"Sure," I said. "Pay us in beer and grub and we'll be square."
A couple of weeks passed and it was party time. We rolled up in our beat-up band van to find a pretty well-organized and peaceful event. There was a band shell, four grills going non-stop, a bunch of kegs, and even a couple of those porta-potties. The party was going great and the crowd of about two hundred really liked our set. Believe me, drunken bikers will let you know if you suck or not.
As the day wore on, things got a little rowdy, but still stayed pretty calm. My drummer was literally in hog heaven surrounded by a bevy of pristine Harleys. As is usual at these events, a lot of dogs with bandanas were present. In particular was this one very friendly and beautiful Golden retriever. I had been playing with this dog for a good half hour when he suddenly froze in his tracks. He looked at me with this strange expression. Almost as if I were a bug. He then turned his head and fixed his gaze upon the only square patch of pavement in the middle of the grassy park where we were partying. He then calmly walked over to said patch and proceeded to unload a huge, soft pile of shit that was as orange as his coat. Nothing too strange about it, except it happened to be right in the middle of all the action.
The rest of the day was spent with people gingerly trying not step in it. As the day wore on and I had a few beers and burgers in me, I had a horrible idea. Staying with the BBQ motif, I decided to be a fecal decorator of sorts. I went over to the condiment table to grab my recipe supplies, and, while no one was looking, I began to create the burger from hell.
When I got close to the steaming pile, I almost retched. The stench was so sharp and so foul it actually gave off its own heat. I was surprised this thing hadn't melted through the concrete like the blood from one of those Alien movies.
I held my breath and laid my first condiment -- a slice of American cheese -- and then a tomato slice, a couple of pickles, and, for color, a good squirt of mustard. Now it was time to sit back and watch for reactions.
At first, people were understandably grossed out. But then something unexpected happened: people started to add to my creation. A couple of potato chips here, a slice of pie there. Before I knew it, there were beers, onion rings, macaroni salad, you name it. What started out as a gag had gradually turned into an interactive piece of performance art.
What I didn't realize at the time was that my fun with feces had planted a seed in the drunken mind of a rather rambunctious biker named Derek. I overheard Derek planning to play a joke on a guy he wasn't too fond of. The next time said guy went into the porta-john, they were going to shake him up.
As usual when a porta-john is tipped over on its side with the guy in it, things went from bad to worse. Flash forward to a guy humiliated and covered in the shit of two hundred asses chasing down Derek with murder in mind. When he couldn't catch Derek, he did what he considered to be the next best thing: fuck with his bike. A major no-no in the biker world. Break the guys legs, fuck his girlfriend, but do not mess with his bike.
This madman covered in effluvia grabbed a baseball bat and proceeded to beat and kick Derek's bike until it fell over and knocked over the bike next to it. Before you knew it, like dominos falling down in a line, at least six bikes were knocked over. That's when the major brawl began. Me and my bandmates headed for the van and got the hell out of there before the cops came and we wound up with broken noses.
On the way home, I got to thinking. Much like those bikes falling like dominos, so was the situation that led up to it. One golden retriever taking a dump led to a biker brawl.
I found out later that the cops did come and that a lot of people got arrested. And the dog? He wound up eating his own creation. We had come full circle.