“It was like having a brand new Ferrari in the garage, and nobody wants to race it because you might dent the fender.” Pete Schoomaker

Sam needed a beer, it had been way too long and that facility refused his requests. He found the first bar that he could find on foot, and after counting the Harleys lined up outside the bar, noting their proximity to the entrance, and the location of the back exit, he entered the same kind of biker bar he’d been in plenty of times before.  He scanned the bikers in the room, on both sides of the bar, the exits, the location of the bartender, and chose to sit in the middle of the bar section closest to the entrance, satisfied with two grisly bikers to his left who were bantering with a couple of babes on the other side of the bar.  But he noticed something different this time.  And he didn’t like what he saw, but his thirst overcame his disgust.

“I’ll have a Guinness, your largest one.”

The two bikers to his left stared at him and laughed, then flexed their sizable biceps and played with their dagger tattoos that jiggled with the muscle action. The bimbos giggled with excitement, feeling something was happening while playing with their chains hanging over their gaudy breasts.

The biker closest to Sam watched him intently, and couldn’t help himself watch the stranger gulp the darkness of the cold Guinness. “Y’all must’ve rolled into this here establishment by mistake.  The pussy bar is down the block.  I can give you directions if you’d like.”

Sam stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious. He looked at no one, but saw everything.  He deliberately slowed his breath down, and mentally reduced his heart rate, as he was trained.  He knew they were big and dumb, hairier than a human should be.  He drank his beer down halfway, then stopped, even though the taste brought the pleasant memories back.

The biker mammoth closest to him came over and pulled a chair up. Sam continued to look straight ahead, oblivious, watching the stupid NASCAR race on the TV above the whiskey bottles.  Then he realized his mistake:  he left the hospital wrist ban on when he escaped, picked the locks and escaped with stolen scrubs from an orderly he locked in a closet.  He bought some jeans and a shirt and Nikes at the closest store, throwing the scrubs in a dumpster out back.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, little puke? You don’t know English?  You know it’s rude not to talk when spoken to by a superior.”

“Yep” Sam said. That would be the case if there actually were some superiors here.”  He was still thinking about that thing that bothered him when he walked in.  And it wasn’t the smell of the bikers.

The biker glanced at Sam’s hospital ID wrist band and smiled. “So, you’re a loon who’s escaped!  Looks like we’re going to have some people looking for you. This is gonna be fun, right son?”

Using his peripheral vision, he predicted the exact timing of the fist from the hairy mammoth’s right punch attempt, spun around and caught his wrist in midair, twisted it to the breaking point while simultaneously knocking his bar stool from underneath him, leaving him squealing on the floor.

“Let go ass hole!”

Sam twisted until he knew the bones would break, then stopped, watching the other patrons. When he saw them walking towards him, he stared them down with his cold steel eyes that saw too much of the hell of death and they stopped dead in their tracks.  “Next time I come here, I expect you little biker ladies to be wearing American flags on your leathers, proudly displayed.  Most of the bikers I know are patriots.  If I don’t see the flags on you next time, I’ll rip your lips off individually, throw them in a pile and light them on fire with lighter fluid while you watch.”

Before he calmly walked out of the stunned bar, he finished his beer, scanned the frozen bikers, and then walked out of the bar easily without a sound. The black suburban picked him up out front and he got in the back.

“You could’ve called, you know,” said the driver.

“No phone.”

“We didn’t much appreciate that you broke out of there before they were done with your treatment Sam.”

“Figured as much. So tell me, is the Ferrari still in the Garage?”

“You’re one of us Sam, one of the few, but you worry us. Yes, she’s still there, calmly revving her engines, but always ready for the call when needed.  Problem is, Potus is afraid to use her because it’s too risky, unless of course, it suits his panty waist political interest, then we’re suddenly expendable.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll happen someday and we’ll be ready to take her for a helluva spin.”

SRC