Yessir, the good folks around these here parts are particularly struck by the telling of a good tale. Some like to say that it's 'cause we've not -- how shall I say -- 'misplaced' how to sit a feller down and spin out a damned good yarn. Others though, they like to gesture towards those there damned high and awfully wooded peaks and say that it's got more to do with the fact we all got shit-poor teevee reception.

Like any collection of folks -- that is, folks who knows the how to put the right collection of words together to spin out a handsome yarn, or got more than snow on the local tube -- we've got a few we like to tell a bit more than others. Like the one about how Old Uncle Conti done helped Miss Oleander birth her seven little young ones in the middle of that awful thunder and lightning show we had back in '60; or that time Crazy Jeb got too big a taste of the shine and went on his rather reckless excursion with Huge Henry, Mr. Larkin's bulldozer; or even when Old Jeb at the Dry Goods found himself at the business end of a shotgun in the hands of that no-good eldest Barnaby boy, and how he done turned the tails on that no-account without being able to see his wrinkled old hand in front of his dead blind eyes.

But there's no one we like to chew the fat about more than that Beast of the Highway, our Monster of Road, the Legendary Creature of the Blacktop.

Yah, that's him, that's the man -- if 'man' could be quite the word to describe him. It'd be more accurate to call him a force of nature, or like a tiger someone done educated enough to stand up on his hind legs, a cyclone wearing size sixteen boots, a motorcycle-riding fiend from the deepest, darkest depths of your wildest nightmares. That's Moby.

Moby, we like to say, ain't just big, 'cause that makes anyone who'd never had … funny, but I was just about to say 'the honor to see him,' but you know that sure is not right, 'cause anyone who done see Moby sure as shit not call it anything like an 'honor.' No sir. But anyone who has laid eyes on him would have to say that 'big' just ain't the right word. Three little letters just ain't enough to describe the heights of the man. They say -- and I can neither agree with such nor deny for I've never seen such a thing myself -- that Moby ducks his head so as not to hit a sun hanging low, on its way to setting; or that he's said he's able to reach up and tire a peaceful looking cloud into a righteous twister with just the twirling of his finger. Yeah, I know that's tall for even a tall tale, but I'll tell you friend, I have seen Moby myself and I can not only say that it was not any honor, but that he's taller than even the tallest tale I or anyone else could ever tell.

Another thing that people who meet the Hog Rider From Hell say about him is -- well, how could I say this, being we all in polite company? Let me put it this way, the man has a 'presence' that announces his imminent arrival even before the ground starts to do its shake and shimmy from his size-sixteens crushing down on the hardest-packed asphalt, crushing good cement to powder, cracking stones like walnuts. Moby -- and to be right straight with you there really ain't no way to say this and retain civility -- has a hellish fragrance. Wherever he rides, he leaves a rooster tail of reek, a hurricane of stink, a billowing cloud of stench. I've heard it described in all kinds of ways, from the sweat off a bull's balls -- and I did say there was no polite way to say it -- to the May Tilly's septic tank on a hot Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer. And if you know the kind of seasons we have in these here parts, and you know May Tilly, you would know that he's truly a hideous proposition in regards to fiendish aromas.

The only thing said to be more potent than Moby's emissions is the strength that courses through the big ass muscles that you can clearly see knotting and cording around his mountainous biceps and hydraulic thighs. Some say that he's strong enough to bend quarters twice, making two bits into four bits, just between thumb and forefinger. Others like to point out how he parks that roaring hug of his: no backing and forwarding for Moby, no sir. Instead, the biggest of the big and strongest of the strong, he instead finds himself the perfect old spot to put his chrome and grease-dripping machine and he just lifts it up in one brawny hand and drops it down right where he wants it -- and what with the power of those arms and that stink, it's just about anywhere he reckons to.

Now Moby, he's quite a lot of other things -- more even than his size, his aroma, or his brawn -- but those are what you might call other kinds of observances, less on the great list that is tales that folks like to tell about the biker. But there's another thing about Moby that's right there up on the top, even greater than his cloud-rippling height, his eye-watering stink, or his ground-shaking muscles. But for that one I've got to give you little bit more than some homespun metaphors and back-porch similes. For that I've got to sit you right down -- you comfy now? -- and spin you a downright special tale, the one I like to tell more than any other about that leather monster, that motorbike hurricane, that beast on two tires.

For that I've got to tell of the time Moby came barreling down to our sleepy little town, needle tapping out a high-octane, fuel-injected rhythm against the top of his speedometer, rumbling engine like the four-stroke from hell. Fast? He was way more than fast, friend. You could even say he'd just left fast way behind, past blasting through quick, leaving breakneck in his dust.

That day is the one I'm talking about. The day he come through -- and the day a certain officer of this here municipality decided that he'd had quite enough of this hog-riding, quarter-folding, reeking tower of a man. This, you see, was the day he decided to give Moby a speeding ticket.

Who knows why he done it? When we get just a smelliest bit tired of telling tales about Moby, someone or other will bring up that day, ponder over some shine and a smoke, just what did possess that certain Officer Langtry to take it into his head to bang his own motorcycle to life and take off in pursuit of the demon. Jeb over at the old Wicker place likes to say that the sun that day must have cooked his brains into something that may very well have resembled grits, while Miss Barlow is more akin to the theory that the only thing that could explain the whys and wherefors of that pursuit of Moby is that Langtry's family tree must have had some very shallow roots.

They say what they say, friend, but I can tell you for a fact that no one, least of all that officer of the law, knows quite why he did it. But he did it -- he sure as hell did it.

Right up there with the whys and wherefors of Officer Langtry's darned earnest pursuit has to be another important element to this tale of his meeting with the Moby -- in other words, why in the heavens above and hell below did that Harley Davidson maelstrom look behind, clearly see the flashings and the wailings of the law behind him, pull over, and -- puzzle of mysteries, strangeness of weirdness -- stop?

But he did. He did. Right over there in fact, at the fork where the main thoroughfare curls off towards River Road, by that very same gnarled old pine. That's just where Moby glided that chrome and greasy machine to the side of the road.

Who could say what Officer Langtry thought when that happened? More than likely a sense of some kind of professional satisfaction that it was his lights, his siren that did what no one else had done. That his own bike, his own authority, had reached out to the bad craziness that was Moby and reined in that wild biker bull. But just as there was a smile on his handsome young face, you have got to know that riding right along with him was more than a bit of the old stomach clenching, jaw tightening thing you and me and everyone on this whole darned world call fear.

But Langtry was Officer Langtry, more than he was young and handsome, and for him that was enough to relax that jaw, calm that stomach, and steady his racing heart. He had his badge, the authority invested to him by his good little town, this right honorable state, and this glorious nation -- and he wasn't going to let no legend, no big, smelly, or even strong, biker blast through his quiet little world without paying the price for his reckless disregard for those laws of town, state and country.

And with that authority in him like a good belt of something smoky and well-aged, but with a kick like a mule who woke up on the wrong side of the barn, he glided his own two wheels up next to the biker, killed the engine with a quick twist of the wrist and dismounted.

It would be honest to say that at that moment in his young life on this planet earth spinning through space, that officer of this here town, state and Good Ol' Wonderful country, and even with the badges and nifty uniforms and let's not forget that pearl-handled, brushed chrome Smith and Wesson dangling there at his hip, Officer Langtry couldn't have been more terrified. This was Moby people, and don't you forget it. His rough hewn brows parted the clouds all up on high, tufts of them vanishing like the steam over the old sawmill the day they shut it down; his hellacious aroma curling every single nose hair in the vicinity and causing more than a few pigeons to drop from that summer sky in shock as he climbed off of his grease-glimmering motorcycle. Then, for it is said by more than just me, your humble story-teller, that there is nothing more important to Moby -- not putting the fear of hideous death in the minds of the citizens of this region, not the destruction of road and all wildlife foolish enough to attempt to cross it, not … other even more fiendish activities I will not even dare to mention for there are ladies here at present -- than that motorcycle. And so to put it aside from even the most casual of damage, heaven help anyone who would do such a thing, he demonstrated another of his Moby attributes and lifted it up off the ground with one mighty flex of an arm and put it down as neatly as a mother putting her youngest to bed.

Fear or no fear, terror or no terror, dread or no dread, Officer Langtry of the Town Constabulary, was invested with all the powers of the previously mentioned town, state, and wonderful country and as such he had a duty to perform, a higher order if you will, a task that no one in the history of the history of this town, this state or even this here country had even managed to accomplish: he had to give the dreaded hog driving beast of the End Times a ticket and that's what he was going to do.

And as such, there was -- shall we say 'rituals' that had to accomplish the giving of a Motorvehicular Citation for Excessive Velocity On a Municipal Thoroughfare, Payable to the Officer himself or via the Local Courthouse, and Officer Langtry wasn't about to simply shake in his boots (even though he was) and twitch his hands (even though they were) and just, simply, only hand the huge, smelly, strong biker a Traffic Ticket.

And so, even through his shaking and twitching, hoping the fear he felt did not leak out through his manner of speaking, Officer Langtry walked forward, stuck his thumbs in the belt loops of his uniform pants and said in his best Law Enforcement parlance: "Do you have any idea of how fast you were going?" I should mention to all of you that to complete the aforementioned ritual correctly, there is the insertion of a word at the end of that there sentence to fully convey to the perpetrator to whom a law enforcement officer is speaking that they are truly in the prescience of a formidable authority figure. But while Officer Langtry had those many levels of authority -- and I will not try your patience by reciting Town, State and Country once again -- he was still in the looming, mountainous, aromatic, Herculean and smelly presence of Moby and so, possibly wisely, did not conclude his statement of "Do you have any idea of how fast you were going?" with the word, "boy."

To this, and the absence of the word so often used by members of the law enforcement community, Moby replied with stony silence.

"Well, I'll tell you how fast you were going," Officer Langtry continued. "You were in excess of the posted limit by more than fifteen miles per hour. That's breaking the law, and there are penalties for the breaking of our laws. Harsh penalties, some might say."

To this additional commentary from Officer Langtry, Moby also did not reply.

"I say to myself that no penalty is too damned harsh that'll keep the streets of our fair city safe from reckless no-goods like yourself who seem to think that every road is their road, or that stop signs are just a suggestion."

Again, there was only tall, strong, stinky quiet from Moby.

"That's right, you heard what I said. I opened this here mouth and called you a 'no-good,' and by the Lord Above and the Laws of this fine town, noble state, and great country, I stand by that statement for, Mister, I can tell just by laying eyes on you that I may in fact have been more than necessarily polite in my description."

Moby only repeated his silence, eyes showing nothing but a steely glimmer.

Now your more perceptive of listening might be thinking that our Officer Langtry might be more than slightly putting his size twelve official shoes over the line between what a law enforcement officer should be saying and what any person who knows of the biker called Moby would say. In this I would have to say that those who are thinking such thoughts are completely right in wondering such, for even Officer Langtry himself was no doubt engaged in the back of his brain wondering just such. But the words were there, coming out before he could even stop himself, one after another like bubbles coming up from a glass of cool beer, and just like you can't put your finger through the foam and stop them from coming up to the top, neither could Officer Langtry stop himself from saying the things he wanted to say, and probably many folks have wanted to say to that monster of the motorbike for a good many years.

"Just look at yourself, son. Take a damned long, hard look at yourself. You call yourself a man? A beast, more like. Big, sure as shit you're big. Strong -- that too. Muscles all rippling and moving under that tight denim vest, calves like tree trunks under those jeans, chest like mom's old washboard, hands the size of one of Old Mrs. Gator's prize sows. And the stink, Lordy, don't get me started on your foul emissions. That's the worst of all, I say; the bottom of the barrel. Get rid of the reek -- and once again I can only think of one of Old Mrs. Gator's hogs, and you might, and I do say 'might', come out the other end of such scrubbing and cleanliness to be a halfway respectable sample of … masculinity."

Moby stayed quiet as an owl flying across a deep night sky, but while he did not say anything, his face spoke through the raising of one eyebrow.

"It's not too late, son. You're still not on the other side of that hill. You could be something, do something with your life aside from pissing people off and scaring the local inhabitants. Clean yourself up some, get yourself some kind of respectable form of transportation, settle down with some … girl, I guess. Do you really want to go on down the road you've been driving, end up in jail for the rest of your years or maybe dead on the side of the road somewhere, like some stinking skunk too slow or dumb to get out of the way of two pair of radials?"

Nothing again from the biker, nothing but stone silence. But his hands, great monster mitts with fingers the size of extra large sausages made from the best of Old Mrs. Gator's prize pigs, dropped down to his waist.

"Hold it right there, son -- you just hold it right there. No sudden movements now. You keep your hands right where I can see them or you're going to find out, right personally, just how fast I can draw this here gun and put a .38 slug right in your well-defined chest."

But Moby did not stop, not at all, and all the time he did not speak as did not stop. Hands to his waist, thick, beefy fingers forward, a twist of the thumb to push aside a narrow strip of road filthy denim then a pinch of zipper and down.

Down, as they say, and out.

Smelly, it has been said, by myself as well as many others who like to talk about the biker known as Moby, is the stink that follows, making even the foulest of smelling creatures run for cover. Strong, it has been stated, like bear, like a bull, like a 4x4 truck, a locomotive, and any other thing that might come to mind when you think about things that can lift, push, of pull really heavy things. Big has also been mentioned; that when he walked, birds and light aircraft were known to move out of the way of his towering immensity, that his shadow has been known to fall across county after county stretching far out yonder.

But I have yet to hear anyone else talk about Moby's … manliness.

There's no other way to say it, ladies and gentlemen, and so I have to beg your humble apologies for having to be so blunt about such matters but there really is no way to continue to tell this tale of Moby and Officer Langtry without using words that will no doubt offend some of us with their coarseness. I shall put my all into trying to use some terminology, shall I say, that will singe rather than burn the ears of some of my more sensitive listeners. To remove the shock of such words for you long before they happen to appear in the telling of this tale, I am going to put them out into the air right this very moment. You all ready now? Prepared and cautioned enough for this? Well, then here you go, in regards to the part of Moby that hangs well below his knees, I shall call it his: privates (because that part of a man is just that), wily (because I had a pal by that name), old friend (because I dare you to find a man who doesn't feel at least that fondly for that part of himself), dick (because I had another pal with that name), manliness (as I said before), and penis (because that's what it is).

And there it was, right in front of Officer Langtry on that warm summer day. In all its … well, now, I was about to use the word 'glory,' but that's not exactly what would be an accurate description of that there biker's privates.

Because, good listener, this intimate part of Moby's anatomy reflects much of what we've all learned about the man, and none of that anyone, least of all myself, would call by that Church-like word, 'glorious.'

See upon the opening of those greasy, torn up jeans a powerful reek of oil, sweat, farts, and other foul body emissions wafted forth, befouling the otherwise ordinary smells of that day. Like an animal in a rut he was, with that kind of aroma flowing out of his pants and out into the atmosphere.

Then there was that other aspect of the man, the muscles and lifting, the sinews and strength, the brawn and potency, that was reflected in that awesome wily. Men know that sometimes the sprit may be ready to perform its duties but the flesh may be more than occasionally drunk and weak, but not for that biker, and definitely not that day.

Now if I were a coarse gentleman, one of a refined disposition and the like, I would stroll off into perhaps a bit overly long description of the biker's manhood, going into some too-exact details such as how the veins along the length of it pulsed and quivered with primal juices of pure animal lust, or how the end was as big and hard as the ball on top of the flagpole in front of our beloved town hall, or how the entire flashy assemblage seemed to be as long and as steely hard as that very same flagpole. Or maybe I'd mention, casual like, how from the tip of that mightly manliness a gleaming bead of anticipatory emissions had started to form. But, like I said and continue to defend, I am not a coarse or rude man so I won't be saying anything as such.

Then there was the fact that like the man himself, Moby's … extension was just such a thing. Big, you see, doesn't touch on the immensity of the organ that emerged from the man's fly. If you think of such things, kind of ponder how big something like that could get, I can bet you dollars to donuts that you will not even come close the prodigious measurements of that man. After all, he is not called 'Moby' for just the whale of his size, but rather the whale size of the last part of his particular moniker, the word that follows Moby -- I speak of course, of 'Dick.'

Now as to what the long arm of the law thought about the appearance of that certain part of Moby's body … well, you could guess and would guess right that the man was rightfully shocked by the accusing arm of the biker's privates, jutting out at him from his fly. So, to the appearance and the appurtenance's owner, Officer Langtry -- an arm himself of the law and what he hoped then and there was bigger than the penis of the dreaded Moby -- coughed quickly and managed to sputter out: "You p-put that thing away right now, son, or I'll have your ass rotting in jail before you can say fucking 'Jack Robinson.'"

To this Moby maintained nothing but stony silence, though he did move, just a bit, to wrap one of those Mrs. Gator ham-sized fists around the thick length of his dick.

Officer Langtry still managed to say: "Now you stop right there. I'm only going to tell you once, put that damned big … hard… thing away. You do it right now or you're going to be spending more than just one night in my less than comfortable can … I mean 'jail.'

Quiet again, no words -- not a lone one -- from Moby, but the beast did move his fist up and down the length of his old friend, a bright gleam in his nasty eyes.

"I'm telling ya, you put that thing … that thing … away or I won't be accountable for what might happen again," Officer Langtry said, licking his suddenly dry lips.

Still not a word from the huge biker, who was still lazily committing the sin of Onan standing out there in broad daylight on the main road.

"Yeah, might not … know … what could happen," Officer Langtry said, words getting all soft and sensitive-like. Then it happened, folks, the thing that shocked him just as you're going to be shocked by my telling of it. You see, Officer Langtry was one of those fellers who thought he was right with himself, comfortable in the house of his life, you know? He knew just where everything was, and why it was there. His Ma and Pa, his work, what he liked to do on Saturday nights, his favorite sit down meal, his favorite stand up eating, the movies he liked, the tunes he listened to, the books he liked to read -- of that, but that sunny summer day, the day he pulled over the biker called Moby, he came to realize that while he knew what went where in the house of his mind he came to know, with that shock, that there was a whole other room in that house he didn't even know existed.

In that room there were two folks, Officer Langtry and Moby. Moby was just as he was there, standing with his dick out, hand around it, but here is the shock, what made that room so much more different than any other room in Officer Langtry's mind, because in that room Officer Langtry was there was well, but on his knees with Moby's penis in his mouth.

Now don't say I didn't warn you, don't you dare say I didn't prepare you for what I definitely said was a shock. Don't you go opening your eyes all wide or putting on some swoon or other. But I do understand just how much of a remarkable thing this is to hear and so I'll give you all a bit of time to sort yourselves into a state where you can actually understand what I'm going to be telling next.

Ready? You sure now? Well, then I shall continue.

So there they were, the biker and the cop, the biker with his dick out and all aroused like, and the cop who wanted nothing more in this big old world than to drop down to his knees and start sucking at that pole of manhood like a calf working his mamma's teat.

Now things would have been great, for the cop that is, for Officer Langtry, if that's what would have happened. Now I'm not one to say what one does for pleasure and all that. I'm what you'd call a church going fellow but I don't think the Lord Above would fault one person for doing something mutual and fun, for the lack of a better word, between himself and even another himself. God is Love, am I right? And love can mean lots of different things to different people. So I'm not saying that what Officer Langtry wanted to do to that big, smelly, strong biker that day was a bad thing. No, sir, I am not saying that. Because I know for a fact, as one man can know anything, that sucking on that man's penis was the only thing in this wide world that Officer Langtry wanted to do at that moment in time and that his desire was good and true and free of any kind of game or cruelty. Officer Langtry, you see, had looked into that room he didn't know he'd had in the house of his soul and he realized that it was a room he wanted to spend a lot more time in, a room of love-- even if it was a room of man with man love. It was still love.

But what happened next was not love, no sir. In no way. What happened next was the height of cruelty to man, an act of pure mean. Because you see, this is something else a lot of folks know about the biker called Moby, a thing right up there with his towering height, his awesome strength or his offensive aroma. You see beyond all that, Moby is one thing and one thing even more powerful than his muscles, greater than his height, even more overwhelming than his stink.

Moby, you see, is pure mean.

How mean is he? Well, I could go on for hours at a stretch telling you the various and sundry acts of cruelty this 'man' (to be polite) has enacted upon his fellow beings on this globe, but none would say it as well as telling you all what the biker did to Officer Langtry that day, a single action that would hurt that man most of all, rub him down deep in the ground and harm him in ways that no physical injury could ever go.

For, dear listeners, what Moby did that day was to smile his most vile of grins, fold away his hard and pearl-beaded manliness, get on his bike, kick it to life, and thunder off down the highway -- leaving Officer Langtry there along on the side of the road, mouth hanging open for the dick he'd never have, an act so mean, so cruel, so vile as someone taking a righteous bowel movement in the room he'd just that moment discovered within himself.

That's my story, people. Everything that happened that day between the two of those men, the peace officer and the biker. The honest man who discovered something new about himself, and the biker who was meaner than them most rabid of dogs. I wish I could say that things ended well, but to be honest with you, I can't say such. Officer Langtry, yes, did discover a new way to spend his Saturday nights, a new kind of physical affection to share with his fellow man, but that day still burns in his soul, that rejection and humiliation by the side of the road.

How do I know this? Well, friend I am pleased to make your pleasant acquaintance. Langtry's the name, Officer of the Local Constabulary. Who, after all, would know such details of that day than the man himself who was involved?

And Moby? Well, to this day you can see his head towering over the tallest of trees, feel the thunder of his hog as he roars by, smell his deep beastly stink as he passes, and hear his bellowing laugh as he continues on his journey from one cruel and heartless act to another.

Tall, strong, reeking but most of all pure, absolute, horribly mean, is that biker is Moby. Most of all. Most of all.

 

© 2004 M. Christian - Contributor's Bio