The Resident Poet

     
 
Big bad Bob sashayed into the Biker bar ‘Evenin’ y’all’ he said to no one in particular then he burped and weaved his way to the bar.    
      
‘Hey, let’s have a goddamn beer over here’ he bawled. A beer appeared served by a nervous bar keep.    
      
Bob looked around the bar room everyone was talking easy, laughing and enjoying their beer. This upset Bob. Hell this was a biker bar wasn't it? There should be trouble shouldn't there? Then Bob noticed something that really boiled his piss. A skinny old guy sitting alone at the end of the bar quietly sucking on a Budweiser bottle.      
      
‘Who the fuck are you old fart?’ Bob yelled.    
      
There old man glanced up then went back to his drink.    
      
 A guy at a nearby table volunteered ‘That thar is ‘ole Motor Mouth Mason our resident poet.’    
      
‘Resident fuckin’ whut?’ asked Bob incredulous ‘This a biker bar or a fuckin’ faggot farm?’    
      
Bob felt his bile rise, these guys looked like real deal bikers but, shit, poetry fer chrissakes? ‘Whut y’all got goin’ on next week  cross fuckin’ dressin’? he asked unable to contain the contempt he felt.    
 
He ambled over to the poet.‘Hey ya old asshole let’s hear some goddamned faggot poetry huh.’    
      
Motor Mouth simply took another sip from his beer.    
      
Bob spun the old guy round on his stool. He saw the poet's craggy face full on. It was ravaged by scars, one eye socket was empty and half an ear was gone.      
      
‘Say ya ole turd how the fuck you git so goddamn ugly anyways?'    
      
‘Fightin.’      
      
You could have heard a pin drop. All attention was riveted on the pair then the guy at the table who’d spoke first said quietly ‘I’d leave that old boy alone if’n I was you mistah.’    
      
‘Well yah ain’t me asshole so just shut the fuck up.’    
      
The guy just smiled and raised his beer in salute.    
      
‘So gimme some of yer shit-fer-brains po’try yah ole’ bastard.’    
      
‘Don’ think ah will ‘til 'yuh apologise,  
An' say purty-please, Is what I'd advise'  
      
This unexpected response stopped Bob for a second ‘You sassin’ me ole man?’    
      
'Yes, son, guessin' ah am.' .    
      
Bob felt as happy as a vulture with fresh road kill. He smirked at the barkeep then slowly and deliberately gripped Motor Mouth by his shirt front. The old guy’s free hand shot out, splayed fingers rigid as he drove them into Bob’s eyes with the speed of a striking rattler. Bob screamed in agony his hands flying to his face, his beer fell shattering, splattering foam on the floor. As he fell back a pace Motor Mouth’s silver tipped biker boot flew up and out catching Bob squarely in the balls. Down he went like a sack of soggy sago screaming,and puking.    
      
Motor Mouth turned and addressed the saloon:    
      
‘The reason I’m a-wearin’ all these scars    
Ain't  frum fightin’ in brothels and bars    
But takin’ on the enemies of our land    
That still abound on every hand    
To earn the right fer Bob an’ y’all    
Nasty names fer me t’call    
In peace an’ freedom like you’d expect    
Just show us old guys some respect    
Cos if’n I got t’ git offa this stool    
Well, folks, I might jus’ lose mah cool    
Then boys y’all can bet yer shirt    
Some bastard here's gonna git real hurt    
So git this sorry ass outta here    
Oh an’ before ya’ do he owes me a beer.    
      
The Bar exploded in wild applause and old Motor Mouth Mason ('Nam vet, Silver Star and resident poet) didn’t have to buy another beer for a month.   Don' y'all jus' love a happy ending?