Post by Admin on Jul 10, 2022 1:49:32 GMT
“Well, I have had a lot worse riding bitch.”
John Nash Strader looks back at the blonde, Who’re, and can’t help but smile as her arms tighten around his waist. He had chosen to bring one of his more comfortable riding Harleys down to the States to officially sign with OCW and enter into the Margarita Mix with CJ O’Donnell, which ended up being a good thing since the long-time OCW employee who gets around has taken a shining to him.
The debut of one of the less thought-about Straders was going to take place in Cincinnati, Ohio, which couldn’t work out better. Even though John was entering the ring again, he still had a club to lead across twelve States and seven Provinces. Toledo was where one of the newest chapters started up and was only a few hours from Cincinnati. They were starting to grow quickly, but he was doing his due diligence on who would get patched into his club. The club he and his dad, built from the ground up. Strader was never meant to stay with his MC but was to return to the red and gold of the Bandidos after putting in ten years of building it into a respected One-Percenter club. He had grown attached to and didn’t trust anyone else to lead it.
“Alright, John-boy, let’s see what the fuck is going on.”
John had patched over a local 1%er club, the Warlocks MC, and got them set up in a brand new clubhouse that also served as a strip club. It had been doing well, but they were bumping up against a wannabe Crips gang in the area. While they weren’t as sophisticated as the BOMSquad, they had large numbers and were extremely violent.
But so were they; they just were smarter about it.
When John walked into the club, followed by a wide-eyed Who’re as she looked around and beelined it to the open stripper pole. The brothers let out a mighty cheer as they all came up to him to hug their brother, their brother that brought them all together. After they all said their hellos, they grabbed their drinks. They started to retreat into the back room, to the chapel where business was discussed. Still, John held off a second as Who’re came back over from meeting the Bombettes (Brothers of Mayhem lady hang-arounds).
“Are we staying here?”
John gives her the smile that has most likely produced a lot of little Strader bastards, pulling Who’re in with his right hand by the small of her back.
“No, doll. I use a private little loft nearby when I am in town. Go have some fun with the girls; I have some business to take care of.”
He leans down, brushes her hair from her face, and kisses her. He slaps her on the ass as she scurries away to the Bombettes. John chuckles, shaking his head as a man of Spanish descent wearing the BoM kutte with a President flash on the right and First 12 on the left walks up, putting his arm around John’s shoulder.
“Where did you find that little minx?”
“She’s a backstage interviewer at the wrestling company I signed with, OCW. I flashed a smile, and next thing I know, she's riding1200 miles on the back of my bike,” he replies with a sly grin.
“Fucking Ryan Gosling of the MC world,” Spike quickly replies, making both men chuckle.
“How’s the charter coming along?”
Spike, an original member of the Brothers Winnipeg Charter, came up with John and who Strader relied on to get new charters on the right path. Toledo being the newest charter, it was where Spike was needed.
“Eh, Johnny… it’s coming.”
“Anyone in mind to wear the President’s flash?”
Spike shrugs, tilting his head as they head to the back of the club to Chapel.
“Needles, possibly Donut. But I think Needles is the front runner. He’s smart; he doesn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment. Donut, though; the dude just commands respect out of the room. But we got this issue with those Crip fuck wannabes.”
“Yeah, I reached out to my ex-brother-in-law to get some information. Let’s go figure this shit out.”
The chapel was simple. Concrete walls with all kinds of flags ranging from America, Canada, and Mexico and club banners. A large 15-man table made of cedar, stained with varnish and the Grim Reaper sporting a middle finger. John reaches out, touching the carved scythe, before sitting down at the head of the table in a high-back wooden chair padded in brown leather. John picks up the gavel and slams it down to signal the start of church.
“First off, boys, you have done a great job getting Paris Nightclub looking like more than a place with naked whores and sticky floors.”
They share a laugh but nod in agreement to the National President.
“Spike also tells me that very soon, one of you’ll be the president of this charter, and having worked with all of you, I know whoever he chooses will be the right choice. Alright, so this wannabe-Crips problem, where are we with that?”
“They are about twenty-five members deep; a few are some real OG’s, John,” Donut, the current Sgt. at Arms, says. “The greatest crimes issue from a desire for excess and not from necessity.”
John looks at Spike with a smirk and returns a nod to Donut.
“Aristotle. He was right. These stupid motherfuckers think growing their ranks without vetting will get them enough power to run this territory. Still, they forgot that even though life is a banquet, you’re not supposed to go thirsty but not to get drunk, either. We need to make a statement. So, does anyone have an idea?”
John looks around the table at ten men sitting around it. The tall man with a shaved head to his left leans forward.
“Needles, let’s hear it.”
“The boys here know the story of how your old man earned his patch with the Bandido’s.”
“When he and Stone blew up the Outlaw clubhouse in Joliet. Does their hangout have a fuel tank attached to the building?”
“It’s an old building, an old propane fuelling station near the bay. There is a big tank along the back of it. Plant some sticks of dynamite, and BOOM! Bye-bye, bitches.”
John leans back in the president’s chair and nods.
“Alright, get everything ready. Tomorrow night we put an end to - - -
RATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA
The men dive down the floor as screams from out in the club fill their ears. John, Spike, Needles and Donut all share looks as they draw their guns. John’s silver .50 calibre Desert Eagle glimmers as he pulls the chamber back. He points at the back door to Donut and Needles while he motions for Spike to follow him into the club. The rest of the brothers split between the two sets of men.
“Ahh fuck, Who’re! Don’t worry, doll, I’m coming.”
He holds his hand, five fingers extended, counting down.
5, 4, 3, 2…1!
John boots the chapel doors open, gun up and ready. He sees a gangbanger and fires a round, catching the Crip in the neck, making him fall backwards, blood squirting. The disco-style lights flicker as guns continue firing Disco Inferno by The Tramps. John spots Who’re behind the bar, and to his surprise, she isn’t phased at all. She holds a sawed-off she found behind the bar and pops up, firing a couple blasts into two more gangbangers trying to get a foothold in the club as she guides the Bombettes out of harm's way. The Strader Sneer comes across his face as she turns and looks at him with a nod. He shoots her a wink and creeps around the side of the stage, coming off the right wall.
BAM! BAM!
He fires two more rounds catching one guy through the cheek and the other right in the junk. John looks and see’s Needles and Donut and four of their brothers coming in through the front door. Spike and the others that followed John have rounded up two of the Crip-wannabes, taking them into the chapel. John runs his right hand through his hair, slicking it back as he places his Desert Eagle to the side of his BoM belt buckle. He looks at Spike and Needles before he looks at a few innocents bleeding from attempted infiltration.
“We have the local pigs on the take, right?”
“That we do, boss.”
“Alright, tie these dicksmacks up; time for these boys to meet Mr. Mayhem.”
“Hundred percent. The loft is set up for you. If you want to rest up, we can handle this until you return. Clean this shit up, give the pigs a couple bodies, self-defence, blah blah,” Needles says to John, and the International President nods with his thanks.
“Yeah, alright. Gives me a chance to show Who’re some gratitude,” he says with his grin making Spike laugh.
“You know, you are the one that should have her name.”
“Yeah, you are probably right. Call me in the morning. We’ll get some fucking answers and put this threat to bed.”
John walks over to the two they had caught, who are on their knees, hands tied behind their back, as he pulls back and kicks one in the gut and throws a right hand across the jaw of the other. He smirks as they cough from the hits.
“Sleep well, gentlemen. You are in for a very long night.”
John lays in bed, sheets covering his lower half. Who’re with her head on his chest, her right hand tracing his pec with her nails and her right leg over his left. She snuggles in as John runs his fingers gently through her blonde hair. He looks down at her and can’t help but smile.
“You did great, doll.”
“Oh, I learned that hip twirl thing from years of experience,” she replies, her left hand squeezing his thigh.
“Hah, yeah, no, not what I meant, but that was pretty fun. I mean tonight. Those shithead wannabe gangbangers trying to kill us. The way you got the girls outta there, you shootin’ at those fools to help us… you are balls deep.”
Who’re smiles as she moves to sit on top of the MALE Strader, and leans down whispering in his ear.
“You are the one who’s gonna be balls deep.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so.”
“Well, I just might have to keep this one.”
