like taking the piss out of smart-asses and drunken superheroes. When all’s said and done, everyone’s afraid of fucking with me anyway. In real life I’m the kindest and sweetest bouncer in this hemisphere,”
said Bikie, pointing to the right side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a proud glance at his companion.
The private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s permission.”
Elvis again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a
name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.”
“I see you’re well-respected here.”
“You bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once crashed
the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance. I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that beer you promised, fella.”
“I brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re talking!
How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good Old
Rock’n’Rollers?”
“Almost,” Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman
too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
Closing his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
“I’m Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.”
“I’m Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
They drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie began a serious monologue.
“Dude, have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all
almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is my choice? I want to make the fuckin’
choice myself! I don’t want to mount a Ducati by mistake when I’m wasted! And the music? All the lousy DJs play the same thing! I’d kill them all. How could they possibly fuck up their life so badly?”
Bikie spent about ten minutes cursing the Agency and its standardized technologies. What outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the most primitive things, there was no choice at all.
“Those who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn into a Veggie,” said Isaac.
“Well, even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted.
“No, you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”
“That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't get hard at the right time.”
Isaac tried to explain to Bikie about Pascal, but Bikie said he didn’t watch TV serials, read political newspapers, and didn’t listen to stories about stupid fucks.
“Listen to this then, will you! I almost became one of them, I just happened to be lucky, or unlucky, I don’t know.”
Isaac began to tell Bikie his story.
Bikie tried to listen carefully, but his head was gradually drooping and he was dozing off.
When Isaac finished his story, Bikie raised his eyes, looked at him and said slowly.
“I propose a toast to… Elvis! For making an effort! To his resistance!”
Isaac had been expecting a toast to Vicky’s health, to his own story, to anything
said Bikie, pointing to the right side of his head and cracking up again. “I’ve never given anyone a genuine mauling, though. By the way, this is my private table,” he added, casting a proud glance at his companion.
The private table was small, but right in the very center. There was a large brass plaque embossed with “Elvis and Steve Tyler can sit here without Bikie’s permission.”
Elvis again. “Well now,” thought Isaac. “Sometimes you don’t remember a word or a
name for years, and suddenly it invades your daily life like a virus.”
“I see you’re well-respected here.”
“You bet. I can do more than just make good use of my hands if need be. I once crashed
the bar’s site for seating a pair of freakin’ tourist suits at this table.” Bikie checked himself for a moment and gave Isaac a cunning glance. I’ll listen carefully to what you have to say, just as soon as you bring that beer you promised, fella.”
“I brought a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whisky instead of the beer. I hope you don’t mind that? Your friend…” – Isaac nodded in the direction of the other barman – “won’t object because I brought my own liquor?”
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Bikie exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Now you’re talking!
How could I mind. Ain’t you from the Society for Encouragement of Good Old
Rock’n’Rollers?”
“Almost,” Isaac replied, pouring the whiskey into glasses. “I used to work as a barman
too. I quit the job last week. They gave me this in lieu of severance pay.”
Closing his eyes, Bikie breathed in the aroma of the whisky and smiled contentedly.
“I’m Isaac Leroy, but you can call me Isaac.”
“I’m Bikie. Well, you know that already.”
They drank to getting to know each other. Isaac told Bikie a bit about his bar and Bikie told Isaac about his, as well as about his Harley, boasting about it and gradually getting more and more drunk. Over the third glass of whisky Bikie began a serious monologue.
“Dude, have you seen the latest Ducati? And the Honda? And the Harley? They’re all
almost identical now! Sure, they look real heavy, but they’re all the same shit. The Goddamn creeps are repressing our freedom of choice! Where is my choice? I want to make the fuckin’
choice myself! I don’t want to mount a Ducati by mistake when I’m wasted! And the music? All the lousy DJs play the same thing! I’d kill them all. How could they possibly fuck up their life so badly?”
Bikie spent about ten minutes cursing the Agency and its standardized technologies. What outraged him most of all was the almost complete loss of variety, even for the most primitive things, there was no choice at all.
“Those who have downloaded their OE have it even worse. God forbid I should ever turn into a Veggie,” said Isaac.
“Well, even when they were alive the Veggies were all but stupid fucks,” Bikie snorted.
“No, you’re wrong there. My friend sold his creativity for love.”
“That's like cutting your dick off for love ‘cause it didn't get hard at the right time.”
Isaac tried to explain to Bikie about Pascal, but Bikie said he didn’t watch TV serials, read political newspapers, and didn’t listen to stories about stupid fucks.
“Listen to this then, will you! I almost became one of them, I just happened to be lucky, or unlucky, I don’t know.”
Isaac began to tell Bikie his story.
Bikie tried to listen carefully, but his head was gradually drooping and he was dozing off.
When Isaac finished his story, Bikie raised his eyes, looked at him and said slowly.
“I propose a toast to… Elvis! For making an effort! To his resistance!”
Isaac had been expecting a toast to Vicky’s health, to his own story, to anything
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