Dick About Town

Dick Takes A Walk On The Wild Side

Beaverlick’s 1-Stop Roadhouse Biker Bar and Food Court

Part II


The bartendress recognizes me, hails me over. There is a hefty bar between me and Bovina’s bosom – I feel safe. She bids me turn around for an introduction.

My back is turned. What I can’t see – Bo, hoisting herself onto the bar, and swinging … (“WHAT THE #?%& !! WAS THAT!”) a leg over my head… and… just like “snap” poor Dick’s in a scissors hold and having his hair tousled.

The thought whirrs through my mind – Rasputina-Svetlana-Bovina, had probably wrecked more men with physical affection than anger. Another thought whirrs – “Dear Dick, stick to free meals and restaurant reviews”.

“Guyz! GUYZ! MEATZ-HEADZ! … Thees is Diiick Holder – is not cutest name? Diiick? (right then, there, that kinda scared me) Diick whill be doing Gazette newz on Gut Bucket. Be nice and showing him good times… OKAYYYY!

Before I am released to the wild… Bovina tags me; grabs hold of my face… tilts my head back, and osculates yours truly breathless. It whirrs through my mind… “How many ways can this woman suffocate a man?!?”

From that moment, of hair tousling – and spine/ribcage realignment – Ol’ Dick had been… messed, caressed, tugged, hugged, nuzzled, tickled; had his arm thumped, chest thumped, belly bumped, nose tweaked, body-shook, hand-shook, and chin-chucked; I’d been high-fived, hand slapped, back-slapped, head patted, butt-patted, bear-hugged, had my hair tousled… (again and again), put in a head-lock by “Smooch” (yet another introduction to a munificent bosom) lifted overhead, called ‘little buddy” and even kissed… by Skippy. And that was all at the welcoming of just half the Bad Ass Beavers of Beaverlick – and their ol’ ladies – and Skippy was not a lady… or a woman!

The welcoming committee was made up of ‘Mucilage’, ‘Jello’, ‘Numbnuts (III) and Skippy. On the distaff side – Smooch, Creamy, and Coagulotta. More Babs showed through the evening. I believe I had made the acquaintance of all sixteen BABs and their better halves. By the way, the ‘better halves’ did not much waver from the a conspicuous paradigm – they were substantial – powerfully leggy, unmistakably chesty, amiably physical, and teasingly charming.

The talk flows with the liquor. Numbnuts (III) was grandson of the original founder and legendary BAB. The nick ‘Numbnuts’ revealed an apparently congenital condition passed generationally whereby the ’man package’ seizes up and goes numb after about 30 minutes of riding – forcing a rest stop. All three ‘Numbnuts’ spent a lot of time “catching up”.

Mucilage and Smooch are married and run the notorious looking heavily vented back room previously mentioned. They run a nano-micro craft brewery in that back room with hydroponically grown hops and a secret ingredient. The beer has to it a reputation as decently tasty and medically, holistically, ameliorative. They have standing orders from the Beaver Lodge Body Tuning & Karmic Krystal Lifecycle Spa & Wellness Center for all the HaufenhopfenBrau they can bottle. The Gut Bucket gets a cut.

Skippy was originally a go-fer, then mascot, then ‘good luck charm’ then honorary BAB, then full ass Bad Ass Beaver. He rides the sole Indian in the gang – with paisley sequined and glittered saddle bags.

Also extending “hellos” – ’Trim, ‘Smurf’, ‘Baby’ (a 410 pound BAB), ’Spanx’, ‘Frijol’, and ‘Brillo’. The last, I find, works part time at Mona Zenobiya’s Toys R Us Parlour du Femme – “Speedo Waxes” BY APPOINTMENT ONLY”

And there’s Trim, who works at Toney’s Exotic Dining and Butchering Bistro. Trim will butcher anything you bring in that’s dead, including ‘road kill’. He’s also the official Mohel at Rabbi Lev Lavarburton’s Mo Shemp Purly Revised Reform Synagogue. His card… “Infants and Convert’s – Custom Briths To Order”.

What there was in the nature of ‘dangerous’ or unsettling, at the Bucket was not one Bad Ass Beaver… but two badass dogs. Two truly imposing – English mastiffs. Both had permanent soft vibrato growls, a bit of drool, and full run of the place… and both with lurid canine impulses to sniff everything. They had all the signs of menace yet neither snarled or barked and both could and did get cuddley with patrons. Which is it that prevails again, dogs taking after their masters or the other way round? I have the notion the two are permanently upset by nothing more than being two stud mastiffs called… Thelma and Louse.

Here’s Louise – greeting Ol’ Dick.

As midnight approaches I’m set to call it a night. Still have to put this to copy, and to sleep, have it in the editor’s inbox by 7 AM or have her doggin’ me all day belching peaty scotch and blowing Macanudo smoke in my face – threatening to put me on ‘obits’ (once, IN obits).

So I’m jotting some final notes and, of a sudden, the Bucket goes stone silent. A distant, faint reverberation slowly grows louder, then distinct. Of another sudden, all hell breaks out – in tones of metal and leather slapping. There are guns all over the place. (“WHAT THE #?%& !! Is this!”) There’s gonna be a gunfight and all Dick has is a sweaty glass of white wine spritzer.

Smurf grabs hold of me and drags me outside. “I don’t have a gun!” I plead. Smurf ejects six cartridges from a model 29 hands me the empty gun… “just wave it around… like a menace to society.”

It whirrs through my mind… “Ol’ Dick can’t do ‘menacing’ – at least not an unfunny one.”

Bovina joins all the BABs outside sportin’ heavy metal, slaps in a magazine and racks one into the chamber. Bo glimmers in the moonlight, decked out magnificent. She makes Rambo look like a puss slappin’ fancy-nancy valley girl.

Dick: “WHAT THE #?%& !! IS THAT she’s hoisting?”
Smurf: “it’s a Russian military Kalashnikov Saiga-12 gauge 8 shot semi-auto shotgun – it’s Bo’s attention gettin’ gun of choice. She had some Ruskie buds of hers ship her four crates from the Russian black market… she seems to like you, she’ll give you a deal.”

Dick: “WHAT THE #?%& !! Is goin on?”
Smurf: It’s the Trogs. They’re on a “rumble ride’
Dick: Trogs?
Smurf: Rival Biker Gang – the Troglodytes, from Morebuck. We call ’em “Frogs” it pees them off somethin’ awful.
Dick : And Rumble Ride?

“RUMBLE Rides”, I learn, are call outs, challenges to rival bikers for a showdown… which never ever happen. Wanker County, in 1961, had made rumbling without a permit illegal; a permit has never been issued.

The Frogs arrive and take to circling the Gut Bucket. The second time round… Bo lets off eight shots in the air. The Trogs call it a night and rev-rumble away. The BABs will answer in kind within a week’s time – it’s a must, a ritual, deference to the past, a warm blooded memorial to the ‘Crazy Eighty’.

And what have we here? Smack dab in the middle of the Bucket?

I hadn’t forgotten. I left you here at the end of Part I.

Well, what we have is Castorius The Great, the largest beaver ever recorded in North America (4’ 4¼” – 88 lbs), commemoratively stuffed and displayed, and… exalted. And, legendarily, the last beaver ever got by Beaverlick’s original settler – Oriol Lick.

There are, presently, three initiates pledging for Bad Ass Beaver. The final test, I’m told, is to get naked and improvisationally jiggy with… Castorious The Great. Sober! Hey… how bad can it be? Imagine if the test of your affections was doing as much with Svetlana Grushinskaya Bovinovna.

Final Note:
Svetlana Grushinskaya Bovinovna is a BAB and Lodge Mother to the BABs. She rides her own tricked out Harley Low Rider in Periwinkle Blue with discreet specks of violet… to match her eyes.

And that’s how it rolls at the Gut Bucket Roadhouse Biker Bar and Food Court. It’s worth the visit. ’Til next time and the next place…

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