Jack Hall

November 1993

Biker Girl Grows Up

Her new home was the sleaziest bar in the city; its reputation for instant violence was paralleled only by the darkest of alleys in the junkie part of Anytown, USA. It was also the meeting place for the Righteous Assholes MC, the local version of those biker-type "toughguys" who seem to base their entire collective existence on Hollywood stereotypes and silly stories from biker rags. It was right where she wanted to be.

Entrance to this den of lowlifes wasn't easy, but it wasn't as hard as it could have been; the cunts didn't fuck her up too much in her nightly run through the Bitches' Gauntlet because she had turned them on to a bitchin' new method of pool table fucking. The ritual to which she objected most greatly was her weekly stint of "potty duty;" wherein, she was stripped naked and duct taped with her legs wide open to a nasty, old, un-scrubbed shit bank; for hours, she would endure the absolute degradation of being a living toilet seat.

She truly couldn't decide which was the worst part: having her thighs crushed by fat, farting biker butts; watching her pussy be pissed on by the decayed dickflesh of the motley crew (which, if the aim was true, felt good--kinda like fucking the faucet); wiping away fecal remnants with her one free hand, or trying to puke with her mouth taped shut. The latter had happened twice and the ever-present gaggle of onlookers would hem and haw until she aspirated on her vomit; then, one of them, a licensed paramedic by trade, would rip the tape from her lips and administer the "Biker's Heimlich," a sharp kick to the solar plexus which would cause gales of laughter as gooey gobbets of yellowish gop erupted volcanically from the facial orifices of the "tough" little bitch. To close her eyes would mean a slap to the head; to sleep was impossible, her drug of choice being methamphetamine...

Her Rites of Initiation were prolonged and made more arduous because of her old man's lack of social status. His handle was Spooge Felcher--the name, Spooge, referring to the shiny, brownish, translucent, growing lump of dried excretions in his never-changed underwear, Felcher being a generic epithet meaning, "one who sucks semen from assholes." Normally, a name such as this would constitute high praise in "biker" circles; but, alas, Spooge had fallen from grace when he was caught buttfucking a chihuahua. This would have been forgiven, considering his small penis and rural upbringing, but the damned dog was male.... Therefore, he was not only a dinky-dicked pervert, but was probably queer to boot, and each of this group of loonies was, if nothing else, a good, old fashioned, Amerikan homophobe.

She knew, deep within her shallow soul, that if she stuck to her guns and excelled in her initiation, she too could be the Bitch of a Righteous Asshole. She could proudly display to the WORLD that she was a free spirit and lived her life by her own rules; she didn't "...have to take no shit from nobody." First, though, she had to prove that she was a good bitch.

One night, the herd was celebrating one thing or another and someone thoughtfully spiked the cheap-tequila-based jungle juice with several grams of almost-pure lysergic acid diethylamide [LSD]. Since 500 micrograms is considered by many drug experts as a strong dose of LSD (and 1000 micrograms equals one milligram and 1000 milligrams equals one gram), the grimy, greenish garbage can held fifteen gallons of generic fruit punch, a few #10 cans of fruit cocktail, twelve big bottles of Jose Gonzalez Tequila Primero (bottled in deepest Juarez) and a little over 6000 hits of liquid Owsley Juice (straight outta Berserkly, Kalifornia); things began to get interesting....

Tequila + LSD = Incredibly Violent Behavior. Always. This was no jolly, loving meeting of Pranksters and Angels; this was the Party-From-Hell parents invariably picture when Junior or Sissy is out a little late...if they give a shit....

It started with a couple of bitch slaps, which quickly turned into a few sucker shots, cold cocks and bushwhacks. Biker Girl saw "her man" being severely beaten about the head and neck regions by one of the bigger bikers, and, having been raised with brothers, she locked herself to the big fucker's head with one arm and began extended-knuckle punching him in the eye. This unexpected development drew the large man's immediate attention; he screamed in pain and grabbed her by the ass lifting her in the air. He threw her on the ground and kneeled on her shoulders.

The other combatants ceased their antics to see what had caused the one referred to, in awe, as Killer to actually acknowledge pain. He glanced around at his growing audience and inquired, "Wanna see sumpin' that really hurts?" He extended his own knuckle and began methodically tapping on her sternum hard enough to jar her heart. He turned to say more to the now-rapt crowd and Biker Girl seized her only opportunity for survival by rearing her head and taking a deathgrip on the oversized crotch of his underwashed jeans.

Killer was in a world of hurt; he punched her on the head just once and almost committed his own penile decapitation. Spooge took quick advantage of the situation and pulled an old prison buddy from his boot. He locked his left arm around the big man's throat--shutting off his air--and stuck him a few inches under the middle of his back at an upward angle, piercing the diaphragm and entering the right ventricle of the mighty murderer's heart. The icepick-like nature of Spooge's shiv allowed him to deeply engrave his initials as he viciously twisted his lovingly handcrafted tool from Hell around in the hole and reduced the giant's most powerful organ to ribbons. He pulled his friend from the first wound and ventilated the dying man's lungs fifteen or twenty times (for maximum effect), let go of his throat and kicked him stoutly in the back.

The resulting fountain was to become forever an intrinsic and fundamental part of local biker lore. Killer's solar plexus muscle had instinctually contracted under the savage attack, forcing his lungs and stomach to forcibly expel their contents (his lungs rapidly filling with blood and stomach full of God-Knows-What); however, the only possible route for the Biker of Death's life's blood and last meal was blocked, causing an inhuman pressure buildup. The obstruction was released and the Big, Bad Biker's face appeared to explode as he gave up his ghost in a wet, crimson kaleidostorm of gobbets and slimy gunk. While the mob's attention was diverted by the deluge ("Ooooo! Looka the colors, man! Looka the COLORS!"), Spooge convulsed (adding a really large wad to his namesake) and dragged his Lady Love from under the lighter half of 295 pounds of dead meat.

The fact that its focal point was no longer within this plane of existence did not reach the mob for several minutes. One of its lesser parts went to the stiffening corpse and gently kicked it in the butt.

"He's dead."

Spooge thoughtfully placed his Biker Girl between his bony self and them and proclaimed, "I hadta do it; he was killin' my old lady!" The Biker Girl's normal operating system kicked back on and she puked all over Killer's Korpse. The Righteous Assholes Motorcycle Club, as one, fell down laughing as if it had been allowed to grasp a bit of the punchline of The Ultimate Joke.

Spooge's claim seemed to vaguely fit one or more of the dimly recollected Codes of Biker Law and a proper Biker Funeral, complete with autopsy, embalming/viewing and ignoble, surreptitious burial in the desert, was organized. The autopsy was deemed necessary (and performed) by Spooge (forever hence known to the biker world as "Doc," although a more fitting title would be "Wanna-Be-A-Forensic Pathologist" or "Butcher") so that he could illustrate his killing technique by sloppily exhibiting the larger pieces of the dead man's heart and orally inflating the cadaver's lungs--thereby mischievously dousing the onlookers with a bloody mist. The embalming was achieved by: putting tequila into bottles half-full of soda, then shaking the bottles with the openings held shut with thumbs, inserting them into any bodily cavities available (natural or otherwise) and letting go. This was a deeply heartfelt gesture as it signified The Last Drink... (although more than one of them served warm, fresh urine as The Last Drink). The burial was quick and shallow; the Righteous Rejects had important business brewing now that they had a new Asshole.

Doc's social elevation was instantaneous and the Biker Girl rode the comet alongside "her man." Not a one of these small-time rats had ever been important enough to have actually been to "the Joint" (their almost affectionate name for prison), so none of them had ever seen anything like Killer's epic demise. In a few, short days, Doc was known far and wide as a Man-Not-to-be-Fucked-With and the legions arrived daily to pay tribute to their new emperor in the form of beer, dope and pussy. The Biker Girl loudly objected to the latter offerings, but--after liberal doses of the former and a broken jaw--she wisely acquiesced to the wishes of her lord and master.