Skullripper Bates thought longingly of how the remaining eye would feel, popping like a grape in his squeezing fingers, as during his dying moments a certain pain in the ass heard the terrified screams of a woman making her unwelcome acquaintance with a dozen bikers. Good times, for sure, except that Bates still had to get on with the third bet, and frankly, he wasn't all that confident of victory. Those weirdos were just too smug, sitting there at their table, and both interestedly regarding the massive man giving them a very nasty look.
The odd thing was that Bates didn't even think about disregarding the bet and starting right away with the old ultra-violence. Especially since that biker certainly didn't have any morals, ethics, and principles. In the past, Skullripper had stolen Gideon Bibles from motels to use these as toilet paper for his daily dumps, as a teenager he'd cheerfully sold his mother into white slavery at the worse whorehouse in Tijuana that had put on stage shows consisting of their female captive and assorted barnyard animals, and lastly, whenever the vile man had been served with a slice of apple pie in a diner, he had the repulsive habit of slathering up to an entire bottle of ketchup over that innocent dessert. Nope, Lenny Bates was absolutely proud of being part of the scum of the earth.
However, even the worse humans alive have a code, and for bikers, their unwritten rules include a simple diktat: You Do Not Welsh On Bar Bets. If only because anybody acquiring a reputation of someone who did that would soon enough be shunned by every other biker, being reduced to lighting their own farts for amusement, and never again invited along on the weekly blitzkrieg into the territory of the neighboring outlaw motorcycle club, those Suzuki-riding, candy-ass, sons of bitches.
Finally getting down to business, the biker leader now snarled at two people he was really starting to dislike, "Okay, let's get it fuckin' over with. Spill it, asshole. Whaddya gonna do now that we gotta copy?"
The guy sitting at the table didn't seem to be all that impressed at the very displeased tone of the head of the RRR club. Keeping his face calm as he stood up from his chair, Xander looked right at a glowering Bates and replied, "Oh, I'll do something. But, all you have to do to win the bet is to NOT do something."
"Huh?" was bewilderedly chorused by Bates and also several of his followers.
"Yup," nodded the one-eyed man. "I'll bet right here and now, that I can do something so disgusting, perverse, and revolting that at least one of you will puke your guts out. If all of you can keep from doing that, you win, and then you get to do whatever you want."
There was dead silence in the bar for several moments, which was ended by something that neither Xander nor Faith had expected.
Laughter.
Every single one of the bikers, from Bates himself to the lowest guy on the club hierarchy, started to loudly guffaw, and then this developed into actual deep belly-laughs for them all that went on long and hard enough for the amused men to start holding onto each other to keep from collapsing to the floor in their mirth. What made this strange turn of events even more peculiar was that down along the bar counter, Joey was also snickering to himself, the first time since the bikers had entered his saloon that the man had showed the slightest sign of hilarity.
The puzzled look traded between Faith and Xander was interrupted by Bates lurching over to their table, to stand in front of this piece of furniture while the biker wiped away happy tears from his face, and then the man managed to choke out, "Ya don't know much about us, right?"
Of the pair, it was Faith who managed to speak first, warily asking, "What the hell are ya talkin' 'bout?"
Really enjoying himself for the first time tonight, Bates jerked a thumb at his massive chest, to proudly inform his audience, "It's like this. To become one a' us, a guy hasta go through initiation. We make damn sure they really wanna join, by havin' 'em do three things. First, to make sure they're tough enough, we beat the livin' crap outta 'em. Second, to see if their balls clang when they walk, we tell 'em they gotta do somethin' totally insane, like goin' for a pizza in the middle of a hurricane. Last of all, if they survive the first two things, they haveta show they got the guts to be a Rider. An' the only way to finish the job of gettin' our colors is to do exactly what's on 'em."
At those last words, Bates and every other biker now turned around, presenting to a dumbfounded Xander and Faith a dozen identical images on the backs of their leather jackets of a truly unbelievable act being committed upon a very large African horned herbivore that was not enjoying this at ALL.
After spending a few moments appreciating the speechless silence coming from behind them, Bates and his buddies turned around, with the their boss then folding his arms across his chest and bestowing a lupine grin upon these shaken people. The leader of the pack now rumbled, "Okay, then. Let's see what ya got, that'll make us toss our cookies, by guys who seen and done a helluva lot worse than anythin' a pissant like ya can come up with."
Xander blinked, and then a steely glint grew in his remaining eye. Yeah, those….people waiting for him to perform were far beyond in degeneracy than he'd previously thought possible, but he was still confident that at least ONE of those lowlifes would be unsettled enough to bring up their lunch. Or dinner. Or whatever they'd just eaten in the last couple of hours. Because what Xander Harris was about to do was something that would strike to the very core of every single human that existed.
Stepping forward, Xander left behind the table where a concerned Faith still in her chair watched him leave, brushing past an amused Bates turning to see the other guy walk down the line of bikers leaning against the bar counter and examining the one-eyed man with sadistic interest.
This didn't include Joey at the end of the bar counter, who worriedly backed up when Xander stopped there, with the bartender then feeling a little bit better over being ignored by the other man, who was instead looking at a couple of things being displayed on the counter. When Xander reached out with his hands, everyone else at once realized what the man with the eyepatch was actually interested in, resulting in their attention changing into honest bewilderment.
Except for Faith, still at her table in the corner. Unnoticed by all there, she'd averted her eyes, fixedly staring off into the distance where she couldn't possibly see whatever would happen next. Once had been more than enough, thank you.
On the other hand, Bates, his buddies, and Joey were all gaping in astonishment at Xander calmly taking off the lid of a glass gallon jar resting on top of the bar counter and filled with a cloudy liquid that contained several objects bobbing away inside the jar. Intent upon his task, Xander now plunged his right arm into the container, and after a few grabs, he managed to get a grip on one of the slippery things, to then triumphantly extract his filled hand from the jar. Stepping away from the bar counter while shaking his damp hand to get rid of the sulfur-smelling drops of liquid clinging to his fingers, Xander then faced the staring bikers, and the deadpan man held up his hand to show them what he'd taken out of the jar, now resting on his palm.
It was a hard-boiled egg, identical to all those other pickled unborn chickens in their brine-filled jars that have a place of honor in every lower-class pub, tavern, saloon, and drinking hole around the whole country, despite the fact that nobody is ever seen eating one of those unwholesome examples of bar food.
As the bikers continued to stare at the egg, an unspoken question arising in their minds of, "What the hell…?", Xander kept holding up this pungent, grayish-white oval, and in the next moment, he brought up his left hand, right to that side of his head, his fingers of that hand now digging under the leather strap of his eyepatch, to then yank off this protective covering and allow his hand holding this to fall back down to his side. Xander calmly kept his face forward, allowing every biker there a good, long look at the scarred crater in his skull that had once contained his left eye, until the former Sunnydale resident felt the moment was right.
Without a single muscle moving on his features, Xander now once more gripped the egg, and in one smooth sweep of his right arm towards his face, the man thrust the entire egg deep into his empty eye socket, accompanied by a bowel-loosening sound of, "Squiiiiish!"
Being the closest one there watching Xander do this, Joey immediately turned his head and puked over the floor behind the counter. The rest of the bikers, Bates included, had their faces turn white, and their mouths clapped shut below widened eyes, clearly fighting their own urge to upchuck at seeing that unexpected show of perversity. They seemed to be successful at this, Xander noticed, which wouldn't do at all. So, it was time for the pièce de résistance.
Stepping over to the counter once more, as a gagging Joey recoiled away from Xander, that California native now picked up something from a tray on top of the bar counter. This tray held plastic spoons, stirrers, and other minor utensils for drinks. Which included a certain beverage known as a mai tai cocktail.
Xander now held up a tiny, ultra-cheap, paper cocktail umbrella with a garishly-purple canopy, waiting patiently until all the bikers there still fighting down their nausea over having to look at the man with the egg actually IN his face, like the world's biggest and most obscene pimple, had time to realize exactly what the guy was holding. Then, Xander flipped the umbrella over to grip the knob at the top of the umbrella, holding the toothpick stem vertically, until the man casually brought up his right hand to his missing left eye, and plunged the umbrella toothpick right into the egg, as deep as it would go. As he took his hand away, Xander suddenly smirked at all of the bikers, causing the umbrella canopy to twitch slightly in its embedded position in his eye-socket.
Skullripper Bates and every other Raped Rhino Rider promptly leaned over the floor and performed a synchronized mass projectile vomiting.