Bar Light, Bar Bright

Editors note: Craven’s graphic description of his sexual escapade with his little friend from the restaurant has been deleted from this story. We at Born to Ride Magazine feel that it is our duty to do our best to keep family values, and bring our readers the finest in literature, features and events coverage. After reviewing the first few paragraphs, most of the staff members (both male and female) either left the office for parts unknown, or spent extended amounts of time in the restrooms, or possibly the coat closet. Although we truly believe in the tenet regarding freedom of speech, we also reserve the right to exclude our advertisers and readers from some of the most un-fu(#ing-believably HOT porn we have ever read! If you want this type of excitement (and aren’t suffering from a heart condition) you certainly should purchase Craven’s forthcoming book. Again, thanks for reading Born to Ride, and if you will, please excuse me while I go look for my coat.
R.G.

We were awakened by a very loud BANG BANG BANG noise. It sounded like gunfire, but was more muffled and directed to the front door of Christi’s trailer. It seemed just moments before when I was hearing the sweet sounds of her expressing the undying lust that she had for me, and my unit, which had just rearranged her insides. Actually, it was probably several hours later, and through the haze that filled my head, I was able to figure out that we had passed out on the armless couch she calls a day bed shortly after the romantic encounter that happened the night before. More Loud noises and hollering outside the door prompted me to pull my pants back on, and seek my .380 that usually resides in my back pocket. For some reason, I remembered that I had left the piece in the pickup truck. That was a serious mistake, I thought when I saw Christi running back towards me with an old axe handle. “Here, take this�? she said, as she shoved the handle in my hands, “ It’s probably my ol man out there. I forgot to tell ya I changed the locks so his dumb ass couldn’t get back in!�?. I took the handle to the front door, unlocked it and flung it open. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t met with an angry dude. Instead, I was my own VERY pissed blonde ol lady with a familiar large kitchen knife in her hand. To make matters worse, Paula was standing behind her with an empty 1800 malt liquor bottle. I quickly slammed the door shut and bolted it. “Shit you was wrong about that!�? I exclaimed. “Never mind�? she said. “ I will take care of these bitches, just beat it out the back door!�?
I handed the axe handle back to her and exited the rear of the trailer. As I snuck around the side of the trailer I overheard Christi hollering that she was gonna pop a cap in somebody’s ass if they didn’t take off. While this diversion was happening, I scoped out my escape route, and noticed that my pickup had at least two flat tires. I imagined that the ol lady had intentionally flattened the tires with the sizeable edged weapon that she was brandishing, and immediately focused my attention on Paula’s ‘69 mustang that was still idling near the driveway by my truck. I had to move fast. As the ol lady and Paula continued to argue and holler with Christi, I ran like hell to the antique Mustang and jumped in. I slammed the shifter into first and dumped the clutch cranking the wheel hard to the right to avoid smashing my own truck. The aging 289 roared to life and the balding tires dug ruts a foot deep in the freshly mowed weeds. I headed out the driveway to the hard road, still trying to remember what I was thinking when I originally embarked on this mission.

As I headed down the highway to my trailer, My thoughts were mostly about damage control. What the heck was I gonna do with the situation that was sure to meet me at home, and what was I gonna do with the other situation at Christi’s. When I arrived at my trailer, I immediately checked out the bike to be sure that no injury was inflicted to her. A quick inspection of the house yielded the same conditions that I had left the previous night. Everything seemed to be in place and as messed up as usual, so I grabbed a beer from the icebox and headed back out to the yard to decide what I needed to do. I heard a strange sound. It was like a phone ringing, but I was not familiar with it, as I haven’t had a telephone for years. I tracked the sound to the Mustang, where I discovered in my denim jacket, a very small device which I identified as one of those new-fangled cell phone things. As it continued to make that annoying “ringing�? noise, I contemplated what it would take to answer the call. I’m no idiot, so I pushed the little green button and began hollering “hello, hello�?. A familiar voice in the speaker said “ Hey Craven!�? “Look, it’s Christi and your ol lady and her friend just left and they ain’t real happy�?. “Imagine that�? I said. She said “Look, you probably need to stay away from yer house for a little while, and I gotta go to work, so why don’t you come by the restaurant and let’s talk�?. I said “Ok, but how the heck did I end up with this phone?�? She replied, “ I just stuck it in your jacket so I could get in touch with you, and you can keep it if you want to�?. “Alright, I will meet you down there in a little while, and see what’s up�?. I stuck the little phone in my pocket and headed to the bagger. I figured the best thing to do with the Mustang, was to leave it at the trailer so Paula wouldn’t try to get me arrested for GTA. (Grand Theft of Antiques)

I carefully checked the parking lot and entrance of Mom’s Diner as I pulled in. Seeing no threats from the ol lady or law enforcement I casually walked inside. Upon entering, I saw my old pal Cletus sitting at a table stuffing his face with a double cheeseburger. “Hey Craven, you’re just the man I was looking to talk to�? he said. “Didya hear about ol Bruce gettin shot? “Naw, I didn’t�? I answered. “Well he was porkin’ Johnny’s ol lady and stuff, and the sombitch come in the bar one night and shot his ass in the laig!�? “No shit!�? I replied. “Well, yeah, and now we ain’t got no lead git-tar player, and you know we got the house gig at the Longbranch, and well heck, I was wonderin if you wanted to come and sit in till he gets back on his feet�?. I said, “ Well I dunno, I had to hock my Strat, and amp and stuff a while back, and I ain’t got no money to get my shit outta the pawn shop�?. “ I would really like to, and gawd knows I could use the money, but�?… at that moment I was interrupted by that same familiar voice from the cell phone thing. Christi chimes in “I would LOVE to hear you play me a song or two, so I will go get your guitar and amp outta hock.�? “That is if you promise to sing for me!�? “Uh, ok, I said“… All the while I’m thinking that there must be some kind of conspiracy going on. In my life there usually is.

The Longbranch Saloon resembles one of those places you read about in old western fiction novels. Only with a modern twist. I swear the inside of the joint looks almost exactly like “Bob’s Country Bunker�? from that old Blues Brothers movie. An eclectic clientele frequents the joint. Mostly cowboys, rednecks migrant farm workers, and of course bikers. Normally, I don’t come here (because the beer prices are too high in my opinion) and was shocked to see that the owners had actually installed chicken wire across the front of the stage. Nevertheless, I strolled across the dance floor to the door on the side of the stage. I was met by a familiar sight. My old Fender Stratocaster leaned up against my Super Reverb amp. The gear looked just like it did when I hocked it almost a year ago. I was surprised and pleased and vowed secretly to never be separated from my stuff again.

Around 9:00 PM the bar manager summoned us from the back stage dressing room (actually a storage room) where we were enjoying a case of Bud which we had iced down in an old mop bucket. The stage “lights�? were already on, and as we picked up our instruments the rowdy crowd began hooting and whistling, and of course yelling obscenities. No rehearsal was ever required with this band, because every song was either and old southern rock tune or straight up classic country. The first set flew by as quickly as the several beer bottles that exploded on the chicken wire screen. It was just a usual night at this bar, where the two-step turns into the four-fist, and the bouncers and doormen work hard to keep the peace, and the floor mopped.

It had to be about midnight and we were right in the middle of our second performance of “Your Cheatin Heart�? when I saw a dreadful sight. Four figures wading through the dance floor full of slow-draggers each with a wooden barstool in their hand. As they got closer, through the smoke, I identified each as the ol lady, Paula, Christi, and some other chick with tight jeans and a Dolly Parton hairdo. Cletus gave me a worried look as he moaned out the words to the last verse. To our relief, instead of pounding their way through the chicken wire to get to the stage, they plopped their asses down on the barstools directly in front of me. Their motive was unknown for a brief moment, and the guys in the band started getting a little nervous, as Cletus leaned toward my ear and quietly suggested we take a break, and retreat to our backstage “dressing�? room for another round of beer. They all looked at me as I surveyed the four girls for weapons, or other threats. They appeared to only be armed with beer bottles, and since they were half full, I doubted that they would waste that expensive beer on us, and besides, everyone knows that qualifies as alcohol abuse! That’s when it happened…….