It had been a long grueling day at Fort Benning, Georgia. I slept most of the day in my deuce and a half while the soldiers from the Central Confinement Facility (CCF) performed their various extra duties around post. As I said, it had been a long grueling day. I was bushed. And saying that it was Miller time was understatement. But let me tell you, it was Miller time. I am using “Miller time” in the generic sense of the phrase because I don’t think that the beer on tap at Nichols Alley down in Columbus, Georgia, was Miller beer. Of course, I could be wrong. I could be. And the US government might write me a check for $500 million tomorrow. I seriously doubt it. But they might. Crazier shit has happened before. I just don’t remember when. Anyhow, I needed beer. I really didn’t care what kind. I just needed beer. So, I headed north. No. Not North to Alaska. Just north to Columbus, Georgia. I drank a few beers at Nichols Alley, but there really wasn’t much happening there. It wasn’t a Wednesday, so it wasn’t Nichol night. It wasn’t ladies night, so my special friend from Montgomery, Alabama wasn’t there. There just wasn’t a whole lot going on. I decided to head over to Someplace Else. When I got to Someplace Else, I was surprised to find a whole bunch of Harley hogs parked out front. I quickly rushed inside and down the stairs. Sure enough, Chains and the rest of the gang were in town. This was a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting them until the weekend. They had told me last Friday that they were going to be cruising down to Pensacola, Florida. I couldn’t get the time off, so I couldn’t cruise with them. That would’ve been a helluva ride. This being Tuesday, I was surprised to see them back already. When I found Chains, I walked up and said, “Hey baby cakes, what’s shaking? I thought you would still be down around Pensacola somewhere?” Chains grabbed me in a bear hug and said, “Hey snooky wookums, how have you been?” She smothered me with a kiss. Then, I responded, “I’m good, but why are you back so soon?” “Oh. About that. One of the guys, Rings, didn’t ride with us. He stayed back here. Well, something happened. He got arrested.” I need to interject here and explain why Rings was called Rings. The average person might think that Rings meant that he wore a lot of rings on his fingers. But they would be wrong. Rings was called Rings because he wore a lot of earrings and chains connected with rings, not to his ears, but to body piercings. I asked, “Why was he arrested?” Chains replied, “The honchos at the donut shop say that he stole one of those Kawasaki rice burners.” “What? One of the new KZ – 1000 bikes?” “Yeah.” “What are they basing it on?” “Someone matching his general description was seen in the neighborhood the afternoon before it came up missing.” “That’s it?” “Yeah. That’s it.” “What color was the stolen bike?” “Why?” Suddenly, a few other members of the bike gang including the leader of the gang started to listen to our conversation. I replied, “I have a reason for asking.” Chains looked at me then looked at the leader, who nodded, then she looked back at me, and said, “It was orange, or more specifically orange and white.” “I think I may know something about that missing bike.” Now the leader was really interested. He asked me, “Please tell me everything you know about this missing bike.” I replied, “Okay guys, you have to keep my name out of it. But here’s what I can do for you. You know that I sometimes haul around all of the prisoners from the Central Confinement Facility out on post, right?” Most of them shook their heads yes. I continued, “Anyway, I drove for them today. And they were talking. They were saying that some dude got arrested on post for speeding on an unlicensed orange Kawasaki KZ – 1000. Supposedly, when the MPs ran the identification number on the Kawasaki, it was reported stolen. So instead of citing the guy for speeding, they arrested him for possession of stolen property and confiscated the motorcycle. I can get some sworn statements from some soldiers that are locked up at the CCF. But a deal is going to have to be made. In order for these guys to cooperate, some time is going to have to be shaved off of their time at the CCF. You know. You scratch my back; I’ll scratch your back. That kinda shit. Then, we get Rings to hire a lawyer to bust his ass out of jail legally, and we get the honchos at the donut shop to cut the deal with the fellas out on post. Lawyers can do that kinda shit. And then, the shithead that’s locked up out on post can get stuck with the bill for all of the shit. You see what I’m saying?” “Damn, Demon! That sounds like a helluva fine plan. Are you sure it’s the same bike?” “It’s gotta be. The guy that got arrested. He’s in my Battalion. I know the shithead. This would be like the third or fourth one of those Kawasaki’s that he has grabbed. The sonofabitch finally got caught. It’s just that the donut munchers out on post nabbed him rather than the donut munchers downtown. I figure that’s because the donut munchers downtown are lazier, so they find the first biker they see and blame him.” “Damn, Demon, I was worried sick wondering what we were going to do about Rings. I am damn glad you came in here tonight.” “Well hey boss, I’m just glad I could help. Man am I thirsty.” “Well, goddamn, why didn’t you say so? Somebody buy the man a beer.” The next day, I drove for the CCF again, and we put our plan into action. Within two days, we had Rings freed from jail. By taking a whimsical detour to Someplace Else, I had helped to avert a jail term of futility, for one of the members of our motorcycle gang.
by 
by 