There were seven of them and their names were Vomit Breath, Rat Tail, Squid, Pimples, Coke Nose, Herpes, and Sleepy. They were all white guys in their early twenties and mostly unemployed except for Coke Nose, who was a lawyer and only hung out on weekends. Rat Tail worked as a cashier at Whole Foods. Squid shoplifted small items from stores and resold them on ebay. The rest of them got by with random part-time gigs and checks from their parents.


They wore black, hundred dollar jeans and pleather vests and Doc Martins, and listened to Black Flag and Guitar Wolf constantly, wearing huge constipated frowns on their sweaty faces. They had color tattoos of scooters on their arms and chests. They wore t-shirts with phrases like “NUKE THE WHALES” and “WASTED YOUTH” displayed prominently. They drank bottles of tequila and snorted lines of Ritalin with rolled up twenties. They told each other racist jokes and threw quarters at attractive women. They hated their parents. They rode scooters everywhere.


The most correct scooters for The Scooter Club were, in order: Kymcos, Hondas, and SYMs. The most incorrect scooter was any type of Vespa. Vespas were for pathetic hispters, and The Scooter Club was certainly not a club of pathetic hispters. The Scooter Club’s scooters could go nearly 60 mph. On Saturday nights they would get drunk and drive their scooters through the narrow Montrose streets in one big pack, throwing firecrackers at passing cars. The Scooter Club was certainly not a club of pathetic hispters.  They were dangerous.  With wild shit-eating grins and spasming cocaine noses, they rode their scooters through the streets like kings that no one had heard of, tweeting bad words into their iphones.


(Chris Dankland lives in Houston, Texas.  He has published stories in Keep This Bag Away From Children, have u seen my whale?, Press Board Press, and has several other stories forthcoming from Metazen.  He blogs at His head is make out of smoke.)