Rain tapped against the windows of Ed’s Truck Stop as I refilled coffee mugs for the usual late-night crowd. Then, in walked an old man—thin, weathered, and silent. He ordered pie and milk, keeping to himself.
Minutes later, three bikers burst in, loud and obnoxious. They zeroed in on the old man, ruining his food, mocking him, and smashing his plate. He didn’t yell. Didn’t fight. Just paid his bill and left.
The bikers sneered, calling him weak.
Then they looked outside.
Their custom bikes were nothing but scrap metal under the tires of a semi. The old man? Already rolling down the highway.
The diner buzzed with quiet satisfaction. No one said much, but the message was clear: real power doesn’t need to scream.
