It’s not a great idea to fling greasy, half-cooked bacon at anyone. Not when a 280 pound, drunken, tweaker, outlaw biker is in the line-of-fire. The backstop, if your aim is slightly off. He will not be pleased if your launch leaves him with a Gorbachev-sized grease splotch on his bulbous, bald melon. It not only left my hand with maximum torque and velocity, but with the illest of intent. I just snapped. It simply hit the wrong person. Another lesson learned the hard way.
Our pharmaceutical adventurism meant we were down for trying anything once. OTC (over the counter) molecules were always part of that. Because of our thieving ways, they were always free. “Subsidized” as Augie liked to say. Only once did such an OTC recommendation go terribly wrong. Wishing-you-were-dead dysphoria, and vicious visual and auditory hallucinations. And, of course the potentially life threatening encounter with a pair of drunken, tweaker outlaw bikers. That surely qualifies as “gone terribly wrong.” Having a close friend whose Dad owned his own Pharmacy, priceless. OTC, Pharmacy, or street, access to drugs was never an issue. We only allowed the big chain stores to “subsidize” our OTC needs. Thieves with a code. As if that somehow made it any less criminal. I never understood how the twins stole from their own Dad’s pharmacy. I didn’t object so much I turned down the free C2 narcotics
The entrance to Hampton Heights is a thing of beauty. Our town’s most exclusive neighborhood, on par with any exclusive neighborhood in Utah. The large granite masonry wall to the left ran alongside the road for several hundred yards. It set the vibe well. Announcing “Hampton Heights,” as the steep, winding road elevates to reveal beautiful homes and a majestic mountain backdrop. Having recently been unceremoniously ejected from such a home in a similar neighborhood, the only home I ever knew, I always felt a tinge of sadness. Even jealousy, when driving up into Hampton Heights. It reminded me of how s**t had gone so terribly wrong for the “happy forever family” Mormon fairytale I was always taught. And once believed. Fairytales have their purpose. Like a warm fluffy blanket. They can be a great comfort for young children. As with anything, they can be taken too far. Becoming a blade that very much cuts both ways.
Behind the perfect white smiles, immaculate yards, and large homes, the kids were not alright. It was more like a movie set. Where the impressive scenery is mostly facade only. It’s so convincing from a distance. From the outside looking in. There is an obsession with superficial outward appearances. “What people think” of you becomes far more important than the truth.
Obedient, faithful Mormons will be rewarded with not only material prosperity, but exceeding happiness, devoid of the bad things that rock unbelievers. That’s what I was taught to believe. It almost becomes a contest to prove that prosperity and happiness, as confirmation of one’s obedient righteousness. Displays of over the top “I’m doing so good. I’m overflowing with happiness” are the norm. Amongst my friends and family, I came to recognize their unhappiness or struggles by how exaggerated the “I’m so happy” act became.
Those suffering with problems cannot afford to show it publicly. And don’t often tell people close to them. Because it’s somehow their own fault. A lack of obedience or righteousness must be to blame somehow. No matter how much someone promises, misfortune always makes the gossip grapevine. Too many can’t hold a secret for 24 hours. Closest family members even. Especially. It is difficult to comprehend violating that trust for nothing more than gossip value.
As if leaking secrets only to be discussed behind the back of the struggling person is any help at all. This is a rant with a purpose. I believe this phenomenon, and the immense pressure, contributes to why Utah has such a high rate of pharmaceutical drug abuse. I’ve seen it over and over. Not being able to openly discuss problems and rely on privacy and loyalty adds a complicating facet to an already complicated issue.
That’s how my pursuit of oblivion began. Denying feelings even to myself, burying them deep and rolling with the “everything is perfect” act. There was a darker underlying motivation to my substance abuse, as so many families we knew began breaking apart. Or just living a very different reality behind the facade. In my late teens, I would find it was the adults with all the real good drugs. My Bishop’s wife was the person who would introduce me to opiates and benzo’s. She seemed to really enjoy supplying me generously. I never even asked. Staggering and slurring occasionally, however, she would never have considered she had a problem. It was the dirty street people, with rusty needles in their arms that had substance abuse issues. “I got this from my physician. Well, a few different physicians.”
We were good at avoiding problems and feelings. Proficient. High, in some form, every day of our lives. Multiple times daily. While still checking all the boxes of a successful, thriving person. Until it started taking our freedom, and our very lives.
The consequences have a bit of a delayed fuse. It was still shitzengiggles maximus at this point in the story. As Churchill said: “This isn’t the end, nor the beginning of the end. It’s more like the end of the beginning.” And so it was within the timeline of my wild ride. This took place near the end of the beginning. Just as my slide began to speed up. The substances more hardcore. At first, the slope was so gradual, you couldn’t see any slope in the road at all.
This ill-fated adventure was in the Summer of 1987. I had just turned 16 years old. An OTC motion-sickness medication called Marezine. Dosage: one entire box per dude. It was 16 tablets. The coordinated drop time was 5 pm. It was now 5:20, on our way to pickup “Biscuit.”
We wound our way up through the immaculate yards and homes, past the pool and tennis courts, to the highest cul-de-sac in the neighborhood. It was one of the largest, and most beautiful homes in the entire neighborhood. The exterior, all granite masonry that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Greenwich, CT. This was before the garish, cheesy big houses that came later. The monuments to ego that tried too hard, they came later. Sourced nearby, from the towering granite cliffs watching guard over the entire Wasatch Range. The gray granite stone has been used for construction since the Mormon pioneers arrived in 1847. The Mormon Temple, homes and buildings, all utilizing this beautiful local resource.
“Biscuit” wasn’t a dude Augie and I hung with often. We’ve known him since Elementary School. A tall skinny kid with a fierce intellect, and quick smart-a*s mouth, he was always good for a few laughs. Yet, he was an odd combination of arrogance and insecurity. A bit of a coin-flip which version showed up. Diminishing returns the longer you were together.
He was a fun guy to hang with one on one. However, instant a*****e, just add audience. I never comprehended the need for that metamorphosis. “Augie, I really hope we get the good Biscuit tonight. I think it was a mistake inviting him. Especially launching with a new drug we’ve never tried before.”
Before Augie could respond, Biscuit’s driveway came into view, revealing one hell of a circus underway. Beef, more of a weed guy, was our designated driver and bro since 1st grade. He wondered aloud, “what the f**k is going on?” Biscuit had dropped an hour early at 4 pm, and obviously, already feeling the effects. With a line of parents and siblings in hot pursuit, Biscuit was quite a sight to behold. Neighbors looked on throughout the cul-de-sac. Some concerned, some bemused. Biscuit, clad only in grotesquely short, tight boxers, his freshly shorn chest was slathered in what appeared to be shaving cream. “Dude, do we stop, or get the f**k-salad sandwich outta here?” I asked.
Exiting the vessel, Biscuit came sprinting toward us, out of his freaking gourd. With his index finger, he dipped it into the shaving cream. “Matty, Matty, here, you gotta try this. It’s soooo delicious. Augie, you too.”
“Honey, why did you put whipped cream all over yourself? That was for the peach cobbler tomorrow,” his Mom asked, with a look of serious concern. Okay, not shaving cream. “Son, son, just stop for a minute. Just talk to me.” “Knick-knack paddy-whack, give a dog a boner,” was Biscuit’s response to his Dad’s request. “Taste it, taste it,” he persisted. I obliged. So he would shut-up. “Yep, tasty. What’s going on buddy?” Suddenly, his animated elation did a u-turn. The bottle of Dr. Pepper in his hand was now gently cradled with both hands. Tenderly stroking it, a large tear dripped down his right cheek. Then another.
“Ohh, ohh. He’s beautiful. Perfect! My firstborn son. I’ve never known such joy.” Augie and I looked at each other, realizing we were in big trouble here. We should have bailed, but I always had the instinct to salvage the situation. Sell the situation. Escape with a quick witted explanation. I viewed it as victory or defeat. Anything to avoid trouble and consequences. That first bust guaranteed many more to come. Once the small-town cops had a hard-on for you. Fuhgeddabout it. Somehow, Augie and I had maintained some degree of plausible deniability. It was only rumor and urban legend. Nobody had ever witnessed us doing anything wrong. It wasn’t until people started going to rehab they turned full narc. I never understood why narcing out bro’s had anything to do with pursuing personal sobriety. Campaigning against former friends to destroy their reputation, I never understood it. Augie and I were proud of our immature comedic slogans.
“Rehab is for quitters. My Mama didn’t raise no quitter!” Going to rehab for the occasional joint seemed as ridiculous then as it does now. We had become pretty skilled technicians at bullshitting our way out of hairy situations with parents, teachers, and Roscoes (cops). They never checked or patted your undercarriage back then. So most searches were laughable even if you were holding. Pockets and socks were rookie hiding spots. Yam-bag, they never searched there.
Biscuit’s mess was going to be a tough one. We were already committed, and it was worth a shot to save Sir Biscuit. The clock was ticking. Soon, Augie and I would be as wrecked as Sir Biscuit was currently.
As Biscuit’s Mother approached, he bolted. Zig-zag running across the lawn, once again, with the family in pursuit. Yelling questions and begging him to calm down, and just stop running. “Knick-knack poopy-crack, give your dog a big ol’ BONER!” He repeated over and over. Fond of the line and altering it on the fly. “Sweetie!” His Mom scolded, not digging his lyrical skills at all. Especially with the gossipy neighbors looking on.
His Mom approached me, fear and concern on her face. “Matty, something is terribly wrong with him.” “Nah, he’s pulled this same act before. The ‘bottle as precious baby thing.’ Just as we got all worked up and concerned, convinced something was legit wrong, he declared the joke was on us. He’s messing with all of us. You know, he loves the drama. Especially when all eyes are on him. Even if he looks completely ridiculous. Good or bad drama, doesn’t matter.” She kinda looked at me like I may have just insulted her son. Either way, she had no clue what was going on. “Hold on Ma’am, just let me talk to him for a minute.”
I was becoming quite irritated at the amateur hour behavior. Anyone who couldn’t handle their booze or narcotics didn’t deserve to run with the wolves. A line we loved to repeat whenever someone couldn’t keep up the pace or standards.
“Hey, Biscuit. Stop running dude. We’re just gonna leave now, you’ve taken this little skit too far. Come here. Hurry. Come here dude.” The threat of abandonment seemed to grab his attention. I walked him well out of hearing distance, away from all the concerned faces. Then looked-off the nosy neighbors drawing nearer. A “f**k off” glance, and they backed away. “Dude, listen. You have ONE f*****g chance to avoid cops and ambulances showing up, and spending the night in jail or the ER. Cut this rookie bullshit right now, and let’s get the hell out of here. We gotta convince your parents you’re joking. One chance, do not f**k it up!”
“Did you see my baby, it was such a smooth delivery….” Shwack. I gave him a pretty good slap. He nearly slapped me back. “Dude, hey, I didn’t realize we were picking up a 7th grade newb. So, you’re choosing pigs and paramedics tonight? And being grounded for months or sent to some lockdown f*****g drug rehab. We’re gonna go over there, convince your family, short, sweet, get in the car, and drive the f**k away. Can you do it? Or should I leave and you can continue being a little drama queen that can’t handle his goodies?” I was trying to shock some level of shame and sobriety into him.
“Okay. Yeah, okay. I can do it.” “Because I don’t think you can. Dude, hold it together, pretend you are a human being, and that is a bottle of Dr. Pepper.” As I yanked it away and guzzled down a big swig. We approached his family. “Yeah, he was just kidding, but took it too far,” I announced, turning to face him. Praying he wouldn’t start stroking the baby or knick-knack paddy-whacking.
“Haha, you guys totally fell for it, I’m fine. Ha, I’m fine.” I tried to cut him off, before he fucked it up. “We gotta get going Biscuit, that movie starts soon and I have to pick up Alice.” He didn’t really acknowledge the questions fired from various family members.
“Let’s go get dressed. You smell like an ice cream sundae brudda. Dude, you only shaved half your chest! You look like half-a-10 year old girl.” I said for the entire audience. “Dude, keep your s**t together,” I whispered to him. We made it in and out without incident. “I’m confiscating your baby, I’m thirsty,” I said to halfhearted laughter from his parents. Who were not 100% convinced by any means, but almost relieved to have some ending to an incident that likely blew the neighbors mind. And fired up the grapevine gossip circuit. They didn’t need to believe 100%. They needed to want to believe a somewhat believable explanation and performance.
By the time we entered the car, I was feeling like crap. Fading fast. I could barely walk. My legs felt like they were 1000 pound concrete slabs. Dysphoric anxiety was quickly rising inside my head. Instead of slamming the euphoric receptors in my brain, like opioids with Mu receptors or DXM at the NMDA receptor, this was lighting up dysphoria, anxiety, fear, panic, every ugly receptor you wanna avoid tickling. Based on how I was feeling, I don’t know how Biscuit even ran around, let alone seemed so euphoric and flying high. I was already feeling the polar opposite. It would only get worse. Much worse.
Before driving away, I turned around. “Augie, bro, you feeling okay?” He just stared at me, unpleasantly. “Augie, you good?” Struggling to respond: “No, no I’m not good at all. Is there an antidote for this s**t? Who the f**k told us about this stuff, is it too late to try and yack it all back up?”
“Dude, way too late. There is no getting off this ride. Dude, you okay to drive,” I asked, forgetting Beef, our driver was sober. “Dude, I didn’t take that s**t, but you guys look abso-f*****g-lutely miserable. You gonna be okay?” Nobody responded. Words required too much effort, too much processing power, too much exertion. We were only 40+ minutes in. A scary thought.
Trying to lighten the dark vibe, in a sing-song voice I mimicked: “Knick-knack paddy-whack, give Biscuit’s Mom a boner.” Nobody said a word. Both Augie and Biscuit were now lying down in the backseat, almost across each other. Obviously Biscuit felt how we did, I never understood the scene that played out on our arrival. Neither did he. I was too miserable to care, or inquire if they were still alive. “Beef, please, change the tunes, I hate Tears for Fears. No whiny British s**t with Fisher-Price keyboards.” “Matty, the radio is turned off.” Holy s**t, it was.
The beginning of 6 hours of nightmarish visual and auditory hallucinations had begun. Not having any indoor destination to hunker down in, we went to Lindsay Gardens. A large park in Salt Lake City, above the large cemetery. Not far from University of Utah. A beautiful area, where anonymity was achievable. Cops, less small-town petty minded.
I remember having to half-crawl from the car. Despite the embarrassment, all 3 who ingested Marezine couldn’t walk without assistance. We went to the spot with the most privacy, and melted into the grass, unable to move or speak coherently. Herds of elephants stormed past and over me, all manner of people and animals. Fading in and out of sleep. The most annoying people from my past approached and addressed me. Always some version of “Hey,” or “Come here,” or “Let’s go.” Always requiring an action or reaction.
My Kindergarten teacher walked up with a picnic basket, “Well, c’mon Silly Goose, let’s go. I brought your favorite beer.” Mostly, we didn’t move. Unable to. However, Augie clumsily stood up, and started walking off. “Aug,” Beef tried to preempt whatever Augie was up to. He approached some unseen lady, but a real lady and her boyfriend were nearby and thought he was talking to her.
“Ma’am, can I play your hairy banjo? Can I at least see your hairy banjo? Is it reeeaallly hairy, or just kind of. It sounds beautiful. I heard your boyfriend playing it.” “What did you say? You little sicko t**d.” Her boyfriend objected, and Junior apologized and quickly herded Augie back towards our small patch of real estate. I wasn’t even sure if it was real, or just another hallucination skit. Ha, hairy banjo is a reference and inside joke to this very day. Decades later. “The Hairy Banjo Boys.”
Biscuit kept repeating, “tell this cross-eyed b***h on the quilt to quit talking to me. Her lazy eye is bugging me, make her shut-up. Why not put flowers on the quilt, why cover it with crazy lazy-eye b*****s.” There was no quilt, we were lying on the grass. Needless to say, ha, “lazy-eyed b*****s” became another inside joke for us. Either one, a great band name.
On and on, it continued for hours. Well past dark. I have no idea how Beef had the patience to sit there and listen to Biscuit, Augie, and myself having conversations with invisible people. Dodging animals, cars, planes, before drifting off to sleep for only a few minutes at a time. Then another character would approach and began speaking to us, sparking another senseless conversation. One did not just leave their bro’s to fend for themselves, no matter how boring and unpleasant it was. One of us could’ve ended up dead, without a sober babysitter. Beef only snuck away briefly after we all fell asleep.
It was hell on earth. Near the end, at about 10 pm, we 3 did manage to fall asleep for about 90 minutes. Waking just before midnight, and feeling considerably better. “Here, drink a couple of these brewskis, you’ll feel better. I ran to EZ Mart.” EZ Mart, the OG Korean dude, who would sell beer to anyone with the shekels. Kwan had a 6th sense for narcs, undercovers, collaborators. They could never catch the wise old OG. If you looked like a meathead, or had already been drinking, he booted you. If there wasn’t a clear, concise and believable response, he told you to piss off. Sans brewskis. For all the good it did, he made us all promise to never drink and drive.
Kwan had probably sold my old man brewskis. And my old man’s old man. Near the end of his run, with constant cop surveillance, Kwan would have us put the beer in the back alley. And walk out the front door with a candy bar and bag o’ chips. We would drive away, come around the backside and load the brewski’s into the roadster. While the Roscoes sat out front with their thumbs up their asses. For years. They probably burned millions in taxpayer dollars over the years. When they finally busted him, he put the business in his brother’s name, and only sold to longtime customers. Referral only. Kwan clearly believed the drinking age should be 16. OG Kwan, sticking it to the man. I later met his daughter. Old Man Kwan had put her through undergrad, and medical school at the U of U. Dean’s list.
Beef was right. 2-3 beers was the perfect prescription to deal with the lingering dysphoria from the Marezine. Sparking a joint, Beef cautioned: “Don’t overdo it, just a few pulls. It should help. Too much, and you get the droned spins. I hate that. Always the right medicine, innit brudda maaaaan,” he said in a bad Jamaican accent. For the first time in 6 hours, we all laughed. “Is this joint real, or imaginary? I don’t wanna lift my concrete arm if it’s fake.” Augie was obviously still feeling the undesirable effects.
“I would love to throw a blanket party for that dumbass who told us about Marezine. He’s full of s**t, saying he tried it and loved it,” Augie vented.
I felt something more violent was in order. “Blanket party? I legit want to f*****g MURDER that d****e-mobile.”
“I know where we can get the acid to disappear his dumb-a*s,” Biscuit offered. I was hungry, “I didn’t think it possible, but I’m starving ball-sack, you bodaggets hungry?” “Totally,” they agreed. I fell asleep again on the way to Dee’s Diner downtown. I was awaken by an odor most heinous. “I just buttered the whole vessel. Hotboxed it. Crop-dusted all y’all, bam,” Biscuit announced proudly. He was living up to everything I remember about the one and only adventure I experienced with him previously.
Highly irritable, and not even slightly amused, I just stared at him as I rolled down the window. Timing is everything in life, and Biscuit’s was always the worst. “Biscuit, you should pay for dinner, since my improv skills saved your drama queen a*s from getting busted. Ladies and Gentleman, presenting, Biscuit’s amateur hour. Seriously, shoulda drove on by.”
His ego was back. “F**k you Matty, I didn’t need your help.” Augie offered his opinion, as usual, having my back. “Yeah, half shaved chest, with whipped cream, crying over a bottle of Dr. Pepper in your little f*****g girl Underoos. In front of your Mom, sisters, and the entire hood. Yep, brilliant. If you didn’t suffer from such a micro-penis, you would’ve been flopping all over the place.” I interrupted Biscuits rebuttal. “Ha, micro-penis, is that s**t real? Guys, I’m seriously not in the mood for this. Biscuit, admit it or not, amateur hour. A simple thank you, or admit you fucked up. It’s always just defiant ego. It just seems like you really never learn a damn thing. Or just don’t care.” “I wanted to drive on by. Even after we rescued him, I knew we’d get nothing but attitude and denial,” Augie opined. Maybe I was piling on, but I just didn’t feel like he “got it. The dudes in my tight circle, we always took responsibility for our fuckups.
His ego wouldn’t allow for even considering he had made a mistake. I did my best to tune out his long rebuttal argument, lame excuses really, and turned up the tunes. I saw the look on his face, surly punk Biscuit was emerging. Revenge-minded Biscuit. I exited and walked inside Dee’s to get away from Biscuit. If even for a minute. I really didn’t want to even sit at the same table.
The only booth available was next to a couple scary looking outlaw bikers. With that speed-freak glow about them. Both 280 lb. plus. One bald with large greasy beard, sat facing me. The other, with a long greasy graying mullet, and long greasy graying beard, had his back to me. I caught a whiff of their odor as I sat down. No wonder the booth was empty. That homeless dude smell. Extra ripe B.O. and that bonus odor. As if they’ve been wearing the same leather undies for 17 days. Their undercarriage ripe with fumunda cheese, an odor that singes eyebrows and lashes off. Even just walking by.
I cringed when Biscuit added his commentary. I couldn’t deny it was funny as hell. But, I’ve witnessed firsthand just how hair-trigger tweakers are. It’s downright scary. Biscuit’s comment was at a volume far too loud for comfort. “Damn, it smells like B.O. and butthole in here.” Beef and Augie quietly laughed. I caught the glance Chrome-Dome shot our direction. It was a good line though. A line that’s been in my repertoire ever since.
Biscuit had been on the receiving end of a beating once before, for smarting off to the wrong dude. Or dudes. He wasn’t done. “B.O. and Bunghole, by Calvin Klein.” We all laughed, which was noted with the utmost displeasure by the Sasquatch twins. Chrome-Dome again shot us a menacing look. Grumbling something under his breath to Mulletino.
“No doubt, Biscuit, you really should mix in a shower once in a while. Scrub that heinous undercarriage of yours, with soap. Instead of whipped cream.” My attempt at deflection failed miserably. “Dude, it ain’t me. It’s the Sasquatch twins.” Which caused Mulletino to turn in the booth and make eye contact. He held the pose for some time, until I looked back down at the menu. Tapping Biscuit under the table to get his attention, I vigorously shook my head. As in “enough.”
He responded with typical macho BS. “Me and my .45 ain’t f*****g afraid of no man.” An early rap fan, he had already assumed the white-boy wannabe gangster thing. Constantly referencing his gat, and his strap. Dude had never fired a weapon in his f*****g life. What an idiot. Again, the beer and weed triggered dumb-a*s Biscuit mode. Brilliant move, convincing the Sasquatch twins they are justified breaking out any weaponry they possess, if s**t goes sideways.
I gave Augie a long look and shook my head, again. He knew what I meant and nodded in agreement. Wordless, “yep, inviting Biscuit was a mistake. My bad.” When our food arrived, it only pissed me off more. Burnt toast, runny scrambled eggs, and extra greasy, half raw strips of bacon. The hash browns and some of the toast, the only edible portion.
We sat silently, mechanically eating our food without much enjoyment. Biscuit kept trying harder and harder to make someone laugh. Ratcheting up the irritation level of all. I just stared down and ignored him. Which he simply could not accept. “Matty, Matty,…” When I didn’t look up quick enough for his liking, he gave me a hard kick with the tip of his boot. Right on the bony part of my shin. It really hurt. I looked up, as if to say, “What?”
“Oh, never mind,” he kept eating. Beef was nearing my level of exasperation, “For f**k’s sake, what are you, 5 years old? Mommy, Mommy, look, look. Watch me, watch me.” Finally, Biscuit got the point. Apparently realizing just how thoroughly, and permanently he was destroying any friendship he could expect with us going forward. In a tantrum, head down, he kicked me again. Revenge. He would lash out if he felt he was “losing.” “Oh, sorry dude, I thought that was the table leg.” “You’re the only dude here with legs that embarrassingly skinny bro,” Augie said. We all wanted to rag-doll this arrogant a*****e.
Something in me snapped. I wanted to cave his skinny face inside out. When he looked back down, I acted. Stealthily picking up the largest, greasiest piece of bacon on my plate. I cocked back, with pure malice in my heart, and for maximum torque and velocity. With the illest of intent, I flung it as hard as I physically could. It made an audible ‘whoosh’ as it left my hand. Even splashing me with grease. My world turned super-slow motion after I released the projectile. Slow motion, because the instant it left my hand, I knew my GPS coordinates were off. That I was not going to stick the landing. End over end, it whizzed by Biscuit’s oblivious pinhead. The big bulbous head of Chrome-Dome, big as a basketball, was perfectly aligned with the projectile. Barely missing the back of Mulletino’s head, the worst “oh s**t” feeling ever walloped me, as the inevitability of the outcome became all too obvious.
“Shwack.” It was as loud as a slap to the face by an angry hand. Square in the forehead. It stuck for half a second, then fell from his massive skull, into Chrome-Dome’s lap. Leaving a large visible grease splotch, rivaling the size of Gorbachev’s birthmark. Chrome looked up quickly, I did not look away, and kept eating. He was insta-enraged. The color change. The eyes, the bulging veins. Dude was ready to blow a gasket. One simple fact improved our chances of surviving the angry interrogation. Somehow, Beef, Augie, nor Biscuit even saw me launch the weapon.
Beef thought I had swatted a mosquito. I casually broke eye contact with Chrome, looked back down, and began shoveling food into my talk-hole. Speaking casually. Matter of factly, “No way, you’re crazy man, the Broncos will blow it again this year. Dude, Niners, Niners baby, why are you a Denver fan anyway?” I don’t know why NFL was the subject, but I really leaned into. Really sold it. I was quickly interrupted.
“WHAT THE MOTHERFUUUUCK?” I looked up, squarely making eye contact with Chrome. With my best befuddled and furrowed brow confused look. He wasn’t done, slamming the bacon to the garish orange and brown carpet that had obviously been there since 1974. “Which a you M***********s is about to die? If you don’t tell me who, every f*****g one of you f*****g m***********s will die tonight. I swear to Christ.”
“At least he’s a religious man,” Biscuit added. Ha, you had to respect the balls and wit, but as usual, the timing was major s**t.
Uh oh. There could be a spot of trouble coming. After a brief pause, we all began eating again. Being unaware I was the guilty party made our reaction more natural, believable. Chrome stood up, wiped the Gorbachev grease splotch off his forehead and began approaching each and every table in our row. Pausing at our booth, “just tell me, now!” “Hey, seriously, look, I have grease drops on the BACK of my head,” I pleaded, turning and rubbing my hair. “So it came from behind us.” Taking a closer look, he actually seemed to believe my lie, because he quickly moved on to the booth behind me. A terrified elderly man and woman. They had no idea what was going on. Their age disqualified them. He moved on.
The only likely candidate was the next table. A group of twenty-something punkers. One had a full pink mohawk, another with shaved head. All 4 dudes had various piercings and safety pins throughout their skin and leather jackets. Their appearance alone pissed Chrome off. They didn’t seem too shy about throwing fisticuffs, and always carried knives. I would have bet on the punker dudes vs Chrome and his buddy. Unless were firearms were introduced.
They struck the right balance. “Hey, it didn’t come from us. We didn’t throw nothin. We bring it face to face if we have a problem with you. We don’t have a problem with you.” It wasn’t moving fast enough for Mulletino. He wanted to fast forward to the stomping faces part. He stood up and clumsily waded into the interrogation, swinging both ham-fists, so to speak. Like his brother, he was s**t-faced drunk, and likely had other chemicals onboard. “C’mon brother, you gonna puss out? Let these f*****g turds get away with it? Let’s squash all these f**k-chops.”
“Are those better than pork chops, and lamb chops, or somewhere in between?” Biscuit inquired, regarding the edibility of f**k-chops. The beginnings of a smile actually appeared on Chrome’s face, hearing Biscuits question. It didn’t last.
Mulletino’s presence only added to Chrome’s agitation at making no progress in his investigation, but then, a very brave Manager attempted to intervene. About 5’2” and 130 pounds, brown polyester uniform head to toe, with “Burt” on his name tag. He had one of those cub-scout looking click belts, with the small rectangle brass buckle, the belt made of nylon. His highly worn, black leather shoes, likely leftovers from his Mormon Mission to Topeka, KS 18 years ago. He approached Chrome and Mulletino. “Sir, I overheard, and I’m very sorry what happened. How about I pay for your meal. We don’t want any trouble. But, I have called the police and they are on their way.” I admired the Managers bravery. Most would have avoided direct conversation at any cost. Obviously, an honest, hardworking family man, maybe even a second job. I feared he was about to take a knife to the scrotum.
“You think I’m letting someone get away with punking me like that? Are you f*****g crazy little man? Burt?”
“Sir, I am terribly sorry. I’m going to cover your meal, and give you a $20 gift certificate for your next meal. I’m awfully sorry, but you are scaring the patrons. We’re a family restaurant.”
Just in time. Two SLC Roscoes entered and approached. The correct lads for the job, big and burly, cracking skulls was part of their job description. After receiving a short briefing, they approached the Sasquatch twins. The jumbo Tongan looking cop took the lead role. “You need to finish your meal quietly, then please leave. The manager has tried to compensate you, make it right, but we need to end this situation guys.” Even Chrome-Dome wanted nothing to do with this cop. Seeing our chance, I stood up and went to pay. Signaling my bro’s it was time to go.
If the cops left, who knows what kind of mayhem might kickoff. I preferred to “git” while the git’n was good. When we reached the safety of the car, I confessed my role. They didn’t believe me at first.
“It’s a damn shame you guys didn’t see that bacon b***h slap that dude. Though, it probably saved my a*s that you didn’t. Dude, get driving.” As Beef began backing out, Chrome suddenly appeared at my passenger side window. Signaling to roll it down. I really preferred not to. “Dude, just keep on driving,” we all said in chorus. “Hey, why you so anxious to get out of here? Stop!” He roared. “Dude, keep on driving, no matter what happens.”
Cracking the window a bit, I calmly said “because we were done eating.” I did not want to antagonize this dude. Nor look as if I had a reason to be scared of him. Biscuit felt differently. Again, what he said was f*****g hilarious. With the lot exit unobstructed, seeing his opportunity, he rolled down his window all the way. Leaning his lanky frame half way out, designed to antagonize even more. If traffic suddenly blocked our escape, we were FUKT. “Hey bro, you f****n’ pussed-out for a couple happy meals worth of gift certificates? You can’t even buy a nice f**k-chop & fries meal for $20!” We all roared laughing. I wish I had said it, or had the balls to do so. Chrome felt differently, wildly lunging toward Biscuit. Mulletino had joined his side, and clearly had a knife in his left hand, though obscuring it a bit from the cops sightline.
The cops seemed disinterested at the turn of events, and were leaving from the lot’s other exit. When it really matters, they tend to stand-down. That’s been my experience. The chase was now on. Just what I had hoped to avoid, while Biscuit was hellbent on escalation. Milking every ounce of drama from the incident. The happy meal/f**k-chop line was comedy gold. Nobody could deny that.
We pulled out onto the road and saw the Chrome bro’s running toward their bikes, they loudly roared to life. “Looks like the Duke Boys are in for a chase,” I stated the obvious. “I shoulda knifed their tires,” Biscuit said. We barely made the light at the four-way intersection. Looking back, Chrome and Mulletino were stalled at the same red light. “Dude, go, go. get on the freeway.” We hit and made two yellow lights on the way, that likely bought us even more of a head-start. Knowing we were in the clear, we began hooting and hollering. Celebrating our escape by the hair of our chinny chin chins. Play by play, retelling the incident and maximus hooting and hollering ensued.
“Dude, I heard the wack. It was like that bacon was shot out of a 12 gauge,” Augie said. “Duuuude, I was sitting next to you and did not see you throw that. I thought you smacked a bug or something,” Beef added. “Those dudes would have chopped us into pieces and mailed us to our Mommies. Look, I got grease on my shirt right here,” Biscuit continued, “I totally FELT that s**t whiz by my skull, haha. Holy f**k-o-saurus rex. You are f*****g nuts Matty, big hairy, salty nuts.”
“Are they salty? You would know more about that than I would, Biscuit,” I said, as we continued replaying the incident all the way home.
Thankfully, it was my last encounter with outlaw bikers. It was also my last outing with Biscuit. A dude better in small doses, and from a distance. Within a few days, the story had made the rounds, and taken on ridiculous proportions. Doing battle against speed-freak bikers with automatic weapons, only narrowly escaping with our lives after a 100mph car chase involving Roscoes also. The bikers got busted by the Roscoes, paving the way for our clean getaway. That’s the version that stuck. We were offering no corrections or retractions. Who doesn’t like a good shootout and car chase story, complete with happy ending. Until next time, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Subscribe
Flag Writing