I shake my head thinking what a fucking stupid tag line for a bunch of immature punks. Hell, half the fuckers aren’t even legal. Acne covered teens with chips on their shoulders thinking they know life, and they don’t know shit. Running away from home, running from the problems instead of facing it and finding the right way out. To me, they’re nothing but cowards.
“Drifter shut the fuck up,” another male calls out. Well, at least someone has enough sense to shut the dipshit from before up.
Drifter, I think, how fucking cute. These wannabe thugs piss me off. Little nicknames they think give them some kind of street cred don’t mean shit. Definitely, someone should have used a condom the night they were conceived. Hell, at least if their dad’s would have pulled out, the DNA in these fuckers never would have been strong enough to find the egg in the precum.
The Rail Wreckers, as they call themselves, are nothing but a bunch of modern-day hobos pretending they are badass motherfuckers, who really don’t know shit about shit.
Sure, to live that life they’re either bat-shit crazy, stupid, or on the run. None of that makes them the tough-nuts they think they are. Cocky bastards hop train cars from one stop to the next. They tag shit with their crappy graffiti, making a mark of their territory—so they call it. Destruction of personal property is what the law calls it. Either way, it’s a waste of energy, but again, as long as the Wreckers keep to themselves, I’ll let them be. They claim to be above society’s rules. It’s just words to feed their fragile little egos. The way I see it, as an outlaw, there is a difference between conforming and defying.
They want to defy.
I refuse to conform.
The difference is, I don’t purposely go out to break the law for the sake of doing something unruly. I choose to live my life by my own code, my own standards, and my own morals.
Yes, fucking morals.
I don’t need a cop to tell me what’s right or wrong, I know what my head and my heart believe in.
An eye for an eye, fuck yes. Let one fucker come near what I hold dear, and I’ll end them. But beating on women, raping, selling people into any form of slavery, those lines I don’t fuck with.
I don’t bother with petty shit like tagging bridges with spray paint or stealing food from a restaurant in the name of freedom. I work for my food, my house, my ride. See, that’s the American way, earn that shit. And I earn it … even if the lines I cross for that money don’t follow the laws of my country. I don’t steal, I work a business, albeit an illegal one, but I still have a job to do. I’m not simply breathing air and moving around from day-to-day.
The kind of shit that will scar my soul, nope. I don’t fuck with shit that will keep me up at night haunting me. Touching anything innocent isn’t for me. I’ll kill a motherfucker and not skip a beat, but I promise anyone I kill brought that shit on. Maybe it’s my roots that prevent me from stooping to those levels in the name of a dollar. I simply refuse to ruin an innocent life for my personal gain.
Cross me and yes, earn my wrath. There’s nothing I won’t do to avenge a wrong. To kill a man who has fucked me is earned, not done for some level of street cred like these Rail Wreckers with their bullshit initiations.
It almost makes me laugh out loud. Back when I prospected for the Kings, things were different. Prospecting is our initiation, and it’s no walk in the park. When prospecting, one is a bitch, basically. There isn’t one single task that earns the cut. It’s a time in and time out dedication and loyalty to the brotherhood. There is no beat in, rape in, or fuck a brother’s woman way in. Every rocker is earned over a period of time, and only the officers at the table know when the prospect’s vote will come to pass. And that vote is an all-in. If one brother says no; it’s over. That’s all she wrote.
The president at the time I prospected was Chaos’ dad, Vic. At first, he seemed to have his head on straight. Then again, hindsight is twenty-twenty, and maybe it was all a façade. I can’t go back and change it, not that I would. Every moment, the good, the bad, and the oh-so-very-ugly have brought us to where we are today.
For me, I was a lost soul seeking a bond. The family I had was gone, not that they were blood anyway. Life had me by the balls. I had previously experienced another club but never made it beyond hang-around. They had too much internal conflict for me. I’m no-nonsense. Politics never outweigh brotherhood. Money never outweighs brotherhood. We ride together, we die together. The Kings of Carnage MC offered me a place where I am accepted as I am— both a broken man and the complete badass that I can be. The lost boy inside me felt found.
I have my place here. It’s even better than it was when I earned those first rockers. See, shit got ugly for a while. Vic lost his mind, and the direction wasn’t right. I didn’t say much because I’m not that kind of guy. But I have to admit, back then, I was worried maybe I had made a wrong decision to patch in. Thank fuck, it didn’t last. Chaos stepped up, and I’ll never look back. Not after knowing where we could have been and seeing where we are now is so much better.
Today, Chaos has a handle on things, and as Road Captain, I find honor amongst the brotherhood that I never imagined possible.
That’s what these Rail Wreckers lack: honor.
I can see the flicker through the weeds of the fire they camp around tonight. In the summer nights, they will quiet down, the Georgia humidity no doubt keeping them uncomfortable. A night like tonight, though, they want to party loud. Mother nature gives these little fuckers some comfort tonight.
Deciding not to deal with a bunch of drunk and high fuckers, I go inside my house to shut out the world. Tomorrow, it’s time to address the issue with the conductor. He knows I don’t like any uncalculated risks. These modern-day hobos can bring unwanted attention to our set up.
This is unacceptable.
Pulling up to the train station, I head to the spot. A small office that runs as the hub to the freight station. Each week, I make my way here to deliver an envelope of cash to the train conductor, who then gives me the rail number and car of my goods for this shipment. Every week his payments are the same, and my boxcar is different and always in a separate location from the last. Never let the shit move the same route twice. It’s a logistical nightmare for an outsider to sort out where the shit is coming from and where it’s going after it’s offloaded. I do this shit on purpose.
The conductor sits in his chair eating a sandwich as I walk into the office building. Four cream walls with a phone plugged into the wall with a table in the middle of the room. The back wall has a single desk with an old desktop computer that I swear is from the eighties. Whatever keeps this place off the radar works for me.
This particular train station is freight only. Seclusion is optimal in my business. With the tracks running through Uprising, well, this is perfect for the businesses in Atlanta to get their products in a cost-effective manner. For me, this is the best way to move my merchandise without any suspicion into what could be in the cars. There are less stops for each route, and no weigh checks at the state lines like when running shit in trucks. The DEA and law enforcement agencies have checks, of course, but since the trains run on a schedule, the agencies tend to follow a pattern in their investigations. Plus, Sly being the man he is, he secured us the intel to know when and where each check of a train will happen.