I previously posted about riding with some bikers while I was stationed at Fort Benning. If you’ve read a few of my posts, you might have read that one. I also posted about my lady biker girlfriend of sorts who liked to be called ‘Chains’ who also watched out for me like a protective mother hen. Sometimes she was a godsend and sometimes she could be a royal pain in the ass. But I kind of liked having her around whenever we had an occasional run-in with the local county Mounties (police). The group of bikers I rode with was, for the most part, peaceful and law abiding. I hate to use the word gang because it portrays such a negative image of who we were. Did we roar into town over the speed limit gunning our engines and making lots of noise to act intimidating? Hell yeah! Did we ride into town in full gang, I mean group, regalia and colors? Hell yeah! Did we stop at our favorite watering hole (bar) and drink and raise hell? Hell yeah? Did we break any (many) laws? I don’t think so. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Anyway 1977 was an interesting year for several reasons. Some of them were rather dubious, but one was notable. The Kawasaki KZ1000 was the hottest selling bike on the road. That Japanese ‘rice burner’ was the hottest selling bike for a reason. Reason being that it was the fastest bike on the road that year. It was so popular that if people bought one and left it in their yard, chances were, it wouldn’t be there the next day. Why? It was very easy to steal, and the thief could outrun the police after the theft. Thus, the KZ1000 became a hot black-market commodity where thieves could quickly rake in a nice haul after a ‘shit-and-git’ theft. The secret to getting away unnoticed was to break the bike lock and roll the bike two or three blocks away from the scene of the theft before starting it. That way the unsuspecting theft victim would not hear anything and wouldn’t be alerted to the theft until the next day when the bike was discovered missing. Like you could really discover something that is already missing. It sounds like I’m an expert thief, huh? I’m not. I never even touched one, let alone stole one. But bike thieves will talk about anything to anyone they think is on their side when they are drunk. What side is that exactly? Well, it’s sort of like this, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s a duck. Did that help? No? You’re the plain English crowd, huh? Okay. If you ain’t wearing a badge and you ain’t an establishment bureaucrat, politician, or genuine all-around do-gooder, you must be a friend or ally. I fit into that last category. You know. The one about the ducks. So, a bike thief would see me, a fellow ‘soldier’ ride in with a bunch of bikers and automatically assume I was okay because I was with other ducks. Thus, I was a duck by association. Guilty as charged. That’s me. That’s not exactly how the cops saw it though. They automatically assumed that the bikers did it if some shit went down when the bikers were in town. So, we were the first people they would start harassing. Even if we didn’t have a clue what had happened. Case in point. We rode into Columbus and went to Someplace Else (the bar) to grab some beer and mind our own business about an hour after a KZ1000 was reported stolen. We had just ordered our second round when Johnny Law walked in. I must have had my “SCREW WITH ME, I’M GUILTY AS SHIT” sign lit because the cops made a beeline straight for me. True to form, Chains immediately got up to run interference, but the donut loving cop of the bunch said, “Sit down, honey and keep your hands where I can see them or my partner there will zap you.” Then, the donut lover looked at me and said, “What’s your name, son?” I replied, “To her, I’m Demon. To the rest of the guys, I’m the Screaming Demon.” “I meant your given name, asshole.” “Oh. I’m glad you clarified that officer. Could you repeat the question please?” “Are you trying to piss me off?” “Oh no sir. But I don’t remember you asking that question before? Did you?” “Did I what?” “Ask me if I was trying to piss you off before?” “What? Wait just a goddamn minute. I’m the one asking the questions here.” “Okay. What do you want to know?” “I want to know your goddamn name?” “I thought I already answered that question.” “You didn’t tell me your given name.” “You didn’t ask me. Are you sure you’re feeling alright, officer? I think you look a little pale. Perhaps you didn’t have enough donuts during your last break?” “Why you goddamn smartass punk.” I ought to…” “What? You ought to…?” “Just tell me your given name?” “Oh. Why didn’t you just ask? It’s Wright Masters, officer.” “Where do you work, Mr. Masters?” “I’m a soldier at Fort Benning.” “I ought to just haul you in.” “What’s the charge, Mr. Donut, I mean officer?” “What’s with the donut thing?” “Well, sir, it’s like this, you ain’t exactly the smallest guy in the room. Ergo, you love donuts. Am I wrong? And you’re screwing with the smallest guy in the room for a reason. My guess, intimidation. If Chains wanted to, she could pick your lard ass up and throw you across the room. My pals respect the law so we aren’t doing anything to retaliate against your bullying. But we damn sure could.” “You’re a son-of-a-bitch.” “Okay. But leave my mom out of this.” “What?” “Never mind. We ain’t got all night, and our beer is getting warm. What the hell do you want?” “What do you know about a Kawasaki KZ1000 that was reported stolen tonight?” “Well, it’s one fast motor scooter, that one. I’ll tell you what. If the sucker who stole that got away, you ain’t ever going to catch him.” “You boys didn’t have anything to do with the theft, did you?” “Now I know your blood sugar is low. You seriously need to visit the nearest donut shop ASAP. I bet you like the ones with the maple frosting, huh?” “No, I like the ones with the glaze and the jelly filling. Hey…” “I just knew it. Officer, I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God.” “Well, I’m waiting.” “The doctor sez, you need a fix of those donuts ASAP, and we didn’t have anything to do with it. We didn’t steal a goddamn Japanese rice burner. Hell, I don’t even ride my old rice burner any more. I haven’t touched a rice burner ever since I’ve been riding with my friends here. We only ride cold hard American steel. Besides, we just got back into town. Any other questions, papa donut?” “Watch it, punk. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, so you better not cause any trouble.?” “That’s going to be kind of hard don’t you think?” “Why is that?” “There ain’t no donut shops nearby. Dammit man, don’t you just hate it when I’m right?” That last crack got all of my friends chuckling. With that, the police decided to stop harassing us and left, avoiding another exercise in futility.
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