We needed something cool and rare for the Cantina Digital Discovery area, so I was told to hauled ass to 17 Palms, Califa, a dusty berg in the Mojave Desert. A buddy of mine, Bob T. lives out there in the sand. In the shell of a ’59 Cadillac, he keeps his most treasured paraphernalia. It’s tough, since the early ‘70s he’s guarded his treasures with a vast cache of weapons and the nastiest pitbull to ever tear a tire from its steel rim, “Pretty Boy”.
I took two fifths of Jack Daniels and some weed for the dog. If he got stoned he was manageable. After we finished the first fifth, Bob started to loosen up.
“At one time or another we all have collected something, goddamnit,” Bob said and spit in the dust at his feet. “As kids we collected baseball cards, stamps or coins. I remember my first small coin collection. I sold it to a coin dealer. I am sure the sonuvabitch ripped me off, but in 1959 I had to get a surfboard. I’m still pissed off about that. I’m looking for that cocksucker and hate surfers.”
He snatched a big stainless .357 revolver out from under his milk crate and loaded it with two old tarnished hollow point rounds. He started spinning the cylinder and aiming at shit around me, pulling the hammer back and let her fly. The third time he did it the cannon went off and he blew away a Cadillac wind-wing. I jumped, then grabbed the fifth and took a shot ignoring the shot glass. I had to stay tough.
”I wonder what that small collection is worth today?” Bob said splinning the cylinder again. “The surfboard ended up in the dump. I’m sure it’s worth something today.”
His eyes glowed red and he started to grind his coffee- brown teeth. I needed some rare Harley-Davidson collectibles for the Digital Discovery area, bad. The dog was still stumbling around the perimeter of the Cadillac, but I was burning daylight. If the dog came out of it and copped an attitude, I’d be in trouble.
This section of the Cantina is devoted to our esteemed web master, the Digital Gangster. Does he ever come up with any hard-to-find content? Fuck no. Here I was risking my life across from this gun-totin’ madman in the scurviest desert in the bottom have of the state. If Bob knocked me up-side the head and throw my carcus in the sand, the tarantulas, scorpions and rattlesnakes would have a barbecue with my bones in no-time. I took another slug of the Black and gritted my teeth.
“Where’s the shit, Bob?” I said. He ignored me.
”I looked at collecting as a poor man’s way of investing,” Bob said and started to smile. “I started collecting knives and guns a while back. Then after many years I sold it, piece by piece, on EBay. I made a bundle, paid off my house, bought two more Harleys and so much more. It was crazy.” He put the gun down and looked through the old photographs and ‘70s motorcycle magazines at his feet. I suspected he was scrounging for more ammo.
“But over the years I picked up Harley items. They decorate my garage. I guess you just can’t get some things out of your blood.” He took another shot and his eyes glazed over. He told me where the shit was. Drunk, he tried to look cool and find more rounds in the dirt.
“Let’s go to the garage,” I said. I had to bring the shit back, or Bandit would have kicked my ass. Hell the Cantina readers would hang me.
“No fuckin’ way,” Bob said. “Stay outta my garage.”
I scrambled out of the passenger side of the rusting Cadillac shell and grabbed for my camera.
“Pretty boy,” Bob hollered and passed out. I looked around apprehensively. The dog was stoned and asleep in the sand. I scrambled to the teetering garage Bob, never allowed me near, and rushed inside. I took these shots and ran to my pick-up.
I heard he has a drawer full of rare H-D tools and chain breakers. I’ll be back.
