Ron Bone was 6- foot 6 inches tall and 350 pounds, was a degenerate biker who did all drugs but heroin—and to excess—and routinely drank wine by the case and beer by the keg. His favorite band was Crack the Sky, and when he found out they were playing in a D.C. club one winter night he had to go see them. At the time of this story he was 35 and divorced.

Ron Bone [my former roommate], Darrin, and two biker chicks, headed for Washington D.C. one cold winter night to see a favorite band. On the way out of town Ron picked up a female hitch-hiker wearing nothing but tennis shoes, jeans and a denim jacket. When the group arrived at the door of the night club it was discovered that she had no I.D. or money. As the doormen refused to admit her and Ron wondered if she would die of exposure in his unheated van, she stripped and danced for the bouncers. Assured that the girl’s heavily tattooed body was indeed twenty-one years old, the bouncers admitted the girl free of charge.

On the way out of D.C. Ron [a racist] picked up a black man “shivering to death in a windbreaker” who was thumbing a ride to a local D.C. destination. By the time Ron got halfway up I-95 to Baltimore, the case of wine he had drank that day finally took its toll, and he rolled the van, shattering the windshield. All six people, including the excited mystery slut and the freezing and terrified black man, were unhurt. Ron and Darrin rolled the van back onto its wheels, knocked the rest of the glass out of the windshield, and continued to Baltimore, with the internal van temperature around 20 below zero factoring the wind chill.

Ron dropped the shivering, penniless, black, D.C. man off in a high-crime white neighborhood, saying later to me, “That niցցer was so cold he looked white. If it had been a white man, or even a human being, I would have felt bad. It was really cold. I even felt the cold after a case of wine while we were flying down the road with no windshield.”

Dude, do not get in the biker’s van!

He got home, where the police finally caught up to him and ticketed him for the windshield, but did not have him take a sobriety test because he was already indoors when they showed up. The toll operator at the Harbor Tunnel had called on him after he paid his toll coming back into Baltimore.

Ron Bone kept the mystery slut and decided to use her after the pigs left. He had a main girl in the neighborhood, who was an 18-year-old high school student. His girl found out about that his van did not have a wind shield and that the police had been at his place, and came running down the street. Her name was Tiffany—for real, Tiffany—and she ran upstairs to the master bedroom in her pink pajamas, and pushed through the door to find Ron Bone “Trying to kill the slut with my dick—but, it, would, not, die!”

Tiffany looked at Ron Bone, looked at the mystery slut squashed under Ron Bone’s bulk, and then looked at him again with a blank tear-filled face. Ron Bone, not stopping what he was doing, looked at her while the thing beneath him clawed at the sheets and said, “What’s up, Tiffany?”

She said, meekly, “Oh, I saw the van, and just wanted to know if you were alright.”

He said, “Oh, I’m doing fine—wanna stay?”

He later told me, “I really did want her to stay, but she went running downstairs and out the door crying. She did come back and cook me breakfast. I have no idea what happened to the slut—never saw her again.”

In the sequel to this story I will discuss the secret to Ron Bone’s miraculous ability to have women put up with enormous amounts of crap.