At a dusty roadside diner off the highway, an old, tired truck driver sat quietly at a corner booth, slowly eating his meal. Dressed in faded jeans and a trucker’s cap, he kept to himself, sipping coffee and minding his own business.
The door swung open with a clang as three loud, leather-clad bikers swaggered in, bringing noise and bravado with them.
The first biker strutted over to the old man’s table, locked eyes with him, and without a word, crushed his cigarette into the man’s slice of pie. Then he turned and headed to the counter, smirking.
The second biker followed, leaned over, and spit into the old man’s glass of milk before sauntering away to join his buddy.
The third one approached with a mocking grin, flipped the old man’s plate onto the floor with a loud clatter, and laughed as he walked off.
The entire diner fell silent.
The old man didn’t flinch. He calmly stood, grabbed his check, walked over to the register, paid, and left without so much as a glance at the bikers.
As the door swung closed behind him, one of the bikers snorted and said, “Hah. Not much of a man, is he?”
The waitress, still watching out the window, chuckled and said, “Not much of a driver either … he just backed his 18-wheeler over three motorcycles.