We Call Him Kitty Gator

He was big, rough, burly, with tattoos everywhere you could see. Up both arms, down his neck; a big boy, weighted two thirty-three. I tried not to notice him, for I am afraid of bikers this size. When he came to the bar, I actually began to rise. Don’t let me scare you off, he said. And he gave me a wink. This reassured me a little, I am sure my face was kind of pink. I decided to stay a bit. He and the bartender exchanged a grrrr. They were not happy with each other, and I thought a fight might occur. He’s not that tough, the biker said, pointing to the guy behind the bar. If you want. I can whoop his ass, and throw him pretty far. No thank you, I said, trying to down my beer. It had cost me seven. I wanted to get out of there before someone got shot to heaven. Bartender was glaring at the big guy now. I envisioned my life gone. I slurped up my beverage and headed out the door and way beyond. Hey miss! Someone yelled behind me. I then began to run and duck. “I have your purse!” the big guy yelled. I was horrified now, I suck! Big yellow cat lying across a Harley stretched out, gave me a yawn. The big guy handed my purse, and then the bike he soon jumped on. That’s my big brother the bartender told me, a few weeks later. He likes to wrestle with me in the bar. We call him Kitty Gator.