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Two-Strokes Past Midnight- Booze, Fireworks, and Mopeds

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Edward

Guest
Its Saturday evening, I've scored some raw materials from a local hardware store to close up my carb air leaks and am putting them to good use while some hillbilly dog breeders mess with their victims in a couple of white windowless vans. Mopeds are chained to the poles holding up the second story walkway outside of virtually every room on the first floor. As I'm squatted down the yapping of the poor creatures tugs at the edges of my empathy, but I've got bigger fish to fry. I need my machine to make it to "The Party" rumored to be in a warehouse out in the industrial park. I've got a rough aproximation of where to go but details are sketchy and hard to come by. My plan is to wait for a group to leave and fall in. The darkness will be my friend. In the rolling kennel next door, I hear a lady complain about all the bikes blocking the sidewalk and how the smell of gasoline is making it hard to breath, in between deep drags on her cowboy killers. I glance at the four foot corridor of space between peds and the wall. Then I chance a glance at her vast expanse of stretch pants in stress and realize she's got a point there, turning sideways wasn't going to work either. I moved the OCC to the outside of my pole and cleaned up my mess.
 


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Edward

Guest
As the sky darkens from the coming night and drizzling clouds, the flourescents flicker on outside the rooms. People begin to emerge from their dens leaving doors open, beer and tools begin to work their magic. The reports of airsoft weapons slowly increase in rapidity, I duck down near a fellow in a white T-Shirt and Buddy Holly glasses. The back says "Im not in Mission 23" and the front is emblazoned with a "Don't feed a dead horse" and a cartoon dead horse. I ask the guy next to me where he's from and he says
"New York".
So I'm thinking "Oh, Mission 23."
He says "No I'm not with Mission 23, I'm one of the founders but now I'm not."
Ah politics. Apparently the group schizmed and the attempt to get the new group recognized was thwarted by the original club. Nice. Can't get involved in internecine warfare though, have my own agenda to push. The guy was adamant that our club had to attend another club's event to even be considered for membership.
 
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Edward

Guest
I'm offered beer from folks and politely defer, alcohol and navigation in a strange land at night might lead to disaster. The happy voices rise in volume as this family reaffirms its bonds, a red one gallon gas can marked "Time Machine Fuel" begins to make the rounds, with the braver ones taking swigs from the spout.
"What is it?"
"Whiskey."
"Ahh No thanks."
A group of ten riders start to head for their machines as "Hippy" gets thrust bare assed out of the oppening two doors down. There was no lone gunman in this plaza and very few missed their mark before he was able to claw his way back into the room yelping the the whole way. I take this as a sign and mount up and pedal out onto Westnedge behind the ten bikes fleeing the madness.
 
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lotsa_mpg

Guest
Ed, that's some mighty entertaining reading...great writing style...Do you have any books out? If so, I wanna buy one.

Pete
 
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Edward

Guest
We shoot down the hill and onto Park, the immediate incline digs deep into my available torque and it takes me a while to get rolling. Theres a guy and girl immediately ahead so I rocket into formation. The girl's bike starts to sputter and dies, she coasts over to the curb and I stay with her while she coaxes it back to life. Her companion comes back and we set out again and it is discovered that the fellows at the lead of our group were the ones who knew the way. After some meandering we got on the right track only to have the guy's ped die. The unmistakable sounds of moped fury is heard and here come the Creatures of the Loin with their white battle flags flying. They pull over to offer some expert advice and after the guts of the muffler shoot out with a bang about twenty feet away, the guy stashes the ped and mounts up double on the girl's bike and the group sets off.
 
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Edward

Guest
I keep the throttle maxed out to keep up with the Creatures, their bikes in tight formation, inches between handle bars. The drizzle pouring down on us has made the streets slick and one screw up will take out more of us than I want to even think about. The misting tapers off as we shoot through a neighborhood of decaying older houses that fade into decaying older industrial buildings with chained gates and overgrown weeds. As we round a corner, a shower of sparks and a red fireball arches overhead casting a red glare on a small bar with gravel parking lot sprawled like a b*tch with a litter of a hundred steel pups crowding up to her bounty. We are welcomed by the mob with open arms and add our machines to the glistening lines. People are everywhere, having discussions of wipeouts, oils, kits, and tires. I ease through the crowd to the door of the bar and walk past the private party sign taped to the door. There's small stage to the left and about six tables, hip hop is blasting from the sound system and several couples are already doing the "white suburban bust a move"
where the girl makes like shes grinding the pole for dollars and the guy tries to remember the last dance video he saw.
 
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gone_fishin

Guest
tho i may not always comment, i'm loving the "fiction" (as in "truth is stranger than")...you're a very entertaining writer 8)
 
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Edward

Guest
At the bar I order my usual, pepsi straight in a cup, this is no time to be wasted and singing "Margarittaville." The kids wouldn't understand. I make my way back for the door as the place was feeling crowded. Out in the parking lot some bigger roman candles and a few large rockets with skybursts add their special magic of sparkles, light, and the scent of burning sulfur. Here and there in this crowd of mostly men, are the intriguing ladies of the moped world. Their looks are varied, some with tatoos, piercings, some fashionistas and others functional sweatshirts. They are very friendly and conversational throughout the evening. In one of these conversations I hear of a petite blonde girl who is from Kansas. As part of my activities for the rest of the night, I spoke to many petite blonde girls, none of whom turned out to be from Kansas. Somehow I wasn't disappointed.
 
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