as long as you like, but don’t go lookin’ for us to join your
fuckin’ renegade brigade.” Sully stood up and shouted, “Someone roll me
another joint!”
“Then why bother with the radio broadcast at all?” asked
John, his face reddening with rising frustration.
“That was a call to our brothers, nothing else,” replied
Sully.
The other bikers got up, grabbed beers, and went their
ways. Two men shuffled over to a Marshall JCM, marred by gashes and cigarette
burns. A ragged instrument cable ran from it to a black Les Paul leaning
against overflowing cardboard boxes. The men hit the standby switch on the
head, and jammed with the tunes on the boombox.
Alex looked at John with hopeful eyes.
“What should we do?”
“For now, I think we hang here and regroup. Let’s give the
Covenant time to forget about us. Once they do, we won’t have such a hard time
getting around the city.”
“Then what?”
“I have no clue. Hand me another beer, would ya?”
The Keepers handed John and Alex beers, but kept their
distance. Conversations between the bikers materialized out of grunted
whispers and hand gestures.
The Cleveland Chapter of the Keepers of the Wormwood
consisted of over a hundred outlaws. They came from various neighborhoods,
backgrounds, and ethnicities, which was unusual for most biker gangs in the
Midwest. True to Scully’s description, the Keepers avoided many of the illicit
activities that other criminals loved. They did not organize prostitution
rings, run guns, operate underground casinos, or sell drugs. Every so often they
would make the local news, though, as the Keepers were notorious for finding
ways to steal ATM machines outfitted with internal security cameras. The ATM’s
grainy, drop-frame video often showed longhairs on bikes, middle fingers in the
air as a tow truck ripped the machine from the wall of a bank. Months would go
by without a mention of the theft or gang, until the next surprise strike.
Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block
down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as
they helped to keep the peace. The metal and doom bands that graced the stage
of the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved
the music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers
invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the
back alley.
The rocker and biker chicks of Parma adored the Keepers.
Keepers loved to party, and spent their money like it was nothing but paper.
Girls could get whiskey, dope, or crank that would last days. The bikers never
claimed an Old Lady, preferring to share the women as they did the alcohol and
drugs.
Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle
died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved
right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn.
By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took
the President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong
party and then it was business as usual, but with a new leader.
The Keepers, along with their new acquaintances, partied
through most of the night. When they smoked all of the dope and the beer ran
out, Sully approached John and Alex. They found a table in the corner by the
bar, sitting at an angle as if the room slid into a sinkhole. Sully wore two
ladies over his vest and was not ready to call it a night.
“Boys! We’ve got cardboard boxes and moving blankets over
there behind the bar. It ain’t the fucking Hilton, but you’ll be able to get
some sleep.”
The women giggled and continued to stroke Sully’s hair.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” asked John.
“The plan? I told you guys. Let society fucking die. We
live on the fringes and this shit don’t affect us. The more of
fuckin’ renegade brigade.” Sully stood up and shouted, “Someone roll me
another joint!”
“Then why bother with the radio broadcast at all?” asked
John, his face reddening with rising frustration.
“That was a call to our brothers, nothing else,” replied
Sully.
The other bikers got up, grabbed beers, and went their
ways. Two men shuffled over to a Marshall JCM, marred by gashes and cigarette
burns. A ragged instrument cable ran from it to a black Les Paul leaning
against overflowing cardboard boxes. The men hit the standby switch on the
head, and jammed with the tunes on the boombox.
Alex looked at John with hopeful eyes.
“What should we do?”
“For now, I think we hang here and regroup. Let’s give the
Covenant time to forget about us. Once they do, we won’t have such a hard time
getting around the city.”
“Then what?”
“I have no clue. Hand me another beer, would ya?”
The Keepers handed John and Alex beers, but kept their
distance. Conversations between the bikers materialized out of grunted
whispers and hand gestures.
The Cleveland Chapter of the Keepers of the Wormwood
consisted of over a hundred outlaws. They came from various neighborhoods,
backgrounds, and ethnicities, which was unusual for most biker gangs in the
Midwest. True to Scully’s description, the Keepers avoided many of the illicit
activities that other criminals loved. They did not organize prostitution
rings, run guns, operate underground casinos, or sell drugs. Every so often they
would make the local news, though, as the Keepers were notorious for finding
ways to steal ATM machines outfitted with internal security cameras. The ATM’s
grainy, drop-frame video often showed longhairs on bikes, middle fingers in the
air as a tow truck ripped the machine from the wall of a bank. Months would go
by without a mention of the theft or gang, until the next surprise strike.
Most members of the Keepers lived in a ratty duplex a block
down the street from the Jigsaw. The owner welcomed the patches every night as
they helped to keep the peace. The metal and doom bands that graced the stage
of the Jigsaw respected the Keepers of the Wormwood. The bikers in turn loved
the music and ran unofficial security for the shows. Troublemakers or hecklers
invariably found themselves bloodied and dazed underneath the dumpster in the
back alley.
The rocker and biker chicks of Parma adored the Keepers.
Keepers loved to party, and spent their money like it was nothing but paper.
Girls could get whiskey, dope, or crank that would last days. The bikers never
claimed an Old Lady, preferring to share the women as they did the alcohol and
drugs.
Scully inherited leadership of the Keepers after his uncle
died in a motorcycle accident. A soccer mom talking on her cell phone swerved
right into the bike, sending it and its rider for a fifty-foot asphalt burn.
By the time the paramedics got him to the hospital, he was dead. Sully took
the President patch without opposition. The gang mourned his uncle with a weeklong
party and then it was business as usual, but with a new leader.
The Keepers, along with their new acquaintances, partied
through most of the night. When they smoked all of the dope and the beer ran
out, Sully approached John and Alex. They found a table in the corner by the
bar, sitting at an angle as if the room slid into a sinkhole. Sully wore two
ladies over his vest and was not ready to call it a night.
“Boys! We’ve got cardboard boxes and moving blankets over
there behind the bar. It ain’t the fucking Hilton, but you’ll be able to get
some sleep.”
The women giggled and continued to stroke Sully’s hair.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” asked John.
“The plan? I told you guys. Let society fucking die. We
live on the fringes and this shit don’t affect us. The more of
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