August 2, 1953
Title: August 2, 1953
Author: Manchester
Rating: FR15
Crossover: The Wild One
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and The Wild One characters are the property of their original owners.
Summary: You don’t mess with the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club. Ever.
“So, you’ve really come here for fifty years straight?”
“Yep,” affably answered the elderly man over the rumbling noises of uncounted motorcycles rolling through the main street of Sturgis, North Dakota. This town’s annual motorcycle rally held every summer was in full swing, as could be seen from the view shared by the two people leaning back in their lounge chairs at the motel balcony overlooking the festivities.
A distant gaze abruptly developed upon the weathered features of the oldster wearing a black leather jacket which had clearly seen better days, just like its owner. Continuing to unseeingly stare out at the happy mob of motorcyclists from all over the country, this person with the nickname ‘Mouse’ embroidered on the back of his jacket mentioned with more than a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I’m the last one, though. My riding buddies, they’re all gone now.”
Nodding in real sympathy, Harry Childress, a travel writer in town looking for local color, ventured, “What made the Black Rebels come here in the first place? You must’ve known about Sturgis before, since it was already famous at the start of the fifties when the rally had been going on for, oh, fifteen years, I think.”
Blinking himself back to the present, Mouse agreed, “That’s right, we’d heard the stories from others who’d already been there. We probably would’ve visited sooner or later, but we had one hell of an extra incentive to do this back then.”
Harry couldn’t help but to feel intrigued, sensing the possibility of a good story he could write for his readers. He casually cleared his throat in an unspoken request.
Glancing over at his eager companion, Mouse appeared thoughtful, until he shrugged in acceptance. “Oh, why the hell not? It isn’t like there’s anyone left but me to get in trouble for it, and the statute of limitations for what we did probably expired years ago. Besides, I’m not even sure what happened was a crime, because nobody would’ve believed us, anyway. I don’t think you will, either, but here goes. It all started in 1953 when Johnny Strabler and the rest of us Black Rebels rode into Wrightsville...”
Half an hour later, Mouse was still telling Harry, “...and when Johnny came back from seeing Kathie for the last time, he definitely wasn’t in any mood to discuss it. He got on his ride and headed off without a word to anyone, with us following him. It was all one gang now, with the troublemakers like Chino and Gringo gone. We drove for a couple of hours until just after sunset without stopping except for gas, and then...it happened.”
Pausing for emphasis, Mouse continued for his fascinated listener.
“I’m still not sure exactly where we were, and I’ve never been tempted to go back there. But, it was a totally empty two-lane blacktop out in the country, pitch-black with nothing around but farmland and a few clumps of trees by the road. One of these patches was coming up, and from there, somebody jumped out into the middle of the road and stood there waiting for us. Of course, Johnny was in the lead, and he just barely had time to start driving around the idiot, who next moved faster than just about anyone I’d ever seen. Instead of staying out of the way, he got in front of Johnny again and tried to grab our head honcho right off his bike.”
Taking a deep breath while wonderingly shaking his head, Mouse went on. “Like I just said, that bastard was quicker than most people, but Johnny was an exception. Without any dawdling, Johnny laid down his bike on its side, getting his leg free just in time and he slid it right at his attacker, all while perched on his Triumph skidding down the road.”
Uttering a grim chuckle, the aged Black Rebels member further confided, “Damned if it didn’t work like a charm. That guy got knocked completely off his feet, and fell flat on his back on the asphalt. Johnny wasn’t hurt at all, and when his bike finished moving, he was up and on it in a flash. As for the rest of us...we rode the fucker down.”
His face iron-hard, Mouse adamantly declared to a shocked Harry, “Nobody messed with the Black Rebels, especially not with our sworn blood brother. Everybody on the road then lined up to flatten that guy with their bikes, one by one. I was tail-end Charlie, bumping right on top of the guy under my wheels. Once that was done, I drove about thirty feet further on to where the others had stopped and turned around. They were all in a big semi-circle, headlights shining straight at me, with Johnny in the center. I swerved into the far left-hand side, putting my ride in the same position...and then we watched the guy we’d just run over get back up on his feet without any problem at all.”
Harry’s mouth fell open in sheer astonishment. Noticing this, Mouse ruefully shrugged, “Yeah, that’s how we felt, too. Then it went really crazy. There was a good enough moon that night, and our headlights also provided plenty of light, so we could see what the guy looked like, even with all the treadmarks now covering his face. A couple decades afterwards, when I first saw publicity photos for the rock singer Billy Idol, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘Jesus, that’s him!’ Anyway, that was just the start of things. He stood there, glaring at us, until...his face changed in the most horrible ways possible. The skin, it went all ridged and also both of the guy’s eyes turned glowing yellow. Worse of all were his teeth, which transformed into real-life fangs. Right after, the guy took a single threatening step towards us.”
Mouse shivered. “I’m not ashamed to say I just about shit my pants then, and would’ve done it for sure in the next few seconds. Except, Johnny showed again he had balls bigger than anyone else in the Black Rebels. All of our bikes were running, and our leader grabbed his Triumph’s throttle, and revved up the engine at full blast. That sound yanked us out of our scare, and we imitated him right away, each and every one of us also getting ready for anything more. By doing this, we’d just promised no matter what Johnny next did, we’d back him up.”
A proud expression slowly formed on Mouse’s aged countenance. “The...thing standing there, he knew this, too and he didn’t take another step. Nope, for a moment or so, there was a complete Mexican stand-off between us and him. Maybe that guy could’ve taken us all, but we’d damn well hurt him regardless. After one last glare, this bastard simply turned and ran out of sight into the clump of trees where he’d been before. We didn’t hang around, either. All of us made a quick U-turn down the road in unison and then we left like a bat out of hell. Johnny led us the whole way to Sturgis. When we got here, he gathered the whole gang together, and totally laid down the law to us: ‘Nothing fucking happened, you understand? After this, we don’t ever talk about it. Not with each other, your girl, your ma and pa, your best friend, your priest, and above all, not to the cops! Anybody who still opens their big mouth anyway, they’re damn well gonna wind up tossed into the nearest loony bin!’”
The biker in his early seventies sighed, and he then let a silence fall between the pair on the motel balcony for a while. Mouse eventually restarted his narrative with, “As far as I know, we always kept it a secret from anyone not in the gang. The Black Rebels also did what Johnny ordered, never mentioning it to each other. Now, I’m the last one still around, and I figure it can’t hurt anyone now to finally tell the story.”
Author: Manchester
Rating: FR15
Crossover: The Wild One
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and The Wild One characters are the property of their original owners.
Summary: You don’t mess with the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club. Ever.
“So, you’ve really come here for fifty years straight?”
“Yep,” affably answered the elderly man over the rumbling noises of uncounted motorcycles rolling through the main street of Sturgis, North Dakota. This town’s annual motorcycle rally held every summer was in full swing, as could be seen from the view shared by the two people leaning back in their lounge chairs at the motel balcony overlooking the festivities.
A distant gaze abruptly developed upon the weathered features of the oldster wearing a black leather jacket which had clearly seen better days, just like its owner. Continuing to unseeingly stare out at the happy mob of motorcyclists from all over the country, this person with the nickname ‘Mouse’ embroidered on the back of his jacket mentioned with more than a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I’m the last one, though. My riding buddies, they’re all gone now.”
Nodding in real sympathy, Harry Childress, a travel writer in town looking for local color, ventured, “What made the Black Rebels come here in the first place? You must’ve known about Sturgis before, since it was already famous at the start of the fifties when the rally had been going on for, oh, fifteen years, I think.”
Blinking himself back to the present, Mouse agreed, “That’s right, we’d heard the stories from others who’d already been there. We probably would’ve visited sooner or later, but we had one hell of an extra incentive to do this back then.”
Harry couldn’t help but to feel intrigued, sensing the possibility of a good story he could write for his readers. He casually cleared his throat in an unspoken request.
Glancing over at his eager companion, Mouse appeared thoughtful, until he shrugged in acceptance. “Oh, why the hell not? It isn’t like there’s anyone left but me to get in trouble for it, and the statute of limitations for what we did probably expired years ago. Besides, I’m not even sure what happened was a crime, because nobody would’ve believed us, anyway. I don’t think you will, either, but here goes. It all started in 1953 when Johnny Strabler and the rest of us Black Rebels rode into Wrightsville...”
Half an hour later, Mouse was still telling Harry, “...and when Johnny came back from seeing Kathie for the last time, he definitely wasn’t in any mood to discuss it. He got on his ride and headed off without a word to anyone, with us following him. It was all one gang now, with the troublemakers like Chino and Gringo gone. We drove for a couple of hours until just after sunset without stopping except for gas, and then...it happened.”
Pausing for emphasis, Mouse continued for his fascinated listener.
“I’m still not sure exactly where we were, and I’ve never been tempted to go back there. But, it was a totally empty two-lane blacktop out in the country, pitch-black with nothing around but farmland and a few clumps of trees by the road. One of these patches was coming up, and from there, somebody jumped out into the middle of the road and stood there waiting for us. Of course, Johnny was in the lead, and he just barely had time to start driving around the idiot, who next moved faster than just about anyone I’d ever seen. Instead of staying out of the way, he got in front of Johnny again and tried to grab our head honcho right off his bike.”
Taking a deep breath while wonderingly shaking his head, Mouse went on. “Like I just said, that bastard was quicker than most people, but Johnny was an exception. Without any dawdling, Johnny laid down his bike on its side, getting his leg free just in time and he slid it right at his attacker, all while perched on his Triumph skidding down the road.”
Uttering a grim chuckle, the aged Black Rebels member further confided, “Damned if it didn’t work like a charm. That guy got knocked completely off his feet, and fell flat on his back on the asphalt. Johnny wasn’t hurt at all, and when his bike finished moving, he was up and on it in a flash. As for the rest of us...we rode the fucker down.”
His face iron-hard, Mouse adamantly declared to a shocked Harry, “Nobody messed with the Black Rebels, especially not with our sworn blood brother. Everybody on the road then lined up to flatten that guy with their bikes, one by one. I was tail-end Charlie, bumping right on top of the guy under my wheels. Once that was done, I drove about thirty feet further on to where the others had stopped and turned around. They were all in a big semi-circle, headlights shining straight at me, with Johnny in the center. I swerved into the far left-hand side, putting my ride in the same position...and then we watched the guy we’d just run over get back up on his feet without any problem at all.”
Harry’s mouth fell open in sheer astonishment. Noticing this, Mouse ruefully shrugged, “Yeah, that’s how we felt, too. Then it went really crazy. There was a good enough moon that night, and our headlights also provided plenty of light, so we could see what the guy looked like, even with all the treadmarks now covering his face. A couple decades afterwards, when I first saw publicity photos for the rock singer Billy Idol, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘Jesus, that’s him!’ Anyway, that was just the start of things. He stood there, glaring at us, until...his face changed in the most horrible ways possible. The skin, it went all ridged and also both of the guy’s eyes turned glowing yellow. Worse of all were his teeth, which transformed into real-life fangs. Right after, the guy took a single threatening step towards us.”
Mouse shivered. “I’m not ashamed to say I just about shit my pants then, and would’ve done it for sure in the next few seconds. Except, Johnny showed again he had balls bigger than anyone else in the Black Rebels. All of our bikes were running, and our leader grabbed his Triumph’s throttle, and revved up the engine at full blast. That sound yanked us out of our scare, and we imitated him right away, each and every one of us also getting ready for anything more. By doing this, we’d just promised no matter what Johnny next did, we’d back him up.”
A proud expression slowly formed on Mouse’s aged countenance. “The...thing standing there, he knew this, too and he didn’t take another step. Nope, for a moment or so, there was a complete Mexican stand-off between us and him. Maybe that guy could’ve taken us all, but we’d damn well hurt him regardless. After one last glare, this bastard simply turned and ran out of sight into the clump of trees where he’d been before. We didn’t hang around, either. All of us made a quick U-turn down the road in unison and then we left like a bat out of hell. Johnny led us the whole way to Sturgis. When we got here, he gathered the whole gang together, and totally laid down the law to us: ‘Nothing fucking happened, you understand? After this, we don’t ever talk about it. Not with each other, your girl, your ma and pa, your best friend, your priest, and above all, not to the cops! Anybody who still opens their big mouth anyway, they’re damn well gonna wind up tossed into the nearest loony bin!’”
The biker in his early seventies sighed, and he then let a silence fall between the pair on the motel balcony for a while. Mouse eventually restarted his narrative with, “As far as I know, we always kept it a secret from anyone not in the gang. The Black Rebels also did what Johnny ordered, never mentioning it to each other. Now, I’m the last one still around, and I figure it can’t hurt anyone now to finally tell the story.”