This is a former member. Probably somebody’s grandpa that’s still affiliated. Maybe he works the bar or some other job for the club.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Tom roars, raising his crowbar.
The old man doesn’t back down. He doesn’t even flinch. “Me get the fuck out? Seems to me that should be you!” he counters boldly. He points a shriveled finger at the door. “You sorry Steel Kings think you’re gonna come to our home and trash us? Wait ’til Rowdy hears about this!”
“You ain’t gonna tell him shit!” Tom growls, taking a step toward him. “This don’t got nothing to do with you—get the fuck outta here!”
“Damn if I do! This is my club. I’ve been a member for thirty-seven years. Longer than your candy ass has been alive!”
“Okay,” I say calmly, setting down the can of spray paint. “Everybody cool it. This doesn’t need to turn into a screaming match. We’ve made our point. We’re done here anyway?—”
“The fuck we are!” Tom interrupts. “I’ve got more shit to destroy. Like this.”
Tom swings the crowbar at a club shadow box mounted to the wall. The glass explodes into dozens of jagged pieces, scattering across the floor.
“Hey, I told you to keep your sorry ass away from our shit, you punk!” the old man yells, stepping toward Tom. “I’m calling Rowdy right now and he’ll see to it that you jackasses are handled! He’ll make sure you’re?—”
THUNK!
The sound of the metal crowbar colliding with the old man’s skull reverberates through the barroom.
Tom’s swung the crowbar like it’s a baseball bat and the old man’s head is the ball. The two collide, and the old man’s on the losing side.
The crowbar bashes into his fragile skull, immediately cracking it open in a thick spray of blood. But Tom doesn’t even give it a second before he’s going back for more. He swings again, slamming the crowbar into the old man’s head and sending him crashing to the floor.
“TOM!” I bark, rushing over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
“Taking care of business!” He brings the crowbar down a third—and final—time on the sprawled out old man, bashing his skull in as if the damage he’s already done isn’t bad enough.
The old man’s body twitches at the assault, but he otherwise lies still.
Dead.
Killed just like that.
I’m so fucking shocked, for a second all I can do is gape at his body sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood and Tom standing over him with a crowbar that now drips crimson.
What the fuck just happened? What the fuck have we done?
Our mission was to vandalize the clubhouse. It wasn’t to commit murder. Damn sure not against some frail old man who caught us in the act.
Tom wipes at his cheek where some blood has splattered, then jogs for the door. “C’mon, Jack! We’ve got to get the fuck outta here! Before anybody else shows up! NOW!”
I hang back for a moment, still shocked.
Still unsure what the fuck to do. I stare at the old man’s dead body and his bashed-in skull and my stomach roils with unease.
This wasn’t right; this wasn’t justified.
It was wrong. Cold-blooded murder.
But as Tom shoves open the door and sprints into the night, I also know the dark reality of the matter.
That there’s nothing else I can do in this moment. I can’t save the old man and can’t hang around long enough for any Road Rebels or police to show up.
And tonight I pledged allegiance to the Steel Kings.
Iama Steel King. Which means this was just part of the games we play.
