The last standoff between rival biker clubs will probably go down something like this:
It’s July 4, 2065 at the Whispering Pines Inn just outside of Hollister—the so-called “Birthplace of the American Biker”—and 18 years after the last motorcycle rally here. Two bikers, going by the names Snake and Weasel, are the only remaining members from any outlaw biker clubs left because the rest gave up after the last of the motorcycles went silent. Their families, though, unwittingly moved the two bitter enemies into the same assisted living center after each had professed his love for memories of Hollister’s famous biker rallies.
It’s 8 a.m. at the Pines.
Snake and Weasel, living across a hallway from each other for two years and by far the longest-tenured residents of the home, are both already hungry for lunch and more agitated than usual. It’s July 4 weekend. Their minds are racing with memories of their rallying days.
Snake: I see you’re holding.
Weasel: Yeah. So what’s it to ya?
Snake, with the last of his white hairs dangling off the sides of his otherwise bald head, dressed in a rumpled, leather coat with cutoff sleeves exposing more sun exposure than an ostrich—along with yellow-and-blue striped pajamas down to his bare feet—forces a smile and turns, peering at non-existent onlookers and shaking his head in acceptance of their non-existent approval.
Snake: That depends. You can either hand me the last keratine-enhanced bran muffin tucked away in your fanny pack or find out what it feels like to get a carbonoid cane to the gut.
Weasel puts a few fingers on his left hand near the zipper of the fanny pack, with its almost fully faded skull emblem, and both men slowly place their trembling, shriveled, right hands on respective joysticks controlling nearly identical 2064 Harley-Davidson Eternal Angel scooters, powered by mass concentrations of gravity elements.
Weasel, a name from birth and prophetic of his general shape and demeanor as an aging adult, hovers closer to Snake, slightly bumps the fender of his rival’s levitating scooter and jars both men to sleep for a few moments. Weasel, the back of his neck covered in raunchy-themed tattoos that stretch in various directions as if a steamroller took a few turns flattening him, pops up and inches forward without showing a lick of emotion on his unflinching, round, worn face.
Weasel: Do you even know what the keratine is in those muffins?
Snake: Of course I know—you floating cloud of B.O.
Weasel: Yeah, I’m sure you smell like a department store potpourri aisle under those 14 pounds of black cowhide you call an outfit. And at least I shave my pits. Anyhow, they get the keratine for the muffins from recycled human nails and skin, and possibly teeth. Karen told me. She’s No. 2 in the lunchroom. She would know.
Snake: That’s real funny. You’re trying to get on my nerves. You know I’m already creased that it’s July 4 and I can hear activities from the lady’s Gas Chamber over any wimpy whirs coming from our Harleys, and you know I’ve been eating a keratine muffin every day for well over a year.
Snake tries to avoid showing it, but his mind races over possible side effects from eating massive amounts of human nails and skin. He looks down at his own fingernails and realizes they may have thickened in recent months. He also wonders about the frequency of his nail-clipping schedule and whether his skin flakes off more than usual these days. It infuriates him. Snake lunges to grab Weasel’s fanny pack and they struggle for control, each tugging and groaning for 10 to 15 seconds, after which they stop to rest in an unspoken, temporary truce. Snake, though, exploits Weasel’s failure to stop panting uncontrollably and abruptly grabs the foiled contents through a small opening in the fanny pack. He holds it up, smiling, and smooshes out the evidence.
Snake: A baked potato?
Weasel has stopped panting now but his face reddens like a new fire truck over the loss of the extra treat he snatched at dinner the night before. It was enough tension to set off a medical device of some sort somewhere in the room, but neither cared. They both knew it was time for one last, often threatened showdown. One of these two remaining outlaw bikers was going to win and stay. The other would have to leave The Pines’ comforts and settle for another living center or else live out the golden years in a relative’s basement or garage.
Weasel: We’re going to the circle drive. Winner stays. Loser goes.
Snake: You’re on.
They line up at the top of a circle drive outside the center’s entrance and wait for other interested residents to file out and watch. Snake instructs a man in the crowd to yell out the start. The man almost immediately yells out “Start!” And the two riders take off. They’re each so tired and hungry at this point that they can barely muster insults as they race, at the maximum 5 mph on the circle drive, side by side around the turns. They both still want to win, though, and around the last curve on what amounts to a 60-foot track, they grab hold of each other, pushing back and forth with all their meager might. Approaching the end, what’s left of Snake’s strength overtakes an exhausted Weasel and their Eternal Angels, still paired together, flail toward the finish line’s left corner. The bikers land in wood chips and bushes and lay on their backs facing the finish, and their fates. They both look up and realize they landed out of bounds before the end of the circle drive. Weasel lets out a sigh of relief.
Snake: This is completely ridiculous.
Weasel: I agree.
Snake: Let’s go inside. You think we should do another binge of all the Detective Biebs episodes?
Weasel: You bet.
