Johnny Rumble Rides Again – L.F. Graubard

January 1, 2026

The Lone Star biker bar embalmed in nicotine and spit buckets, Confederate flags sagging like surrendered skins. Slot machines blinked cheap constellations. Southern Maryland—Slot Machine Alley, Little Las Vegas. Harleys outside, Pagans and Junkyard Saints inside, everyone carrying something sharp or old enough to jam.
        We played behind bulletproof plexiglass, zoo animals for a drunk kingdom. Fights routine. A stabbing meant the night was slowing down. A shooting meant the moon was theatrical.
        Johnny Rumble stood dead still—ruffled shirt, dark shades—testifying like a basement preacher. The mask I used when I needed distance. Gravel voice, sax strapped like an extra lung. He rocked back on his heels, call-and-response lines setting the room on edge.
        Sixty bikers surged, sweat slick carnival. Skirts whipped, boots spun, blues dripping heat. Tempo climbed, horns cut, mambo rhythm churned like an engine about to seize.
        Between songs he leaned in: “Johnny Rumble says stay in school. Don’t lie. Be good to your woman.” The bikers howled. “A man who doesn’t stand for something—he’ll fall for anything. That’s your sermon.” Silence, then laughter sharp enough to leave marks.
        That’s when I saw him.
        Wild Billy.
        Coke-bottle glasses, acne-pocked skin, Bass Weejuns under prep-boy slacks. Hovering at the edge of the floor like he’d been summoned by the sermon itself. Shark eyes, pale, stiff, dead as a doll. No wave. Just chill. A dog barked outside—smart dog.
        Billy’s math was simple: one insult equals wreckage. Saltshaker through a windshield, broadside ram. Blank inside, empathy never wired.
        I rode with him once. Fire-red Charger, Hurst shifter, Cragar wheels. Papers spilled, pink lace panties sliding onto my knee. “Leftovers,” he said. “Don’t worry.” I did.
        Billy didn’t use drugs but carried snow, handed it out like communion. Country rides, folklore threats: “Put out or get out.” I told him I had a test in the morning—the kind you never sign up for.
        Seventy through a six-foot alley. NASCAR fantasy or predatory rehearsal. I got home alive, shaking.
        Later he found me. “Billy? That you?”
        “Hey, man. Long time.”
        “How you been?”
        “Not great. Booze jammed me up. Couple assault charges.”
        “Maybe it’s time to get help?”
        “Too late. Birth is the start of a black comedy. Came from bliss to mayhem. Can’t lose what you never had.” Nietzsche on paint thinner.
        He kicked off “Sex Machine.” The room broke loose. Billy vanished.
        Wild Billy was a Komodo dragon in human drag. Bite once—spiritual, emotional, physical—and walk away. Let the bacteria do the rest. His presence infected the air. Not madness. Not violence. Rot. The kind that waits. Weeks. Years. Until the fever sets in.