With two days of excellent coastal riding behind me I pulled into the small town of Long Beach WA. Lining the streets were glorious four wheeled chariots of vintage Detroit iron. Beautiful women and manly men roamed the streets looking much like visitors to the set of American Graffiti.

Following my given directions I found my appointed destiny, Ma and Pa's Campground. Rolling into camp upon my trusty steed "Old Faithful" I sensed the shock of those Slugs already in attendance. The FNG Rob really showed! Their shocked faces screamed disbelief. Money quickly passed between hands as bets were paid and secrets were whispered. With long gulps of cold beer the shock began to subside and introductions began. As I began to place faces with names I realized these are common folk much like you and I.

Little did I know that in less than 24 hours my first impressions would be shattered much like a virgin's romantic dreams on her wedding night. For I had indeed ventured into the Brotherhood of the Slug. As more Slugs arrived and more libations were consumed I began to get perspective on my surroundings. Members began to resemble their names. Snarl, Dirty Harry, Curly, Big Red, Grin, their meanings became clear. I began to think of Dp as "Spacecowboy" as the night wore on and the stars appeared. Peculiar habits began to emerge such as, no salt with the tequila, an aversion to the beach with its crashing saltwater spray, an unhealthy relationship with a certain fish.

A strong faith in the healing qualities of beer kept me strong. Too soon however the long day and drinks finally caught up to me. I headed for the sanctity of my tent where I soon fell fast asleep. Waking early my first thoughts were "I must of really hung one on". Hoping my memories of the last evening had been fogged by the long day and beer I ventured forth to meet the day. Crawling from my tent I once again encountered the normal people of my first impression. A quick breakfast with some of the BS and a long tour of the car show cleared my head and refreshed me. I began to relax again.

In late afternoon it was casually announced that many of the Brotherhood were going down to the road to join the rest of the Slugs for a little car cruise watching. Chairs and brews were gathered up for the free show and off the rest of us went to join their brethren. Arriving roadside we could not help but notice a sizable crowd had already assembled. The show had begun. Grabbing a chair and a cold one I quickly noticed that a large number of the cruise participants were having a difficult time in front of our seating area. They seemed to be getting stuck in a large wet area of unknown nature. Many would actually come to a complete stop, only able to free their vehicle after applying a large amount of horsepower to their rear wheels. What the heck was going on? Laughter filled the air, as Slug after Slug hooted and ran across to the wet spot. Whoa! it finally hit me. The road had been slimed! It was slicker than owl shit on a wet limb. Those cruisers crazy enough to drive through it were helplessly spinning their wheels in an panicked effort to escape the wild eyed Brotherhood.

Now as those in the PNW know the ever vigilant WA gendarme were not about to sit idly by while their roads are attacked by slugs. Soon the alarm was put out and troops were amassed in the lot across the street. They came in ones, they came in twos, by motorcycle they came, squad cars converged, uncover cops slipped silently in, even a few fish and game were spotted. It was obvious they knew who they were dealing with. With troop strength at better than 35 strong the rational mind knew there was a head bashing a coming. Still the slugs laughed on. How did they think they would get away with it all? After all slugs aren't known for their speed and this group was certainly no exception to that rule.

Anxiously I eyed the group across the street, holding my ground, determined to prove my mettle. Then it happened! In an undercover Firebird the supreme command drove by slowly and "Flashed" the two tittie signal to charge. Racing across the street the saviors of all that are decent and moral met the same fate as the vehicles they were working so hard to save. Slipping and sliding screaming and cursing the footsoldiers of the moral majority became hopelessly mired in the road. Seizing the opportunity I found shelter and safety in the BS as they slowly but merrily made their way back to camp. Another slug mission complete, with only a few donuts the casualties of the engagement.

Later in a solemn and secret ceremony I was crowned BS #164. For yes folks I was slimed in Long Beach.

FNG Rob BS #164
86 FLST "Old Faithful"