Bill once had a summer job as a truck driver. Twice a week, he hauled loads on the interstate between Cincinnati and Atlanta. He always stopped for lunch at Joe's Diner, a friendly little truck stop about halfway between the two cities.
One day Bill parked his truck, walked into Joe's Diner, sat down on a stool at the counter and ordered lunch. Off in the distance, there was a roar and a cloud of dust. As the roar got closer, out of the cloud of dust came twelve gang members on motorcycles. The bikers parked their cycles and stomped into the diner. They formed a semicircle around Bill and began to snap their fingers in a rhythmic cadence. Bill sat at the counter, unperturbed, eating his lunch. Then the leader of the gang silenced his men, pointed at two of them, pointed at Bill and snapped his fingers. The two bikers went over to Bill. One of them poured iced tea over Bill's head. The other picked up the mashed potatoes and smashed them into Bill's face. Then the two of them knocked him off the stool and beat him to a pulp. Bill never said a word. He got up, brushed himself off, paid Joe for the lunch and left.
The leader of the motorcycle gang swaggered over to Joe and said, "That guy's not much of a man, is he? He didn't even stand up for himself." "No," Joe replied as he looked out the window, "and he's not much of a truck driver either. He just ran over twelve motorcycles."
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