Logs:Last Ride
| Last Ride | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-10-21 "Shit I'd vote for you, if you wanted this back." |
| Location
<NYC> Hellhound Bikes - The Hole | |
Located not far from Jamaica Bay in a predominantly Latinx sector of East New York, this garage doesn't look like much from the outside. A low-slung squat dingy brick building with a hand-painted sign over front proclaiming it to be HELLHOUND CUSTOM CYCLES, this garage has a small office area with its own pedestrian entrance from the street at the front, containing a minifridge usually full of beer and beaten down old desk with a ledger and an antique cash register that no one ever seems to use. The rest of the space is roughly L-shaped, its walls lined with racks of tools and heavy workbenches with built-in steel drawers full of hardware and spare parts. There's a raised platform in the wider leg of the space for working on one motorcycle, and there's space in the narrower leg for parking at least three more. The hour has grown very late. Time enough for the afternoon Fancy Memorial to give way to a much rowdier afterparty, time enough for the rowdier afterparty to leave the grounds and descend on poor Salem Center for an after-after party, time enough for a large contingent of bikers to congregate there for a last ride. Time enough for the posse to give New York traffic a severe headache on the ride from Westchester back to Brooklyn. The dirt is still fresh on the grave in the small patch of backyard behind the garage and with the bikers home and the bikes parked for the night, this funeral afterparty has a good deal more booze than the last ones. Ion has not been drinking -- very occupied in a fierce brawl with one of the Las Vegas Chapter dogs. After dragging himself away from the pitch, though, bruised, blood sprinkled over his jeans and tee, he is beelining first to grab his cut off where it's been safely Un Splattered hanging on his bike and second for the beers, grabbing a cold Corona and using it to wash down a small white pill that is definitely not prescription. Scramble is draped across her own bike next to Ion's, puffing leisurely on a joint. She was dressed more formally at the memorial service and during the ride, but now she's just in a black a-shirt and jeans, the sharp angles of her long limbs are more pronounced than ever. "You sure gave that dog what for. Y'all good?" She sounds almost mellow as she offers out the joint, but there's still a wild manic gleam in her eyes. "Good, shit. {Feels fucking orgasmic punching someone just cuz I want to.}" Ion accepts the joint, only too happy to keep stacking his intoxicants. He takes a deep hit, tips his head back, holds it in a long moment before exhaling slow. "Feel less good I be see some these fuckers only when one us bites it." Scramble doesn't quite giggle, but there is a slightly unhinged quality to the laugh. "Right on, hermano. Oughta get my head a bit more right before I do any fighting or fucking." She's high enough at least that this doesn't seem to cause her any consternation. "Ain't that the way of it. It's like that with the family what born me now." She sits up and teases out where her 'fro had been compressed against her hand. "I seen a lot of awkward questions some these fuckers not-quite-asking 'bout my rank patch. Any of them ask you out loud?" Ion snorts. His shoulder rolls, neck stretching in the opposite direction with an audible pop. He tips the neck of his beer towards the tall bald Vegas Mongrel he's just been tussling with, currently busy dulling the pain of his bruises with some tequila shots with his packmates. "Fuck I gonna say. Club voted." "Club voted," Scramble agrees, leaning toward Ion. "Dogs still gon' be talkin'. Not so much on account of how shit's been all the way fucked since, but you a full-blown legend come back from the dead. Probably figure we'd'a voted you back in the minute we could." She tilts her head at him. "Shit I'd vote for you, if you wanted this back." "Back?" This comes out as a startled bark of laughter. Ion's grin is broad. He claps a jostling-zappy hand to Scramble's back. "Crazyface, you can keep this fucking headache, I ain't looking for no responsibility till I get me a real damn break. No murderslugs, no nazi, none this shit." He reaches over, tucking the joint back into Scramble's mouth. "Maybe I even drag that red-eye boy scout out on the road. Look, I find a actual vacation, get back one piece, maybe you ask me again, huh?" Scramble's power tugs lightly at Ion's mind. She doesn't let it uncoil fully but doesn't tighten it away, either, and it leaves him with an echo of her mania, little as it is likely to affect him in his current state. "Damn good thing I know you love me." She hits the joint hard and blows a long stream of smoke up, her head staying tipped back for a moment to watch it dissipate against the light haze of the city sky. "Summers? He aight," she concludes casually, which from her is high praise to someone of his race and disposition. "He's got a sweet ride, too, and he sure do need to loosen up." Her eyes slip half shut, but she's still watching Ion from under their lids, her smile bittersweet and difficult to parse. "I'mma hold this shit down long as you need, brother. Long as we need." | |
