On a rainstorm washed Saturday morning in the Cantina Bandit stormed down the stairs. “Margaret, where the fuck are you?”
Margaret stocked the Bar every Saturday morning like clockwork, but orders faded. Bandit wasn’t buying as much booze recently.
The bar still filled up, but booze prices hadn’t subsided since Covid. “Yes boss, what’s up?” she said in her usual cheerful voice. Her smile and sparkling eyes would rescue a sinking ship.
“Fuck,” Bandit said. “The bastards doubled our rent.”
.jpg)
Just then the front massive Oak door slide open, creaked slightly and Bandit shot a glance to Frankie leaning on a broom, who promised to oil the hinges every week for a month. Like a dreary fog over the harbor, in strolled Clay, another thin man.
Everything that hinted of oil came under increasing scrutiny until it was banned. Moving a shipping container had quadrupled in price and anything that smelled of oil, or oil production from toys to medical supplies fell under increased taxes and daunting distribution requirements. They started by banning plastic straws, spoons, then utensils, plastic shopping bags and then taxed the hell out of gas and diesel.
More and more of Bandit’s customers were targeted and ticketed for loud pipes, had their motorcycles impounded, scrapped and crushed, forcing many to pack their shit and moved out of the state.
Daily, Bandit pondered loading everything he owned and hauling ass to South Dakota. The port stumbled, laid-off workers just like so many companies in the country pressured by the inflation and anti-fossil fuel restrictive regulations load.
Clay moseyed up to the bar and ordered his usual Corona. He rarely made eye-contact with anyone, especially the upbeat Margaret. He enjoyed being emersed in the blues and focused only on his inner demons.
Margret looked at Bandit and then at Clay as if he was the only negative fortune cookie message on the planet. Then she looked at Bandit again.
At one time making money in the port of Los Angeles was a breeze. The grubby industrial area was the international trade backstage for the entire west coast and most of the country. A bustling hive of activity in shipping, manufacturing, fishing, fabrication, welding happened at a steady pace. Anyone could make a ton of money and live on a boat for a cheap water-side lifestyle, but just recently the city banned fossil fuel outboard motors and threatened to ban anything in the harbor that emitted exhaust.
Marinas were forced to rebuild their electrical grids and it wasn’t working. Slip fees inevitably increased and boat ownership faded from the local economy. An increasing number of pleasure boats were also left to rot or towed to scrap yards. If a guy wanted a slip, no problem. Once filled to capacity, empty slips were now abundant, but nothing could power its way into the harbor except a sail-only 14-foot slope or a canoe.
Bandit walked out the front door and Marko followed, just as Speedi, the street racing FXR pilot slid to a stop screaming. “That’s the third time this week I was ticked for loud or modified pipes, and the city shut down all oil production, everything, even service and repair jobs. Our bosses announced they are selling our welding shop and moving out of state. I’m out of work.”
Bandit, slightly taller than Marko considered him the brain-trust of the team. Marko studied and trained at everything. He never stopped reading, researching and testing.
They stood on the edge of the dock and looked out at the wind rippled main channel. Cranes stood abandoned without ships to unload. One electric tugboat drifted in the briny, emerald green waters and a diesel-powered tug came to its rescue.
“Well,” Bandit said to Marko. “Let me have it.”
“Five points,” Marko said as if he waited patiently for his chance to deliver this prepared conversation.
“One, The world’s climate and temp goes up and down in cycles over hundreds and thousands of years. Just look at the cold spell in the Middle Ages. It is just the nature of where the earth sits in the universe and in relation to the sun.
“Two, Universities and academics will not get climate research grants unless the outcome of the research is pre-determined to be in support of the ultra-green left ideology. To publish the truth is to be doomed to academic obscurity”
“Three, the greedy industrial complex is always looking for the next flavor of the month and to sell the consumer something they don’t need. This includes high technology housing, a deluge of electronics, electric cars, charging systems, and solar panels.
“Four, there is little to no attention given to the whole battery issue – the mining, the child slave labor, and the environmental impact of disposal of all these dead and dangerous batteries. And no one talks about the oil and gas-powered plants it takes to charge electric cars.
“And five, Nuclear energy is the logical source of clean energy in the future. Just look at how quickly Germany reembraced nuclear power generation after Russia illegally invaded the Ukraine. Add to that the Marxist greenies and antifa don’t like anything that creates exhaust, including steam from cooling systems.”
“Yeah,” Bandit muttered, “But there must be a place for Scientific Transparency. Maybe it takes a handful of grubby bikers to force it to the surface like we did with the helmet law.”
Marko rolled his eyes. “Maybe you need a jack-on-the-rocks.”
A handful of riders blasted into the parking lot, swinging into the motorcycle parking designated spaces. Bandit approached each one, greeted and asked how they were doing? Jeremiah, the most outspoken member of the tribe went off on Bandit about the fish processing business and how one power-outage destroyed two weeks of fresh catch in a day.
“Diesel prices went through the roof,” Jeremiah snapped. “They want us to shift to electric vans, but the batteries can’t power the refrigeration units and the truck. The plant doesn’t have the grid to power the freezers let alone charge 20 trucks. What if we run out of charge on the road? We’re not only stuck, but our produce is wasted and hungry customers don’t get seafood.”
Each of the riders showed signs of depression, unhappy, about to be out of a job or forced to go to work in Vegas.
Bandit turned to Marko. “We’ve got to do something or die trying.”
Mandy, the voluptuous brunette bounced out of the front door and brought Jeremiah a Corona. Marko reacted. “You can’t do that, Mandy,” Marko said. “No bottles outside except in the patio.”
“Fuck it,” Bandit said. “What are they going to do, close us down. They’re closing down everything except the homelessness and crime around here. But that’s what they want, right?”
Jeremiah, short and round, snatched the chilled bottle and smirked. He was always trying to get away with something.
Bandit turned back to Marko. “So, what could we do, even as a test? A protest?”
“Good luck with that,” Jeremiah piped up. “Who the hell is going to listen to a bunch of grubby bikers?”
“Perhaps,” Marko said. “What if the protest took place at a college and challenged their free speech principles.”
“What?” Jeremiah cut in. “You need the media to pay attention.”
“What could bring the Media out more, but a bunch of Bikers showing up at a University campus to ask them if they support Scientific Transparency and free speech,” said Marko.
Bandit folded his arms and looked at Marko. Mandy approached, knowing that folded arms indicated deep concentration. She nestled her warm-self next to Bandit and tugged on his big right elbow. “Don’t worry baby,” she said and snuggled against him. He opened his arms and hugged her back then turned to the six riders who were headed toward the big oak doors to the interior of the Cantina.
“Hey,” Bandit said with Mandy at his side. “Are you up for taking a stab at the madness that’s choking this country?”
Juan pulled on the big, polished brass handle and turned back to face Bandit with bubbly Mandy in tow. “We’re in,” he said. “We’ve got to try something. This country is going to the dogs.”
All the other brothers also turned and gave a collective thumbs up. Bandit looked over at Marko who shrugged his shoulders. “He’s right,” Marko said.
“We need to investigate this,” Bandit said walking back into the Cantina. “How about a dinner. Let’s invite the guys from the local motorcycle rights group, a couple of club guys from the Confederation of Clubs. Let’s pick some brains.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Marko said.
That night they shut down the Cantina early and a group gathered for the Chinaman’s supreme enchiladas, nachos and chilled Coronas on the house.
The brothers and a woman from Scooter Chicks, a woman’s riders club attended. She scowled and sat between Jeremiah and Speedi. A couple of club guys enjoyed dinner along with Marko, Bandit and the president of the local motorcycle rights group.
“So, what’s the plan?” Billy asks. He was a stout organization president with long gray hair pulled in a ponytail.
Bandit stood. “I’ll make this brief. We are here to get your input as to what can be done to stop the madness engulfing this country. I know we could go after any number of issues from homelessness, crime, security, illegal immigration, but I would like to focus on oil and scientific truth. If we can get to the truth, maybe other issues will be questioned.”
“I can’t go there,” Billy said. “Our board is divided on the issue. I can’t even bring it up.” Billy got up and started for the door.
“I’m not giving up on you,” Bandit said. If your group won’t allow the truth, maybe you will. I will stay in touch with you and let you know what we plan.”
Billy was a longtime motorcycle activist and freedom fighter. His shoulders drooped as he turned and looked at Bandit. He wore black Levis, black boots, belt and a black leather vest adorned with 25 years of event pins, memorial patches and club insignias. “Thanks,” he said and departed.
They heard his bagger fire and sulk out of the parking lot as if he was thinking hard before he rolled onto Harbor Blvd.
“Okay, who’s next,” Bandit said and two of the clubbers looked at the big muscled Hispanic VP of the 1%er club for leadership.
“Look, we sorta know what’s going on,” Pablo said. “To a man, we don’t like it, but we have no clue. We just suffer the consequences and hope to continue to ride or bikes.”
“That’s because they won’t let the truth out,” Bandit said.
“Bullshit,” Betty, the lesbian leader of Scooter Chicks shouted fuming, and slammed her gloved fist against the thick oak table. “We’re turning this country upside down and will ultimately take over with the help of the media. Fossil fuels are killing the planet and we won’t stop until they no longer exist.” She stood abruptly. “You have no clue and there’s nothing you can do, we won’t stop. You fuckers are living in the past.”
She reached down to grab her cell phone and her shades.
Marko snatched them first. “You know that both of these devices are made with what you call Fossil Fuels. Stop oil and you won’t have your bra or panties either.”
She looked taken back but snatched her phone and glasses from Marko’s out stretched hands.
“I will also stay in touch with you as we move forward,” Bandit said as she stormed toward the door. “Wait a second.” She slowed but reached toward the polished brass door handle.
“A couple of things,” Bandit added. “You won’t have the soles and heals on those boots either. And just for your fucking education, CO2 is not a pollutant. Look it up, oh educated one. Stay in touch.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” Marko shrugged.
She stormed out in a huff. When she reached her Softail she started to throw her long shapely leg over the black vinyl saddle and looked at her faux-leather saddlebags and at her front tire. She suspected they were all fossil fuel products also.
Bandit sat down at the head of the table. “Seems this is an issue of education. What if we put together an informative flier and rode to a local college to hand them out?”
“We need to make the contents public to shake up the discussion,” Marko said. “And we need to be connected to a campus organization or they won’t allow us on the property.”
“And let the fucking media know we’re coming,” Jeremiah added.
“You’re right,” Bandit said.
“We will be there,” Pablo said. “Club guys don’t go for bullies. Plus, we might learn something.”
“I know about pamphlets,” Margaret said, “and I know where to get all the scientific info we need.”
“Terrific,” Bandit said. “We need to pick a campus. And we’ll meet here in a week to organize. Between now and then, we can pull the brochure together.
“We can support the effort with funds from the club treasury to help with the printing,” Pablo said and he nodded to the other club guys. Collective they got to their feet.
Suddenly, they heard metal on metal screeching sounds of van doors opening and something more, like thuds and the big knotty oak front doors flew open and a gang of four dudes and a couple of young chicks stormed in the door.
Marko looked at Bandit, “Security breach.”
They ran at the table screaming, “End Fossil Fuels you bigots, you’re finished, you hate the planet.” Reaching the conference table like a wave of angry black masks, like the ghost of all things dark, except none of them had any size or bulk.
All the brothers stood quickly, and Mandy and Margaret stepped back as a gang of spoilt kids in black gloves, denims, black shirts with STOP fossil fuels silk screened on the fronts threw plates, shoved platters of food off the table to shatter on the deck, while they hollered Marxists epitaphs like kids in China’s Tiananmen square decades ago.
The club guys puffed and started to reach in their vests for weapons, but Bandit stopped them and stretched across the table and yanked the black knitted mask from one of the assailants. Her long hair cascaded around her angry features glistening with flushed cheeks and bright white teeth.
Marko did the same and the revealed another young white kid, a skinny male. “Nothing to do on a Friday night. Huh?”
Big Pablo collared one of them and snatched the black mask away. “Gangs around here would have your pampered skinny ass for breakfast with salsa and tortillas.”
Jeremiah, the shortest stocky one of the Cantina bunch lifted frozen 200-pound crates by the dozens every day. With palms out thrust, he popped the chest of one of the males and knocked him to the floor, scrambled to his side and yanked the guise covering his face. The startled kid looked shocked. Jeremiah reached down and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt and dragged him toward the door.
The van idled just outside the door, too close to the bikes parked in the motorcycle only parking spaces. Pablo drug his young wanna-be terrorist member and threw him against the van. “If you had touched our bikes, the game would have changed, quick, and for the worse.”
Bandit walked one of the shaken girls to the van and shoved her inside. “I know what you’re doing. You don’t give a shit about oil or saving the planet. It’s all about Marxist crap and breaking the system and it won’t work. Not without a fight you can’t handle.”
“Get out of here before the cops arrive,” Marko said and shoved another kid into the van.
“We control the police,” The angry girl shouted back. “They won’t touch us.”
Pablo stepped up; his big 17-inch arms flexed as he drew a polished stainless steel .44 magnum Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver out of his vest. The massive weapon glistened as he cocked the hammer and aligned another chambered round, a hollow-point. “But bikers will.”
He smirked and slammed the sliding side door and turned toward the masked driver. He fired a round across the windshield, into the main channel. “Better drive, Punk.”
The young van driver about shit himself, backed slightly, carefully peeled around the Dynas and FXRs sparkling in the Cantina parking lot. It rattled and smoked its way around the restaurant, banged out of the parking lot onto Harbor Blvd toward the freeway. “I doubt it would pass a smog test,” Marko said.
The brothers stood around the bikes and one of the clubbers lit a cigarette.
“Perfect example of what we’re going to face,” Bandit said.
Marko offered the club guys chilled Coronas and limes. “The green movement is not about the environment. It is a Marxist motivated and funded movement designed to tear down the establishment, disrupt progress, while they live off welfare, their folks and unemployment.”
“Never a dull moment at the Cantina,” Jeremiah muttered and swigged the beer.
“This gave me hope,” Skinny Speedi said, straddled his hot rod FXR, donned his full-face helmet. His bike fired with a roar. Speedi pulled a wheelstand across the parking lot and dropped the front wheel onto the sidewalk. He hit the freeway a block away at over 75 mph.
