Its always better after the drugs kick in. A few bats, a lizard man, each punctuate the surreality of modern life, an inflatable suit to soften the centurion’s spear. Maggot trip. Meeting BOTA, but no drugs this time. I was going to have to slay this dragon, meet this challenge without chemical support. Soon, I’d be a suit again, trading the currency of my life for plastic trinkets on the Isle o’Manhattan.
Working furiously for the previous two days to finalize my chariot, I’d finally used olive oil to lubricate my over-sized digits penetration between the forelegs of my steed, installing a new H7 night vision subsystem. No more blinding those who had the misfortune to meet me upon the highway.
Sallying forth that day felt like the 1915 Dawn Patrol, what adventure! I-95, well known territory, little did I know that I would immediately be challenged. A late model Altima, a cell phone, and a moron all converge in time and space, trying to bring my day to an abrupt end. Unsurprisingly, my cat-like reflexes. 40 years on a motorcycle, and an over strong latte served me well. Avoiding death like a piece of well-chewed lobster roll on a gravel driveway, I persevered, arriving at 32 Carman apace. Surprisingly, the Prince of Pause, seemingly having turned over a new leaf, was sans Annie and ready to rock.
Immediately, we sallied forth. The throbbing bassline of Congo Man punctuated my highway ride, conjuring visions of sunshine and new beginnings in my overactive hippocampus. Unfortunately, my new reality included all manner of overcrowded roadway. Finally entering New Jersey, my GPS squawking incessantly as it tried to guide me, it finally threw up its hands, screamed ‘I don’t know,’ and sent me spinning down Route 4 while BOTA helplessly continued down the obvious path. ‘In 8 miles, continue straight’ it said. BOTA was going to have to find his own way I figured, and continued, cracking the throttle because THERE WAS NO WAY I WAS GOING TO GET THERE LATER THAN HIM. This little bit of confusion actually was one of the luckiest parts of the ride, no only did I immediately shed the traffic of the Jersey Pike for a more bucolic thoroughfare, but I actually made Chatterbox before anyone but Mr Furious!
Our destination – always a trip – played true to form. An initial circuit, displayed a fine selection of decrepit ‘faces of meth’ rejects, guinea tees, and bodybuilders, all strutting with their particular pose near the rides which defined them. Sliding into my personal space, next to a tricked out Ol ’55, with skulls, ‘Perfect’, I thought. I dismounted and sought a private place to drain a vein. Emerging, relieved, I spied BOTA dismounting and chuckled softly to myself. ‘Its gonna be a good day.’ It seems BOTA’s cigar scent overtook Pagan on the road, and these fraternal brothers rolled into the venue as one. Soon, Conrad Urban, with Mr Furious arriving in his Vette, now with gas and our lunch group was complete. Oh, except for MJ.
Eating at the Chatterbox is like a dystopian nightmare, fueled by the ketamine dreams of Bloomberg’s City Minister of Soda Sizes. Health food it ain’t. It does however, provide ample media for artwork.
‘Where’s MJ?’ ‘Fuck it, lets order.’ ‘She’s a big girl.’ Such was the tenor of the conversation, showcasing the extreme ‘we will leave no maggot behind’ ethos that permeates the maggot mindset. Shoving lobster rolls and pierogies down our respective pie-holes, we finished, burping and wishing we could fart less circumspectly. Finally MJ arrives and we kindly suggest she meet some local outside and finish her lunch while we suit up. Again, its just the care we all take with each other. MJ don’s Pagan’s mantle, finds the most toothless possible compatriot to bend her ear and wolfs down her medium rare burger standing in the parking lot. Fine dining at its most elegant!
We are off! We wend our way through a beautiful scenic, although extremely circuitous hour long ride, the 20 minutes ride to the palatial BOTA estate.
Surprisingly (not!) we arrive and Scrounger and Annie (the two bitches) have prepared a most excellent appertivo, as the hours ride has allowed us to digest our Chatterbox repast, and craving alcohol we proceed to eat for another two hours. I had selected James Pepper 15 yo 100 proof bourbon as my light accompaniment to the Plan B Cookies. It was a welcome and effective stress-reliever.
Feeling peek-ed, we collectively realized that the what we really needed was some divey-bar action. Driven by passion, I mounted my bike, while all the ladies piled into Annie’s designated driver-mobile. Unable to negotiate the 25 steps to the cars, and seeing that he drove a similar marque, Mr Furious invited Scrounger to pilot his jalopy.
Leaving the bar, and feeling as though there had been of dearth of ingestion, and not wishing to feel weak, we decided to head home to continue the fasting, where we could at least allow Mr Furious to uncurl from the fetal position, and hose the vomit off his chin. Reminded by his spittle flecked cheeks, punctuated by tiny, tiny bits of carrot and lobster, our appetites returned – luckily as the bitches had prepared a worthy feast – which lay spread before us like the dark expanse of Kansas as you leave Missouri.
Its all dark, as I lay, heart pounding, headache, a twisted feeling in the pit of my distended stomach. Fitfully, I turn. A light. Turn it off you idiot! What the fuck! Its like a glowing section of rebar, heated then shoved into my eye. Its Pagan. I knew it! The closeted motherfucker finally showing his true colors, while I lay helpless. Thankfully, the darkness envelops me, and I am back in the womb, oblivious to any violation, real or imaged.
6am Sunday. Time for the news. Uh-oh, unfamiliar cable setup, and my hungover state allows no inspection nor reasoned analysis…fuck it. Netflix. Comedy. Certainly, one of the bitches will appear and make coffee, I’m still hoping to be rich one day too.
As Maggots awake, its clear that my dreamed and expected Sunday AM ride will go unrequited. Barely conscious after our recent fast, we can only think of breakfast. Time to turn the bike around, move the cars and let the home-bound maggots, eg those with ‘responsibilities,’ make a vain attempt to meet them. Elegantly, with the wisdom borne of years of riding, I seamlessly navigate my steed as required.
The remaining Maggots, achieve our morning meal, return AB to her support vehicle, and BOTA, Conrad U, and I set out on our our homeward ride. Another adventure under our belt, our shared experience having strengthened our brotherly commitment.