There are a million stories in the naked city, This is the story of The DUKE. OK, I'm pretty sure we have all heard this one before, " Hey I have a friend with an old bike, I think he wants to sell it." If I followed up on every one of those quotes, I would never be home. But this one was different. He followed up by telling me " His name is The DUKE he lives in North Philly, He's the only white guy on the block"..... Interesting.......and judging by the small swazi tattoo on his hand, I thought it might be worth my while. So I grabbed his number and he told me we could probably check it out in a week or so.
A couple weeks go by, a ton of phone calls with no answer. Then finally I get the green light for my meeting with The DUKE. Me and his friend roll up to the house, we stood out like white socks on a black carpet, if you know what I mean. I looked at the house, Handle bars welded to the front gate, I knew I was in the right place. We get up to the door, give the special knock, and we were in!
As we entered the house I was greeted with a prosthetic leg leaning up against the door, as I looked around the living room I saw kind of what I expected clutter, pizza boxes , news papers, clothing, well you get the picture. Upon further inspection I spyed out a set of cocktail mufflers near the steps, peanut tank on his mantle and what appears to be the silhouette of a motorcycle under a sheet in this guys living room. At this point I really think I'm on to something good. My hands were sweating heart racing thousands of thoughts running through my mind. then finally we headed out into the kitchen and sitting at his kitchen table playing solitaire was the one and only Duke.
A brief but erie silence was in the room,the two of us staring at each other like some wild west gunfighter's at high noon. Then suddenly he spoke "You like Triumphs?" his voice sounded like his vocal chords were rotted out from years of smoking and substance abuse. I replied with a simple "Yes" after that The Duke unloaded on me about his chopper, His eyes lit up, talking with his hands, He went on for about what felt like an eterenty about all his wild times. Partying with the Rolling Stones, hanging out with Andy Warhol, all the way to selling weed to Ramona africa, hours before the standoff at the Move compound. Finally he ended with " Go get me my leg!" as he pointed out to the living room. After attaching his fake right leg we were off to the dining room to unveil The Dukes 68' Triumph Chopper! Well, what was left of it.
The sheet came off, crusty rigid frame, dual carbs, flanders risers , Z bars all the chopper goodies! He never registered it since 69' The Duke didn't believe in that sort of thing. He started talking again but I could not here him, I was too distracted by the chopper that sat in front of me. I snapped out of it when I heard him say "And that's how I lost my leg". I'm sorry but I had to ask him to repeat the story , I knew it had to be good.
Well it turns out The Duke needed some cash to buy a large amount of weed, and the only way to get it was to rob a nearby liquor store. The robbery went haywire when the owner of the store whipped out a shotgun and The Duke was on the business end of the barrel. No money, He bolted out the door! One shot was fired catching Duke in the leg. The Triumph was around the block. The Duke gave her one kick with shot leg ,got her running, and blasted off into the night.
The Duke got home, In fear of the cops, him and his buddy lugged the Triumph into the living room and started to rip the bike apart. Badly wounded , The Duke layed low and tried to mend himself up. After infection set in and a trip to the E R , The Dukes Kicker leg was no more. As luck would have it, He told the Doctors he had accedently shot him self at some biker party. and never got any heat from the police. I could probably go on for hours about The Duke, but I will end it here. We struck a deal on the Triumph, collected all the parts and headed out of dodge.