Mutt called me the next afternoon. He had two guys who could use the work, Peewee and Cisco. Both were in good shape, would follow instructions well, were Becky Page fans, and were currently between jobs of any kind. No legal grind, and no hustles going on. They needed the money. The Hell's Angels would not let a member go hungry or lose their apartment, but it was generally expected that members would be self-sufficient. Both Peewee and Cisco had long-term girlfriends who worked, so they weren't at risk of becoming homeless, but the lack of income was definitely putting a cramp in their style. Hell's Angels should not be recycling aluminum cans to get pocket money.
As per agreement, the two Angels rode up to La Costa the next day to meet me and get a feel for the job. Roach was off that day, but said he'd be there too, to put his fellow Angels at ease. I'd called Boss to tell him what was going on, and he was highly entertained.
"So you got a connection with H.A. now, huh?" he chuckled. "Too much. Don't worry, them boys will take the job seriously. They're gettin' the gig through the club, so they'll wanna make sure they do things right. I don't know either of 'em by name, but we may have seen each other around."
I said, "I just want to make clear that excluding dire circumstance, they'll be ejecting people, not flattening them. You and I have always maintained the right level of aggression, I want these guys to grab that vibe and work with us."
"Hey, you'll be their foreman," Boss pointed out. "We'll brief them, and they'll be fine."
At a couple minutes before three the next afternoon, Roach and I heard two Harley-Davidsons rumble up into the driveway and settle next to Bekka's Sportster. A few moments later the doorbell rang. I sprang up and let them in, ushering them into my office. You could see them relax when they saw Roach sitting in the corner, working his way through a Camel. Roach went and grabbed them sodas, they had a seat on the sofa, and we began talking. First in a general way, introducing ourselves, me explaining my loose connection to San Diego H.A. They explained the circumstances of their current lack of work. I told them what was going on: a series of autograph signings happening all over Southern California to help kick off the release of "Bewitched II: Stroke of Luck," Inana's latest release and Becky Page's latest film. I explained that sometimes fans would be a little too excited to see the stars, and try to put their hands on the girls, go behind the desks, or otherwise violate boundaries. When they did that, they were ejected. They might struggle some and hurl some abuse while you were walking them out, but very few wanted to tangle with you. I told them, "If somebody does want to brawl with you, drop 'em. You're not a rent-a-cop, you're not playing a sucker. You don't have to allow anybody to get one up on you. Generally though, it's a lot of standing around, and maybe a few times a day you twist somebody's wrist up between their shoulder blades and march them the hell out the door."
Cisco and Peewee were highly amused when they learned they'd be working with Boss. They knew exactly who he was, and what he did. I alluded to Boss's current massive wealth, and suggested that if they could point the conversation in the right direction, they could see if Boss needed people to work at the labs. I told them that being a lab rat was a week on, week off gig, but paid well and would be a piece of cake for anyone with a brain. If you could bake cookies, you could make dope, both involved following a recipe and doing things in the right order.
Peewee and Cisco both smilingly agreed to the job. $200 a day for nine days spread over two and a half weeks would help them out. We shook hands, then I wrote out and copied the dates, days, and times to be back at the mansion to meet the limo. They both said they'd ride their putts instead of making the limo even more crowded, they'd just follow the limo to the destinations. Both admitted they felt better when their bikes were close to hand. For either man, their motorcycle was a fetish, psychological armor. Besides the colors, it was the one physical item that set a Hell's Angel apart from the rest of the world. All the Angel's putts were customized, beautiful machines. Me, Bekka and Roach had cheated by buying bikes that were already customized. Roach continued to save money to buy a second bike, something stock he could put his own labor and personal imprint onto. It was assumed that in thirty months or so Roach would sell his red soft tail back to the current prisoner he'd bought it from. That suited Roach fine. In Hell's Angel logic, the bike had never been his to begin with. It belonged to a guy named Surfer, who was a current guest of the state, sitting out two and a half years for violating parole. Surfer was the one who had done the custom work, inflicting his personal vision on the motorcycle. Really, Roach buying the thing was just to help out Surfer's wife, in need of an influx of cash after hubby had been carted off. Roach would get his own machine, and put his own sense of style into that one.
"So this is where you work, huh Fucker?" asked Peewee. "You spend your fuckin' days in a damn mansion in North County, having sex with hot babes. And they pay you for it. Shit, you must shit gold and piss diamonds."
I said, "But he is working. He is highly skilled. To do what he does takes self discipline and self control like you wouldn't believe. I know I can't do it. Not many men can. And any activity you have to do, day in and day out, becomes dull and rote. Even sex. Roach, er, Fucker has a real job."
"Maybe I haven't been at this long enough to get jaded," said Roach, "but I never get tired of the women. To me, every single Inana girl is absolutely beautiful, I'd never get bored of seeing them."
"Got a favorite?" asked Cisco.
"Pfoo. Like, which one do I think is most beautiful? They're all special, and all have unique appeals. Rio is exotic. Feather is a baby doll. Jolene is like a horny schoolteacher. Sue is aggressive and dangerous. And on and on. When it comes to actually shooting a scene, I do have a couple favorites, Bekka and Gayla. Both of them always bring their A game to the sound stage. They honestly work at trying to get me off. They work it hard, and well. Heh, I do a scene with Bekka and always think, 'Lenny is the luckiest man in the world.' She rocks me, they both do."
"Mind giving us a look around?" asked Cisco.
"Not at all," I said. "We'll be skipping the second floor, that's where the sound stages are and they're working up there right now. We have closed sets anyway. But I'll show you around down here, show you the pool, and the penthouse on the third floor. Bekka and I lived up there for seven or eight months, while we were having our house built. It's totally Playboy stye, it's awesome."
I took them out in the hallway and gave them a walk-through of when I was shot by the Bible freak, pointing out bullet damage in the marble floors. We walked through the media room and the kitchen, grabbing fresh sodas. They were intrigued by the lounge, full of decadent detritus from making porn: a coke mirror, empty drug seals, rolling papers, lube, empty pizza boxes in a corner, some girl's underwear lying neglected on the floor. I explained that the lounge was entirely the domain of the performers. When I walked into the lounge, I stopped being the boss and just became Lenny. So long as they remained in the lounge, I would not give anyone directives, I would not critique how a piece of blocking had gone, and I would not discuss the newest project. I was just another bastard that worked there, just like them.
The pool and spas also impressed the two Angels. Both the size and design of the pool stunned them, and they were wowed by the twin spas. Both imagined the raging parties that must have happened pool-side. I told them Bekka's party for the mafia wives next month would be the first party I knew of that would be happening at the mansion, or by the pool. We had utilized the pool and spa for our own personal use, but the only real gatherings to happen out there were groups of porn stars all out to smoke at once.
Guiding them around the penthouse and explaining my history with the place convinced Peewee and Cisco that Bekka and I might not be as bright as we seem. We had an incredible living space, taking up most of the third floor of a mansion, that we paid no rent or utilities for. (Angel even paid for the twice weekly housekeeping service.) And we gave it up so we could go into massive debt building a house on the beach. An awesome penthouse, totally free, and we didn't want it. What was wrong with us? I tried to explain that living where you work adds undue stress to your life, not to mention the loss of privacy. "Ya just gotta set up some boundaries with people," said Peewee, eyeing the thirty-two inch TV. "Small price to pay, really."
We went back downstairs to my office. I offered to burn some dope with them, and all three Angels were amenable. While I was filling the pipe the downstairs became alive with movement, then Bekka came in wearing her kimono robe, congratulating me on my foresight by having the pipe out. I asked her how that day's loop had gone.
"Flat as Kansas," she replied. "A decided lack of energy in that room. The sex was okay --- passable --- but the dialogue pieces, shit, everybody sounded like they were reading from a report. I know it's only a loop, and we crank out a shit ton of them, but show a little life, people. We're supposed to be the best."
Bekka in my lap, the five of us talked about good day cruises to make in the greater area. I was scoffed at when I said how much I liked the Ortega Highway. "Too damn crowded," said Cisco. "Every shithead in the world is out there on a Saturday."
I pointed out that midweek it was practically deserted. This was also rejected. "See, if I got the time to take a cruise in the middle of the week, it means I ain't workin', which means I'd better be trying to kick up some scratch instead of taking a cruise. You work, how do you manage to do it?"
"I'm spoiled. I run this damn place. If I feel like taking a half day off so me and Bekka can ride, nobody can tell me no. Sometimes I just need to clear my brain, and a ride does the trick." Peewee and Cisco puzzled over the luxuries of what amounted to self-employment, not having a boss or schedule.
Peewee was a fan of cruising the desert to the east, Anza Borrego and Imperial County. He liked being able to open up his machine on a long straight stretch of two lane blacktop, maxing his speed. "Tell you what, though, I always wear my goggles on those trips. At 120 miles per hour through dry desert air, your eyes can't make tears fast enough to keep your themselves wet. Your eyeballs will hurt, but bad."
Peewee was a double-packer, always having his girlfriend on the back. Out in the desert, he liked cutting off on unmarked roads, just to see where they led to. This wasn't always a good thing. One afternoon, he and his girlfriend blew a tire on a deserted sandy track. "We pushed that damn putt three miles on sand with a flat tire before we hit pavement. We put our thumbs out at anything that went past in either direction, and it still took us two hours to get a ride to a phone. Joan was ready to start flashing her tits at cars to get 'em to stop. I was lucky, in a way. At the time, I was moving huge amounts of weed, and I was deep in scratch. I called a tow service, had the driver meet us, picked up the putt, and had him get us all the way to a shop in San Diego, then we took a cab home. It was nice being able to go through that and not worry about how to pay for it."
Eddie The Jew skipped into the office; I could tell by his look he wanted to talk me out of a line of coke. Cisco announced the need to take a piss, and headed out the door. Eddie watched Cisco go out, saw the logo on the back of his jacket, and turned white. Literally, all the color fell out of him. He said, "Lenny, can I talk to you in the lounge a minute?"
We went in the lounge, and Eddie started in. "What the hell are those dudes doing here?" he squawked. "Is Roach gonna be bringing his damn amigos from the gang to come visit? Lenny, I know you have different views of what is dangerous than I do, but there's no damn way we can have Hell's Angels wandering around the studio. Think about the safety of the girls. Think about all the expensive equipment sitting around."
I said, "That's Cisco and Peewee, and they're here because I invited them, not Roach. They're going to be working for me, rounding out the security detail for the signing junkets. Me and Bekka met some of the San Diego H.A. a couple nights ago at their bar in National City. I talked to their president about finding a couple guys who would want the work, and he did. Cisco and Peewee are observant, they're tough, and they're not dummies. Those qualifications make them perfect for security and crowd control at signings."
"So are they gonna be hanging around?" asked Eddie. "They make me nervous."
"Not much.... Although all the Angels are huge fans of both the studio and Becky Page. With Roach's membership in the club, they're even more intrigued with us. I wouldn't mind Roach bringing up a few at a time to take a quick tour and get to know us. So long as Roach is escorting them, its' all good."
"You're crazy. You're going to let the most dangerous human beings on the planet come up and visit."
I said, "I got along with them just fine, so did Bekka. And we were on their turf, too. Really Eddie, don't believe everything you read. They're good people, we were treated well. Yeah they're outlaws, but I've been around outlaws for years, and they don't bother me a bit. What do you think will happen?"
"I think the girls will be at constant risk of being attacked," said Eddie. "You know how Sue will wonder around the damn mansion in nothing but panties. What if they see her? What do you think will happen?"
"I think they'll briefly get an eyeful, then shrug. They know this is a porn studio, and write it off as just one of the realities of being here. They're adults, they're not going to go all to pieces at the sight of tits. You want a line of coke, Eddie?"
"Yes I do, maybe it will distract me from the fact that I'm probably going to be killed at work. These guys are monsters."
I was getting annoyed. I said, "Eddie, shut the fuck up. You're not going to get killed. And like I said, I've spent time around them, they're good people. You've always gotten along with Roach. Is he a monster too, now?"
Eddie said, "Roach is a damn kid, he's reckless. He probably thinks being a Hell's Angel is the coolest thing ever."
"He is rather proud and happy. He's also a second generation outlaw. His dad flipped his wig when he found out Roach had been recruited. Making it into H.A. means something, it says you've got wits and guts. Roach is still the same guy he's always been, and there's not much wrong with his new friends. Really Eddie, they're just guys, you'll see. Let's go get that line, I'll introduce you."
We went back to the office, Eddie slumping along behind me. At the office, I returned to my seat and regained my wife, while Eddie leaned on the door frame, to enable a faster escape if need be.
"So what's up?" asked Bekka.
"Nothing too big," I said. "Eddie thinks the hot water heater in his shower might be dying, it was lukewarm all the way through. I'll have it checked. So, anyone here enjoy cocaine?"
The offer was greeted with enthusiasm. I pulled the big bag of coke out of my desk, shoveled some out, and began working out six lines. As I did so, I said, "By the way. Cisco, Peewee, this is Eddie the Big-Dicked Jew. Eddie, Cisco and Peewee. Go shake hands, Eddie."
This was mean of me. Not only was I forcing Eddie to interact with the monsters, I knew both would crush his hand when shaking it. It wasn't hostility or machismo or head games, it was the only damn way any of them knew how to shake hands. I'd learned that at the bar.
Eddie went and shook hands. Peewee said, "Eddie the Big-Dicked Jew, huh? How big is it?"
"Nine inches," sweated Eddie.
"God damn. You could beat dogs to death with that thing!" All three bikers on the sofa burst into laughter.
"Yeah, well, Roach has over eight inches!"
Cisco and Peewee pivoted to look at Roach. Cisco said, "Yeah, I guess being hung is one of the requirements for your job. Eight inches? Really?"
Roach looked modest and said, "I don't have a clue, I've never checked. Eddie is guessing."
I said, "I've got a tape measure." A thought crossed my mind. I looked at Bekka right in the eyes and said, "Hey, Becky!" Bekka's eyes blinked, and her face shifted. Becky now smiled at me. "How'd you like to help settle this?"
"No problem," Becky said. "Should I fluff him?"
"No, just use your hands. No sense in scandalizing our guests."
Becky kissed my neck and hopped out of my lap, gesturing at Roach to stand up. He grinned, rolled his eyes, and did so. Becky ran her hand down his crotch and said, "Whip it out, homeboy. We've gotta do some science."
"This again?" said Roach, and pulled his dick out of his fly. Becky began squeezing, stroking, using her fingertips. Peewee and Cisco watched this with mild shock and surprise. After about ninety seconds, Roach said, "There, I think I'm maxed." Bekka grabbed the tape measure and took a length, measuring from the bottom. She took a look and said, "Eddie has a good eye. I get eight and a quarter inches." She stood up, put the tape measure back on my desk, and resumed her position in my lap.
Roach was busy wrestling his dick back into his pants. Peewee and Cisco sat there with slightly slack-jawed looks. I held up the tooter and said, "You gentlemen are guests. Go ahead first."
Everyone did up their lines. Sitting back on the sofa, Peewee said, "Yahoo and god damn. Can't remember the last time I felt coke like that."
I said, "I get it high off the supply chain, so it's pretty damn clean."
Cisco said, "So now we know Fucker is packing over eight inches. Hell of a way to find out. You always do shit like that?"
"That didn't mean anything," said Roach. "That was sheer practicality."
Becky said, "What you have to keep in mind is that we are very objective about sex around here. I know that to guys, dicks are important, an important part of the physique. Around here, it's just another body part. Holding his dick didn't mean any more than if I'd grabbed his arm or his neck."
"Damn," said Peewee. "Ain't no mystery about anybody around here, is there? I gotta ask, do you enjoy what you do?"
"To an extent. It is a physical pleasure. It is totally void of any heart or emotion, though, so the psychological aspects that make sex fun are missing. There isn't even a sense of conquest. People wonder why and how I can engage in aggressive sex acts for a few hours straight, then go home and get in bed with my husband. Some probably write me off as a nymphomaniac. That's not it, it's that mentally no sex has taken place at all. I might have spent plenty of time with a dick up my pussy or in my mouth, but that doesn't matter. At work, I have no emotional connection with the men I'm working with. There is no intellectual, emotional, or psychological sense of connection between us. If you discount the physical actions and body parts, no sex at all takes place on a sound stage of a porn studio. The mental qualifiers that make sex what it is are missing, so it's not sex, it's just people interlocking their genitalia."
"That's why at Inana they insist we have some acting talent," said Roach. "We have to pretend we're interested and involved in what we're doing. Sometimes I'll slip, and Steve will yell cut, then say, 'Hey Roach, smile.' I'll lose my focus on performance and have a look on my face that conveys nothing but boredom. There's already plenty of porn out there where you can see that look on everyone's face. Inana is better, we act out a good time."
Becky said, "An excellent point. I constantly meet people who think I will come while I'm working. I don't want to burst their bubble, so I just smile and nod. No. I was just blessed with enough talent that I can make it look like I'm coming, and have it look real. I thought back about it, and realized that in all the years I've been in this business, I have come eight times while performing. Better than none, I suppose. But Lenny can easily make me come my brains out, so it's not just physical activity that determines whether I come or not. It comes down to that in order to come, I have to feel a connection with the other person. Us having coitus, for any duration of time, just doesn't cut it."
Roach said, "I like that line you always use, about the difference between making love and fucking. If you don't know there is a difference, you shouldn't be trying to do either one."
Cisco said, "Given how casually and objectively you treat sex around here, you sure seem to spend a lot of time thinking about it."
Becky said, "Oh, absolutely. For the people who work at Inana, sex is all-encompassing. It is both our livelihood and our artistic statement. I love sex, and I'll bet Roach and Eddie do too. But like I was saying, what happens on a sound stage is not sex. It's just a physical pantomime. We have to wait until we're home to enjoy sex, with our significant others."
Eddie spoke up. He said, "Another good measure of the separation between porn and sex is dick size. I got nine inches, and thanks to porn, that is supposed to make me a sex god, an archetype of virility. If you actually understand human anatomy, you know how stupid that is. No part of a woman's body is designed to take nine inches of dick. The primary entry is set up to handle about six inches. Realistically, I should be lampooned and condemned as a freak of nature, something incredibly un-sexual. I'm not a sex god, I'm a damn mutant."
Peewee said, "I gotta say, you all have a different way of looking at screwin'. What I was wondering about is that I've had sex with people I'd barely known five minutes, and had a good time. We didn't have any emotional connection or whatever, we were just two people screwing for fun. So I think you can enjoy sex without a connection to the other person."
"Except you did have a connection," said Becky. "I didn't say you have to love the other person. Emotion is a very wide spectrum, with varying depths. You and the other person connected on a level of, 'Hey, we're having fun together! This is great!' No, it didn't mean much, and wouldn't be enough to sustain a relationship for longer than a weekend, but it was enough, and it worked. Social conservatives are the types to say that unless you have romantic love going on, you can't have physical intimacy. Sounds like bullshit to me. I'm all in favor of friends and acquaintances fucking for fun. You don't need love, but you do need a connection, no matter how shallow and short-lived. I'd like to think that somewhere, two strangers ended up having sex because they were both happy the Forty-Niners won the Super Bowl. They found a connection and ran with it."
"It's like y'all are on a wavelength that is both more advanced, but also really grim and cynical. I've just never put too much thought into screwin'. I guess the more you do it, the more you think about it."
Cisco said, "You got it, brother. Hey, let's cut out before traffic gets too bad. I was wondering, whose purple machine is that in the driveway?"
"That would be mine," said Becky. "It was a gift from Boss. He also gave Lenny a custom Sportster, black. He was very excited when he heard we were going to start riding."
Peewee said, "Uh.... How were you gonna ride if you didn't have putts?"
"We first bought a brand new Sportster," I explained. "We were gonna share it between the three of us --- Bekka, Jane and myself --- while we learned and got comfortable. Then we'd worry about everybody having their own bike. Boss short-circuited that plan. Now Jane has permanent possession of the new Sportster, and I guess she'll put some custom work into it, make it hers."
Becky said, "I've thought abut having a different design airbrushed onto the tank. Keep the same colors though. I love my motorcycle, it's beautiful."
All three outlaws headed for the driveway. Before Cisco and Peewee hit their starters, I said, "See you at two o'clock Friday. Have fun."
They waved, then fired up. The three boomed down the street towards El Camino Real. I walked back into the mansion. Eddie was waiting for me at the door.
"So they took off?" he asked.
"Yeah, all three of them. Eddie, you just saw for yourself that they're not monsters, they're just people. Take a breath, relax. So is it that they're H.A. that bothers you, or just that they're outlaws? You've met Boss and didn't seem freaked. Hell, you've been prepped by Terry, and she's a biker bitch straight out of Central Casting."
Eddie said, "The first time I saw Boss, he was cuddling Bekka in his arms like a baby. He still scares the shit out of me, but only on an intellectual level. He doesn't scare me in the here and now. And Terry! Is she some sort of sick practical joke of yours? You must have paid an actress to behave like her, no human being acts like her in real life."
"What's your problem with Terry?" I asked.
"She cannot go more than four words without a profanity. She's loud, she's abrasive, she's horribly crude, and she freely admits to being tweaked out on meth while working. Her only goal in life is to own a Harley-Davidson, she has no other dreams than that. Lenny, if she was any more white trash she'd be pregnant with her own mother or something. Her only saving grace is that she's a good fluffer. And at least then she's got something in her mouth, so she can't talk."
I said, "Terry doesn't open up a lot. For various reasons, she's had to play it tough for a long time, so long it's become part of her personality. Maybe it's just me, I'm used to outlaws, and Terry really is a class A scooter tramp. But she is also intelligent, and sensitive, and gentle, and caring. Chances are you will never, ever see those aspects of her first-hand. But they are there."
Eddie chortled. "Jesus Lenny, you sound like you slept with her."
"I did, on several occasions. It's one of the few situations where she will let her guard down. That's how I got to know her better. And before you ask, I had Bekka's blessing."
"So am I going to have to worry about my personal safety while I'm here?"
I gave Eddie a purposefully confused look. "No more then you ever have. Of course, you weren't here the day I got shot, were you? When a man came in here with an assault rifle and put five holes in me? Now, the people who were here certainly have a heightened sense of caution. The man was here with the express intent of killing all of them. Them, I can understand worrying, no matter how unlikely it would be for the same situation to happen again. Now you, your worries are baseless. You blindly trust what you read in the Union-Tribune and crime exposé paperbacks. You just met two Hell's Angels, who were completely level-minded the entire time.... Shit, you work with a Hell's Angel. They are no threat to us. The San Diego chapter thinks we're awesome, they're happy we're friendly with them. They are not Visigoths, they're motorcycle buffs. So relax. Hell, if I discover that a couple of them are experienced gaffers, you may be seeing a whole lot more of that patch around here."
Eddie queried, "They don't bother you at all? You don't worry about Bekka's safety being around them?"
"I told you, outlaws don't bother me. I've been around plenty. And no one in H.A. is going to threaten Bekka. Two nights ago we spent three hours in their bar in National City. They're all Becky Page fans. And I wish all her fans were as mannerly as they were. Bekka signed autographs and posed for pictures and answered questions, like she always does. The Angels love her. No big surprise, here's a big celebrity who treats them like normal people, is friendly without being fawning. No patch-holder would even dream about hurting a hair on Becky Page's head. They think I'm pretty righteous, too."
Eddie smiled weakly and said, "You gotta admit, outlaw biker culture is far outside Jewish idiom. I have no personal or learned experience to cross-reference with bikers."
I said, "Then you are blindly fearing something just because you don't understand it. That's never good. That's how the Ku Klux Klan came around. Yeah, they're badasses, they're brawlers. Some of them may be turning an extralegal dollar or two. But you've never had a problem with me, and I have lived in the exact same manner. I'm a punk. I brawled, I drank my breakfast, I dealt speed to earn a living."
We walked back into my office. Bekka was using the Macintosh. Stepping behind her so I could see, I found she was reading the Becky Page Fans BBS. She was scrolling through the posts, stopping to read them using her own personal litmus. I was familiar enough with the board that I would select posts based on the user name. She scrolled along, then stopped. There was a post with the title of "Becky at the bar." We looked at each other, then she opened it.
The post, from HogPilot, read, "Hey clowns. Becky showed up at my club's bar night before last, as the guest of a member. She had her husband Lenny with her, along with a little chick named Jane. She is one righteous babe, she talked with everybody and she let us take pics, I got one of her sitting on my putt and me with my arm around her. Her husband is a good guy, despite what some of you shitbags think. We bought her drinks and she told us stories about work. She is too awesome, relaxed around us scum. We let her know her Lenny and Jane are welcome at the bar anytime, no escort needed. Found out she rides a Sportster! Hope to see her again soon, prez told me a couple of the boys are going to be doing some security work for her and the studio. We'll keep her safe. Later dick munchers."
There were several replies. NerdSurf responded, "Hey I met Jane at the La Mesa party shes only 16. Why was she in your bar?? But I can see you wanting to get a teenage girl drunk so theres my answer."
PacketSmasher said, "This only proves how fearless Becky really is. She's said she loves everyone, I guess that even includes goons like you and your friends. Becky, if you see this, be aware that HogPilot is a GANG MEMBER, him and his friends are dangerous. Avoid them."
And Syko, the board's sysop, wrote, "HogPilot, you're back. Congrats on having met Becky, she's a wonderful girl. HogPilot if you're only here to flame I will simply block your number, I can do that. Be polite this time around and I won't have to nuke your hard drive (again)."
There were a few others, all of which amounted to, "Woo hoo, fan contact, right on." Bekka stared at the screen briefly, then slid the keyboard into a better position. She responded:
"Hello, Becky here. I'm not sure of HogPilot's real name, but apparently I met him the other night. I had a lovely time at the bar, always happy to be with my fans/friends. NerdSurf, don't worry, Jane is a big girl, wise beyond her years, and can take care of herself. PacketSmasher, I am fully aware of HogPilot's associations. I work with a fellow club member, who was the one to invite me and mine to the bar. Everyone I met was polite and mannerly, true gentlemen. I am aware of the allegations made against HogPilot's club, and take them with a grain of salt. And HogPilot, I thank you and the boys for a lovely evening. Because of you all, I may be developing a taste for Jack Daniels! Kisses, Becky."
Bekka posted her response. She sat back in my chair and said, "I guess BBS users come from all walks of life, huh."