Clubhouse

    The lifestyle wasn’t always  easy, pleasant or fun. It could be downright dangerous. The extremes of the weather in the Midwest and West alone were enough to discourage any sane person from riding. The old man didn’t really understand why he had adopted it. He was not a hard, tough individual. Although capable of great violence, he went to great lengths to avoid it or trouble of any sort.  Looking back through the decades he realized he had never fit in with “normal society”, and never would.  Even in the Army, he had never really fit the mold. Shy, quiet, never a people-person, the old man had more and more enjoyed the solitude of the lonesome open road.

    The 1%-ers could be the worst. Although they generally treated him with respect, the old man was never totally comfortable with them. As with his own club sometimes, and they may even have eyes and ears there.

    He could smell the brats cooking on the grill, making him hungry even though he had eaten not a couple of hours before.  The party was on, even in this weather. Some things just didn’t change….

    It was wet, misty evening, a fine rain coming down  as he walked up the dark inner-city side street. The old man saw the row of bikes parked out front, covered with droplets of water, glistening even in the dim light of the lone street lamp up the street a ways. He had ridden in this kind of miserable cold weather, knew that to some men pride meant more than  comfort or safety. He saw the sky-high apes on one of the bikes, knew the state enforcer was there. The man had to be damn near 7 foot tall to reach the fuckin’ throttle, not to mention the jockey shift on the right side of the scooter. The old man  smiled, knowing that the choppers sounded as good as they looked pulling into the lot of the bike show earlier.

    He realized as he walked up  the cracked and buckled concrete to the heavy steel door that the bikes were parked in that spot for a particular reason, and was not only being watched by a prospect standing in the shadows. He was about to knock when the heavy door was opened.

    Entering a 1% clubhouse was a lot like entering the embassy of a foreign nation. A new and different world. A new set of rules. Their own society, in and out of this place. Even in the lax party atmosphere, one was being closely watched and sized up. Everyone was armed, overtly or otherwise. Painted concrete walls covered with 1% logos, photos of lost brothers, banners with the colors of supporting clubs. A monitor for the cameras outside, another with a porno playing. Crowded with hard men, wet leather, rough riding boots and scantily clad ladies. Food and drink were offered to the old man and gladly accepted. He sat down among others from his club, listening to them razz  prospect Rico. He relaxed watching the two bikers playing a dice game at the end of the bar, and two more playing the blues on guitars in the corner. The old man lit a coffin nail with his worn Zippo, listening to the prospect catch hell from Billy, an old 1%-er that had been around the block a few times.

    Rico should have kept his fuckin’ mouth shut. She stuck her head in between his legs on the bench and did a head stand, spread her legs wide and placed her ample bare ass in Rico’s face. Huge bare breasts hanging down to the delight of the crowd….Well, except prospect Rico. He had his hands full in, uh, other ways. The lap dance had just started and the song was gonna be a long one….

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About badtwincam

Adventurer, all round character, and most reluctant of Prophets....
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One Response to Clubhouse

  1. Kim says:

    Keep those creative thoughts typing!! Very Very cool!!

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