Bikers' Code of Ethics
Most South Side neighborhoods had a gang of bikers. Ours had the Saddle Tramps. I have a huge respect for bikers. They have a very specific code of conduct. Part of that code was to protect "women and children". This did not mean "don't beat your wife", but it did cover "don't let anybody insult your wife".
One evening, a friend comes banging on our front door, and says,"You gotta see it! There's a biker gonna bleed to death in the alley!" So, of course, we rushed out to see the bleeding man. We ran all the way up the street and across Lynch to see...

an ambulance.

Damn! We never get to see the really cool stuff, we thought. There was a huge crowd behind the ambulance, so we waited figuring we might get to see something as the ambulance went by. We waited and waited, a small group of young teens, hanging out at the corner of an alley, restlessly hoping for a little bit of gore.
The ambulance started moving slowly toward us, but the crowd didn't break up. They followed along, trailing about 20 ft. behind. We saw the reason for the gap soon enough. The biker refused to get into the ambulance. It was a macabre procession of humanity, parading slowly down the alley. Inside the ambulance sat a paramedic, repeatedly asking, "You want to get in and go to the hospital? Come on, dude, you really need that stitched up. Why don't you let us help you?"
Behind the ambulance walked an angry, drunken, blood-dripping biker and his wife. She was crying and pleading with him to go to the hospital. "You can get revenge after you get fixed up." She'd plead, "It ain't important what he said or done, you can get him later."
By this time, they had crossed Lynch and started down my alley. I saw that the biker had both blood-covered hands crammed against his lower stomache. One of the kids with us said, "He got his thumb cut off," in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Another chimed in with, "and he got axed in the stomache!"
The biker had his own mantra to keep him going. "I'm gonna get that bastard. Don't cut me goddamit. Don't dump beer on my woman then cut me. Get that fucker." He would pause and look longingly at the ambulance, which would get both the paramedic and his wife to start up their pleas again, then he would return to his mantra of vengance, staggering forward a few steps with each statement he made.
My sister and I joined the stately parade down the alley, waiting for the biker to either get in the ambulance or die. I have always been an optomist, I was silently rooting for him to collapse and be dragged into the transport. I hoped they'd fix him up good so he could get his revenge. Not one person in the crowd made a peep as we shuffled our way toward one man's death or salvation. None of us spoke of it later, other than to ask, "Did you see the biker?" or respond, "Yes. I saw the biker."
It took about 20 minutes to make it down the alley to our house. The biker fell down a couple of times, and I could see that he was, indeed, missing part of his thumb. Once the paramedic almost got him into the ambulance, but the biker started fighting it and he fell out.
This is one of my few stories without a real ending. My sister and I had long since grown weary of the death walk, so as the procession passed our back yard, we dropped out and went inside. We turned the radio up really loud, and sat for the rest of the night.
I don't know if the biker ever got into the ambulance, and if he did, I don't know if he lived. I flashed back to that day when I was in high school, and learned that E.Coli lives happily in your intestines, but kills if it enters your bloodstream. I've re-lived seeing children prizing bloodstained rocks from between the bricks in my alley. I guess they wanted souveniers.