Black clad and blood splattered, the swarm of bikers rounded the curve on County Road K with an ear numbing buzz. They were leaned back with arms out, nestled deep in chrome and leather. Beards and goggles hid their grim expressions.
It had been a hell of a ride.
Carlo McKeen was the tip of the trident with Eddie Coin and Vince making up the other points. Dick Murphy followed close behind and rounded out the inner circle of the gang even though he didn’t rate a spot in the front.
The group moved like a single thing, as one vehicle, perfectly in sync. They sped through straights and turns, sun and shadow, all the way to Lola’s Landing.
They parked and dismounted with a chorus of jangles, creaks, and grunts. One by one they went in an took up their usual positions, squinting in the dark interior of the shit-house watering hole they called home. Carlo, Eddie, and Vince all sat along the bar with Dick at the curve on the end.
Pat, behind the counter, poured out eight shots, cracked four beers, and arranged them all in front of them. Eddie patted Carlo on the back, smearing some of the blood across his jacket.
“Fuck yeah, man! You did it! The whole river valley now. All ours!” He raised a shot. The other two did the same, lifting the toast high. Carlo joined them, but reluctantly. His mood was obvious and infectious. What should have been a rousing cheer came off as a half-hearted hurrah. They slapped their empty glasses onto the bar.
“So what’s up your ass?” Asked Vince.
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Tough as nails bikers need a bad-ass name for their gang. But what do you do when your leader has other ideas? Internal strife abounds in this humorous little short. Sign up and have a chuckle!
