H. L. Harding, known to his friends and enemies alike as “Hardluck” for obvious reasons, walked through the sagging front door of The Rathole Bar and Grill and deposited his wiry frame on a dangerously tilting bar stool.
He turned to the only other patron of the erstwhile prosperous establishment. Eddie, the bartender, sat a Bud longneck in front of him without being asked.
“Tanker, mi amigo,” Hardluck ventured, “how’s life treatin’ ya?”
“Awww, same as always, Hardluck,” the huge man responded, popping the last greasy bite of a pickled pig’s foot into his mouth. “What’s up?”
Hardluck took a long sip of beer, and twirled the bottle, leaving wet rings on the bar. “It’s July third, an’ I’m just gettin’ ready for the big Un-run to Hostiler. You goin?”
Tanker shifted his bulk on the barstool until he faced Hardluck. “Man, I don’t know… It was cancelled, ya know. I hate givin’ my money to people who don’t want me around.”
“Well, it wasn’t the folks in town, ya know,” Hardluck said, “It’s the High Sheriff of Cracker County that didn’t want us there. He’s the one who put the ‘hostile’ back in Hostiler.” He drained the longneck and signaled Eddie for another. “Guess he’s afraid we’ll tree the town like they did back in 1947.”
Tanker chuckled, a deep rumble like boulders rolling downhill. “If the fine folks in Hostiler wanted us there, they’d vote that yahoo out, don’t ya think? And treein’ Hostiler still wouldn’t take much of a tree.”
“I dunno, Tank,” Hardluck mused. “Last year, they must’ve had at least a thousand cops there, and most of ‘em would’ve been bored ta tears if they hadn’t been so busy askin’ everybody if they had knives on ‘em. They were so busy doin’ that, they forgot ta ask about guns!”
“So, do ya really want ta walk into a situation like that again, Hardluck?” Tanker asked, reaching into the jar of pig’s feet with his greasy paw.
“Naw, I guess not, Tank. Why borrow trouble, as my ol’ Grandpappy used to say.”
Dawn found Hardluck and Tanker riding toward Hostiler for the first annual Un-Run, Hardluck’s Shovelhead rigid leading Tanker’s black Road King past farms and through rolling sun baked hills. They began to see hints of what was to come as they crossed the border into Cracker County.Stopped motorcycles lined the highway, and the flashing lights on Sheriff and C.H.P. cars made the roadside look like Macy’s window at Christmas.
The contents of saddlebags, bedrolls, and pockets lay scattered in the dirt as bikers were searched for contraband. The officers eyed Hardluck and Tanker as they cruised by, but none were free to chase them down, so they continued on toward their infamous destination.
The main street of Hostiler, primarily made up of sagging, earthquake ravaged relics from the early 1900s languishing in the searing heat, was guarded by several dozen officers in full riot gear, automatic weapons at port arms.
“Damn, Tank,” Hardluck yelled over the staccato rumble of his drag pipes, “They didn’t block off the street this year! Where we gonna park?”
Tank pointed to the bikes, of those who had already run the law enforcement gauntlet, and arrived in town ahead of them. “Looks like it’s one bike to a space, too.”
They cruised the side streets, finally finding a local who was parking bikes in his yard for twenty dollars each. With grumbled complaints, they paid the resident, locked up their scoots, and set off on foot toward downtown.
Looking up and down Hick’s Street, the main drag, Hardluck shook his head. “No vendors this year either.” The only booths visible were a rickety cart selling greasy tacos and pork rinds, and a table stacked with bottled water provided by the “Righteous Renegades”, a group of sidewalk scooter-bound octogenarians from the First Self-Righteous Church.
“Let’s head over to Johnnie’s Bar, Tank,” Hardluck said. “If there’s anything goin’ on over here, that’s where we’ll find it.”
“This doesn’t look too good,” Tanker whispered as they passed the two armed guards at the door of Johnnie’s and made their way past the pool table to the bar. They’d just drained their first beers, and ordered another round, when a shadow filled the doorway, throwing the room into semi-darkness. As the shadow entered the room, it turned into a corpulent man in a khaki uniform, a shining badge pinned to his chest and a bullhorn in his hand. He strode purposefully to the center of the room and raised the bullhorn to his pudgy lips.
“Okay, y’all, listen up!” he shouted, the bullhorn making everyone in the small room wince with the assault on their eardrums. “I’m Hugh Jassohl, the Sheriff of Cracker County, and I’ve got somethin’ to say!” He paused momentarily like he was trying to remember exactly what that “something” might be, then continued, the bullhorn spewing feedback squeals intermittently as he spoke.
“Y’all know that this-here run’s been cancelled, an’ we don’t want your kind around here no-how. Take yer dirty little run somewheres else fum now on, or I’ll have y’all throwed in the hoosegow ‘fore ya can blink.”
“He’s a huge What?” Tanker asked, having missed the first part of the Sheriff’s introduction.Hardluck was about to suggest that they sneak out the back door and bid this burg a fond farewell, when the barmaid brought the beer he’d ordered before the sheriff appeared. He thought it was a bit strange that the bottle was still capped, but she’d left an opener on the bar behind him, so he reached back and grabbed it, and popped the cap. Had he noticed the sly grin on the barmaid’s pretty face, he would’ve thought nothing of it, but as the cap popped off the bottle, the well-shaken beer spewed forth like a fire hose.
It found its way into the innards of the bullhorn, causing an ear-splitting squeal and a shower of sparks that made the sheriff throw it towards the far corner of the room.
“Awww, shit!” Hardluck muttered. “Here we go.”The sheriff stood for several seconds spitting like a wet cat before he reacted, reaching out a meaty fist to grab Hardluck, who was no longer there. By that time, he was rounding the corner of the pool table and heading for the door, Tanker close behind. As the sheriff gave chase, an entire tray of billiard balls seemed to magically scatter on the floor in front of him and his deputies, causing them to stumble into one another in their attempt to apprehend the fleeing bikers.
“I’ll be seein’ you boys later,” the sheriff growled ominously to the grinning pool players as he regained his footing and resumed the chase. Just before he reached the door, a dart sailed out of the crowd and buried itself in the flab of his right ass cheek. “That’s assault on an officer!” he screamed, reaching back to pluck the dart from his ass and throw it to the floor without breaking stride.
“Come on, tank,” Hardluck shouted. “Get the lead out, will ya?”“Right behind ya, damn it,” tanker panted as they rounded the second corner with still no sight of the pursuing posse.
“Quick! In here!” Hardluck ducked into the open door of a bakery, shouting at the surprised girl behind the counter, “a dozen glazed donuts to go, and fer God’s sake, hurry!”Tanker gave him a quizzical look as he ran back to the door with his purchase. After a quick peek outside, he slid the pink box out onto the sidewalk, the lid slightly ajar to expose the contents.
“Is there a back way outa here?” he asked the girl, who pointed to a door behind her. Hardluck and Tanker were relieved to find that it led to a littered alley just a block from where they’d parked their bikes.
Sheriff Hugh Jassohl and two deputies rounded the corner, sweat pouring off the sheriff’s face with the effort of his shambling run, and spotted the pink donut box on the sidewalk. He stopped, sleeved sweat from his forehead, and stooped to pick up the box. “Hmmm…” he said, “looks like somebody done lost their breakfast.” He chuckled at his own joke, then tucked the box under his arm. “Guess we’ll just have to keep these as evidence,” he grinned, as he shuffled down the sidewalk, followed by the two deputies. Each had half eaten “evidence” in their hand when they heard the roar of two Harley-Davidsons hitting the back road out of town.
“Well, there’s the county line,” Hardluck shouted, pointing to a marker about a mile in front of them. “Looks like we made…”
The red and blue lights on the C.H.P. cruiser lit up the afternoon, throwing bright lances of color into the shadows of the surrounding trees as it pulled from hiding onto the blacktop road.
The Chip grinned at the two bikers as he pulled handcuffs from his belt and snapped them in place. “I hear the sheriff wants to talk to you boys. He sounded real upset, too.”
“Awww, Jeez, Tanker,” Hardluck whispered as the back door on the car closed, sealing them in. “Have you ever seen that old movie called ‘First Blood’ where the asshole sheriff beats hell outa Sly Stallone?”
“Yeah,” Tanker answered with an evil grin, his massive biceps straining against the cuffs. “But I wonder if the sheriff has!”
