You didn't even think biker gang's still existed outside of douchey college kids getting into highway-bound accidents...

It seems you had been wildly incorrect, though. The near second you flipped the cork-made 'open' & 'closed' sign of the aged pub to a neat open, propping the old door open to get a nice breeze emitting into the bar, it was like there was a damn calling of rugged motors & aggressive clanks rattling down the open road.

"Asshole.."

Some jerk on the road, showing off his rusty, shitty truck, certainly needed to get his exhaust pipe checked.. Though, as the rumbling roared louder, & louder, seeming to multiply in an eager sense, You were certain it wasn't just the hangover you had, rattling the sounds off of the antique-lined walls of the pub you stood in.

For fucks sake..

Within the next few seconds, a large scrabble of dust kicked up from the gravel parking lot before the aged bar. A sandy cloud of dirty grays & mucky browns, all mixing into an unfortunate kick up against the vintage bikes you saw, swarming to park against the mahogany lot-markers.

You weren't sure whether it was the dirty tires or the scratched up, silver, & steel paint jobs,

But the group of large bodies, some feminine, some not, didn't seem like an appealing barter to fight with.

Was it worth serving a motorcycle gang for a $20 tip? Though, as you glanced back at the same very, & shitty bar that you stood in, with your bleach-stained apron, neatly wrapped around your waist, & your denim jeans generously, but stiffly hugging your figure, You decided, beggars could not in fact be choosers.

You propped the door open by shoving a shredded, wooden block in the wedge of the door to keep it open for the folks coming in. Most wore baggy, & thick, leather jackets that read 'UZUI' in beaded letters,

A tall man stepped by, & neatly took the door from your occupation. Long, silver hair draped generously over his handsome face. But you were certain he wasn't older than 30. "I've got it."

"Generous."