I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

It's not uncommon to bump into various biker gangs in the middle of the night at my local Wal Mart. It's the only thing open at 3 am, there's often some chapter or whatever at the checkout counter.
Tonight? SOCB, The Society of Christian Bikers, who were, according to their jacket patches "On the Road to Peace With God".
So, they're there, I'm there... we're a bunch of guys in dark wardrobes hanging out, waiting for the checkout lady ( that's a fine convergence of dominant personality trait and job title, eh?) to figure out why her drawer won't open. I'm checking out the rich tapestry of smells from about 200 Stuckey's pecan shoppes and Waffle Houses, when the Checkout Lady took me, humble dong resin, as one of the holy rollers. Not just as one, in fact, but evidently she took me to be the alpha Christian biker, because it was I and not they who she asked "So... you guys are a strange mix, huh? Christian bikers?"
Evidently, she was from the 1950s, where being in a bike gang was more of meth amphetamine thing than a lawyer/ dentist/ interior designer thing like it is now.
"Not really, lady ", I offered in my best Merle Haggard, " We both just like nailing hippies to stuff."

Mild grunts of derision from behind, but by that time, I had my change and was shuffling for the out door.