A1

As I writhed in agony from a blow delivered by that long-legged, leather clad, Harley riding, blonde Moma know as A I knew that I should not have been by surprised by the unprovoked dirty deed. No normal person could be that happy, smiling and cheerful all the time. The question is: What is hiding under that sunny façade? Is this joyousness a result of too much coffee? Perhaps it is a symptom of a less that secure grip on reality.

I can see her as a used car saleswoman, reeling in some poor dupe with that big, sunny smile. Selling this poor sap a lemon that runs just long enough to drive away before it gasps its last and dies, becoming a piece of metal sculpture. Unmoving.

But every once in awhile the biker shows her true colours: “Go away, I can see you anytime.” Beating up on innocent bystanders. With always the threat hanging in the background that if you say anything, she will call in the other members of her biker gang … Oh, excuse me ‘motorcycle riding club’.

Thus, when she assaulted my poor shoulder with those rolled up sheets of letter sized paper, I dared not protest but suffered my martyrdom in silence. Just in case what lurks under that sunny guise is a homicidal maniac waiting to erupt in a volcanic explosion to dwarf that of Krakatoa.