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Biker Bang
    Iron Disciples M.C.
    When I heard the terrible roar of the engines growing from down the road, I knew that trouble wouldn’t be far behind. In a matter of hours this place would become a den of debauchery. Loud music, yelling & shouting, drinking, smoking, swearing and pissing contests. And the fighting. That was the worst of all. The motorcycles I heard coming down the road were earlier than I expected. I grabbed a wet rag from behind the counter and ran out from behind the bar to wipe down the tables quickly. I wasn’t sure why I even bothered, to be honest. Come morning they would be sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ash. When I finished, I dashed up to the front of the bar to steal a glance out the window.
    Out over the street, a great yellow banner reading “WELCOME MOTORCYCLISTS” swung in the wind. Every year, thousands of bikers would descend upon the small town of Belmill for the annual Belmill Motorcycle Rally. I just happened to tend bar at the only biker-styled bar in town, right on Main Street. Every year it was a double edged sword. We’d be packed for days on end, we’d pocket a ton of cash, but the place would get trashed and there was always some kind of trouble. They say that 99% of all motorcycle riders are upstanding, law abiding citizens and I’m sure there’s some truth in that number. But when you’re dealing with thousands upon thousands of bikers all congregating in one place, that other 1% adds up to a pretty substantial number of outlaws. Enough to wreak havoc on a town as small as Belmill and completely trash a little small town biker bar like ours. That’s where the real problem came in. For the most part, they all just come to ride and drink and have a good time. But when the various outlaw clubs start bumping up against each other, something always goes wrong. Happens every year, without exception.
    Down the street, I could see the first bikers coming over the hill. They were riding in formation, like some fire breathing steel cavalry, dressed out in leather, dark shades hiding their eyes, and stone cold expressions on their faces. It was an intimidating sight, for sure. Which was exactly how they wanted it to be. When they roared past the bar, I could see the large emblems sewn onto the back of their leather kuttes. The skeleton of an eagle, wings spread menacingly. Iron Disciples MC. I had heard of them before. It had to have been the mother chapter of the club, based out of Reno, because the bottom rockers on their kuttes displayed “NEVADA” proudly to the rest of the world. They were definitely one of the groups we were going to have to keep an eye on.
    “Ah, shit. Harry, it’s starting!”
    Harry came shuffling out of the manager’s office, his bald head shining under the dim bar lights. “Is that so? I thought I heard motorcycles coming down the road.”
    “Oh yeah.”
    “Well, I hope you got everything cleaned up and ready to go.”
    “Just about.”
    “And I hope you got some extra pockets in those pants.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “You’re gonna run out of places to stuff all the tips you’re about to make.”
    “Hope you’re right about that.”
    “This isn’t your first rally.”
    “And that’s why I know better than to be excited.”
    He just laughed. “Ah, you’ll be alright, Chelsea. Just remember to duck out of the way when the fists start flying.”
    I rolled my eyes and went back wiping down the bar.
     
    Little by little, as the sun started to set, the bar began to fill up with leather clad patrons. Things were looking good. The crowd was jovial and thirsty. I was busy running back and forth, cranking the tops off of beers and mixing whiskey drinks, but that was nothing I couldn’t handle. As far as I could tell, there were no outlaws in the mix, just “99%ers”, so to speak. And besides, it was hard to complain about the tips. The way things were going, I would be able to pay my rent with just what I was making tonight. Harry