Code 3 for a motorcycle down.
It’s a nothing crash. Some scumbag wannabe belonging to one of those Harley-Davidson motorcycle clubs laid his bike down for some reason. He has a few scrapes on his hands.
Naturally, since he is acting like such a bad-ass, we can’t resist when he asks for a Band-Aid.
“What? You wanna Band-Aid for your boo boo?”
“Yeah, man, you got one?”
You big baby.
This isn’t it.
His wife shows up along with some relatives, which isn’t usually a problem, except today, the bad-ass is with his “girlfriend,” who was riding with him, and she now wants to be somewhere else, presumably because she has other boyfriends who aren’t dealing with the cops, priors, warrants, etc. for the next half hour. She wants a ride out of here. She doesn’t know her boyfriend’s wife has shown up. She probably doesn’t even know he has a wife.
The cops point out this delicate situation to us, barely able to suppress the devilish twinkle in their eyes.
The girlfriend approaches us.
“Can you give me a ride?”
Great. Even healthy people think we’re taxis.
“No. I’m sorry. We don’t do rides.”
We point towards the wife and the relatives, who, if I may point out, do not know who this woman is, let alone that she is his girlfriend.
“Maybe you can ask them.”
She turns, and actually walks towards them. Who asks complete strangers for rides?
I turn to my partner, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”