We've talked about biker names before and my husband goes by the name 'Snoopy'. Although Snoopy's an ordained minister now, his past is entrenched in the outlaw biker culture. A few weeks ago, we started sharing parts of his story where he was the Assistant Manager of a 'unique' bar in Dallas. He stated:
When I started my shift at Willos, I would come in the front door with that 20 gage. Along with a pistol in a bank bag. People would ask “Why the bag?”
I’d say “So they can guess what caliber I might have tonight.”
If you'd like to catch up, go here then proceed below:
Well, the time came for the ‘first’ really bad brawl and of course it was at the end of a looooonnnnggg night. We had a young girl who came with the bar (she was already there when I started). She was lovingly nicknamed ‘Pebbles’ because she was built like an R. Crumb mountain girl. At closing time, when I told people “I really mean get out or I’ll start chunkin' people!” well, let’s say that a few needed encouragement.
Now Pat; (cohort mentioned in previous article) . . . used a pitcher like we used mugs to drink out of. He decided he wasn’t ready to leave YET. I was still behind the bar and all I saw was Pebbles snatching Pat’s beer and when he smacked her the fight was on all over the place.
I cleared the bar one-handed and Johnny Animal was destroying bar furniture getting to Pat. About 5sec later I was standing over Pat with a Highway Patrol slap drawn back about 5ft when an old phrase danced thru my head “if you shoot him you’ll just make him mad” .
Discretion being the better part of valor I dropped the slap back in my back pocket and went for my .380. As God as my witness, I shot 7 into the ceiling and all anyone did was stop long enough to check and see if they were hit and it was right back to fighting! It only lasted about 3min and I think the only reason Pat left was because of the sirens coming down Oaklawn.
Yea; I got reamed by the owner for shooting up the ceiling and yes he did force me to stop the leaks cause for 3mo after every time it rained we had a shower over the beer service. I never did stop shooting in the ceiling for affect though, as there were many times people had to be reminded.
That brings us to another memorable night. Sometimes it was like being at the O. K. Corral.
It was a nice Friday night – I had brought about 1/2lb of weed bagged up and was ready to have a nice mellow night. RIGHT!
I never told you about the clientele - well, picture daytime as trades people and characters; then . . . the nights were so mixed . . . did I ever tell about the women?
Well, on this night someone brought in a fresh shipment of ‘window pane’ (that’s L.S.D. for you citizens). Then a lot of my friends and motorcycle club members showed up . . . of course. Somebody had handed out ‘reds’ and everyone took some. This combination was like gasoline and matches.
The ‘hippies mellow’ . . . you know . . . ‘peace, flowers, love and Hare Krishna.’ Then the bikers were profiling with chests extended; their body language proclaiming the unspoken phrase “Whose butt needs kickin’ tonight?”
That evening, four major fights broke out and once I looked up just in time to see one of the biker brothers flying parallel to the ground, just like Superman, only with one fist out in front.
I never found out where he launched from but I saw the last 10-12ft of the flight. He ended up hitting this guy so hard that I jumped over the bar and tried to find a pulse in his neck!! He survived, thank God!
It was only around 10:00 or 11:00, so by the end of the night, I was ‘high strung’ to say the least.
We had old wooden doors that we ran a log chain thru the handles to lock up. That evening, when I pulled the chain and slipped the lock, a few of us were still inside.
Being wound as tight as I was, no one said a thing as I went behind the bar. I got an old flyer and drew a target on the back of it; walked over and hung it on an outside corner of a wall as several sets of eyes slowly followed me. They knew something was up. I walked back behind the bar and announced, “Get away from the target!” and they all scattered.
I came up with my .380 and emptied the clip - walked over to the target . . . didn’t hit it one time! But, I shot the hell out of the jukebox! It was sitting just a little ways from said corner so, that pissed me off more than not hitting the target.
After the jukebox incident it was about a week before the owner got back in town from his vacation. He wasn’t so mad about what I did but, the weeks’ worth of free music playing aggravated him a little. He said “Oh, that’s not too bad.” Then he proceeded to describe to me what ‘bad’ looked like.
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