“Shhhh!” he hushed loudly, turning to the crowd of rowdy bikers. “I’m trying to use the phone!”
The bikers did NOT like being told what to do. Who was this guy in his neat, grey suit with a tiny red bowtie? Silently and slowly, they all stood and started to approach the little dweeb.
“Did anybody tell you that this was the private club of the Satan’s Helpers?” questioned a biker in round shades as he took hold of the payphone and promptly placed it back on the receiver.
“Nobody hipped me to that, dude,” replied the man wearing the red bowtie who was trying his best to match their lingo.
“It’s off limits!” the biker screamed back.
Realizing what was about to happen, red bowtie tried to recover from his blunder. “Oh… well… my mistake!” he said with a loud laugh. “Guess I’ll be on my way then!” He giggled again.
The bikers stared while red bowtie tried to excuse his way past them. Forming a human wall, they made sure the only direction this man went was toward the exit. Upon reaching the door, they shoved him outside and promptly shut the door behind him. Nonchalantly, red bowtie began to walk away. He had only gone a few feet when – OOPS – he tripped into a motorcycle parked along the club. EVERYONE’S motorcycle was parked along the club! Like dominos, they tumbled over, each one knocking into the next until none remained standing. Red bowtie looked like he was going to cry.
Suddenly, the door of the club swung open. A murderous cry arose when the bikers saw what had happened. They grabbed the man with the red bowtie and threw him inside, tossing him on his back atop the nearest table.
“I barely touched them!” Bowtie pleaded. The bikers growled.
“I say we kill him!” one suggested, making a slicing motion with his hand across his neck.
“Yeah!” the crowd agreed.
“I say we hang him… then we kill him,” another offered. The crowd agreed again.
In rapid succession, another man had his own ideas. “I say we stomp him, then we tattoo him, then we hang him, and then we kill him!” Each short phrase was echoed by an enthusiastic “yeah” from the riled crowd.
Bowtie was running out of options. Acting like a ventriloquist, he threw out another option into the universe, barely moving his lips at all. “I say we let him go…” he muttered, acting as if the thought couldn’t possibly be coming from him.
It didn’t fool the bikers. “Nooooo!” they shouted together.
From out of nowhere, a whistle altered the other men. A woman appeared and broke through the crowd. She grabbed bowtie by his shirt and pulled him up toward her.
“I say you let me have him first,” she said with a sneer. The men roared in laughter.
“Wait!” Bowtie said, turning to the crowd. “Don’t I get a last request?”
The man in shades looked around before shrugging. “Why not?”
Bowtie ran quickly toward the jukebox…