The Dude rode from his house to the farm market, on the crude, mud spattered Ironhead Sportster, with only a backpack with which to carry home his produce, and a big backpack it was, because he would buy enough for the week. The Dude, as usual, was doing his grocery shopping, mostly all at the farm market, except for the bread, and his bakery of choice happened to be in an old neighborhood noted for street gang hoodlums. The Dude, tall and lanky, was for the most part, a vegetarian. But now, I must step back, to the incident of last week. He’d parked on the street a few doors down from the bakery. When he came out with two still warm loaves, he saw some young street punks around his bike, and one of them was even sitting on it, posing, like he was riding. There were three of them, altogether, brazenly watching him as he approached. Two more stood in a nearby doorway, looking amused, and smoking f...