As usual, I was the first one at the donut shop this morning.

Except for Mammoth, but he doesn’t count. He got so fucking drunk last night that he passed out, and the patches left him here so that they could laugh about it today. His gargantuan body sprawled face first on the floor near the counter with his jeans pulled down a bit to reveal a butt crack the size of the San Andreas fault was the first sight that greeted me as soon as I entered the store. I wanted to take a picture and post it on Facebook. All nine of my friends - majority of whom were strangers trying to pad their network count - would surely find it hilarious.

But I wasn’t in a position to do that.

I wasn’t in a position to do a lot of things.

I grabbed the mop from the storage room and started to clean the floor. All manners of vile liquid made the surface almost as sticky as bubblegum. Beer, whiskey, sweat, piss, vomit, women’s juice, and the patches’ load made it difficult for me to tidy up the place. I had to go through each square foot thrice just to make sure that it’d be somewhat presentable.

I was about to finish up with the last corner when Mammoth groaned. The bastard was awake.

“Fucking hell! Prospect? Izzat you?” he asked. His eyes were still half-closed. His geribaldi beard was drenched and dripping with drool. He was still wearing his helmet, shiny and silvery, with horns protruding from the sides like it was a viking’s headpiece. It was the only thing that was clean about him.

“Yep,” I answered as my attention returned to what I was doing. I was about to wrap up with the floor work, and I only had fifteen minutes before the first of the sweetbutts arrived. I still had to do the dishes and take out the trash. The last thing I, or the club, would want was a family with kids coming in for a box of donuts only to see broken beer bottles and dirty thongs scattered all over the place. Time wasn’t on my side.

“How long ‘ev I been out?” he wanted to know as he struggled to get up. His stocky frame, - mainly composed of a belly which resembled a tire that’s permanently wrapped around his waist - most certainly didn’t help.

“Since last night,” I told him.

He whacked his forehead as soon as he realized that he blacked out from all the ale he consumed. He kept shaking his head. I could only assume that it was because he anticipated the humiliation that was coming his way. He’d be the laughing stock of the club for at least a week or two, the butt of all their jokes. That’s never fun.

Well, at least I’d be spared from being their target during that time. I tried my best to hide my smile.

“Gimme coffee!” he yelled out his order.

I grunted in frustration. He knew I was in a hurry to finish up the morning’s work, yet he still demanded a cup which he could easily prepare himself.

But when a patch commands me to do something, I don’t have the option to refuse.

I left my mop by the door as I walked to the counter. The thermal pot was left running from the night before so I didn’t have to heat up some water. I just poured its content on a mug. I stole a quick glance at Mammoth. He was too busy combing his stupid-looking beard. Good. I didn’t have to brew some beans, too. Sneakily, I grabbed the instant coffee mix from my wallet. It’s been there for years. Shit do I care if it’s expired or not. I ripped off the top and poured the powder on the cup. I stirred the mixture with a spoon and placed the mug on the counter.

“Drink up,” I said with a smile. “You wanna be awake for church.”

“Church? Oh sheyt!” he exclaimed. “What time’s church again?”

“Nine-thirty. That’s forty, forty-five minutes from now.”

“Fuck! Why would prez want ‘ta meet that early?”

I just shrugged. I wasn’t the best person to ask about specifics regarding the club. I knew how things worked, yes, but I wasn’t privy to the reasons and the numbers behind them. Prospects aren’t allowed to join churches. Prospects aren’t even allowed to step inside the chapel.

He took a sip from the cup I gave him. He closed his eyes as he savored its flavor.

“Hrm. Damn good coffee, prospect!” he pronounced with satisfaction. “Come ‘ver here. Gonna give you a merit.”

Oh fuck. I wish he didn’t. But again, I had no choice but to comply. I went around the counter and walked towards him. I stopped a few inches away from where he sat.

He gargled loudly as if he was collecting something in his throat. Then he spat on my vest. A pool of spittle spattered on my left chest, dribbling downwards to the bottom part of my kutte. I wanted to cringe in disgust. I tried my best not to smell the sputum without being noticed. God knows what kind of virus the saliva from his fifty year old body carried. I forced myself to smile to show that I appreciated his gesture.

“There ‘ya go, kiddo,” he said. “There’s more where that came from if ‘ya keep doin’ good work.”

Jesus Christ, I hope not.

Much as I wanted to excuse myself and wash off the gob that smeared my vest, I couldn’t. Prospects weren’t allowed to clean their kuttes until they earned their patch. The spit they give me? They’re the club’s version of kindergarten stars, badges of honor that I should collect to strengthen my case for membership.

Mammoth enjoyed the remainder of his coffee and I was able to finish my morning chores before Miranda arrived. Miranda’s a nice, sweet-looking brunette who took care of the store during the day. Innocent and young, she looked like a high school student who was here for a part time job, which made her the perfect person to man a not-so-perfect front. I always thought that making a donut shop the MC’s clubhouse was a stupid idea. But I guessed the club was left with few options when the Aztekos blew up the old HQ by the pier two months ago.

This current setup had its advantages, though. The donut shop was right smack in the middle of downtown San Mateo. Even our worst enemies would have to think twice before attacking us here.

After Miranda, the patches checked in one by one.

Razor was first, unmistakable with his dark glasses and his stylish kutte that’s customized to give others the impression that it was a trench coat. He looked ridiculous, yeah. Like a cheap extra for one of those Matrix movies. But he’s the veep, and he’s the second longest tenured member, so no one ever had the courage to laugh at him.

Bang Bang and Screwdriver were next. Both had fine physiques untypical from people of their ilk. Both had movie star smiles and well-combed hair unhampered by beards and long locks customary for bikers. Both were young, the youngest in the club in fact, at twenty-eight and twenty-six respectively. Anyone would doubt if they were, indeed, one-percenters. They don’t look the part. But they chose to be here, a decision that they made together. That didn’t come as a surprise. They’re brothers, after all, even before they became brothers in the club. And their father’s a club legend.

Rotten, the club enforcer, came in with Specs. They were like Mutt and Jeff. Rotten was a big, burly man. He looked like he was the baddest of the bad, and that’s intentional. He took care of the dirty work and he wanted people to fear him. Specs, on the other hand, was reed thin and short. He wore really thick glasses, hence his road name. He was the club’s resident genius, the go-to guy for technology concerns, accounting problems and other similar shit.

Penny was the last of the regular members to arrive. There’s something wrong about him. He’s a loner, that much is apparent. Why he joined the MC? Now that’s the real question. Why would a reclusive person like him join a group that fosters brotherhood? He’s always quiet. Always. He never speaks, not even when he’s spoken to. And he never interacts with anyone. That guy’s weird, and in a frightening way. Everyone has learned to just let him be.

Jonas Cross, the president, made his entrance together with Macho Man, the club’s sergeant-at-arms. Macho walked closely behind the prez, as he should. His number one duty was to keep the big boss alive, to take the bullet for him if necessary. Hence, Macho was like the prez’s shadow... ominously consistent with his presence.

I’ve been prospecting for almost a year, which wasn’t that long by normal standards but it’s enough to let me know that everyone didn’t like Macho. All of the patches served in the military in some form, except for the sergeant-at-arms. Macho was never a soldier. He’s an ex-con. I’m not aware of the exact crime he committed, but it must’ve been bad, given the mean streak he has become known for. When Prez nominated him as his sergeant, everyone got upset. Out of respect for Jonas, though, they gave their ayes, and Macho got the position.

At least that was the story I was told.

Prez’s a charismatic man. At fifty-two, his wisdom showed with every word he uttered and every gesture he made. He’s an outlaw through and through. A bandana around his balding head and the grayness of his beard and whatever hair remained on top. An old school denim kutte that proudly displayed around twelve or thirteen patches he earned since the eighties. A glock he always carried under his vest and a jungle knife hidden in his boot. He’s a bad ass motherfucker. But he always carried himself with dignity, much like a CEO in a board room. Unlike his sergeant-at-arms, everyone loved Jonas. No one dared to disrespect him, not even in the privacy of their own thoughts.

“Good,” Prez said as he surveyed the shop. “Everyone’s here.”

“Except LG,” Macho was quick to point out. He was referring to Old Ben. At seventy-something, Ben has dropped his road name and instead opted for the monicker LG, an abbreviation for the Last Greybeard, which is exactly what he was, the last of the founders of the club.

Old Ben’s also Bang Bang and Screwdriver’s father.

“Pops’ arthritis is really bad this morning,” Bang Bang explained. “I’ll proxy for him, if we have to vote on something.”

“That leaves us with no secretary,” Prez expressed his concern. “Will you proxy for that position too, son?”

“Yeah, I will,” Bang Bang confirmed.

“Okay,” Prez acknowledged. “We’ve got lots to talk about, so everyone, church, now!”

Church was held in the chapel, a conference room situated at the back of the donut shop. It used to be the employees’ locker room until we converted it into the heart of the club’s activities.

The members entered the chapel until only Prez and Macho were left. Prez turned around to face me. He caught me looking at them while I was still holding the handle of the mop.

“Watch the door, Lenny,” he ordered. “Don’t let anyone in.”

I nodded my head to relay that I understood what he wanted me to do.

Prez has always been good to me, whereas the other patches made me feel insignificant - something which they were supposed to do to anyone who was prospecting for the club. Prez never called me prospect, or Lowlife (which is the provisional road name they assigned to me), or any other derogatory tags. He always called me Len, or Lenny, which are the derivatives of my legal name. Sometimes, when he’s in a bad mood (which was rare), he’d call me by my last name, Kesler.

After the chapel closed, I walked towards the door. There, I stationed myself to carry out Prez’s order, occasionally exchanging pleasantries with the only other person who wasn’t in church, Miranda.

The thing is, and I was sure none of the patches noticed, the donut shop is such a small place. Whenever they’d talk loudly, people outside the chapel would be able to hear parts of their conversation. They may not have allowed me to join them at church, but I always knew what they were discussing.

There were times when I even heard them talking about me.

You sure about the kid?

He’s got a lot of baggage with him.

His head’s fucked up.

Had one T.O.D. and it was nasty. That’s something that’ll scar anyone for life.

That PTSD shit’s gonna bite us in the ass.

Prez always defended me during those times. He’s alright, he countered them. Give him time. Make him earn his patch.

I couldn’t blame the members for being wary of me. There were many times, at the old clubhouse when I was asked to stay over, that they’d hear me screaming in the middle of the night. They’d wake me up in a variety of ways - by pouring some beer on my face, by slapping me hard, by kicking my stomach, even by urinating on me. I’d wake up and they’d give me a good ribbing. We’d all laugh about it, but I knew... I knew... that deep inside, they were afraid of me. Afraid that one day, the shit I was carrying would get them killed.

I’ve learned to live with their distrust. Alienation is something a prospect would have to get used to, after all. He’s always the outsider looking in.

So yeah, sometimes they speak too loudly that I manage to hear them from the other side of the door. This morning was no different.

Many of them yelled phrases.

Fucking Godless!

Want a patch-over!

They want our territory!

Fuck them! We won’t give up our club!

But they don’t have honor! They’ll do everything to get what they want!

Then we do what we have to do! We fight!

It was easy to piece things together. The Godless is an MC notorious for being the worst of the worst. They don’t share the same code that other clubs observe. They’d kill women and children, if necessary, just to achieve their goals. They’d protect rats from other clubs if they can use them to their advantage. They’d burn the kuttes of the bikers they have slain.

Every MC in Northern America despise them, but none have even tried to stand up to them. The Godless were the most feared group of outlaws in the country. Bikers may live outside the law, but the Godless... they impose their own laws in a lawless world.

And now, they wanted to patch our club over to theirs.

They wanted to assume control of our club, to absorb us into their group, to make us drop our charter, and to become one of their chapters.

It’s the easiest way to claim a territory without going to war.

But based on what was being discussed at church, Jonas and the boys were resolved to oppose them instead.

This is gonna be bloody. The shit will hit the fan fast, and I was certain that not all of us will come out of this alive.

Church lasted for another hour, though their voices mellowed down. I was no longer able to hear what they were discussing.

When they finally emerged from the chapel, Prez quickly approached me while I was still guarding the entrance.

“Lenny, I’ve got a job for you,” he said as he placed his hand over my shoulder.

I was thrilled by his words and his gesture. He wanted me to go to war with them, to stand by their side, to fight with them like a brother would. I couldn’t wait to tell him that I was ready for this, that he could count on me, that I wouldn’t fail him nor would I fail the club.

“I’m at your service, Prez,” I told him as my lips curled into a confident smile.

“That’s nice to hear, son. What I want you to do is of utmost importance.”

Some of the patches gathered behind Prez, waiting for him to deliver his order to me. Their faces were serious. They knew the gravity of the situation and the vital nature of my part.

“Just tell me what must be done, boss, and I’ll do it,” I assured Jonas.

“Len... I want you to...”

Screwdriver was the first to chuckle. It came too suddenly, like he was previously trying his best not to laugh.

The others followed suit, chortling so hard like we were in a damn comedy show.

Prez gave them a dagger look and they quieted down a bit.

“Len,” he continued to say, “I want you... I need you... to watch over Samantha.”

“S-Samantha?” I struggled to repeat, confused by what his order really entailed.

“My daughter,” he clarified. “You have to guard her for the time being. You need to guard her with your life.”

I wasn’t able to respond. I just looked at him in silence, stunned by his unexpected command.

Everyone started to laugh once again. It was Rotten who blurted out the words that made everything clear for me.

“He wants you to babysit his kid, prospect! So put on your fucking nanny apron!”

Their laughter persisted, growing louder with every second that passed.

I forced myself to laugh with them.

It’s what was expected of me. I was supposed to do whatever they wanted me to do and be okay with it. Whether it’s cleaning the toilet filled with shit and puke or mopping the floor or delivering a six-pack for a patch at three in the morning or babysitting a kid because they’re too busy to take care of her themselves... it didn’t matter. I had to do it.

I was a prospect. Just a prospect. And there’s no job that’s too low for my kind.