Hell Hath No Fury

I have a regular, I'll call him "John". He's a relatively nice man, if not a little anal retentive. He comes in on the weekends, regularly, and always drinks Bud Light. Friday night was no exception.

"Hey honey," I said, smiling at John who was sitting at stage one. "Want a Bud Light?"

"You know me too well, sweetie." He winked as he said it.

"Do you want to go ahead and start a tab?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching in his wallet, "but don't run my damn card this time. Last time you ran it and then voided it. Don't run it at all. If you run it, I'm going to be pissed."

Our credit card machine is rather tricky. On the receipt for your purchase it says "the company". On your actual bank statement, however, it prints out our name. Same with the ATM, so sometimes, anonymity can be difficult.

I take the card and head up to the bar where Savannah is standing.

"Savannah, do NOT run this card. Don't even authorize it. He's going to be paying in cash at the end, and for whatever reason he doesn't want the card run." I handed the card to her. "I don't know why, maybe it's a company card?"

"That or he's hiding from his wife!" Savannah smiled, took the card, and popped the top off a beer.

I continue with waiting tables, and time passes on, as it has a tendency to do. Later on that night, I hear Manager (who wishes to be called "Captain Egghead Orgazmo", or CEO for short) make an announcement over the DJ booth.

"Would the owner of a red Harley Davidson cruiser please report to the front door."

I figured someone had double parked, and thought nothing of it. A little while later, I hear the same announcement.

"Will the owner of a red Harley Davison please come to the front!"

Curiosity (and the need for a good story) compel me to find out what the hell is going on. I walk into the front under the pretense of making a phone call (hell, some of my best stories come from eves dropping) and I see John standing at the front door, wearing leathers and looking pissed off.

"John, what the hell happened?" I cock my head to the side and look at him quizzically.

"Someone fucked up my bike."

"Holy shit! What happened?"

"Well, they kicked it over, broke my windshield, cut the wiring and ripped off my new Fiberglas headlights!" He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a carbon-fiber headlight. You could see where it had been ripped apart, and looked as if someone had beat it with a bat.

"Oh Jesus! Is your bike still outside?"

"Yeah," he said, sighing. "I swear, when I find out who did this..." Just then, his phone rang. He went to answer it as I went outside to check out the bike.

John's bike was found laying on it's right side. The windshield was broken on the left side, which means that after someone knocked it over, they kicked the windshield hard enough to not only crack it, but break some of the pieces out. The beautiful red paint job with flames was scratched up in several places, some consistent with a fall, some not. The headlights were bent off, and the wiring from the engine was cut, loose wires hanging from the bike like fringes in a bad updo. The only thing that wasn't slashed were the tires.

I went back inside and passed John on the way out. He was cussing and muttering something under his breath. I would have wished him a good night, but under the circumstances....

When I walked up to the bar, I saw my door guy (who wishes to be called "Champ") lean into my Boss (who wants to be called "Raymond" a.k.a. "Everybody loves ___").

"He said it was his wife."

Raymond's eyes widened. "No shit," he said, shaking his head.

Savannah handed me some cash from the bar.

"What's this from?" I asked, putting the money in my pocket.

"From John's tab, he came up and said 'fuck it, run the Goddamn card'."

"Well, Savannah, I guess you were right. Looks like he was hiding from his wife!" I smiled and winked at her.

"Yeah," she said, laughing. "He just wasn't doing a very good job at it!"