The Texas Threat
by John Wells
Spoke loved his motorcycle, and he practically lived on it. He was one tough dude and people generally stayed out of his way. Even though he could be a real son-of-a-bitch, he always tried to be fair, and a man of his word. For example, one time he robbed an old lady at gun point, but gave her back enough cash for bus fare. A lesser man would have kept it all.
Spoke looked like a total bad-ass too. His long, unwashed hair was pulled into a ponytail and he made sure he always had some uneven stubble on his face. One time he dyed a big pink streak in his hair to honor a fellow biker named Pinky. People looked at him with a mix of terror and laughter – and that’s how he liked it. He did have a funny bone sometimes. So, from then on, he made sure to always have some pink in his hair somewhere.
His clothes were typical hardcore biker attire that he got at the local Walmart during a blue-light special. He slashed his jeans with a knife to make them look like he was always in knife fights, and he spent some serious cash customizing his jean jacket with the words “Pop the Clutch!” embroidered in large letters across the back.
His motorcycle was only a Yamaha 400, but with his black paint job and flame stickers, it looked the part of a wild outlaw machine. He rode around town like he owned the place.
When people saw him coming, they scattered out of fear – and not just because he would sometimes loose his balance and veer off onto the sidewalk, or skid on wet pavement and end up in the bushes. He loved the look on everyone’s faces when he would accidentally miss a gear and rev the engine well past the red line. Sometimes people scattered because they saw the look on his face as he realized he wasn’t going to make a turn. Some had small children nearby, and others might have seen him that one time he let the clutch out too fast at a stop sign, and his motorcycle roared into a wheelie and shot out from between his legs, flying across the road without him, and landing in the ditch on the other side. People knew Spoke was dangerous.
Of course, Spoke wasn’t his real name; it was his biker name. His real name was Summer Rain, but that was way too wimpy for a tough guy. He thought about calling himself Oozy, after the axel grease, but settled on Spoke. His mom liked Oozy better, but moms don’t get to choose biker names.
Once in a while, he liked going to biker bars. He generally didn’t like being around other bikers because he thought most of them were weird. He preferred to be a gang of one – dancing to his own whistle.
But on this warm summer evening Spoke rolled into a new bar on the other side of town called Scooters. He turned off the two-lane into a gravel parking lot filled with 30 or 40 bikes, and pulled his great beast in between two other bikes. As he shut down his bike and got off, he realized that all the other bikes were Vespas. They were painted bright colors and were totally blinged-out with extra lights all over them and flags and crazy metallic streamers. His was the only “real” motorcycle in the whole lot. But that’s ok – Spoke liked to stand out.
He walked inside and saw everyone was dressed up. The guys had suits with narrow ties and the women were dressed to the hilt; some with feather boas and sequin hats and jackets. It was a real spectacle. ABBA was blaring on the speakers and people were dancing in the corner dance-floor under a disco ball and flashing lights. Spoke sided up to the bar and looked around. He was the only “real” biker in the whole place. But that was ok with him. That’s the way he liked it.
The bartender came over. “Whatcha drinkin’ pawdna?” he said.
“Give me a beer – a manly beer,” Spoke replied.
“Sure thing.” The bartender set a beer in front of him.
It was only a minute or two and a gorgeous woman came over, put her arm around his shoulders, and whispered in his ear. Referring to his jean jacket she said, “Vespas don’t need clutches – they’re automatic.” Then she giggled and walked off.
Spoke wasn’t sure what she meant by that. He had no idea how scooters worked. But he assumed she was flirting with him and he grinned at her as she walked away. He took his time and finished his beer, then decided he’d made a big enough splash, and also, the Bee Gees had come on and they were not his jam. He paid the tab and got up, and, with all the swagger he could muster, made his way to the door. He could hear people snickering as he walked. When he got outside he saw that his motorcycle was gone. They had stolen it.
He turned around and went back inside. He walked into the middle of the room, pulled out his gun, pointed it at the ceiling, and fired. That got the everyone’s attention. The music stopped and the place went silent. “Very funny!” he shouted in an unusually forceful, manly voice. “I’m going to sit at the bar and have another beer. By the time I finish, I want my motorcycle returned – no questions asked.” He gritted his teeth and looked around. “Don’t make me do what I had to do in Texas!” He held up his gun. “You really don’t want me to do what I had to do in Texas!”
He walked back over to the bar and sat down. The bartender set a new beer in front of him. He drank it slowly, and could hear shuffling and scurrying behind him by the door. After a few minutes he finished his beer, stood up, and walked out the door. Just like he expected, his motorcycle was back.
As he geared up the bartender came outside. “Really sorry about that, sir, we don’t want any trouble,” the bartender said. “By the way, what happened in Texas?”
Spoke shook his head. “I had to walk home.”