Hell

each, FloridaGilberto.  His face was weathered from years in the
They are known for their loud bikes, disgusting habitssun; he could have been an advertisement for
and disregard for authority.  They are the Hell’ssunscreen.  This guy was a character and oh boy, did
Angels.  I just got back from spring break, whichhe have stories.  He told us stories about girls, bikers,
happened to coincide with Bike Week, where Icrocodiles-- anything you could imagine—completely
witnessed a viscous brawl between two bike gangs.full of it, but entertaining.   He kept feeding us
It was a little over a week ago when I was sitting inridiculous information, and he knew we were eating it
the airport about the board a plane that would takeup.  Thirty minutes, $26 dollars, and few good laughs
me away from the northeast’s hellish winter.later, good ol’ Gil dropped us off at the Sea
The feelings of excitement crept up my spine, mySpray Motel.  It wasn’t the nicest
body teething with anticipation. In a few hours I amaccommodation, but it would suffice for two guys on
going to be lying on a beach in the sunshine state,spring break.
where the only thing I’ll be studying is femaleJim and I changed into our swimming trunks and hit the
anatomy and the drink menu at the bar.  As weboulevard.  We were new to the city so we decided
board plane, visions of beach babes and coconut rumto check out a bar that Gilberto recommended called
dance through my head.  I turn to my travel buddy“The Oil Spill.” As we entered the bar, it seemed
Jim, who is rocking out to the music blaring from hislike the something out of a movie—the crowd
headphones. From the faint lyrics, I think I could makeinstantly silent.  The music might have skipped.  We
out the heart-pumping words of Kellyapproached the bar, ordered up some drinks and the
Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Beencrowd seemed to continue on with their conversations
Gone.”  “Jesus man, what are you listeningand stories.  What Gilberto forgot to mention was
to?” “Dude, I’m getting pumped!” hethat the bar was a Hell’s Angels hang out.  Jim
shouted back.  Different strokes for different folks. and I stuck out like a sore thumb, to say the least. 
All I knew, was that we were ready to cut loose.We relaxed and chatted about plans for the rest of
Two hours later the pilot’s voice came on thethe week, but grew nervous as we heard a loud
intercom, “In a few moments, we will be landing inrumble from outside.  It sounded like 500 motorcycles
Daytona Beach, Florida.  The weather is 83 degreeswere slowly surrounding on our location.
and sunny.  Have a great spring break and enjoy bikeThis is when Jim and I knew we were in trouble.  A
week.”  It was music to my ears.  I didn’tscrawny man with long grey hair, and an even longer
know it was bike week, but the more the merrier,goatee, looked out the window and shouted,
right?  Jim and I approached the baggage carousel“Banditos!”  And with one word every biker
and anxiously awaited our luggage. As the red blinkingjumped to his feet.  What ensued is far too brutal to
light started spinning and motors on the conveyor beltactually discuss, but there was a brawl.  Fearing for
started rumbling, we focused on the hole spitting outour lives, Jim and I sat at the bar and did the only thing
bags; knowing it was the last responsibility we wouldwe could; hide in the corner under a table, until the
have to deal with for the next six days.bartender took us out through the back door. 
Our bags finally plopped out, which we grabbedApparently, an Angel stole a loading ramp from the
immediately.  Outside the terminal we met with ourBanditos, which they didn’t take too kindly.
taxi driver; a disheveled, haggard looking fellow named