Was Frankenstein A Biker

By Howard R Music

Was Frankenstein a biker? Not really, but I believe a lot of people see the connection, especially after I saw the movie Bride Of Frankenstein, where the monster ran amuck fighting, drinking, smoking, and hanging out with a fiddle playing hermit. Eventually he decides to find a hot babe and goes back to the castle so the doctor can dig something up. The doctor puts together a blind date, but the girl likes the doctor better. The monster doesn't take rejection very well and destroys the whole castle. Am I wrong, but is one of the reasons that bikers get so much flack from the establishment is because they see a resemblance between modern riders and Frankenstein's monster? Think about it, big, rough looking dude with scars, who has a taste for wine, women, and song, and who is not too impressed with authority. Remind you of anyone? Was Frankenstein A Biker is a collection of humor, opinion, short fiction, and true life events, some of it published in magazines through the years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard R Music
• Release date: Oct 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310917318

Howard R Music

I've been a motorcyclist all my adult life. Enjoy writing, and have had short stories, poems, cartoons, and illustrations published in many motorcycle publications. I also write music and perform in various places in Denton, Texas, which is well known for it's eclectic music scene. I currently ride a 2001 Harley Sportster, which is a blast to ride on Texas back roads.

Book preview

Was Frankenstein A Biker?

Copyright 2015

Howard R Music

Smashwords Edition

Cover art: Howard R Music

This ebook is for your personal enjoyment. Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

Welcome to Was Frankenstein A Biker? A collection of short stories, opinions, humor, and some real life accounts. Some have been previously published, others have never seen the light of day, but I feel they have merit and included them.

Table of Contents

Was Frankenstein A Biker?

Death and Safetycrats

N-yuk, N-yuk, Knuckleheads

Slammed

The Littlest Angel

Another Day After

The Snatch

Prey

Gus

Diary Of A SAP

The Dream Of Sammy Green

Frustration

Don't Kevork Me!

Toby's Back! The Artist 2, chapter 1

Was Frankenstein A Biker?

Humor

Copyright Nov 1997

Howard R Music

Published in Texas Road Warriors Magazine

Was Frankenstein a biker? Not really, but I am one of those who see a connection, especially after I watched The Bride of Frankenstein, the best Frankenstein movie ever made.

It goes something like this: Angry citizens burn down Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. This ticks off the now homeless monster, who runs amok, kicking ass all over the countryside. The local yokels don’t understand that a guy needs to blow off a little steam every once in a while, and sic the cops on him. The police manage to catch Ol’ Gruesome and put him in jail. However, he doesn’t like the accommodations, and busts out of the dungeon.

Hiding in the woods, Franky meets up with a blind hermit, who lets him crash at his pad. The old guy turns him on to some homemade wine and a cigar, which may have been homegrown as well. This mellows Stitch-Face, and he hangs out smoking, drinking, and jamming with the fiddle-playing hermit.

Everything is cool until two hunters stumble on to the scene. Figuring they’ve just had their first glimpse of reefer madness, they bust up the party and drag the hermit away as the place burns to the ground, much like a modern police raid.

Homeless again, Franky considers his options. He’s had several fights, some good smoke, wine, and song. The only thing missing is a hot babe. In a bind for some horizontal gymnastics, Old Mug Ugly goes back to Dr. Frankenstein’s house, and persuades the doc to find him a girl with questionable morals.

Though late, the doctor manages to dig something up. It’s a very electric moment, and sparks fly as the girl is made ready for her wedding or deflowering, whichever comes first, depending on how anxious Franky is.

The horny monster, who has been sleeping one off, wakes up and spots the bride. He is all smiles as lewd thoughts form in his wine-soaked brain. However, when he makes a move on her, the chick takes one look, screams, and makes a play for the doctor.

Franky doesn’t take rejection very well, goes ballistic, and destroys the whole castle, bimbo and all.

End of story.

Am I wrong, but is one of the reasons motorcyclists get so much flak from safetycrats and law enforcement because they see a resemblance between Frankenstein’s monster and bikers? Think about it. Biker equals big, rough-looking dude with scars and a brawler’s reputation, who has a taste for wine and song and a definite eye for the ladies, is independent and not too impressed with authority.

Remind you of anyone you know?

The only thing missing from the picture is 80 cubic inches of Milwaukee Iron.

Could it be the social attacks on bikers, sex, weed, alcohol, and rock ‘n’ roll all these years were not spawned by the gyrations of Elvis Presley in the 50s, or the antics of bikers in Hollister in the 40s, but by a horror movie made in 1935?

Who knows? But, if Hollywood does another modern remake of the Bride Of Frankenstein, I wouldn’t be surprised if the monster rides a chopped Hog as he ravages the countryside.

The End

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Death and Safetycrats

True Story

Copyright June 1997

Published Texas Road Warriors

Back around 1977 or ‘78, while cruising on an old Triumph Bonneville I owned, I met a couple of Hog riders, Double-R and Weldon. I didn’t know them long, but the memory stands out because Double-R was the first person who ever offered to let me ride a Harley, his almost new Superglide, which had a flame paint job. In a good-natured attempt to show me the folly of buying a foreign machine, Weldon even let me take a putt on his Sportster.

Not long after that, Double-R ran his Harley off an open stretch of highway and died in the crash. Heart attack? Not paying attention? I never knew.

This so unnerved Weldon that he sold his motorcycle and never rode again.

Weldon made his living as a truck driver. He was killed a few years later in a traffic accident in his eighteen-wheeler.

I reasoned a long time ago that I couldn’t outrun or avoid the Grim Reaper. And I’m really getting tired of safetycrats, who continually insult my intelligence by insisting that the only thing standing between me and my maker is a cheap piece of foreign made plastic.

The End

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N-yuk N-yuk, Knuckleheads

Humor

Copyright July 1988

Published in Hack'd Magazine

It was a beautiful spring morning, silent except for the wind in the trees and the sounds of the farm: a crowing rooster, the gentle mooing of cows, a creaking barn door, and the loud, raunchy snoring from three ne’er-do-wells asleep in the hay loft.

A large horsefly hovered above their bed, buzzing loudly until it was sucked down Larry's throat. Ack-hack-pthhttttt! he sputtered, his right hand reaching for his throat while his left thrashed wildly, hitting Moe square in the face.

Hey, what happened, where am I? exclaimed Moe as he raised up. By now, Larry had settled back to sleep while Curly snored on. A hollow-sounding bonk followed Moe's fist striking Curly's forehead.

Ow! yelled Curly.

Wake up and go to sleep, barked Moe.

Keep quiet will, you? said Larry. I need my beauty sleep.

Shut up! said Moe, slapping Larry.

Boy, am I hungry, said Curly, as they got to their feet.

Why do you want to remind me for? Moe answered.

Yeah, Larry cut in. I'm so hungry my stomach thinks my throat's cut.

Well, let's get out of this hay loft and find some grub, Moe said.

If we had a hay-levator we wouldn't have to climb down, Curly smiled.

Shut up! Moe barked, giving Curly a shove into a bale of hay, which had a pitchfork sticking out of it.

Moe, Larry, help! An alligator bit me!

What's wrong, kid? asked Moe, as he and Larry hurried over.

Help me! I'm losing my mind! exclaimed Curly, showing them the fork in his rump.

Hold still, ordered Moe. We'll have it out in a minute.

He and Larry grabbed the pitchfork and, with a mighty tug, pulled on the handle but as the fork came loose they fell backwards over the edge of the loft. Oooooh, they yelled before hitting the barn floor.

Oh, thanks, fellas, said Curly, as he turned around. Hey, where'd you go? He peered over the edge. What're you doing down there?

Come down here, Moe grimaced, motioning to Curly with his finger.

Nya-ah, said Curly. He walked to the ladder and started down but as his weight hit the rotting wood the first rung broke and he fell on top of Moe and Larry.

I'll murder you! Moe growled.

You ain't got time, we got to find something to eat, said Larry.

Moe gave Curly an evil stare. Lucky for you.

I wish I had some fried eggs, said Curly.

Look, said Larry, pointing to a chicken nest on a rafter.

Oh, boy, cackle-fruit! said Moe. Quick, porcupine, find a ladder and we'll get the eggs.

Larry climbed the ladder. I'll tip the nest and you catch the eggs, he said.

Moe looked up. Okay, let her rip. Splat, splat, splat, was the sound of half-a-dozen eggs hitting him in the face.

What's the idea? chimed Curly. You know I don't like scrambled eggs.

I'll scramble your eggs! Moe said, giving Curly a handful of egg in the face.

Hey, leave him alone, said Larry, climbing down. A sharp bonk followed Moe banging Larry and Curly's heads together.

Alright you three chicken thieves, stick 'em up! The three turned around and looked straight into a double-barreled shotgun held by an old farmer.

Nya-ah-ah! exclaimed the trio in unison.

Take it easy, said Moe.

Yeah, my mother and your mother were both mothers, added Curly.

What're you doing in my barn? the farmer glared.

We didn't mean nothing, said Moe. It was raining so we slept in your loft.

It was too crowded in our pickup, said Larry.

We're on our way to California, said Moe.

With the banjo on my knee, Curly broke in.

Shut up! Moe sneered, slapping Curly. Look, mister, we're broke, so give us a break, will you?

The farmer tilted his hat back. How you going to get to California if you ain't got no money?

Larry rubbed his chin. Gee, we never thought of that.

Boys, I might be able to help you out, said the farmer. Follow me.

Curly grinned. Gosh, you're a swell guy.

They walked to the back of the barn where the farmer pulled a dusty, old tarp off of an old motorcycle, an antique Harley with a sidecar. The seat was torn and the bike had a generous supply of rust, but it was completely intact.

What is it? Larry asked.

It's a Harley Knucklehead.

Larry was miffed. Don't get personal.

No, it's a 1946 Knucklehead Harley, said the farmer. I bought her brand new right out of the factory. Yes, sir, runs like a watch and gets fifty-miles-a-gallon.

Boy, we could get to California for next to nothing with a rig like that, said Moe.

Well, said the farmer. I could use a truck around here. Why don't we trade?

Mister, you got a deal, Moe smiled, shaking the farmer's hand.

Well, have a good trip, the old man said, as he walked towards the door.

Boy, what a sucker, whispered Larry, which sparked a good laugh between the three.