Page 29 of Slayin Villain
“I think I’m falling for him.”
My reflection didn’t argue.
It just looked scared.
Because secrets like this don’t stay quiet forever.
And when the truth comes out?
Somebody always burns.
Chapter 12
Villain
The night the patches changed, so did everything else.
The Royal Road compound wasn’t just wild.
It was unholy.
A full damn carnival had been trucked in, rides and all.Kingpin didn’t just want a patch-over.He wanted spectacle, and he was willing to burn the whole damn place down to get it.
There was a mini-Ferris wheel where naked sweetbutts rode with bikers holding beer pitchers in one hand and ass in the other.A dunk tank was set up, but instead of water, it was full of mystery booze dyed blood red.Each dunk earned the thrower a lap dance right there on a giant throne, complete with a crown made of twisted rebar.
Even though we had a whole arena, a cage fight pit topped with barbed wire sat outside, center stage, where members fought bare-fisted to the roar of brothers from other chapters who’d come to watch.
The bar brought outside, too?Nah, this was a booze cathedral.Our bartenders were in nun outfits that left little to the imagination, giving shots of absinthe and fireball.Minnie dressed like a zombie Marilyn Monroe was giving communion with molly wafers and holy water spiked with Everclear.
Then I saw our Chaplin, my brother Jesus dressed as his namesake, but wearing a sombrero and strumming a guitar.And I knew we were all going to hell, for real.
Royal Road’s compound wasn’t just lit up brighter than Broadway.It looked like if Sin City had a bastard love child with a haunted carnival.
Kingpin didn’t want a traditional patch-over.He wanted a show.Biker always got what he wanted.
A fire-breathing stilt walker strutted between rows of parked bikes, her leather catsuit catching every flash of colored light as she threw condoms and candy into the crowd.There were strippers on stilts, tattoo booths giving out free club ink, and a tent where Kingpin had hired a dominatrix from Vegas to host a "Confess or Strip" game that had even Ol’ Ladies lining up.
Then came the showstopper.
A cage lowered from a damn crane, and inside it?
A live fucking lion.I shit you not.
Prez was fixin’ to play lion tamer.Biker was gonna end up mauled to death if he weren’t careful.But that wasn’t my problem.It was Opry’s.Brother looked like he hadn’t blinked all night.
Soon, brothers were called up one by one.Patches ripped from their cuts, thrown into a larger-than-life bonfire dubbed the gates of hell.Then, shirtless and swaying from either whiskey or nerves, they took the torch straight to their chest or shoulder.Dimple dressed as Elvis with devil horns and a tail, seared a red-hot brand, aBSinto their skin while the crowd chanted, “Born Bastard.Die Bastard.”
And above it all, Kingpin stood on a raised scaffold, arms outstretched, his cut fluttering in the wind like he was Caesar at a Southern biker coliseum.
It wasn’t just a party.
It was a rebirth.
And I knew this wasn’t just a turning point for the club.
It was a crossroads for me too.
“This is the future,” Kingpin said into the mic, nodding toward me.“Built on loyalty, grit, and men like Villain who never back down.”
