The Roadhouse
There you are, giddy with the thrill of it all. Took a big gamble the Harley Man wouldnt show up at the Roadhouse. Youve parked your Asian atrocity cycle in his unspoken reserved spot. And now youre settled at the Harley Mans end of the bar, carryin on in a grand style what with your stars n stripes bandana, cut-off gardenin gloves and chaps home-made from river waders. Foaming at the mouth bout being a real biker, a streetfighter and any other counterfeit boast you can make up on the spot. Never mind the only folk you could rustle up to listen to this depraved charade are the village idiot and some trailerpark tramp youre plying with cheap booze. For an Asian atrocity rider it dont get better than this, an you know it.
Youre fixin to take the village idiot out front to show off your atrocity. Youve done ripped the badge of vulgarity from the tank, so the idiot should fall for it. The tramp from the park better stay put at the bar, you reckon, shed for sure know its not the real thing. Women have their intuition and such. But maybe shell believe the idiot.
And then you hear it. It couldnt be true, its gotta be the freight train pullin through town. But no, it gets louder real quick, its for sure that unmistakable rumble of the mighty Big Twin. The real V-twin, unlike that decrepit farce from some godforsaken land you jerk around on. It roars right up to the front doors, shakin the windowpanes, and with a terrifying backfire shuts down.
All bets are off. The Harley Man is here. All your liquor-fed courage melts into a cold sweat. The make-believe swaggerin is now outta control tremblin. The front doors burst open, the music stops and everyone suddenly goes quiet as the Harley Man enters with crushing stomps. There he is, with those beefy ripplin muscles, the stance of a prize bull and the scariest scowl youve ever done seen. Hes staring right at you and its clear youre fixed for a trouncin. But its really your lucky day after all, as the Harley Man has some drinkin to tend to so lets you go with a hefty kick in the ass and the ridicule of all in the house as you crash to the floor. Outside, you find your Asian atrocity cycle hurled into the ditch but you accept the simple justice of that, too.
It might be a spell before you drop by again.
_______________________________
They call me . . . The Highwayman
_______________________________
There you are, giddy with the thrill of it all. Took a big gamble the Harley Man wouldnt show up at the Roadhouse. Youve parked your Asian atrocity cycle in his unspoken reserved spot. And now youre settled at the Harley Mans end of the bar, carryin on in a grand style what with your stars n stripes bandana, cut-off gardenin gloves and chaps home-made from river waders. Foaming at the mouth bout being a real biker, a streetfighter and any other counterfeit boast you can make up on the spot. Never mind the only folk you could rustle up to listen to this depraved charade are the village idiot and some trailerpark tramp youre plying with cheap booze. For an Asian atrocity rider it dont get better than this, an you know it.
Youre fixin to take the village idiot out front to show off your atrocity. Youve done ripped the badge of vulgarity from the tank, so the idiot should fall for it. The tramp from the park better stay put at the bar, you reckon, shed for sure know its not the real thing. Women have their intuition and such. But maybe shell believe the idiot.
And then you hear it. It couldnt be true, its gotta be the freight train pullin through town. But no, it gets louder real quick, its for sure that unmistakable rumble of the mighty Big Twin. The real V-twin, unlike that decrepit farce from some godforsaken land you jerk around on. It roars right up to the front doors, shakin the windowpanes, and with a terrifying backfire shuts down.
All bets are off. The Harley Man is here. All your liquor-fed courage melts into a cold sweat. The make-believe swaggerin is now outta control tremblin. The front doors burst open, the music stops and everyone suddenly goes quiet as the Harley Man enters with crushing stomps. There he is, with those beefy ripplin muscles, the stance of a prize bull and the scariest scowl youve ever done seen. Hes staring right at you and its clear youre fixed for a trouncin. But its really your lucky day after all, as the Harley Man has some drinkin to tend to so lets you go with a hefty kick in the ass and the ridicule of all in the house as you crash to the floor. Outside, you find your Asian atrocity cycle hurled into the ditch but you accept the simple justice of that, too.
It might be a spell before you drop by again.
_______________________________
They call me . . . The Highwayman
_______________________________
