Busimanolotome Osceola on his "Cyclops Cycle."
Me on J.T. Osceola's "stolen" chopper. Nokosee and I came across a picture of Busimanolotome Osceola, Nokosee's dad and the founder of the New Seminole. We think it's the only picture left of him. He was younger then, riding his custom chopper through the Everglades along the Tamiami Trail. He called it "Osceola's Spear," something he insisted no one see because its design was "proprietary," something he came up with and he didn't want anyone ripping it off-- especially that Indian Larry* guy who was showing up on TV at that time (what some people would call paranoia to describe Busi's thinking, he liked to think it was just Indian intuition). To steer it, you stuck your hands into the cowling and grabbed modified handlebars. At high speeds Busi rode it leaning forward, his chest and stomach becoming one with the tank, his hands and arms hidden inside. He rigged up a small windshield that would pop up automatically above the tank when the bike hit 50mph. From what we understand, he and the chairman of the Seminoles at that time (J.T. Osceola) were to go into business making them, branding them "Cyclops Cycles" because of its signature big freaking 12" diameter headlight. Then there was a "falling out" between the two. Don't know what it was about but one night Busi left in a huff and the bike's headlight stopped working somewhere along Alligator Alley just when he was making a right turn over the bridge leading to the Brighton Rez. He missed the road, slid across the dirt embankment, bounced into the air, slammed into the bridge, and crashed into the alligator infested canal below. Soon after he founded the New Seminoles and moved his wife and Nokosee-- who was just a baby at the time-- deep into the Everglades, forsaking anything that had to do with "The Outside."
I love this picture of him. He was happy, looking cool wearing his go-to Wayfarers and his favorite dew rag, a purple bandana with the Purple Heart medal he won for serving his country. It rested on the front of the scarf, anchoring a couple of eagle feathers. I wear that medal now on my headband. Proudly. But when I met him for the first time (book one) it was deep in the Everglades on a moonlit night. Nokosee and I were racing through the swamp in an airboat, chased by a couple of angry redneck psychopaths in their own airboats. When ours crashed and Nokosee and I got separated I found myself stumbling through the knee deep water onto one redneck motherfucker trying to kill Nokosee. I raised my .44 Magnum, "the most powerful handgun in the world"-- as Dirty Harry and Nokosee liked to remind me-- and blew the bastard's hand off. You'd think that would stop him, right? Oh, no, he grabbed his stump to stop the gushing and came after me. I stumbled backwards and tripped over a cypress knee jutting out of the water. On my butt with water up to my shoulders, I pulled the trigger again but it didn't fire. I checked the gun but when I looked up, a knife was protruding through that guy's belly and inching slowly upward, his guts spilling out into the water, and his eyes wide open , looking up at the stars. Busi stuck his head around the guy's shoulder and told him "This is for my son." Apparently Busi had been keeping a close watch on Nokosee from the beginning of his walkabout through the Everglades, where he met me lost in a summer fire. Which is something I can understand what with Nokosee being "the first of the New Seminole" and all not to mention Busi's only son.
But then Busi looked at me. I swear I was next on his list. I told him not to come any closer and pointed the gun at him. When he wouldn't stop, I pulled the trigger. Nothing. He laughed, insulted me, and told me there weren't any bullets with his name on them before going over to assist Nokosee.
When we met up again about a month later, I was on the run from a whole slew of cops in cars, on bikes, and in the air, and driving J.T. Osceola's "Osceola's Spear" hell bent for leather across Alligator Alley. It wasn't a "Cyclops" but it was a chopper (I "traded" my Indian motorcycle for his but J.T. and the law saw it differently). The picture on the left was shot by some Outsider as I raced by. It was a big viral hit for awhile. Plan on using it as evidence if they ever catch me and put me on trial-- I mean, come on, already; they were chasing me down with a helicopter and machine gunning me for chrissakes! Anyway, after a major firefight-- Busi shot down a cop copter with an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade)-- I was cowering in the grass thinking I was going to die what with all of the bullets whizzing by and exploding helicopter shrapnel-- when Busi, with the smoking RPG slung over his shoulder, lifts me up by the back of my motorcycle jacket with one hand, looks at my new Mohawk and head tats and says, "What the hell?"
Yeah, he was one crazy-brave motherfucker, too. It took a long while for us to "buddy up" but we finally did after many moments of me wanting to kill him and him me.
Ride on, my Micco, ride on.
*Indian Larry of TV fame is NOT the crazy New Seminole Indian Larry in book two who we suspect was the mastermind for blowing up the Lake Okeechobee dike. BTW Indian Larry of TV fame, RIP.
I love this picture of him. He was happy, looking cool wearing his go-to Wayfarers and his favorite dew rag, a purple bandana with the Purple Heart medal he won for serving his country. It rested on the front of the scarf, anchoring a couple of eagle feathers. I wear that medal now on my headband. Proudly. But when I met him for the first time (book one) it was deep in the Everglades on a moonlit night. Nokosee and I were racing through the swamp in an airboat, chased by a couple of angry redneck psychopaths in their own airboats. When ours crashed and Nokosee and I got separated I found myself stumbling through the knee deep water onto one redneck motherfucker trying to kill Nokosee. I raised my .44 Magnum, "the most powerful handgun in the world"-- as Dirty Harry and Nokosee liked to remind me-- and blew the bastard's hand off. You'd think that would stop him, right? Oh, no, he grabbed his stump to stop the gushing and came after me. I stumbled backwards and tripped over a cypress knee jutting out of the water. On my butt with water up to my shoulders, I pulled the trigger again but it didn't fire. I checked the gun but when I looked up, a knife was protruding through that guy's belly and inching slowly upward, his guts spilling out into the water, and his eyes wide open , looking up at the stars. Busi stuck his head around the guy's shoulder and told him "This is for my son." Apparently Busi had been keeping a close watch on Nokosee from the beginning of his walkabout through the Everglades, where he met me lost in a summer fire. Which is something I can understand what with Nokosee being "the first of the New Seminole" and all not to mention Busi's only son.
But then Busi looked at me. I swear I was next on his list. I told him not to come any closer and pointed the gun at him. When he wouldn't stop, I pulled the trigger. Nothing. He laughed, insulted me, and told me there weren't any bullets with his name on them before going over to assist Nokosee.
When we met up again about a month later, I was on the run from a whole slew of cops in cars, on bikes, and in the air, and driving J.T. Osceola's "Osceola's Spear" hell bent for leather across Alligator Alley. It wasn't a "Cyclops" but it was a chopper (I "traded" my Indian motorcycle for his but J.T. and the law saw it differently). The picture on the left was shot by some Outsider as I raced by. It was a big viral hit for awhile. Plan on using it as evidence if they ever catch me and put me on trial-- I mean, come on, already; they were chasing me down with a helicopter and machine gunning me for chrissakes! Anyway, after a major firefight-- Busi shot down a cop copter with an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade)-- I was cowering in the grass thinking I was going to die what with all of the bullets whizzing by and exploding helicopter shrapnel-- when Busi, with the smoking RPG slung over his shoulder, lifts me up by the back of my motorcycle jacket with one hand, looks at my new Mohawk and head tats and says, "What the hell?"
Yeah, he was one crazy-brave motherfucker, too. It took a long while for us to "buddy up" but we finally did after many moments of me wanting to kill him and him me.
Ride on, my Micco, ride on.
*Indian Larry of TV fame is NOT the crazy New Seminole Indian Larry in book two who we suspect was the mastermind for blowing up the Lake Okeechobee dike. BTW Indian Larry of TV fame, RIP.
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