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Monday Edition


The Hacksaw Don't Cut It

1/1/2000


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"Wha?" Hacksaw said into the phone, dazed and half-awake.

"Wind 'em up," the voice on the other end barked so loud Hacksaw had tohold the phone at arms length. "We're splitting from the cantina at noon. You've got three hours to be on time. This is your last chance Hacksaw. Don't fuck up or you're out of the club!" The phone suddenly clicked off. Hacksaw got his nickname from his being the only guy in the club to chain his motorcycle to a tree during a run, only to find he had left the key at home--twice. He'd had to hitch a ride to town to buy a hacksaw blade to set his scooter free.

He scrambled out of bed. He had another problem. Luck and time were not his friend, 'causin' him to lose the loyality of his brothers. He glanced at the clock. Suddenly it appeared to tick faster. He grabbed a sock, but couldn't find the other. As he reached under the bed for the hiding sock, and grabbed a fresh pile of warm cat shit.

"God damn it, Ojo," Hacksaw said tripping over his one-eyed alley-cat. Ojo lost his eye in a fight with a pissed off Chiuahua. Hacksaw had a new extended steel tank from Independent Gas Tanks painted for his chopper that had to be mounted. All he had to do was flush it out, install a petcock, install the cross-over line, bolt the tank on, hook up the gas line and fill the puppy with fuel, and he'd be good to go. If all went as planned.

It was 9:00 a.m. by the time he pulled on his Levis, and a sweatshirt and headed for the garage.

Hacksaw's girlfriend, Cindy, dropped by for a little breakfast grab-ass. He heard her calling his name from inside his house. "Out here, in the garage," he hollered to her over his shoulder as he searched for the right tools to do the job. Suddenly he was nervous. He needed every minute to install the tank and get across town to the Quervo Cantina to meet his brothers.

Cindy was a tiny lil' thing with a bodacious rack and a bubbly personality. He eyed her deep cleveage and almost dropped the tank as he scrambled to lay out a soft cover on a backyard table so he could work on the tank upside down. He held a blanket in one hand and the polished slippery tank in the other and fumbled while eyeing the fresh daisy bouncing around him. He couldn't get destracted. "Make some coffee, and get ready, we've got to be on time.

Cindy stood there pouting, She was a symphony of tantalizing poontang.

"Gotta' move Baby," he said almost dropping the fresh paint job on the unforgiving surface of the rough wooden picnic table.

He clean the 1/8 inch pipe threads of paint, primer and Bondo residue. In his hurried attempt to remove the residue some slipped into the interior of the tank. He sloshed gas around the tank with some of the holes plugged to prevent being drenched in the toxic fluid, but as he attempted to remove the harsh fuel without damage to the new flame job, it ran down his leg. He wrapped the petcock with Teflon tape which bunched up when he installed it. The Pingle petcock had a perfectly smooth, round surface with no way to tighten it except a 7/16 box wrench over the spigot. As he tighten the petcock firmly to prevent leaks from his crappy Teflon job, the spigot popped out of the body of the petcock. He removed it and rewrapped it with the sealing tape. He looked at the broken part then to the clock--almost 10:00 a.m. Sweat started to pour down the sides of his face. He wrapped the petcock with rubber and torqued it down with channel-locks which peeled up the chrome. The petcock tightened slightly, hopefully enough.

He installed two 90 degree 1/8 pipe nipples to either side of the tank with Teflon tape, but couldn't get them to line up properly. The clock seemed to shift gears, running faster. He turned the tank over and set it on the Daytech stretched frame. He bolted the tank to the frame. The holes lined up. The bolts didn't cross thread--a minor miracle.

He was getting close. Cindy went for gas. He had to release the nipple from the Mikuni carburetor, reposition it and install the new line and clamps. If he turned it to the optimum position for the petcock, he couldn't adjust the mid-range air mixture screw. If he moved it beyond the air mixture screw, the line to the petcock would need to be two-inches longer. He looked at the clock. It was now in high gear. Nothing went right. The gas line he had was too short. Cindy returned with a frown. She locked the keys in the car with the gallon can of gas. Hacksaw found another chunk of gas line, cut it, and installed fresh clamps. He hadn't ridden the bike since Sturgis. A couple of months. Would it run? He grabbed for a hanger and a pair of needle nose and headed to the street. Instructing Cindy to find a gas cap. She pouted and dug into several boxes of parts. After burnin' through 20 minutes he returned to the garage with the gas. She beamed with pride as she handed him the stock cap. It didn't fit. She dug. Another cap didn't fit. It wasn't a left handed bung. He sanded the plastic threads. No go. He cleaned the threads on the bung--no dice. He spilled more gas on his jeans trying to slouch enough gas into the tank to get them to a station. Another half hour passed. Cindy kept digging for more caps. She found a custom job that wouldn't work on his last tank. For some unknown reason it fit. He jammed into the house to change, the hairs on his thighs were beginning to itch from the caustic fluid. In a cold sweat he pushed his scoot into the street and fired it to life. Cindy went back into the house to do what women do, locked up the house and returned to the street. Hacksaw locked up the garage. Cindy returned to the house for Hacksaw's helmet and gloves. Hacksaw unlocked the garage again to get his bike lock. The made it a block, before they both noticed they had forgot his cell phone, back again. One more delay, for refueling. Amazingly the tank didn't leak, the Mikuni nipple didn't escape covering him with petrol, and the bike ran as sweet as butter mints. He pulled into the Quervo Cantina at 12:05 parking lot. He kicked out his sidestand, turned off the petcock and locked the chain around the front wheel. Running into the Cantina he looked up at the clock on the wall- 11:05 a.m.

"We figured you'd forget to turn your clock back," Frank, the leader of the club came up to Hacksaw laughing and patting him on the back. The president then turned stern, "Wind 'em up, we're leaving."

The brothers mounted up and cranked over their engines. All except Hacksaw, who dug desperately through his pockets looking for the key to his lock.


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