After my wife Barbara’s funeral, I discovered my Harley Electra Glide vandalized in the church parking lot. The words “BIKER TRASH GET OUT” were scrawled across it. It wasn’t random—this was a personal attack from the same “respectable” neighbors who’d pretended to care about Barbara during the service.

Six months ago, when we moved to Cedar Hills, the “nice” neighborhood, Barbara’s cancer had returned, and our daughter found a rancher for us. But the community had its unspoken rules—no motorcycles, no leather vests. They wanted me to change, but at seventy-two, I wasn’t about to.

From the moment we moved in, Howard Parkman, president of the homeowners’ association, had been a problem, targeting my bike with complaints. He thought my presence would damage their pristine image. But Barbara never asked me to give up my motorcycle, and I wasn’t about to do it.

At the funeral, while everyone pretended to mourn, Howard stood across the lot, smirking. After the vandalism, I knew this was personal.

At the reception, Howard tried to speak of “appropriate vehicles,” but I confronted him. “I’ve buried my wife, my parents, and sixteen brothers. I’ve got nothing to lose. And I always find out who crosses me.”