The Resident Poet
A tale of everyday biker folk.
Big bad Bob sashayed into the Biker bar. ‘Evenin’ y’all’ he said to no one in particular then he burped, farted and weaved his way to the bar.
‘Hey, let’s have a goddamn beer over here’ he bawled. A beer appeared served by a nervous bar keep.
Bob looked around the bar room, everyone was talking easy, laughing and enjoying their beer. This offended Bob. Hell, this was a biker bar wasn’t it? There should be trouble shouldn’t there? Then Bob noticed something that really boiled his piss. A skinny old guy sitting alone at the end of the bar quietly sucking on a Budweiser bottle.
‘Who the hell let you in here old fart?’ Bob yelled.
There old man glanced up then went back to his drink.
A guy at a nearby table volunteered ‘That thar is ‘ole Motor Mouth Mason our resident poet.’
‘Resident fuckin’ whut?’ asked Bob incredulous ‘This a biker bar or a fuckin’ milk bar?’
Bob felt his bile rising, these guys looked like real deal bikers but, shit, poetry fer chrissakes? ‘Whut y’all got goin’ on next week needle point? he asked unable to contain his contempt.
He ambled over to the poet. ‘Hey ya old asshole let’s hear some goddamned po’try huh.’
‘Ole Motor Mouth simply took another sip from his beer.
Bob spun the old guy round on his stool. He saw the poet’s craggy face full on. It was ravaged by scars, one eye socket was empty and half an ear was gone.
‘Say ya ole turd, how the fuck you git so goddamn ugly anyways?’
You could have heard a pin drop. All attention was now riveted on the pair then the guy at the table who’d spoke first said quietly ‘I’d leave that old boy alone if’n I was you mistah.’
‘Well yah ain’t me asshole so just shut the fuck up.’
The guy just smiled and raised his beer in salute.
‘So, gimme some of yer shit-fer-brains po’try yah ole bastard.’
‘Don’ think ah will ‘til ‘yuh ‘pologise,
An’ say purty-please, is what I’d advise’
This unexpected response stopped Bob for a second ‘You sassin’ me ole man?’
‘Yes, son, guessin’ ah am’ the old man poked his tongue out.
Bob felt as happy as a vulture with fresh road kill. He smirked at the barkeep then slowly and deliberately gripped Motor Mouth by his shirt front. The old guy’s free hand shot out, splayed fingers rigid as he flew them into Bob’s eyes with the speed of a striking rattler. Bob screamed in agony his hands flying to his face, his beer fell shattering, splattering foam on the floor. As he fell back a pace Motor Mouth’s silver tipped biker boot flew up and out catching Bob squarely in the balls. Down he went like a sack of soggy shit screaming and puking.
When Bob’s screams subsided to low moans Motor Mouth turned and addressed the saloon:
‘The reason I’m a-wearin’ all these scars
Ain’t frum fightin’ in brothels and bars
But takin’ on the enemies of our land
That still abound on every hand
To earn the right fer Bob an’ y’all
Nasty names fer me t’call
In peace an’ freedom like you’d expect
So just show us old guys some respect
Cos if’n I got t’ git offa this stool
Well, folks, I might jus’ lose mah cool
Then boys y’all can bet yer shirt
Some bastard here’s gonna git bad hurt
So git this sorry ass outta here
Oh, an’ before ya do, he owes me a beer.
The Bar exploded in wild applause and old Motor Mouth Mason (‘Nam vet, Silver Star and resident poet) didn’t buy another beer for a month.
Don’ y’all jus’ love a happy ending?