Page 3 of Gonzo's Grudge
We broke like a pack of wolves spilling from the den, climbing back into the common area, the heartbeat of the clubhouse. Smoke curled in the air, pool balls cracked, jukebox hummed low. The outside world was locked out, but in here the storm brewed in bourbon, whiskey, smoke, and murmurs among us.
I drifted to the bar, grabbed a bottle, and poured heavy. Burn slid in beside me, silent as ever, folder tucked under his arm like an extra attachment that wouldn’t be removed. Jester followed, grinning wide.
“Fucker’s got some nerve,” Jester said, shaking his head. “Stanley’s been trying to climb our backs for years, and now he pulls a magic judge out his ass? Please. Motherfucker’s playing chess while holding the board upside down.”
Peanut joined us laughing sharp. “Yeah, and every time he tries to make a move, Pop’s already in his house banging his old lady. He wants a checkmate that he ain’t ever gonna get.”
The table howled. Even I cracked a smile into my whiskey. But underneath the laughter was steel. We all knew what it meant. A judge in Stanley’s pocket spelled heat. Real heat.
Tower sipped his drink slow, eyes distant. “Remember the last time Stanley pulled this shit?”
We did. None of us forgot.
Two years back, Stanley tried setting us up with a sting on the highway. Claimed we were moving meth through the county. DEA vans, state troopers, all staged like it was fucking Hollywood. What he didn’t count on was Bishop. Our judge.
We had five brothers in cuffs, guns seized, transport impounded. Stanley strutted around like he’d finally put us in the ground.
Then Bishop swung his gavel, case dismissed on a technicality. Evidence tossed. Stanley ate shit in front of his own cops.
We walked free. Brothers back in our fold the same night, sitting in this very bar, toasting Bishop with top-shelf whiskey.
And Stanley? He burned. You could see it in his eyes. That was the day he silently swore he’d bury us. His hate for us ran deeper than Pop fucking his wife. No he wanted to save face. Too bad he kept coming after us because I’d be damned if he ever won.
Back at the bar, I shook the memory off with another swallow. “Stanley doesn’t forget. He’s been plotting this since that day. Bishop was our shield. Now he’s gone.”
“Which means Stanley’s coming harder than ever,” Tower added.
Disciple, calm as always, leaned in. “Every storm has its end. We ride it out.”
Loco grinned, tossing back his shot. “And if Walsh don’t bend, we break him.”
Burn’s silence was louder than any of us. He just cracked open the folder, eyes scanning, brain already chewing through leads.
Pop emerged then, moving through the bar like gravity itself. Heads turned. Respect followed him like a shadow. He didn’t need to raise his voice when he spoke.
“Enjoy tonight,” he said simply. “Monday changes everything.”
He left it at that, disappearing back into his office.
We sat with his words like they were gospel.
The night stretched on, bottle after bottle. Banter filled the air, the way it always did after church. Peanut and Jester argued over pool. Loco kept running his mouth about how Stanley probably cried when his wife moaned Pop’s name.
I sat back, watching my brothers. This—this right here—was why I stayed. Eleven years, not a single regret. The outside world? It didn’t make sense anymore. Civilians lived in a perpetual state of stress. Always worrying about mortgages and PTA meetings. Out there, respect was just a word. In here, respect was everything, not how much money was in the bank or what kind of ride you had.
Saint’s Outlaws wasn’t just a patch. It was blood, sweat, and bond. It was the only family that felt right after getting out of the Marines. Pop saved me, gave me purpose again. And now Stanley was trying to fuck with that?
He had no idea what kind of storm he’d just danced in.
I tipped my glass up, whiskey burning all the way down, and made myself a promise.
Come Monday, whatever Stanley thought he’d built with this new judge?
We’d burn it down to ashes. For now, I’d enjoy the evening with my brothers and at the dawn of the new day face what came next.
Sunlight had no business prying its way through the blinds, but it did anyway, like an uninvited guest.
The clubhouse stank of stale smoke, spilled beer, and a dozen brothers who’d let the night run them over. Empty bottles littered the bar, pool balls still scattered like a game abandoned mid-shot. Peanut was face down on one of the pool tables itself, arm dangling like a corpse, and feet hanging off the back end like he barely hoisted himself onto the felt top. Jester was snoring in a recliner, boots still on. Loco had passed out behind the bar, flopped over onto the top of it, one hand still gripping an empty bottle of Jack like it was a lifeline.
