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I was standing outside when Slicer from Sons of Aggression pulled up wearing his colors. With Leathers inside talking to Tequila, I didn't think there would be any problems.
He got off his Harley and nodded to me.
I said, "Here to beer? Or here to talk?"
"Both. Let me grab one." He went inside.
I stayed outside, knowing he wouldn't cause any trouble.
He came back out a moment later holding a bottle. "What's the deal with our guys getting harassed earlier? I thought you said we would be welcome."
I turned towards him so my shoulder was supporting me against the wall. Slicer was shorter than me with a full head of unruly light brown hair. I said, "You have to understand the Iron Crows think there's a huge difference between pop-ups and established motorcycle clubs."
He tossed his head to the side. "Explain it to me. I'm a biker."
I dipped my chin. "That's a start; so am I. Let's take the issue about the colors, first. Do you think the police would appreciate some nutjob throwing on a uniform and calling himself a cop? Or a marine appreciating some civilian throwing on a marine uniform and calling himself a marine? Does the uniform make the man? Or does the training?"
"Yeah, I see that, but it's just a motorcycle club."
I shook my head and finger, gently. "No, back up. A motorcycle club wears three patches: the name of the club in a top rocker; the colors of the club in the middle; and the bottom rocker displaying their region. These are earned by hard work. Let's say Sons of Aggression comes along with colors that only display two patches: their name and colors. Or one patch with both combined. That's a riding club."
"A riding club?"
"Sure, enthusiasts. Bikers who love to ride. We don't have anything against those. Nothing at all. Riding clubs might issue their colors for a price, or automatically when you join, like you guys did. But when you put on three patches in motorcycle club fashion, you basically slapped all of us as if you had slapped a cop by putting on a cop's uniform. You didn't earn it. You didn't learn anything to put it on."
He gave me a wry look. "This is America; I can wear whatever the fuck I want. What's the big deal?"
"No one is saying you can't ride. Or dress like a biker. But when it comes to patches for motorcycle clubs—"
"Who's to say I can't wear three patches?"
I coughed. "Who's to say you can't wear a cop's uniform? A marine's uniform?"
"Those are professionals; the motorcycle clubs are just clubs."
"You're not getting my drift. A motorcycle club distinguishes itself by the configuration of the patches—"
"Who's to say I can't, as an American citizen, wear whatever patch configuration I want?"
I patted my hand in the air. "Think a minute. Would you put on Crips colors and go into Bloods territory?"
He laughed. "No, that would be stupid."
"It's the same thing, Slicer, the exact same thing. Colors are earned in the formation you're wearing them and all of the big motorcycle clubs across the United States see it that way. And not just the US, either, but all over the world. Put on a badge without earning it, and you'll find yourself in trouble. Put on three-patch colors without earning them and you'll get the same thing."
He sighed. "I didn't know it was such a big deal."
"It is – to those who earned it. Wear your colors around long enough and you risk great bodily harm."
He spread his arms. "Just for riding a bike?"
"No, for wearing what amounts to a uniform."
He made a face and took a drink. "But I'd have no problem wearing a two-patch?"
"Not that I've seen."
He didn't look very thrilled. "What do you suggest?"
I chuckled. "Isn't it obvious? Take off those unearned colors. Hang them in your closet or on the wall for memories. But don't wear them again. Then come hang around us."
"They said you were at the clubhouse."
"I got bumped to prospect two weeks ago."
"Prospect, huh?"
"Yep."
"What do you do?"
I snickered. "Everything they ask."
"What's so great about that?"
"It's sort of not and sort of is. It's how they gauge me as a potential brother. Do I do all without question? Fetch beers? Clean toilets?"
"Clean toilets?" He looked at me in outrage.
I shrugged.
He shook his head. "No way."
I grinned. "See, that's why they make you do oddball things as a prospect. They want to know if they can count on you. If you're willing to do oddball things, then they know they can."
He had stopped mid-sip of his beer. "Huh, that sort of makes sense, I guess."
I lowered my head, raised my eyebrows, and said, "It surely does."
"Is it worth all that?"
"For me? Very. For you? I don't know; that's why you become a prospect."
He laughed. "I thought you were just a bouncer?"
"I repaired and built computers before this." I twisted back to lean my shoulders against the wall. "Wasn't much in it and I was out of work."
"You? Computers?"
I shrugged. "It's not hard."
He drained off his beer then tossed it into the trash can on the curb. He shrugged out of his colors. "There, that make you feel better?"
I laughed quietly. "It does, actually. Because now the Iron Crows won't be trying to restrain themselves from beating you. I like you guys. Well, most of you."
He grunted. "I'm going to grab another beer."
I looked at his folded colors resting on the seat of his bike. Best if that went into the trash. But I knew what he did with them was his business.
He came back out, looking bemused. "That Iron Crow actually nodded at me."
"Because you showed him respect by taking off the unearned colors."
"Seems like we formed and didn't know what we were doing."
I nudged him with my elbow. "I knew you were a smart man, Slicer."
~ ~ ~
I was handed a black canvas pouch in the clubhouse by Ghost. "We're going to be running a raffle for the poker run event. You're going to sell tickets."
He was so direct that I can't say I had a ton of generated enthusiasm for it. "Tickets?"
"Half the proceeds go to the Children of Fallen Patriots charity. Helps pay for college to the children of those soldiers killed in the armed forces."
I felt like an ass for not being enthused. I swallowed and said, "That's a fine charity."
Ghost scowled. "Yes, it is. You work the area from B Street south."
Big Pizza leaned in between us. "You'll be the sweep for the poker run, too."
"Sweep?"
He grinned through his beard. "You'll bring up the tail and notify the checkpoints that you're the last. I'll fill you in on it later."
"Oh, sure." I said to Ghost, "You want me to start on this right now?"
"Up to you." His look conveyed little else but immediate expectation. "You know how these work?"
"I think so."
"They're a buck each. They can buy as many as they want. Get the buyer to put name, address, and phone number on the back. You keep that ticket and give them the other half. Bring the bag back to me at the end of each day."
I slung the pouch and gave him a nod. I left to go sell raffle tickets. The charity ride was a month away, but something in me wanted to sell as many tickets as possible. I had never sold raffle tickets before, only bought them. However, the charity yanked at my heart in ways I couldn't explain. I wanted to do right by those soldiers who left kids behind.