Greasy Bacon, Meet Outlaw Biker's Forehead

I snapped, and the instant I flung that bacon full force I knew my GPS coordinates were off. When I saw the burly outlaw biker's bulbous head it was on target for, I was filled with dread. I'm dead!

I’ve always been a big fan of the American road trip. Ever since childhood, our 30 ft. trailer adventures all over the States and Canada with the whole FamDamily made some lifelong memories. Mostly positive. It was a trip with my two brothers in my late teens that nearly ended up on the wrong side of some very pissed off Outlaw Bikers. This trip, the vibe had begun to unravel somewhere between Salt Lake City and Seattle. My younger brother and I have been known to really get after each other. Escalating into drama than ends in tears and a scuffle.  

Always requiring someone to step into, and separate what more resembled two demonic jackals in full battle than two brothers 3 years apart. Little brother has always been known as “Cambodian.”  As my older brother Rob drove through the night toward Boise, the Cambodian and I were escalating our beef, and something had to give. Our zero blood sugar wasn’t helping. “C’mon guys, stop it. We’ll be in Boise by 5:30 a.m. and once we get something to eat you’ll feel better.”  My response, “I feel fine, but, if Cambodian doesn’t stop, it’s gonna be hard to eat breakfast with his face caved in.”  “Ewww, I’m scared. Yeah, maybe I’ll just order a shake and eat it through a straw. Since my face will CAVED in!”  He didn’t seem real worried.  “Dude, I’m serious. No more warnings. Defcon 2 you little b***h.” 

As we approached Boise, Rob asked where we wanted to eat. There was no point, he did what he wanted without listening to any input from us. My only request, “Rob, just  none of those greasy a*s all you can eats, please. Seriously, I’m starving, and I can’t eat that crap.”  Of course, the Cambodians request: “As long as it’s an all you can eat, I’m good.”  My murderous stare held for sometime into his smirking, smart-a*s face.  Rob pulled into Denny’s. “Yeah, um guys, were out of money so all we can afford is the buffet. Only 2 of us, so we have to get creative. So that’s all you’re getting unless you have some $ left.”  Now I wanted to cave Rob’s face in. Cambodian squealed with glee at Rob’s declaration.  

I took one look at that buffet, and have never been so pissed off in my life. The bacon pan was half filled w/ grease, half congealed from being room temperature all night. Half raw bacon looking like it had been under that orange lamp for 6 days. I loaded up on whatever looked the least dangerous, even finding a few pieces of bacon less raw than the rest. 

I was sitting across from Cambodian and Rob in the booth. Directly across from Cambodian. Head down, I was mechanically forcing myself to eat that crap. Ketchup helped. Nobody said a word. Until Cambodian piped up with some mockery re; how picky an eater I was. I ignored him. I wanted to get the hell out of there. Without warning, he kicked me under the table. Square in the shin. The instant he put his head back down to eat, I picked up the greasy a*s bacon. I didn’t want to give him the chance to duck or weave. I wanted the full force of this greasy bacon slap on his face. It was the only thing that keep me from just throttling him, rag-dolling him up and down that skanky half empty Denny’s. 

I flung it with every ounce of strength I had. It made an audible “woosh” sound as it flew end over end from my hand. Then, just like in the movies, everything went super slow-mo. Immediately I could see my GPS coordinates were off, and to my horror, I saw over Cambodians shoulder, and it was the last person you wanted to see about to get slapped in the face with bacon you just threw. The biggest, ugliest, bald Outlaw biker you’ve ever seen. Even though it seemed like 30 seconds to reach him, I knew immediately it was dead on target. His head was big as a basketball. Cambodian and Rob didn’t even see me throw it, and that simple fact probably saved us from an epic a*s-kicking. When it finally reached Outlaw, it made a loud slap, stuck for just an instant, and left behind a big grease splotch as it fell, I quickly looked back down to my plate. 

Quick reaction and improv had saved me from big trouble since grade school, and it took over once again. “No way! Their Defense sucks, Super Bowl? Yeah, whatever dude. They always piss it away. Ha, Broncos, yeah dude. Right.”  I kept talking and shoveling food in my talk hole. Making eye contact with my fairly confused brethren. 

Out of my peripheral, I could see Outlaw and his buddy had ground to a halt. They’re weren’t moving, except for to scan the room, looking for the perp. Like predators on the savannah. The only thing said from their direction for a good 30 seconds, in an enraged, gruff tone: “WHAT THE F**K? WHO?”   Outlaw was angrily rubbing his chrome dome with a napkin and scanning the restaurant for his prey. Outlaw’s buddy realized what happened when Outlaw picked up the bacon from his lap and dramatically slammed it down on the carpet next to his table. I just kept babbling about football, and eating. His buddy had some advice, “Brother, you CANNOT let that s**t go unpunished. Whoever did that, find em’, and take care of business, or you’re the biggest f*****g p***y and I’ll rip that patch and leather right of you. Right here, right now!”     

As they became louder, I looked up and made eye contact with Outlaw. Feigning confusion, giving that “What the hell happened” look. He only held my gaze for seconds before sitting up in the booth, trying to look over and around me for the perp that just nailed him in the forehead. He’d just ruled me out. Ruled us out. It was more than obvious. He bought my con job. He stood up, and starting with the booth behind us, start scanning every person, every booth in the entire joint. Outlaw’s buddy walked around from the other direction. 

This was my chance. I whispered, “We need to leave right now, don’t say anything, don’t ask, just go. I’m NOT JOKING. I’m gonna hit the bathroom and meet you at the car. Trust me guys.”  I stoop up and passed right by Outlaw as he made his way back to his booth and buddy. He was utterly confused, he had no clue who could’ve, would’ve thrown that greasy a*s bacon. After staring in the mirror with an “am I going to get out of here?” expression, I walked out the door, his buddy was getting louder with his calls for punishment. Retribution. Revenge served cold, and greasy. It was time to get the hell out of there, I felt massive relief as my brothers entered the car. “Drive, just drive. I’ll tell you in a minute. Just go, chill, casually, Sunday drive style, but f*****g drive.”   

Rob coolly got us back on the freeway, and I didn’t feel safe for 20 miles. Finally, I relayed what the hell just happened. If they had witnessed it, we wouldn’t have passed close scrutiny and inspection by Outlaw. I can see that bacon splatting his forehead, sticking, and falling in his lap like it was 10 minutes ago. And the feeling “I’m a dead man” just the same. Last dude on the planet you want to see on the receiving end of that, and I’m glad I lived to tell the tale. Cambodian and I are best of bro’s, in fact, I just got back from “Bro’ing it out 2017” at a Red Rocks Show where we blew off some serious steam. In fact, it was in a Denny’s at 4am we re-lived the biker bacon madness now 2 decades in our rear view mirror. Got our swerve on a bit, and retold dozens of other true stories like the one you just read. All 4 of you ;). With dozens more to come here. Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic. Me gone.