Big Fatty (In Memory of Gary - R.I.P.)

           Big Fatty, fka Gunny Goodal, USMC, became a major character in Nancy's book by accident when she grew to love the fat fuck. He's based on my memories of one of the best guys I ever knew in the Pacific NW. His name was  Gary, but we just called him The Fat Man. Gary was an old HA 1%er and there will never be a more fat, politically incorrect filthy-talkin funny guy to match him. He was so fat he had special-ordered coveralls made for him and that's all he ever wore. He loved his little dogs and let them share his plate right up on the table. The huge ogre slept in a canopy bed and liked stuffed animals. He always got me laughing the most whenever he heard someone mention something about their old ladies not putting out. In a deep gravelly voice he'd say, "Choke the bitch. Choke them bitches hard enough and they'll  all fuck!" What was especially ironic about this piece of advice is that his wife took care of him with great loyalty. They both harped on each other with unconditional love. Here again is Nancy's Introduction of Big Fatty going to a run:


          The eyes of his fat hairy face were covered with World War II Japanese aviator goggles and a black cape cut from an old tarp billowed out behind him.  Everyone near the entrance to the run looked up as they saw the approach of the huge bulk of Big Fatty. He was riding a Corvair powered trike and despite the fact that it had a custom over-sized seat, his butt cheeks sagged over each side practically hiding the heavily padded seat.  Theo trailed behind, trying to keep up while still hanging back enough to avoid  coughing on the big man's dust.

          As Big Fatty got closer, his gravelly booming voice bellowed out,“ Hey all you mother fuckers, the party can start now, Captain Good Guy is here!” 

          Everyone laughed even though they’d seen Big Fatty make this same entrance every year since the run had begun.  They all loved the often cranky old bastard. And Big Fatty loved runs. Except for getting up to go get more food, more beer or to take another leak, Big Fatty traditionally held court from the seat of his trike telling a non- stop string of filthy jokes, tales of past runs, club legends and other biker exploits, some made up, some were even true.  Unlike most of the guys, Big Fatty didn’t camp on the ground or in a tent. He would wait for the chase van to be emptied and throw his bed roll in there to sleep. 


          Each year, Big Fatty got fatter. The year it took four guys to help him get up off the ground, was the last year he ever attempted it again. Plus, it was dangerous to go to sleep or pass out too early if you were in a place anyone could find you and Big Fatty ate and drank so much that this posed a real hazard. He’d seen guys get pissed on or have other disgusting things done to him when they passed out or went to sleep too early, some he’d even participated in, and he wasn’t going to chance this happening to him.


Until I pull out some more excerpts from Ride the Warrior's Fury (especially the ones Nancy didn't post because she thought they were too foul for the general public)... I'm just sayin,


over and out until next time,


Scootertrash