SILVERDUST FOR FUEL

by
Edward J. Longo

Fiction Story

(an excerpt from
Silverdust The Mystifying Time Traveler)

(ESBN: 80385-011106-080820-40) - Fiction Ebook Price $14.95

The Unfit Patron

. . . The summer of 1985 was one of the hottest seasons Florida's Northerly coast had experienced in years. During this time the hurricanes had been coming in off the Gulf Coast, making it an unusually dry period for this suburban area. The heavy-set, oval-faced, bearded cyclist gunned his Harley-Davidson motorcycle just before reaching the freestanding building bordering Lakeshore, Florida.
. . . When he approached a flashing sign: Brandon's Bar & Billiard Parlor, he eased off and allowed the bike to coast until it reached the timber hitching post.
. . . As the biker arrived, he raced the engine until the familiar "raapp-brmmm-raaap" of the aged 1975 motorcycle became pronounced, then he cut the engine. After dismounting, he dropped the kick-stand and paused while he removed his helmet.
. . . "Don't go anywhere, Julie," Poor Paul said, patting the leather seat. Not only did he call his motorcycle by a girl's name -- he even advertised the word, "JULIE" on both his, rather her, license plates.
. . . It was just nearing dusk as Poor Paul, the forty-two year old biker, stepped onto the porch and pushed through the swinging doors. As an atypical cyclist, he appeared shabbily dressed in torn Levi's and a soiled, black T-shirt.
. . . As he walked inside his boots gathered up chips from the thick layer of sawdust. At the far end of the bar four cyclists were busy shooting pool on the official-sized billiard table, while others sat around sipping draught beer. Everyone recognized the middle-aged patron as he scuffed his way through the sawdust, his thick chain dangling from his belt. They knew him because as members of the exclusive club The Lakeshore wheelers, they knew every patron who possessed a Harley. The four cyclists continued playing pool, deliberately ignoring the visiting biker's undistinguished entrance.

. . . However, as Poor Paul approached the bar one of the bikers didn't ignore him: Shadow, known to be one of the nastiest of the lot, stood smirking, hands encircling his personalized mug as he stared coldly into his draught beer. Opposite the bar, a wall-to-wall blackboard representing the "honor roll" displayed countless scribbled names while the decor, fashioned after its many patrons, dictated the dress code and other club paraphernalia.

. . . "Whatcha got that chain onto yer wallet fer, Poor Paul? Ya never got any wampum in the damn thing, nohow," Shadow quipped.
. . . Upon chuckles from the patrons, Shadow smiled triumphantly as he adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses. His face had sharp features composed of a bluish-black beard and high cheekbones. Considering himself to be the prince of cyclists, Shadow wore a dark hat with a fur band, a black shirt and Levi's. His wide leather belt displayed the #1 on its buckle.
. . . "Whycha get yer big butt outa here," Shadow added sarcastically, preoccupied with fingering his bills spread out on the bar.
. . . Poor Paul couldn't respond because he became embarrassed by the girls' pitiful glances at him. Furthermore, the clattering of cue balls began making him nervous. Wetting his lips while he scratched his chest through his T-shirt, he paused for the courage to speak.

. . . "Got a beer for me, Black Jack?" He asked the bartender.
. . . Black Jack, a tall, virile biker with hands covered with black hair, wore a shirt similar to the others wearing their cycle club insignia - except that his had the words, 'Licka-De-Split' written across his chest.
. . . "Uh, uh," he uttered, scratching his beard. "You got no more credit." Although the bartender was wearing an eye-patch over his right eye the truth was that he could see better than anyone in the room.
. . . "Listen, Black Jack." Poor Paul began, his voice becoming lower as he moved closer to the bar . . . . . . . . . .

END OF THIS SEGMENT

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