had merged onto the highway proper, the Buell had gained a lot of ground, but the highway was where the chopper was at home. Ace nailed the throttle and braced for the acceleration. The chopper responded like a guided missile, with a massive surge of power. The needle of the speedometer quickly rose to 140 mph, and the gap began to close once again.
The road was long and straight, which was perfect for Ace, since the Buell topped out around 145, while the chopper still had plenty of top end left. The Buell’s taillight grew quickly from a tiny red point of light in the distance, until the demon was clearly visible again. The wind blast was nearly unbearable. Ace put his feet back on the passenger pegs and leaned forward with his chest on the tank, trying to escape the vicious slipstream. Gradually, the chopper pulled ahead of the Buell; Ace was finally in the lead.
Everything screamed by in a blur. Insects sand blasted Ace’s face and neck, stinging like hell and plastering his face and glasses with guts. The speedometer was vibrating so badly that it was barely readable, but the needle seemed to be shaking somewhere around 155. The exit for the courthouse was coming up too quickly. Ace had hoped to put more distance between himself and the demon, but there wasn’t going to be enough time. He began to slow the chopper down. It would be suicide to try to take the off-ramp any faster than 50 mph.
As Ace eased the chopper around the clover-leaf, the demon roared up from behind and slipped around him, once again seizing the lead with one knee dragging. The off-ramp let out onto a city street, straight and full of traffic lights. The courthouse was visible in the distance, no more than four or five blocks away.
As Ace wrapped the throttle around, he realized that he wasn’t going to make it. The demon had once again gained about three seconds worth of lead, and there wasn’t enough distance left to make it up. There was only one option left. Ace flipped the switch that armed the nitrous oxide. The last time he had used the nitrous, the force of the exploding gas had caused the front connecting rod to snap the Evo’s skimpy crank pin. The rod had then piled down through the crankcase, destroying the motor’s bottom end and dumping oil out all over the road. Of all of the bad ideas Ace had tried out on the chopper over the years, the goddamn nitrous was definitely the worst, but if he didn’t use it, this race was lost. The courthouse was two blocks away now. He silently prayed that the bottom end would hold, then he hit the button.
The acceleration was comparable to the Batman ride at Great Adventure. The G-force pulled the flesh of Ace’s face back, turning it into a grotesque, grimacing mask. Ace could feel his internal organs being pressed against the back of his rib cage, and it took all of the strength left in his exhausted arms to cling to the handlebars and not fly off the back of the bike. The chopper blew by the Buell like it was standing still, flying into the courthouse’s huge, empty parking lot, beating the Buell by about 20 feet. Ace hit the brakes, rode in a big loop around the lot and came back around to face the demon.
The Buell had stopped dead, frozen in time, as though it had hit an invisible brick wall. The bike stood up, flexing its limbs, and Ace suddenly realized that it was not really a bike at all. How could he have ever mistaken that abomination for a bike? The steed writhed and thrashed, spitting and gnashing its long yellow fangs before dissolving into a cloud of yellow smoke. The demon, meanwhile, was raging and screaming in some language that Ace couldn’t understand. It wanted nothing more than to tear Ace to shreds, to mash him into a pile of bloody hamburger and bone splinters, but it had lost the race, and a deal is, after all, a deal. The life force that had held the demon’s body together was being drained out, and the body was losing the cohesion that had held it together. It was, in fact, turning into a pile of little white worms that fell in heaps upon the ground and crawled away. Within minutes, the Buell and its rider were no more.
In the days and weeks that followed, Ace spent a great deal of time mulling over the recent events, trying to decide if they were real, wondering for the first time in his life, what is reality? But Ace was a man who had always survived by rolling with life’s punches, and sometimes the wisest course of action was not to think. Sometimes, it was better to just ride.
BikerNet Fiction: “Slender Chance Part Two”
By Bandit |
Chance Part Two |
Fiction by A. Carney Allen
Under escort a weary, begrimed figure was shown into the presence of General Vamero at the San Luis barracks.
“From Las Palmas,” gasped Terry Devine, and handed across Don Isidore Pancha’s signed order. “Rebels-President-help–“ Minutes later General Vamero was preparing to lead a body of something like 3,000 cavalry, but as he buckled on his sword he turned to an aide-de-camp. “We have eight hours,” he said. “Artillery we must dispense with, for the guns will never keep up with us on those accursed roads. We will take with us, however, one wagon-load of explosives to blow a gap in the city wall if necessary…” He checked as he saw Terry lolling in a chair, then: “Se?or Devine,” he went on, “the point has just occurred to me. How did you get here? Surely not by the roads?” Terry looked up with a wry grin. “How did I get here?” he echoed. “Why, I guess I got here by luck. And pardon me, General, but now I’m here I’d like to go back again, so maybe you could find a corner for me among the explosives. And my motor bike-though I don’t want to ride it for a while, I wouldn’t let it out of my sight now…” From the north gate of Las Palmas the ground rises steeply to a small flat-topped ridge; beyond the ridge it slopes again to the level of the city. It was behind that ridge that General Vamero’s cavalrymen now lay sheltered. Along the flat top of the ridge were scattered close on a hundred blue-uniformed, lifeless figures. And down the steep slope leading to the capital lay something like double that number. Heavy casualties for only two assaults, but then the rebels lined the city wall, and the city gate was barred. In a little group behind the ridge stood General Vamero, his staff-and Terry-and General Vamero was speaking. “You have seen the effect of a direct rush. Not one actually reached the wall, and our casualties have been terrible. They have raided the arsenal in Las Palmas, you see, and now possess artillery, which we lack. Our artillery will not be up for hours, and if Martino and those murderous scoundrels have not killed Don Isidore already, they will have done so by then.” He paused, then: “If we could only reach the wall with a few hundredweight of our explosive—“ Terry stepped forward. “Pardon, General, but I have an idea. If you can get a rope…” He started to explain, and only once did the General interrupt. “But it took four horses, my friend–“ My bike’s an 8 hp, General, and it’s strong enough to draw money out of a miser.” From the city wall the rebels saw a sight, presently, that silenced their rifles with its unexpectedness. A powerful motor bike topping the crest of the ridge and drawing behind it by a strong tow-rope, a covered wagon, its shaft fixed rigidly. Curiosity continued to hold the revolutionaries immobile till the odd cortege had rapidly crossed the small flat plateau and was actually on the downward slope. Terry Devine, turning in his saddle then, slashed the tow-rope in twain with a razor-sharp bowie knife! In the same instant he steered aside, and as he did so the covered wagon went lumbering past his rear mudguard, gathering speed on slanting ground which, unlike that farther from the city, was comparatively smooth. The wagon had traversed the pitted roads without mishap. It was not too much to hope that, with shaft lashed to keep it on a straight course, it would come to no harm now until the crucial moment. A crackle of musketry ran along the length of the city wall, but Terry, weaving a baffling zig-zag pattern over the ground, received no more than a scored wrist. He did not fear for himself-he feared only that something would induce the rebels into firing on the wagon before its work was done. And then suddenly, above the flat summit of the ridge, showed a line of changing soldiery-General Vamero and his cavalry-and Terry, swinging round to join in the rush, knew that the advance of the loyalists was calculated to prevent the revolutionaries from thinking, and suspecting the contents of-the wagon! Terry watched that wagon, away down the slope now, and hurtling toward the wall. It was a few hundred yards ahead of Terry-Terry, coursing down the hill on his trusty bike, with the loyalist cavalry thundering to the rear of him. The rebels seemed to take the wagon for a mere battering ram that could not do much damage to the solid wall. They seemed to ignore it, restricting their attentions to the loyalist soldiery with telling effect. Terry saw the wagon-shaft hit the wall just to the right of the city’s north gate; and then… There was a mighty burst of flame and smoke, and a devastating shock that sent an earthquake through the earth underfoot. A furious rush of air seemed to catch at Terry and momentarily check his bike. Around him fell splinters of wood from the shattered wagon, fragments of stone from the shattered wall. The smoke cleared. The wagon had vanished utterly and, where it had struck, the wall had vanished too. With a rousing cheer the loyalist cavalry spurred forward, and that cheer rang the death-knell of ruffian hopes. The insurgents, dazed many of them from the effects of the explosion, had little stomach for close-quarter fighting against mounted disciplinarians who wielded skillful sabres, and with the rabble on the run the loyalists came to the Presidential Palace. Here there was a faint-hearted resistance from men who had laid a protracted seige, but in the space of minutes they were routed or killed. And so at length the gates of the Palace were flung open to the victors by the little garrison, which had held out so stoically. In the broad courtyard Don Isidore Pancha and General Vamero embraced each other fervently, and they were in the midst of their emotional greeting when a sharp volley of musketry rang out. The president started back. The fighting, he had imagined, was over. “It is nothing,” said General Vamero. “Only Esteban Martino taking a too honorable farewell. I did not wait for a signed order, Your Excellency.” The General paused, and turned all at once to a weary, begrimed figure whose dust-covered ducks were made no more presentable by the steady trickle of blood running from his hand. “Your Excellency, we are forgetting the one who has saved our country from ruin at the hands of villainous scum-Se?or Devine.” And with that General Vamero proceeded to outline Terry’s adventures. When he had finished, Don Isidore Pancha stepped forward and took the youngster by his uninjured hand. “Se?or,” he said, “your conduct calls for the highest honor Miranda can bestow-the equivalent of your British Victoria Cross. It calls, also, for a more substantial reward. But above all, it is something I can never fully repay. I can do something, however, to wipe off a little of the debt. Se?or Devine, I am going to abolish horses in Miranda and equip my cavalry with Premier motorcycles. And into the bargain-the roads will not be repaired.” Terry was staring at him in wonder, but at the last words he roused himself. “The roads-will not be repaired? But, Your Excellency, the bikes will not last a year—“ Don Isidore broke in on him with a dazzling smile. “Exactly,” he said. “A yearly order for your firm-a yearly commission for you.” And Don Isidore Pancha so far forgot his exalted position as to close his right eye in a very deliberate wink. |