The Hell's Angels Labor Day run was still over two weeks away, but the Angels were already making preparations. Every bike would be there, of course, but the Iveco box van from the wrecking yard was coming, hauling everyone's gear, plus coolers and other random crap. The Dago Angels would be looking sharp as they rode, the machines unfettered by sleeping bags and gear bungeed to handlebars and racks. A stake bed truck would also be present, carrying tools, air tools and compressor, to act as sort of a rolling shop in case anyone need to make repairs. Red and his old lady owned a monstrous, lumbering 1971 Winnebago. This would serve as the Dago chapter's home base in Pismo Beach. It would be the gathering spot for the chapter, a place to leave messages for people, and somewhere to sit in relative solitude for a little while. Old ladies would be at the wheels of these vehicles.
Bekka and I had already agreed we would drive, not ride. We felt that since we didn't hold patches, we'd look like dilettantes and posers if we took our putts. The Falcon was a righteous machine, so we'd take it. Terry would be riding her highly-modified Air Glide, no big surprise. She was eager to show it off, maybe do a bit of friendly drag racing if a suitable location was around. And Jane wanted to ride, so she would be on Bekka's purple beast. I'd lucked out and managed to get reservations on three motel rooms at a place less than a mile from where the Angels would be assembled.
The Dago Angels were between clubhouses. They would inhabit a closed gas station or defunct auto shop, establishing it as the Dago chapter's physical focal point (besides the Hi-Lo) and sort of community shop for repairs and modifications. It usually took eighteen to twenty-two months for them to be evicted by the property owners, who were sick of fielding calls from panicked or annoyed neighbors, the liability, and the bad rep. Chapter meetings would then happen at the residence of an Angel who lived in a house, not an apartment.
Bekka and I were over at Red's place in Lemon Grove, sprucing up the Winnebago. I had done quite a bit of wiring work inside. All the lights now functioned, the fridge could run on either propane ro electricity, the stereo worked, and I'd installed a fourteen inch TV and VHS playback unit, just for the hell of it. The playback unit was from Inana. I'd become convinced the damn things were reproducing asexually in Small Steve's office. Bekka and another girl had tackled plumbing and propane lines. Sinks worked, the toilet and shower worked, the fresh water tank had been flushed and filled. The water heater, wall heater, and stove now fired up without having to stand or crouch by the appliance waving a series of matches. The interior was clean. I bought a white board and dry-erase markers from Staples, and mounted the board to the left of the rear entrance. This would be where people could check for messages. To keep the markers from wandering off, I'd figured out a way to attach a dog chain to a marker, then screwed the other end of the chain to the board.
The Dago chapter would be arriving at the run well-prepared. Some chapters were more ambitious. The Oakland chapter would have four RVs present, for chapter member use. They also owned the chuck wagons. On the opposite end of the spectrum was the Riverside chapter, who always seemed terminally short on cash. What support they had was stuffed into cars driven by old ladies. And those from out of state felt it preferable to travel light, so there would be no liability of a chapter-owned vehicle breaking down hundreds of miles away from home.
The putts, of course, were being attended to with a speedfreak's eye for detail. No cranny or crevice was too small to not be cleaned and polished, sometimes with cotton swabs. Chrome was shined until it practically glowed in the dark. All painted surfaces got the Turtle Wax treatment. Any non-pressing repairs were now taken care of, and engines were tuned until they ran like Swiss clocks. Their motorcycles were such large parts of their egos, there was no way any Angel would show up at this run with his bike in less than pristine condition. They would be seeing friends they only saw once a year, and wanted to make a good impression.
That night at the Hi-Lo, I asked chapter president Mutt in a casual way if my friend Boss would be welcome to show up. Mutt gave me a rather inscrutable look and said, "The Dago chapter has no issue with him. It's a free country, he is welcome to travel where he likes."
I rubbed my chin briefly, then said, "Have there ever been conflicts with Boss and the chapter?"
Mutt rubbed his own chin and stared at me, obviously considering how much information he would share. He finally said, "Boss is a former patch-holder with the Nomads, and there have been a few conflicts between the two clubs. But that is years old now, it's in the past, and Boss isn't a Nomad anyway. Both individually and as a chapter, Dago has respect for Boss, which he returns. However...." More chin rubbing. "Boss is an iconoclast. To be frank, outlaws who ride independently, no club affiliation, usually tend to be losers, fuck-ups. Boss was affiliated, and dropped his patch on purpose, then staying indie. He is a man who will answer to no one.
"His reasons for leaving the Nomads was two-fold. Part of it was a business decision. The Nomads made dope, and with the guidance of Boss, they did well. He decided he wanted his own lab, and not be connected with any club or organization. If he remained a Nomad, he would never fulfill that dream. A bigger factor was that Boss had slowly been developing an attitude problem. For some reason, the hierarchy and structure of a club began to rub him the wrong way. In a nutshell, Boss felt that an outlaw club should be a gathering of individuals, with no organization or officers, no leaders. What I heard was he was agitating for the local chapter of the Nomads to eliminate its officers and president, and have all decision-making happen through a one-man, one-vote system. His agitation would be rather, ah, vocal after twelve Jack Daniels. Now, you know how big Boss is, and he was a younger man then. Boss would get to ranting at the bar or clubhouse about 'anarchistic rationale' and 'destructured organization,' and to be frank, most of the Nomads didn't know what the hell he was talking about. All they knew was one of their members was drunk, agitated, and so fucking huge that taking him down would have been all but impossible.
"The story is Boss walked into a chapter meeting with his patch carefully removed from his denim. He walked up to their prez, handed over the patch, and said, 'Gentlemen, I have enjoyed your company. Goodbye.' Then he walked out. Nobody said a word, and nobody tried to stop him. I think there was probably a great sense of relief, really. He would still visit individual Nomads, people he considered personal friends. He made clear to these people that he simply felt that anything he accomplished, he wanted to accomplish on his own."
This was news that amazed me. I told Mutt, "Holy Jesus. Boss is, or at least was, an anarchist. And yeah, my own understanding of outlaw clubs pretty much dictate they cannot be run like the Paris Commune or Libertatia. It's a bit odd, when people try to organize --- or de-organize, as it were --- as anarchist societies, they quickly find themselves creating sub-groups which are damn similar to primitive communistic structure. It's weird, I call myself an anarchist, but I don't really mean it. Anarchy is unsustainable as a political or economic structure. However, the holistic ethos of anarchism is easily applicable to social structure, and that's what I like. While Americans do not have a caste system or long-established class structure, like in Great Britain, we still have our divisions. Screw 'em, I won't let anyone bully me."
Mutt put on his diplomat's face and said, "Lenny, if Boss decides to show up in Pismo Beach, it will be of his own volition. Obviously the Dago chapter is familiar with him. Los Angeles, Berdoo, Riverside, and Fresno would probably also know who he was. Where Boss would run into trouble would be in a situation where club members defer to an officer, in any situation. Boss wouldn't, and would be seen as disrespectful. While I doubt he'd be attacked or threatened, he would not have many people willing to talk to him in a short time. Being purposely ignored all weekend wouldn't be much fun."
"Okay, I was just wondering," I smiled. "Really, all I was thinking about was that Boss has almost no leisure time anymore. His, uh, day job keeps him hopping. I was just thinking a long weekend at the beach would be a good diversion, and he'd have lots of people to debate Harleys with."
Shifting topic slightly, Mutt said, "So, you and Becky will be joining us. Terry too?"
"Terry and Jane. Those two will be riding, Bekka and I will be in our Falcon. I think I managed to reserve the last three motel rooms in the area."
Mutt's lips actually curled upward slightly, and he said, "I don't blame Terry one bit for wanting to be there. With a putt like hers, I'd want to show it off too. Have you ridden hers, since she finished with the work?"
"Oh yeah," I chuckled. "A quick beast."
"Jesus Christ," said Mutt, rolling his eyes. "I'll tell the truth, that damn thing scared the shit out of me. She let me take it for a spin when it was done. I don't know what the hell sort of voodoo she worked on it, but it is just plain too damn fast. I swear it launches like a Ducati 900."
"That was her goal. She wanted outlaw iron that would shut down anyone on a leg-burner, especially white boy jocks on Ninjas. Her loathing of that little social sub-class cannot be overstated."
"Okay, fine, but Ducatis and Ninjas are light. With her putt, you're trying to manage both the incredible speed and the weight of a Harley at the same time. It would be like if you modified your Cadillac so that it went 300 miles an hour, and had a zero-to-sixty time of three seconds. Controlling that much weight while accelerating at that speed takes some serious guts. Or Terry the Terror really is as crazy as the like to make people think she is."
"Her mental stability is a bit hazy," I smirked. "If nothing else, she's used to her machine, she's on it every day. Her Nova will sit for a week without being driven, she rides her putt everywhere. So she's got the practice."
With his own smirk, Mutt asked me, "So are you still fucking her?"
I stared at him briefly. "How do you know that?"
"Partly intuition, partly from little things she's said around here. When most people talk about their boss, the boss's ability to induce orgasm is not a topic. No, she has never said, 'I'm fucking Lenny.' But she has dropped some little hints. I'm sure you're aware she is, ah, somewhat enamored of you?"
"Oh yes," I sighed. "Terry's crush on me was massive, and it was tearing her apart. I say that in the past tense, becausee she's seeing someone now. Her and a guy from the firing range she trains with her pistols at are pretty tight these days. He's a good guy, and the last dude you'd think Terry would pursue. Gerald, the gentleman in question, is this rather geeky dude who drives a shitbox and wears a pocket protector. Quiet, calm, intelligent, and from a completely different world than Terry. But they are giving it a go. Their interest in target shooting is a common ground. Terry says she's going to teach Gerald how to ride a putt, and he's going to teach her some basic UNIX programming on the computer. Terry startled the shit out of me last week, she came to work in a skirt."
"A skirt? I didn't even know she owned one," snickered Mutt. "Given her personality, I know she will have a good time at the run. Just so long as she doesn't get drunk and start showing off those martial arts skills on people."
"She won't, she said she isn't going to really party at all. One of the things about Terry that I love is her loyalty. Since Bekka will be at Pismo Beach, Terry will be in Bodyguard Mode all weekend. We're not paying her to, Terry considers protecting Bekka a moral duty, and a way to show support for a friend. She thinks Bekka is the most awesome human to ever live. If she was a guy, she'd have all of Bekka's posters up in her apartment."
Mutt frowned and commented, "I've always sort of wondered if Terry really is into guys, or not...."
I smiled and said, "Terry is very definitely into guys. The subject of orientation came up once in a general way, and she stated she is completely hetero, no interest in women at all. She knows Bekka is bisexual, and is fine with that. Terry isn't homophobic, but her interests are very clear." I stared down at the table, then said, "Okay, I can understand the situation Boss would be in if he went to Pismo Beach. I won't kid you, Mutt, I'm a little nervous about Bekka, Jane, and myself. We're not H.A., we're not outlaws.... Will there be hostility directed at us? Every other Angel except for the Dago chapter will just see some random goofballs hanging around."
"Pretty unlikely. Okay, you and Bekka are driving, but you're still sticking with our pack, right? We're leaving early enough in the morning that we'll be hitting Pismo Beach by one in the afternoon. We'll be fairly early arrivals, the vast majority probably won't show up until after four. So when we do arrive, it'll be pretty clear you're with Dago, you were in our pack. Also, you all don't act lke tourists, you're not gawking around at all those criminal losers. You'll be introduced around, especially Bekka. We've kept her presence a secret, that way we aren't getting mobbed as son as we pull in, with everybody wanting to find Becky Page. It will be clear you're with Dago, and Dago is glad you're there. Anyone asking about you gets told, hey, they're good people, we like them, they're friends. No, they're not outlaws, but oh well. Don't worry, it's not that xenophobic of a scene."
"Okay, cool. I was a bit concerned about the Oakland chapter, truthfully. They're supposed to be both tough and mean, and Oakland H.A. might decide the punks and the porno chick shouldn't be around."
"Don't worry," Mutt assured me. "Look at it this way. There's gonna be nearly 500 H.A. all in one spot. They're all gonna be looking out for friends from other chapters, people they haven't seen since last Labor Day. There's three of you. You're gonna be lost in the crowd. People are gonna have other things on their mind, they won't be thinking too hard about you, if they notice you at all. Just stay with Dago while we sorta circulate in the afternoon, everyone will make the connection."
Chuckling, I said, "If worst comes to worst, I'll just start handing out hits of Ecstasy like breath mints. That should have a calming effect."
Bekka and Terry joined us. Mutt asked, "So Jane isn't with you tonight?"
"Still in Europe," Bekka responded. "Her and Vito have decided they're staying an extra week, they'll be visiting a resort in France."
"Jane's on a new kick now," Terry giggled at Mutt. "She decided she's a nudist, and she ain't gonna have clothes on if she can avoid it. Yeah, I think one ride on her putt on the freeway, while bare-ass naked, would change her mind back."
Mutt looked a bit confused. "Where did she get that idea? Hell, where can she walk around naked to begin with?"
"They visited a nudist resort, a family place, in Italy called Lake Como," I explained. "Vito kept his clothes on. Jane ditched her clothes, except for her Doc Martens, and decided she'd never felt better in her life. Really, her only options for wandering around naked at home are in our house, Black's Beach, and San Onofre. Hell, they're going to another nudist resort, Vito is indulging Jane in a big way.
"The cynic in me says that Jane isn't engaging in nudism, but exhibitionism. Given her supercharged sex drive, I can easily believe that subconsciously, Jane wants to be stared at naked. Having seen her naked, I have to admit it's hard to tear your eyes away. She has always agitated about how much she wants to work for Inana part time while she's in college. And she doesn't care about the money, she wants to do performance for the sake of itself. Basically, Jane is a flasher. Just peachy, yet another facet of her already intricate sexual persona."
"The crazy little thing likes to call herself the Hard-On Fairy," continued Terry. "Shit, Bekka and Lenny told her to tone her act way the fuck down around here, especially that first night they showed up. Jane can flirt, tease, use innuendo, and engage in double entendres that would get the Pope all worked up and sweaty. Sex is a huge part of her ego, and she likes to sorta rub it in. If she acted like her usual self around fuckin' Short Nick or Dork or a couple other guys, they'd be on her like fuckin' white on rice."
"The thing is, Jane is not a slut," said Bekka. "She has three lovers. There's Lance, her high school boyfriend. She also has me and Lenny. Between the three of us, she keeps herself sated. What it is, is she wants to be a sex bomb, something larger than life, and works like hell to achieve that goal. She is very well known at her high school. There's the blue hair, but there's also the skin-tight leather pants, and her preference of wearing a bustier instead of a shirt or blouse. It's like she wants to give every boy at school a hormone overdose, just by walking down the hallway.
"The scary part is that as far as behavior goes, she has actually improved quite a bit. When she was fourteen and still in Gainesville, she was into sport-fucking. She seduced three of her teachers for the sheer hell of it, she was already an A student. If not in school or at home, Jane would be out in the swamps, trolling for any boy, or boys, she thought were cute, and would have her clothes off for them within ten minutes of meeting. She once told me she tried to have an average of twenty orgasms a day. Okay, how many of those were self-induced, I don't know. But she was hornier than a hundred sailors on shore leave, and easier to pull than a little red wagon."
I said, "When she got out here, she was sixteen, and had calmed down a bit. But Jane was positively predatory. We'd walk on the beach, and the way she'd stare at passing surfer boys, I'd check to make sure she wasn't actually drooling, too. Her conversation was a long string of horny, flirting innuendo, and she'd talk like that to everyone. How'd you like to be a waiter, and have a sixteen year old punk rock girl telling you, 'I'd like you to bring me some nice, hot meat, I love the taste of hot meat,' when asked for her order?
"Over the first couple weeks she was with us, Bekka and I got a lot hammered into her head. First, she was going to be at an upper middle class suburban high school in Southern California. Her talk and behavior were going to give her a reputation as a slut, and she didn't want that around here. There's a whole different set of rules in SoCal. She had to drop the flirting, drop the suggestive talk, and completely dismiss any thoughts about changing boyfriends at the same rate as she changed underwear. No flashing boys her tits in the hallways, no hand jobs under the table in the cafeteria, and no cheerfully announcing to people, 'Damn, my pussy is wetter than a car wash today!' I guess 'slut' back home wasn't an insult, or scarlet letter. Guess what Jane, now it is, so you gotta rein it in, big time. Fortunately, she took us to heart, she toned her act way down. She'd still have a look in her eye, though. Any male between the age of thirteen and ninety would be appraised by Jane, and the look in her eyes told them, 'I want you to fuck every hole in my body.' Like I said, she was as predatory as a hungry jaguar."
"Good God damn," commented Mutt. He had a surprised look on his face, which his face was not used to. "Yeah, she's gotta leave that shit out on the run. Just by statistics, there's gonna be a few rapists at Pismo Beach, and her acting all horny around Hell's Angels will be assumed as an open invitation. It is assumed that if you're around Angels, and you're acting horny, you want the Angels to help you with your problem. Yeah, she could find herself in a bad situation real fast, especially by around two in the morning of the first night, when there won't be a sober soul anywhere around. Be sure to kick it into her head to be on her best behavior."
"Roach and I are going to explain to her that she'll be on a very short leash for the first twenty-four hours of the run, Roach has already said he'll help keep an eye on her. And if she doesn't like the leash, well, she needs to ride the fuck back home. But she doesn't need to draw any extra attention to herself. With her Vargas model body, she's already gonna have attention. Roach and I will warn off any random goofballs who decide they want to get friendly with the underage girl, she is under our protection."
Mutt said to Bekka, "On a related note, I hope you're not having any concerns for your own safety...."
Smiling, Bekka replied, "If you mean, am I worried about being attacked over Labor Day weekend? No more than I worry about it in any large crowd. I am assuming Angels from other chapters have the same demeanor as those in the Dago chapter, so I am not concerned. Mutt, your chapter have been gentlemen, almost to a man. The couple exceptions seem to avoid being around me, which is fine. I know Short Nick is not a fan of me.... Well, I'm sure he loves watching my video, but not only has it been made clear that I will be protected, Nick doesn't seem to grasp what and who I am. Everyone else in Dago understands that my performance is a very unusual form of acting, my sex scenes do not reflect reality. Becky Page is not a nymphomaniac or deviant. But I think Nick holds on to the idea that any woman who does what I do for a living will flop and spread at the slightest urging. And, since I haven't given Nick a ride, I'm just being a bitch to him, I'm being cruel and abusive like a high school cheerleader manipulating one of the kids from the computer club. Jesus. Yes Nick, every fucking Angel in Dago has ridden me like a carousel horse, and have all managed to keep it a total secret from you."
"And right under my nose, too," I grinned. "Actually, how Bekka does it is that she can dilate time and space. We'll be sitting in a booth. I'll get up to grab a couple fresh beers. Bekka will invoke a time-shift, grab a random Angel, take him out to our car and fuck him, they get their clothes back on, freshen up, and Bekka is back at our booth before I've even turned away from the bar. It's a skill I wished I'd had when I was delivering pizza, I'd have made a mint."
"My gifts cannot be used for financial gain," smirked Bekka. "I can only use my powers to promote world peace, end human suffering, and have a good quick bang. I'll get around to the first two one of these days."
"I thought Becky Page could only shatter the moral fiber of God-fearing men," Mutt said with a smile.
"Oh, that's not really a power. It's more like a pheromone, or aura I put off, it takes no effort on my part. No, my other power is one of hypnosis, I entrance, through video tape, virginal and chaste young women into becoming bisexual libertines, wallowing in sexual decadence and deviation. I'm building an underground army of these girls. When the time is right, I will mobilize them. As the arenas of law, government, and public morality are almost completely male-dominated, my Slut Brigades will invade these arenas, using sexual ecstasy to control and enslave the men, then seizing the reins of power. They will turn the reins over to me, and I will buggy-whip the country into a morass of indiscriminate carnal indulgence, where Main Street, USA, is littered with used condoms and puddles of semen and lube. The pews in all churches will be removed and replaced with water beds, the churches themselves open twenty-four hours a day, places for those in need of a place to fuck their seventh random stranger since breakfast. Government, at all levels, will be dismantled and destroyed, the civil servants and politicians placed in re-education camps, where they will be kept awake for a week at a time with meth, and forced to watch my movies while manipulating the genitalia of the person on their left. And on all currency, the phrase 'In God We Trust' will be replaced with 'Do What Thou Wilt.'"
Me, Terry, and Mutt were all grinning at each other. Bekka was on a roll.
She continued, "Within six months, America will be a land of debased, carnal indulgence, the economy destroyed, schools converted into dance raves, police stations turned into bazaars for selling recreational drugs and aphrodisiacs. My Slut Brigades will still be working, patrolling through the Midwest to eliminate the last pockets of resistance. When caught, the hold-outs are taken to my Indulgence Enforcement Center, formerly known as the state of Kansas. The state will have been fenced off, and its captives mostly left to their own devices. However, the water supply is laced with Ecstasy, the only food available is canned tamales, and every television, stereo, radio, and any other source of sound will constantly blare the sound of all my orgasms from my loops and movies. The sound of me coming is inescapable, everyone must hear Becky Page come, over and over, at all times. The prisoners die quickly. Their minds snap, and they end up dying of dehydration from masturbating constantly.
"No more American flags exist. The new flag is a stylized image of my vagina. The national anthem is replaced by the song 'Fuck You To Death' by GG Allin. No one works, the citizens are all too busy pursuing new and unusual avenues of sexual pleasure. The Slut Brigades are the only thing resembling law. To restore a bit of order, the Slut Brigades create the Fellatio Centurions, heavily-armed female Vikings who use their skills at oral sex to subdue and punish miscreants...."
"Wait a second," said Mutt. "How are they punishing people using oral sex?"
"They stop right before you finish, and pour brake fluid alll over your genitals. Total buzz-kill, you know? Religions, former bastions of comfort, are banned. The few faithful left gather in small groups, look at each other, and say, 'Huh, maybe the Unitarians were right.' Hundred foot statues of me are placed in the center of every urban area. The statue shows me nude, holding a bong in one hand and a double-ended dildo in the other. At the bottom, in three foot high letters, is the message, 'She Came For You, So You Shall Come For Her.' You can stand in the middle of any street, day or night, and hear nothing but the sounds of people moaning and panting out their orgasms. The sound comes from all directions, it is everywhere, it is inescapable. Survival is only made possible by massive humanitarian aerial food drops provided by Europe and South America.
"I sit in my lair and watch a wall covered with TV screens, the screens showing live footage from all major cities. I watch and watch, fascinated by the rapid rate of decay and ruin. One by one, the monitors grow dark, as the electrical power that fed the cameras fails, no one to repair them. When the last monitor is dark, I leave my lair and drive to the airport. I am in possession of the last functioning airplane in the country. I board the plane and close the door. My pilot already knows our destination, a heavily-guarded rancho near La Paz in Baja. I sit in the jump seat behind the pilot as we fly. After a while, I finally say, 'I dunno, things didn't work out how I thought they would. I get some pretty stupid ideas when I'm partying, and I act on them. Oh well, my bad. Sue me.' And I live out a quiet life on my rancho, fucking Lenny and petting the cat, and never once having felt anything remotely resembling regret."
The other three of us at the table started to applaud. Then I realized I was hearing a lot more hands than just ours. I looked, and Angels and their old ladies are leaning over the partitions between booths, they'd heard the whole thing. Someone called, "Becky Page for President!"
When things died down, I kissed Bekka on the cheek and told her, "Still, your scenario is better than what would happen if Lyndon LaRouche somehow got elected."
"Or the Libertarians," replied Bekka.