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Here’s a story. Folks who know me know I’m a big motorcycle fan. And much to the financial concern of my wife I have -according to her- spent waaaaaaay the hell too much money over the course of our married life on motocross bikes, modern sport bikes, vintage flat track racers and all kinds of vintage motorcycle “bargains” that I just HAVE to have. (Of course i do.) Hey, it’s cheaper than seeing a shrink.

 

A soft spot for bikers…

So anyway… I kinda have a soft spot for most bikers and will pretty much go out of my way to help them out when the occasion arises. And so it did not long ago. I was at this convenience store gassing up when I see this dude cruise by on a bad-ass GSXR 1000. And when I say cruise I mean he was hauling the mail my man, front wheel up at like 11:00 and flat gettin’ it. Then he comes back the other way, same deal. Front wheel way up and going through the gears. Couple more passes like this and I find myself thinking just how much I could make as a motorcycle stunt rider who practices law on the side just enough to keep him in high octane and new tires.

 

Wheelies

And so goes my daydreaming reverie when super trooper Dudley Do right pulls in the station and takes up a hidden position behind a big delivery truck also in the parking lot. The Gixxer goes by again, but tame this time, with both wheels firmly on the tarmac, slows, and pulls up to the pumps where I am. Guy cuts his motor and pulls his helmet up to the top of his head like you see some guys do and kind of wears it like a hat. He’s headed into the store when Dudley Do right pulls his cruiser in front of dude’s bike and gets out.

“Sir!” he shouts.

Motorcycle dude keeps walking.

“Sir! stop right there.”

Dude turns around with a “WTF?” expression on his face, pointing to himself to say “you mean me?”.

Cop says “Yes, you! Get over here!”

Dude totally rolls his eyes and—reluctantly—turns and saunters back to the cop.

Now, I’m not a big eavesdropper, and when something ain’t my beeswax I stay out, right? But cop starts haranguing this guy about how he got reports of a guy with such and such a bike and such and such a helmet and such and such a shirt and all this shit doing wheelies and riding careless and reckless up and down the street and HE looks like that guy and so HE’s gonna get a ticket. But that doesn’t go over well with motorcycle dude. He is pissed.

“What the fuck?” he says. “This is some bullshit man! I just got here! I ain’t even been anywhere near here. Anyone tells you different they’re lying!”

Fuck me. This dude’s got balls. I mean. He’s totally throwing it back at the cop. Now, I don’t know what it is with cop physiology but I swear to you it looked like he somehow turned his ears off. I mean, dude was pissed (and righteously so) and giving this cop a fucking earful of protest, and cop just walks back to his car and whips out a ticket book and starts scribbling away like it’s almost donut time.

Meantime, motorcycle dude is on the phone, and while I can’t hear all of what he’s saying it sounds like he’s explaining to someone how he’s gonna be late because this cop is jacking him up and all this shit.

So, right about then, this fat white lady pulls up in this big-ass 4×4 GMC truck with a CB antenna and gun rack. Nice. She walks over to the cop and he rolls down the window. I can’t hear what they’re saying but it looks like she is somehow involved. They talk for a couple minutes and I see the cop hand her what looks like his card. Probably the one who called it in and complained.

She walks over by her truck and lights a generic brand cigarette. Thanks lady. For smoking in a gas station I mean. I’d like to get blown up today. Motorcycle guy, meanwhile is sitting on his bike, helmet still on his head like a hat, when the county mounty comes over to him with a ticket in his hand.

“Man, I done told you I ain’t done shit!” he says, obviously perturbed.

“Well, that may be”, the cop says, “…but this lady over here says she saw you go by riding like a maniac and she can identify you.”

Dude scoffs. “Man, what the fuck?” “I told you what. I told you I just got here I told you I ain’t even been NEAR here and DAMN sure ain’t been riding like no maniac! I keep that shit on the track man!”

Cop looks at his shirt and brushes something off (donut crumbs?).

“Man, what the fuck does that fat bitch even know? What the fuck is she saying?”

Dudley Do straightens up and gets into cop mode: “What’s she saying? I’ll tell you what she’s saying. She says she saw a black guy in short black pants and white shoes with a gold full-face helmet and a green shirt with Kings M/C on the back. She even said you had a Purple Flake GSXR 1000 which she says she knows because her son rides a bike. And all that matches you to a T. THAT’s what she says!”

Cop seems to be getting pissed with him. He’s got a real smug attitude. He motions to the lady to come over.

“Is this the guy ma’am?” She nods.

“And is this the bike you saw?” She nods again.

Cop turns back to the dude. “See? She saw you.”

Dude scoffs again. “Man, that ain’t shit. She’s telling a bunch of damn lies.”

 

Kings M/C dude is screwed…or so it seems

Now at this point, I’m about to get back in my car.  I got my gas and this case looks like it’s about at an end. I mean, I know all the arguments I’d make in court if we were there but, well, we ain’t, and I kinda see which way this is going. I figure, I’ll go over and give this guy a card, just tell him if he wants me to help him out I’ll do it. Gratis. Just because, right?

 

Not so fast…

And while I’m reaching for a card, and simultaneously thinking if I want to get myself involved right at this moment, I hear, ever so faintly, like maybe over a hill or something (no hills in Raleigh, BTW), some kind of moaning sound, maybe like a siren or something. But wait, no, it’s not that. It’s deeper, throatier and it seems to grow louder while I listen. The cop and the fat lady pick up their heads and notice too. “What is that?” I crane my head a bit.

 

Suddenly, from behind some big 18-wheelers parked a hundred yards away down by the side of the road, comes a GSXR 1000, purple flake, then another, then two, then three, then more, all in a line, engines revving angrily. Must be thirty of them and they all pull into the gas station. The cop and the lady look over at the bikes all parked at various angles, around the parking lot, lots with big muscular guys on them, some with big booty black girls on the back, some ridden by the ladies themselves, and all wearing EXACTLY the same thing: green Kings M/C shirts, gold full-face helmets, white Nikes.

Motorcycle dude looks over at them and says to one who lifts a fist up high in salute:

“Yo man! Shit ain’t nuthin!”

I look over at the cop and the fat lady and then look back at dude. Now he’s smiling a big toothy smile with a couple gold teeth right up front. He’s looking over at the cop now.

“See man? I fucking TOLD you it wasn’t me.”

Now I’m no mind reader, but the cop and the fat redneck lady must have had the same kind of thought at about that time. They walk over to the back of the squad car and stay there for a good five minutes. Next thing, redneck mama squashes out her generic cig on the ground (nice!) and blobs over to her giant 4×4 with the CB antenna and gun rack. She drives off before I notice that cop has walked back to dude and is talking to him. I can’t hear what the exchange is because the rest of the bikers have started up their motors and are all revving them up. Must be time to go. The cop, ticket in hand, tips his
head to his shoulder and speaks into a key-mic that’s clipped to one of his epaulets. I watch as he gets in his car and backs out unceremoniously from in front of the dude.

 

No ticket today. What fucking luck! Then I see the play: With so many folks wearing EXACTLY the same thing, riding EXACTLY the same kind of bike, there’s just no way that this kind of ID would stand up in court. Damn that’s some luck! Fuck me.

 

I turn to dude as he pulls his helmet on and swings a leg over the GIXXER.

“Damn bro!” I say. He turns and with something between a laugh and a scoff, points a thumb to the back of his shirt.

“The Kings M/C” it says. “It’s good to be the king yo!” he says back to me.

He turns and smiles with that big gold-toothed grin.

“Fuck yeah” I tell him.

 

I put my card back in my pocket just as dude hits the starter and guns it a few times before taking his place along-side the others who are already pulling out. Yeah man, I feel you. It is good to be the king. I drive off with a secret thought: lawyer by day, motorcycle club attorney by night? This might work.

 

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