Harry's Notes: No matter how this story began or the time it took simmering and chilling from then to now, I've concluded there must be peace within us to accomplish any worthwhile objective, something only you can determine. Follow your own path my friend and be still.
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Graveside:
Lizzie felt silly in heels and a dress trying to wield a shovel and stand at the same time. Mad Dog reached forward steadying her when she tottered, pushing it deep into the piled earth. She regained her feet, looked back as he released her. Frost blue eyes that seemed to show no emotion in their wolf like gaze met hers. His nickname came after a bar fight; someone said he looked like a mad dog, searching for its next victim; the name stuck. He was a good man to have at your back when things turned bad.
She blinked tiredly and he nodded, releasing her, watching while she heaved dirt into the hole then he took his turn, popping a beer, taking a healthy drink, tossing the remainder in, shoveled silently, then unzipped and took a piss with his bro one more time this side of Harley Heaven.
Some of the club mama's and old ladies tittered, Wanda called out a crude remark and all of those at the graveside laughed and hooted. Liam just smiled off into the distance, eyes shut, taking his time.
Preacher Bob quoted a little club twisted scripture and added he'd see him in the God damned afterlife, stepped back handing the shovel to Michael, Vice President and de facto Prez until they voted to fill the vacancy. He pulled a bottle out of a pocket inside his cutoff, broke the seal and drank half in a long swallow and poured the rest in.
"Ride free, Bro, if you see the devil, kick his ass for me. I'll be there to watch your back some day like you watched mine while you were here;" he passed the shovel on, standing with Preacher and Dog, arms around shoulders, unspeaking as the rest began their turns saying goodbye, doing good service to the man who had taken a hand full of scooter tramps and turned them into a club.
Lizzie stood beside the grave, watching as the prospects started shoveling the remainder of the earth over her uncle's casket now that the full patch brothers were finished. It was their time to provide one more requirement for membership. A shower of cans, beer and farewells, then they bent to task, seeing which one could move the most dirt under the patch holders gaze. Now and then eyes moved around the circle of tough young men wondering which one would be next to fight for their patch.
There were only a few memorial tattoos, a wake and a final run to the low lands where Dan had led the pack on so many other occasions; then he would fade into memory, dredged up in anecdotal stories shared around a campfire or late night party when thoughts turned introspective and conversation slowed. A man elevated to god like status in the wide eyes of hang a rounds and prospects.
While they finished, the brothers walked to the road, leaving Lizzie in her citizen wardrobe to quiet thoughts as they gathered to stand beside their bikes talking quietly. The last of the earth was thrown into the grave; the grounds keepers took over. Michael started his bike, sitting astride while the rumble of motorcycles echoed over the graveyard, filled the air like a herd of unseen thunder horses galloping across the sky.
He raised his hand, making a circle in the air, high over his head; the pack pulled out onto the highway, sounding like some internal combustion performance art as they accelerated up through the gears for the ride back to bar and wake, leaving only Liam, Lizzie, and hang around Billy waiting on Lizzie's idling BSA for the patch holder to pull away. Billy was sent after them with a gesture of Liam's head. Eyes on her, head bowed, staring at the mound of dirt, wanting to go to her, hold her close, share her loss and his that was like a stone within the chest; instead he left, face grim, passing Billy quickly to chase the pack and leave her to thoughts she was not ready to share yet.
Uncle Dan was the only father Lizzie ever known; now gone he left her only a sense of emptiness, his bike, the bar, and memories of riding in his lap as a child, wind blowing her blonde hair back as she held his massive forearms, steady thunder of the bike while she laughed and screamed,
"Faster, Unk, go faster." Finally, Unk became Monk and Lizzie became Little Bitch, but only out of Monks hearing, always with respect for the young girl that fought her way through grammar school, invariably the butt of ridicule as another of Monks old ladies took over the job of feeding and clothing Ms. Lizzie, even though Elizabeth was on her birth certificate.
Lizzie became known Lezzie in high school, until in a fit of anger, she lost her virginity behind the gymnasium during a Halloween bash, then Lezzie became Slut and lumps were handed out to the ones that let her hear them, followed by a flurry of notes from school, detention, and a steady supply of young men that masturbated to the exploits of the few that were able to stand under the glower of uncle Dan's bulking presence long enough for Lizzie to decide she was ready to go.
The first boy that slapped her got a black eye and a busted lip. He claimed that he had tripped and fallen, but the word got around that Lizzie liked it rough. The last one that tried it got a taste of what she learned from watching the brothers putting a fine tune on some asshole that needed it. He never told anyone what happened, but he would cross the street if she was seen walking his way and he never looked in her eyes again when they met by chance.
In between the first and last she began taking martial arts classes when finding out she was not as tough as she imagined; blind rage was not as effective as foresight and skill, and they, formidable tools in keeping the world at bay. She buried herself in books and school, receiving top marks, better even than the nerds that avoided her too. After that, boys became scarce; the brothers wouldn't touch her because of Monk, and their own avuncular feelings. Any outside riders that happened through and became interested were soon warned off.
It was, she had imagined what living in a nunnery was like, until discovering that Wanda had a taste for pussy; she put that to good use whenever things got a little too uncomfortable, always after hearing her tell of some sexual encounter with one of the members. Her favorite stories were those that involved Liam, invariably ending with her fist in Wanda's hair, pushing her against her cunt while imagining Liam's legendary cock deep in her.
Lizzie shook her head at the fast emptying graveyard and walked miserably back through the stones to her truck, sliding in, removing her high heels with a sigh; opening a beer from the small cooler on the floorboard, Lizzie drank, letting the silk of night settle, covering the graves and groundskeepers that soon drove away, discreetly leaving her to empty the cooler in solitude.
She heard a bike in the distance, listened to the music of a well-tuned v twin, whose sound was a signature of the rider grow closer. Liam, back to check on her; a small, smile, backwards toss of her empty into the truck bed, she opened the last and took a drink, waiting, always waiting. Maybe now that Uncle Dan was gone... Mad dog pulled up beside the window, letting his bike idle in a slow lope and glaring in.
"What are you still doing here? You can't sit in the dark looking like that." She took a drink, tasting lipstick, looked down at the black knee length dress, stockings, patted her upswept hair and frowned at his tone.
"I'm a big girl; don't you think I looked nice today?" The club brothers had become silent when she showed at the mortuary; their eyes examined her with a new realization that the blue jeaned girl that had worked behind the bar since she was 18, was a woman of great beauty and desire. She took a drink and looked out the window at him, waiting on a compliment that had not been given yet.
