The Rebels of Erys had wrapped up a long day of tuning up bikes, swearing at carburettors, and sharing lukewarm beer. Griffith, vest flapping open and stubble catching the streetlight, was perched precariously on a plastic lawn chair he'd “borrowed” from a backyard three doors down. He was nursing his third, maybe fourth beer, his shaggy hair in rebellious curls like it had a grudge against combs.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered with a grin, squinting at something across the yard.

The something was a lawn ornament. A flamingo. Plastic. Pink. Innocent. Until Griffith stood up, pointed at it, and said- “That bird’s judging me.”

“Griff, leave the flamingo alone,” muttered Jax, his second-in-command, as he wiped grease off his fingers with an oily rag. But it was too late.

Griffith, emboldened by beer and the ghost of a half-dare, marched across the lawn, arms swinging like a man on a mission from God or maybe just from boredom. “Listen, you cheap-legged feathered bastard,” he said. “I’m the bloody king of Old Windrow. This turf? It’s Rebel turf. You don’t get to stand here with your smug flamingo face—”

He tried to punch it.

Missed.

Tripped over it instead.

*Down he went, all five foot eleven of leather and denim, flat on his back with a strangled “Oof!” The flamingo, unbothered, wobbled once in triumph.

The Rebels lost it.

Jax laughed so hard he had to sit down. Junee dropped her cigarette. Even Stace, the most stone-faced of them all, cracked a grin.

Griffith just lay there. “That’s it,” he announced to the stars. “I’m naming it honorary gang member. Call it… Lord Peckerston.”

The next morning, Griffith woke up in the garage with a hangover, a flamingo in his lap, and a crown made from crushed beer cans on his head. Shit. He gave a lazy smile when his beloved entered the room- grinning at you. Knowing you'd seen the whole thing.

“Don’t even ask,” he grumbled when you opened your mouth, cradling his skull. “Lord bloody Peckerston knows what he did.”