Fuck 'Em and Feed 'Em Fish Heads

Our little town is reeling after Biker Week-End, but I'm laughing all the way to the bank.
It happens once a year, or something like that. Like the World Series, the 4th of July or Election Day. The local campground sponsors biker week-end, and, as you guessed it, bikers from all over come for the week-end. They roar around on their cycles, drink beer, crash, get arrested, and engage in other activities enjoyable to their ilk. Then they go home.

Most of my liberal, health-food eating alternative friends turn a disdainful nose sky-high and say, "I think I'll avoid town this week-end."

Not me. I ordered extra shrimp. I knew the hibachis would be strapped to the back of those bikes as they wound their way through the mountains toward our sleepy hamlet, and I knew the campground store would run out of hot dogs. "An extra couple of bags of shrimp," I told D*, my seafood guy down on the coast. "Hell," I said, "Send anything you can grill when you're drunk."

The bikes passed me in all directions as I came back from my Asheville market. They were joy-riding around the mountains and making a lot of noise doing so. Their numbers increased as I neared town. I came down the big mountain, over the river, and passed the campground. It was full to overflowing: all manner of bike, biker, biker spouse, biker wannabe and biker hanger-on. I went into town to see a few folks first. They were all shaking their heads.

"Do you believe it?" they queried.

"All this noise!"

"This is stupid!"

In noise and stupidity, I see business opportunities.

I went back to the campground and parked next to the zig-zaggy fence made of railway ties. I made my way into the morass, approaching anyone about to douse the coals with lighter fluid.

"Shrimp," I said. "Fresh from Kitty Hawk."

"Came up this morning," I said. "Couldn't be any fresher."

I got rid of all I had in less than half an hour. One bearded gentleman in a black vest even gave me some roasted corn on the cob. I pocketed the money and went back to my truck. I had no need to stay in town any longer. I wanted to get away before things got too crazy, wanted to get out of town before the road-blocks got set up. I had no further use for the drunken bikers. I headed up Meadow Fork. B* and H* were having a little get-together. I arrived as the bon-fire was being lit. The pickers were already there. A goodly crowd had gathered around B*, at the grill.

"Watcha got," I asked.

"Chicken wings," he said.

"Let's grill up some shrimp, too." I said. "I saved you a bag."