WILD RIDERS OF BOARDZI
THEY HAVE TRAVELLED HUNDREDS
OF MILES ALTHOUGH IT COULD'VE
BEEN THOUSANDS OR MILLIONS FOR
ALL THAT MATTERS, OR MAYBE EVEN
TWICE AS MUCH AS THAT FOR ALL
THAT IT MATTERS. ALL THAT REALLY
MATTERS IS, THAT IT HAS BEEN A
LONG HAUL SINCE THE LAST FULL ON
SKATE SESSION AND THAT THE
MILES AND WEARINESS WERE
BEGINNING TO SHOW. THE BOYS ARE
ORNRY AND THEY NEED TO LET
LOOSE.
The desert air rushed into the smoke-
filled cantina as the foreboding stranger
bellowed through the swinging double
doors and made his way towards the
stand-up bar. As he bellied up, he
snapped his fingers, the sound of which
was not unlike that of the caballero's
whip, signaling his presence and the bar-
joe's attention.
"What'll ya have, mack?"
The stranger hardly acknowledged the
bartender's meager presence. Then,
slowly and surely, he stared into the
proprietor's cataract eyes and said slowly.
but with determination, "Give me the
strongest you got."
"Yah, O.K. fine, sure, bub. Yessiree I'll
tell ya."
The stranger surveyed the premises.
Nobody really noticed his arrival. Over in
a far corner of the room, Fred and Tim sat
in a booth, sipping cold ones and cajoling
over Cisco's antics of chasing cockroaches
across the dirt floor and stirring up a
minor dust storm beneath one of the
tables.
Further glances unveiled the hidden
mysteries of boon docks social life. A lush
at the other end of the bar slowly sank
into her seat and calmly laid her head to
rest on the bar top in a drunken stupor
(very common to the female gender of
this rural hamlet). Nothing to waste one's
time on here.
A partially sauced Biskut reeled off joke
after joke to the captive lush audience of
one, as Chris studied a topography map a
few stools down.
The Bar Joe brought the 'stiff one in a
glass' to the stranger while simultaneously
mumbling about how he would rather be
caught in the sack with his favorite 'hot
patootie, than be implanted on the
household throne in the event of a nuclear
holocaust.
One sip empties half the snifter, he
decides the atmosphere needs something
to be desired. A jukebox behind him
became his center of attention. As he
moved towards the Rockola, Chris
paused from looking at the map and
followed him with his eyes. He noticed his
sinister character, evil looks and overall
evility. Immediately, Chris decides he
hates this man and was going to do
anything he could to bring him down.
The nickel dropped down the slot. C-14.
The stranger sang along, only, making his
own lyrics,
If you got the money, honey
I've got the time
We'll go honky tonkin', baby
Your bed or mine,
You've contracted T.B
And that suits me just fine,
If you got the money, honey
I've got the time.
On that last note he plopped back down
in his seat and resumed his drink only to
be stabbed in the eyes by Chris' cold hard
gaze.
The message was clear. Only one of
them would walk out of this dingy cantina
tonight.
He finished his drink and delivered
himself to Chris' side and said, "What we
do. We do now."
Chris said nothing. His only reply,
folding the map he rose and moved to a
table nearby and sat down, facing the
stranger, who in turn, followed and sat,
facing Chris. Simultaneously they set their
elbows down on the charred fake antique
varathane-coated table top and joined
their burly fists. The song on the jukebox
finished and Hank Williams went back into
his slot until the next stranger comes by
and offers the nickel sacrifice.
The rest of the Big Boys tuned in on the
action that was about to happen. Even
Cisco became enveloped in the
unravelling drama, tossing aside a
cockroach torso and pattering over to
Chris' side.
They were poised and ready after
fidgeting about, getting the good grip.
They nodded three times and on the third
they commenced.
THE BIGGEST BOYS ROLL
The seam on Chris' left shoulder grew
taut and separated under the duress. The
stranger's arm suffered a similar folly,
seeming to bend at first, then finally
snapping about four inches down from the
wrist.
The lush rose from her drunken stupor
just in time to witness the gory horror and
consequently unchucked over the edge.
The stranger, who should have been
screaming in utter agony, simply looked at
his mangled member and said, "DAMN!!
The Big Boys downed their suds,
packed up and headed out to blaze the
trail. They left the stranger a quad to call
an ambulance and play his favorite song
on the Rockola while he waited.
Back on the road, Chris pointed out
what he had discovered on his map. A
ten-mile, four-laned gradual downhill run
that winds through a rarely used pass.
The proceedings were as follows.
Forty-five minutes delivered them to the
highest point, mark, a few thousand odd
feet above the level of the sea. Fred at
this point was becoming very well
adapted to his driving duties (being's he
only drove when he deemed it necessary).
He slowed to a thirty miles per hour crawl
as Biskut levered open the side doors and
latched them in place. Fred held his
course well, swaying not even the
slightest bit.
Tim, Biskut and Chris, unpreoccupied,
resembled paratroopers ready to bail.
One after the other, at three-second
intervals, they pressure-dropped from the
moving vehicle to the passing pavement
below, then veering off towards the slow
lane. Fred, still in utter control, veered
towards the left and faded back to drive a
screen in the event that any cars might
forge their way on top of the rolling trio.
The road was on a gradual decline
serving occasional black market runners.
Smoothly paved. A downhiller's paradise.
The only flaws being the 'DA-DIT, DA-
DITS' spaced every other line. A minor
flaw nonetheless.
The run lasted a full forty-five minutes.
The boys worked the hill to its full extent.
Nobody bailed, nobody sketched as most
know that it should always be this way.
Four trucks in a convoy, that were
carrying cigarettes over the state line,
advanced on the entourage three quarters
of a mile back and closing. Fred, being
the expert pilot that he was pretending to
be, popped his horn twice and sped up in
the fast lane, jockeying in front of the pack
and pacing himself with the moving body
of riders.
Biskut, in the lead position by about
four lengths, rolled up to the door and
stepped off his stick onto the running
board, the skate still rolled beside the van
in perfect cadence. He leaned down and
picked it up, the wheels spun furiously. He
spit on his bearings and then laughed
when it sizzled.
The rest of the Boys rolled up and
mounted in the same manner only with
varying degrees of difficulty.
Chris, the last in, latched the doors
behind him, then looked out from beneath
his sweaty brows through the front
windshield and said between exhausted
breaths, "We turn West right up here."
Fred executed a picture perfect left.
hand turn and the Big Boys rolled off
towards the horizon.
BEING BIG DEFINITELY HAS ITS
ADVANTAGES AND THE BIG BOYS
ARE NOT ONES TO REALLY IGNORE
THIS FACT. ONE IS ONLY AS TOUGH
AS ONE THINKS THEY ARE. NEXT
MONTH: ON STAGE WITH THE D.K.'S.
Moto
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