Read Online The Scarred Man by Basil Heatter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Basil Heatter
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should they? The heads are already getting happy on the acid and the joints. All we need now is a strobe and the acid rock and the amplifiers, and we can all become the mad bombers of the world. The air is suddenly so full of marijuana and the heady reek of smouldering violence that on this hot windless day you can get stoned just by breathing.
A police car, with its great red orb winking, pulls slowly down the line, in it a mean looking deputy giving us the hard eye. Half of us are bombed and smoking the joints openly but what can he do about it? If he arrests one freaking monster, he will have to arrest us all. He has guns, but what good will they do him? At the first shot, there will be ten thousand outlaws on his back, and they will tear him into little pieces and shove him up the exhaust of his lousy prowl car. You can see all this going on behind his B-17 shades and under his broad-brimmed hat as, he moves down the line.
An outlaw BSA moves up beside me, driven by a red-haired monster who looks eight feet tall. He stinks of oil and grime and rancid sweat. Clinging to his back like a monkey is a girl child who cannot be more than fourteen or fifteen. She climbs down to stretch, and I see that she is wearing a fishnet jersey and nothing else. Her naked young breasts and nipples are clearly visible. She sucks on the joint he passes, her beautiful young cornflower blue eyes fogged in the dreamy escapism of the lotus eater. Escape to what? To where? To why? To take on a dozen of these hairy apes in the fetid darkness of some backwoods shack? My gorge rises. The giant passes me his joint, and I take a quick drag. I have aroused his curiosity. Perhaps he has seen the bike before. Or perhaps, a more chilling thought, he has seen me before.
"Who you ridin' with, man?"
In answer to his question, I offer a dreamy wave of the hand. Pretending to be stoned is the easiest way out. He shrugs and says something to the girl, and they both laugh. But he is not quite satisfied. He drops back, and I see him talking to another rider wearing the insignia of the Easy Deuces. They are both looking in my direction. I wait impatiently for the line to move so that I can get lost in the crowd.
Far off to the right, Mount Washington is a monument of serenity above all this squirming mass of humanity. Fifty yards behind me there is an outburst of angry noises, the crash of glass. A fight has started. A diminutive rider in a sleeveless leather jacket is wielding a broken bottle, challenging all corners. It is too soon for fighting; not enough tension, sexual or alcoholic, has been created. Possibly he is tripping out on the acid. In any event, the outlaws do not want a fight at this stage of the game. I see the giant who has been questioning me earlier reach out a paw. He pounds the little man on the skull like a man hammering a nail. The unconscious rider slumps to the ground. The line moves forward.
At last we are at the checkpoint where each of us is asked to produce his driver's license. At the same moment we are handed mimeographed copies of a restraining order prepared by the authorities of the State of New Hampshire. It names as plaintiff the people of the State of New Hampshire and as defendants John Does and Jane Does, listing them under the names of some of the gangs present, Satan's Slaves, Iron Horsemen, Easy Deuces, Himmler's Henchmen, Shitkickers, and sundry similar organizations; warning them against violating any public law, statute, or ordinance; or committing any public nuisance; or carrying or possessing weapons such as blackjacks, sling shots, billys, sandclubs, sawed off shotguns, metal knuckles, switchblade knives, tire chains, or firearms of any type. This last seemed a farcical regulation, since it was obvious that all of the riders (including myself) were carrying weapons of some sort that would fit into the prohibited categories. But no one wanted to begin a search of the
A police car, with its great red orb winking, pulls slowly down the line, in it a mean looking deputy giving us the hard eye. Half of us are bombed and smoking the joints openly but what can he do about it? If he arrests one freaking monster, he will have to arrest us all. He has guns, but what good will they do him? At the first shot, there will be ten thousand outlaws on his back, and they will tear him into little pieces and shove him up the exhaust of his lousy prowl car. You can see all this going on behind his B-17 shades and under his broad-brimmed hat as, he moves down the line.
An outlaw BSA moves up beside me, driven by a red-haired monster who looks eight feet tall. He stinks of oil and grime and rancid sweat. Clinging to his back like a monkey is a girl child who cannot be more than fourteen or fifteen. She climbs down to stretch, and I see that she is wearing a fishnet jersey and nothing else. Her naked young breasts and nipples are clearly visible. She sucks on the joint he passes, her beautiful young cornflower blue eyes fogged in the dreamy escapism of the lotus eater. Escape to what? To where? To why? To take on a dozen of these hairy apes in the fetid darkness of some backwoods shack? My gorge rises. The giant passes me his joint, and I take a quick drag. I have aroused his curiosity. Perhaps he has seen the bike before. Or perhaps, a more chilling thought, he has seen me before.
"Who you ridin' with, man?"
In answer to his question, I offer a dreamy wave of the hand. Pretending to be stoned is the easiest way out. He shrugs and says something to the girl, and they both laugh. But he is not quite satisfied. He drops back, and I see him talking to another rider wearing the insignia of the Easy Deuces. They are both looking in my direction. I wait impatiently for the line to move so that I can get lost in the crowd.
Far off to the right, Mount Washington is a monument of serenity above all this squirming mass of humanity. Fifty yards behind me there is an outburst of angry noises, the crash of glass. A fight has started. A diminutive rider in a sleeveless leather jacket is wielding a broken bottle, challenging all corners. It is too soon for fighting; not enough tension, sexual or alcoholic, has been created. Possibly he is tripping out on the acid. In any event, the outlaws do not want a fight at this stage of the game. I see the giant who has been questioning me earlier reach out a paw. He pounds the little man on the skull like a man hammering a nail. The unconscious rider slumps to the ground. The line moves forward.
At last we are at the checkpoint where each of us is asked to produce his driver's license. At the same moment we are handed mimeographed copies of a restraining order prepared by the authorities of the State of New Hampshire. It names as plaintiff the people of the State of New Hampshire and as defendants John Does and Jane Does, listing them under the names of some of the gangs present, Satan's Slaves, Iron Horsemen, Easy Deuces, Himmler's Henchmen, Shitkickers, and sundry similar organizations; warning them against violating any public law, statute, or ordinance; or committing any public nuisance; or carrying or possessing weapons such as blackjacks, sling shots, billys, sandclubs, sawed off shotguns, metal knuckles, switchblade knives, tire chains, or firearms of any type. This last seemed a farcical regulation, since it was obvious that all of the riders (including myself) were carrying weapons of some sort that would fit into the prohibited categories. But no one wanted to begin a search of the
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