The bar was dark, closed down early for the day. It fared very poorly for Themis’ rising anxiety. She circled the plot to an empty strip between the back of the bar and the adjacent property that was used as a parking lot for the club. At the edge of it was the club house, a quiet corner connected to the bar exclusive to club members and associates. She had spent her first month as a prospect wanting nothing more than being allowed inside, and not just because she wanted to become closer to the club. The clubhouse meant jobs, and a job meant she could take care of her rent and groceries without having to wash dishes at the local Subway on top of keeping up with her club chores. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to go back to that.
The club’s rides were parked at the strip, bikes lined up alongside Dinah’s Charger and Carmen’s van. Themis recognized the Road King Artie had picked her up on, Carmen’s red Street Bob and Katrine’s Softail. Last, or rather first starting from the clubhouse, was Valkyrie, Odin’s silver vintage Panhead, the Holy Grail for many a Harley-Davidson enthusiast and the pride and joy of the club. The skull decals had increased since st Themis saw it, the club must have been busy.
She pushed the doors open, expecting the room to be empty. Katrine was leaning against the wall, a lit cigar between her lips and a gss of whisky in her hands. She gred at Themis behind her thick rimmed gsses, without saying anything. Themis tensed up, hands balling into fists.
The inside of the clubhouse was the same as she remembered it. Walls covered in bike culture stickers and posters of bare chested women, forming an intricate tapestry of the American biker dream. Facing the doors was Vallha, an empty part of the wall where photos of dead club members were hung. There were only two of them at the moment. Themis prayed she’d never have to see more of them. In dispy cases were various exhibits acquired by the club over the years. A one-of-one unreleased Ed Roth pinstripe design the Big Daddy himself had drawn for Odin at the back of one of her middle school notebooks, a photo from the first season of Sons of Anarchy signed Charlie Hunnam and Tommy Fnagan and a spark plug stolen from one of Steve Mcqueen’s bikes.
On the right side was the rest of the bar, past a beaded curtain that was pulled open. Tables and chairs were spread sparingly around a dance floor, and a small lounge area with sofas and armchairs was arranged around a small stage with a pole. Bar girls were sitting in the couches, killing time in their phones. Themis recognized Raven, a goth with an unmistakable half shaved bob hairstyle, and Rita, an old associate of the club’s and the only person outside the club who was trusted enough to work the counter and handle the drinks. A few new faces were with them, all in all around two dozen people counting the club members and Themis herself. Odin really wanted a full house.
At the other side was the door leading to the hof, the inner sanctum of the clubhouse where the club gathered, voted and safekept their cash and weapons. The door was marked by the club’s logo, a skull in a viking helmet and an eyepatch over one of its eyes. The newer design, as seen on kutte patches, bike decals and sprinkled in all kinds of decorations around the bar, also featured streaks of blood down the skull’s cheekbones, including all three of the club’s colors: red, silver and bck. But the one on the door stayed the same as it was when the club was first founded more than two decades ago, before Themis was even born.
“Prospect,” Katrine grumbled, drawing Themi’s attention.
She was a tall blonde, with wide shoulders and a rge chest. She was the biggest girl in the club, a little shorter than Themis but almost twice as wide. Alongside Carmen she served as the club’s muscle, with more fights won between them than everyone else’s combined. She was the club’s VP, and should really be sitting at the hof with the rest of the patches. The fact that she was there to greet Themis did not bode well.
“Katrine,” Themis greeted the older woman, trying to hide the anxiety in her voice. She started walking to the hof, before Katrine smmed a hand holding a kutte against her chest.
“Going somewhere without this?” she asked, her gaze cold.
Blushing, Themis took the leather cut-off and threw it on. It was a simple vest, devoid of patches and fir save for a round one that read ‘Prospect’ at the back. She used to hate it, and the big fat target it put on her. It could have easily read ‘Abuse me’ and the full patches wouldn’t treat her as bad as they did. Hazing or not, looking back it was far from the best time of her life. Yet she’d trade that, and worse, with prison any day. What wouldn’t she give to get to keep even that dreaded piece of leather.
Katrine put her cigar out and accompanied Themis to the hof. As soon as the door was open a plume of smoke assaulted Themis’ eyes, they must have been waiting for her for a while. The inside of the windowless room was pin compared to the optical assault that was the rest of the clubhouse. Chains hung from the ceiling, amulets of all kinds of viking thematology from Mjolnir hammers to Vegvisir compasses. Themis remembered the wolves, Skoll and Hati chasing the sun and moon, as her favourites, but she couldn’t recognize them between the tangled assembly at a gnce. At the center was a wooden table carved with the Valknut, the knot of the fallen warriors, around which sat the club.
