The bar and grill didn’t seem to be biker-friendly, but Sam the motorcycle enthusiast was starving. He parked near the front door. He had a pretty good burger, onion rings, and root beer. He was especially pleased that none of the locals bothered him. But when he went outside, his motorcycle was gone. He’d have heard it if someone drove it away, so he was pretty sure someone from the tavern had walked it to a nearby hiding place.
He strode back in to the bar, pulled out his pistol (yes, he had a concealed-carry permit), twirled it around, and fired a shot through the ceiling. That got everybody’s attention.
Sam growled, “I know one of you took my ride. I’m going to have another root beer and if my bike isn’t back by the front door, I’m gonna do here what I had to do in Arizona.”
The threat worked. When Sam finished his root beer and went outside, there was his motorcycle—without a scratch. He mounted up and was ready to leave when the bartender came outside.
The bartender asked him, “Before you go…I’m just curious…what did you do in Arizona?”
