The Finks are an Australian outlaw motorcycle club that was formed in Adelaide, Australia, in 1969, and now also has chapters in other states. The name comes from The Wizard of Id cartoon where the peasants, to his dismay, often proclaim, "The King is a fink!". The logo used by the Finks is of Bung, the king's jester. The pants worn by the jester used to differ in colour depending on the state the chapter resides in.
The club was restricted by government actions in South Australia. Despite rivalries, various other groups joined to protest the South Australian government's proposed "anti-bikie legislation".
It was reported in October 2013 that most members were to switch to the United States-based Mongols Motorcycle Club.
Kinbaku
She had been amusing to him at first. Intoxicating even. However as the days passed the chains and bars of his close captivity had worn on him. Aran had also begun to wonder of his purpose here?
He had dined well considering his status as a prisoner, and was for the most part treated with respect even if it was of a curt kind. The golden warrior had become well aware the small woman with no more than the stature of a doll treated him like a possession.
Dahlia guarded her two little daughters closely from his gaze. Though he was to learn their names, Koemi meaning little laugh, who was only three, and Kokoa - love of the heart who was no more than seven years of age. Dahlia herself watching him constantly from afar with slit eyed scrutiny.
Though at times, mostly late evenings after the little ones were in bed and the intrusions of the day were past, she would deign to sit close to her captive and speak to him, while she sewed. Aran would watch the needle with mesmerizing accuracy puncture the rich silken fabrics and embellish them with fabulous color and design.
Dahlia fascinated him, her creativity and composure something he had not credited to a woman before. He had seen Maya fashion very serviceable garments, however this was something magical and way beyond anything he had witnessed from what he deemed an inferior woman's mind.
Part of him wished to treat her with a certain contempt that he had always shown for a female, as though she were some kind of a lesser creature, incapable of any kind of noble action or high thought. Though he found himself wary to openly do so.
The smell of incense drifted to him, however to his acute senses honed by years of hard survival it did little to dull the scent of her. Aran's mind wandering to places of carnality as he watched on through the bars of his prison.
Dahlia shifted restlessly as though well aware of her captive's intent, demurely covering with the red silk of her kimono, the accidentally inviting curve of a breast. Pinning back a strand of errant black hair that had somehow slipped the confines of the tight knot at the nape of her neck. Then continuing with the embroidery she had been so engrossed in. It was of a white fox in snow, on an ice blue background.
Dahlia would often speak quietly to him during this creative time by candlelight. In between sips of green tea and silent contemplation of her creations. She spoke of her husband Thorne, the man who brought her from Japan when she was no more than a teenager. She had revealed to Aran that she had feared him much at first, and that he had been before his death the leader of a vicious biker gang the Finks. Whose motto was proudly displayed on the men's leather jackets and in banners that hung about the compound stating 'Attitude Violence'.
She spoke of life in the compound at Thebarton in the inner city suburbs, the police raids, and the rival gang wars amongst the Banditos and the Hell's Angels. The shootings and the crime, of heroin busts and drug use.
She would cease her labors on occasion to look ahead to a place it appeared only she could glimpse, then tell her captive of the long motorcycle rides into the unknown. Of the fear of the everyday folk as the gang rode into their quiet and remote little towns, bent on causing trouble.
Aran could remember the rumblings of disquiet before the war, though he had only been in his early teens. The out of control factions and the biker gangs. The endless reports of violence and discord. The police becoming ineffective as the masses in their disquiet rose up to buck the system. A government who clearly trusted its allies against the greater suspicions of the people railroaded.
However it was too late, the countries' fate had been sealed. The attacks had come, cities leveled. A country brought to its knees with less than ten well placed nuclear strikes, by one who was thought a friend.
Aran's thoughts were often mirroring Dahlia's own as she spoke softly in reflection. Events she recalled triggering long shelved memories of his own. Some he cared not to revisit. The chaos of the war and the flight to escape the city in the terror of the bombing attack that had completely rent the fabric of civilization. Events that had shaped him into what he was today for good or ill.
Dwelling on her words he realized that he was only one of the many seeking to find his way. Few had done it better than others; and looking on Dahlia, though he had wanted by virtue of her sex to discount her; he realized she had done more handsomely in life than he had. The realization stung.
She spoke of her husband's sudden and violent death in trembling words. It was still quite obvious she fiercely loved him. Of the birth of her daughters, her plans, of revenge, and unusually of her loneliness as a widow, bound in spirit to a powerful man in death.
At first Aran had found Dahlia difficult to understand with her heavy accent. However as the days wore on he grew used to her nuances of speech, and the things she described had become more clear to him. He found himself often listening avidly, being caged as he was with little distraction.
Being a creature of the wild there were times Aran's chains weighed on him and he would fidget or pace the confines of his prison. Dahlia would not look up, though during those times she would cease to speak her memoirs, and continue her embellishment in silence.
Evening after evening Aran waited and hoped with all the patience of a predator that Dahlia would make a mistake. That she might sit too close to the bars lost in her creations, that he may overpower her and regain his freedom. It was the only hope he had. To that end he smiled at her often, and tried his utmost to appear congenial and inviting. Not easy for a savage such as he.
However pint sized Dahlia was not fooled. Small prey has an innate sense of survival and a woman's intuition was indeed impossible to compromise.
The cat and mouse game was played skillfully. If Dahlia needed her captive attended to she had many strong and willing men at her disposal, the remainder of the Finks who swore allegiance to Dahlia and her departed husband Thorne. Men who handled Aran as forcefully as was needed to gain his compliance to her wishes.
