Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Crown

CHAPTER II - The Bottom Of The Barrel

The men pulled me and then chucked out of the van, dragging me onto the floor and into a room. Still I saw nothing. I was forcefully lifted upto a table, the bag removed from my head. The blinding beam of a lamps light directed straight for my eyes, I couldn't even lift my hands to cover the stinging brightness, they had been tightly bound by a selection of zip-ties stopping the flow of blood in my wrists. I could feel how quickly my heart was beating.

As my eyes adjusted I noticed a man sitting at the table before me, he had black hair tied back into a pony tail and a worn leather jacket covering his top, a patch labeled 'President' was stitched onto it. "Stop squinting, the light isn't that bright," he said pointing the light back down at the table making me more aware of the heavy revolver he'd just placed down, "You're not leaving here until you tell me why you were there."

"I was w-where?"

"You got in our way, why were you there?," He demanded.

"Where? That place was my Father's office!"

"So it was, huh?"

"Yes," I stated as another man grabbed my shoulder and made his face visible to me, he was wearing a black beanie and sun glasses, he was less scarred than the other man, less scary. More ominous.
"How can we believe that? You could be fucking anyone," he said pulling down his glasses to look me in the eye. I didn't know what to do, I don't look like my Father, we weren't even that close, he was simply just my form of income, any money he got, I spent. I wasn't a business man or entrepreneur, just a teenager following an extremely materialistic lifestyle.

"I am his son, I promise you. That guy in there, they call him Bones because that is all he leaves behind. He's the one who tried to kill my Father!"
"Calm it, he didn't try to kill your Father, he fucking succeeded," said the second guy, he re-adjusted his glasses and faced towards the other man, they looked at each other and nodded. The second pulled the bag back over my head and I was pulled out. The next thing I experienced was being placed onto a chair, my senses had adjusted and my ears felt like they could hear better already, the loud whining of a tool or piece of equipment rang in my ears.

The zip-ties were cut and I finally felt a sense of freedom until someone grabbed my arm and held it down, I did not resist. I didn't know how outnumbered I was.

I then felt the piercing; it felt like a billion needles stabbing my arm simultaneously. Every beat stinging like a wasp into the top of my forearm. It was a tattoo, I had been marked. From what I could feel it wasn't a detailed tattoo with shadows, it couldn't have been too detailed thus a fast but still rather painful experience.

"He's safe now," said what sounded like the second person, the President said, "Alice, take him to the lake."
I was gripped by someone else someone with a feminine grip, she pulled me out of the building into the sandy Nevada Air. She ripped off the sack covering my head, it was now nighttime. She led me to a rusted bike with a rather large beer bellied man standing beside it, he forced me onto a it. His voice almost scraping out of his throat to get out and speak,
"You will follow me, If not Vegas will send you straight to London."

I thought to myself for a moment, 'Vegas?' We couldn't have gotten that far. My hands gripped the handles tightly, the handlebars were worn and sticky, I revved, the engine to this rat-bike sounded almost beyond repair. We set off, I was followed by a trail of blackened smoke. We reached the lake, it was lit by the rays of the moon. Before me was a mirrored world, one so distorted and similar that I couldn't resist but to step in, the cold surrounded my feet. It didn't hurt, I didn't hurt.

The brute handed me a white t-shirt, "You wear this from now on. Nothing more, nothing less." I took my sweat drenched t-shirt off and replaced it with the new one, he then handed me a denim jacket that had it's sleeves torn off. It looked like it had been used many times, it had it's own history, it's own story. It had been worn by many a man before me. But why was I the next of kin? Why did I wear this cut filled with so much history? This cut that has been ripped and resewn too many times. A part of me felt honoured to wear it, I could feel the big bearded man's eyes staring at me with a slight smirk forming on his hairy face, he rasped again, "Swim. And don't take too long, this is my place and I don't want your stench contaminating it," it was a bit rich for him to say to me, I'm the type of guy who would've spent $1000 on some aftershave. His giant footsteps carried him to his bike and his husky weight perched on it whilst I began to trudge through the cold murky water. As I got deeper I felt my feet soon become weightless, I couldn't feel the ground. I forced myself through the current of water, it took hours to reach the pier. I reached my way out, the bite of the cold controlling me and forcing me to tremble.

I noticed the guy I'd met earlier that day, he stood smoking a cigarette. I stumbled over, "Hey fresh blood, how was the swim?" He smiled sarcastically and then pointed directing me to the rat-bike. It was almost as though it's rust got worse as I sat upon the seat. We rode back to the shop we left from, Alice was still there.

Their President was no longer there.

I noticed the slightly less structured man chuckle and then smile, "I'm surprised you didn't realise me," I was confused, why would I realise him?

I asked, "What do you mean?"

"Surely you wouldn't forget a good friend like me, even if I haven't seen you for years," he pulled off his glasses revealing his eyes yet again. Eyes are something that never change, a part of us that never seem to change and that's when I noticed who he was. A childhood friend that I had been disconnected from.

"Gonzo?"

"I haven't heard that name for a while, I miss it. I felt more honour with that name than my own. I cannot believe I disregarded it, I took it as an insult," he sighed looking up at the sky, "You better thank your lucky stars that you're alive, not many people get the protection that the mark on your wrist presents." He grabbed my wrist pulling it up showing me the marking. I hadn't even thought to check. "You were marked by Vegas, that is a rarity. Not even our most decorated members can say they have that opportunity."

"Who is this Vegas everyone keeps going on about?"

"You should be aware by now, you've met him. Ponytail, quite feminine, has a patch stating 'President.' Him."

"Why have I been tattooed?"

"A skeletal mark, our club the Grave Diggers marks Everyone we protect. It's a sign of honour, every member wears one and every other person who needs to be protected by us."

"I don't need to be protected," I exclaimed.

"Quite clearly, you do."

This comment got me quite confused I hadn't seen this 'marking' on anyone else. The shape wasn't familiar. They cannot have been protecting many people. My head still in a storm of fog and mist about all of the events that had brought me here, "Why would Vegas give me one? Why would I need to be protected?"

"Your Father, he helped the club with funding every now and then, he also provided most of us with our own businesses, this one here is mine. Skeletal Ink," Gonzo pointed at the clean and well maintained tattoo shop, it was abnormal for the area it sat in, all of the buildings surrounding it were either abandoned or had various windows smashed. The store was immaculate and untouched.

I needed time to breathe, time to think. Why had I never known about this alliance between my father and this Motorcycle Club? A part of me felt a slight security with the mark as I knew I would be protected. I also felt as though the mark was a danger, I was now branded like cattle.

Gonzo looked at me, "If you so much as dare to disrespect that marking we will hunt you down. This will be the only thing you inherit from your Father, no money, no buildings, nothing. Just that mark, that was all that he left you. He was a respectable Nomad. Me and you haven't been friends for a while and we still won't be. You're alone. Whilst you follow the path of the fire nobody is your friend. You're now owned. You'll be treated like the piece of shit that you are. Now, get out of here. Prospect," he muttered. His tone had grown more harsh and demanding, not a tone between friends.

I got back onto my bike, I was now a Prospect. Their property. That cross on my wrist, the mark, It showed anyone that if they so much as gave me the wrong look they were sentenced to death. I couldn't have been chucked into the deep end more than I had now and none of it felt good.