At dinner, Houdini hatched a plan. Form an armed caravan—Bob-bob first, on his Harley, then Ray's Cherokee, then the Kickin’ Machine—and rumble down the hill, straight through "Rube City," firing Bob-bob's shotgun in the air if there was any weird shit from the rubes.

Marnie, who was from rube stock herself, took a hard line: "Why fire in the air?" she said. "Real force is the only thing the rube understands. Hit something."

Captain Jim brooded at the head of the long table, prophecy cooking in his eyes. "We don't want any trouble," he said. "They may be assholes, but deep down they desire us. A brick through our window, that's like reaching out to grab our ass. It's twisted love. And we love them back, don't forget."

"Right on, Cap," said RPM, tugging on his mustache. "But it's a different kind of love. It's armed love. I say shoot out a tire or a window or something."

Candles softened the room and lent the dinner a Biblical look. Captain Jim's hair was freshly washed and hung free of his normal ponytail, tumbling in tresses over both shoulders. He wore a shiny Mao with thick epaulets. Clay plates were piled with the remains of the dinner, a feast of chicken pot pie. There had been wine and cider and fat joints of Colombian weed just brought in from Boston by a little dealer named Johnny Appleseed. Flower produced a fresh pineapple upside-down cake, and that put an end to any more discussion about war with the rubes. . . .

(from p. 78, "I'm God, you're God")