I carried a club in Nederland, when I walked my dog. I borrowed it from Greg — a knurled, heavy, monster club, so orc-looking — the wide-eyed tourists always stared at me in wonder as they woofed past on the highway to Eldora Ski Resort.
We all went to the only bar in Nederland one night, at the pizza place — I think Max was there, but he might have been spending the night with his truly hot girlfriend — what was her name? Another in the long line of Maximum, until these house-leaky days, no longer on the run from the Service, he rules a Russian Castle to the envy of all his old weirdo buds —
Anyway. We go to the bar. And we’re sitting at a table, drinking.
About an hour in, a gentleman takes note of us. Call him Gigantor — perhaps four hundred pounds of Massive, Cruel Biker, for Nederland was, in those days, the province of Big Ass Bikers and their Big Ass Wolf-Newfoundland-Husky-Mix Murdering-Dogs. Gigantor. Big. Ass. Giant. Mean. Killer. Like out of a fucking movie, this Monster. But Really Real.