THOSE MANY
MENTAL GENOCIDES
This time of year it was, I remember too well, all those
biker guys motoring down to Daytona for Bike Week :
black-fisted Harley-Davidson mongrels intent on tits
and butter, booze and cream. It went on for days, some
only later dying of the excess. Highway 1, it was - like
some crazy genocide-slaughter on a Vietnamese plateau.
Girls too, no different. 'Pussy draw, dick face, eat my ass,
fuck you too' emotions. So funny it all was. I lent out my
pick-up truck one year, to two fellows seeking a ride. They
packed the motorcycles on the pickup-bed, strapped in
tight, and drove away. I saw them, as they returned, a week
and a half later - their stories were amusing. One guy never
left the deck of the outdoor bar. The other, incredibly, every
night took a soak in the bathtub, for hours, with a tray over
the top of the tub, holding wine, two glasses, and a candle,
each night. What an incredible story to tell. I want
my truck back; it's been through Hell.
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