Timberwolves

Another day of breakneck confusion as 330 drags me into some unfathomable mess of chaos. This time with bikers.

It was just any other bar/restaurant hybrid thing in South Dakota. Not a big fancy place, but something good to stop at for a fast dinner. Wasn’t expecting anything to happen there.

We were waiting for our food when a horde of motorcycles descended on the parking lot. Moments later, dozens of loud, muscular, tattooed men in leather swarmed inside. I now know what a Viking raid looks like. Most of them went straight for the alcohol; two of them lifted the bartender up and threw him aside while the rest grabbed as many bottles as they could carry. Others went for the waitresses; couldn’t hear what they were saying to them over the shouting, but judging by the gestures it wasn’t exactly polite conversation. Lots of loud shouting, lots of people shoving each other, all one giant mess of chaos.

Didn’t take long for some of them to notice 330 and I sitting in the back. Two of them came over to our table, wide grins on their faces. One of them put a hand on my shoulder, and I panicked. Before he could say anything, I tried the first of the tricks 330 had taught me and tried to break his arm.

Had 330 been the one doing that, he’d probably have been on the ground crying.

With me, the end result was him yelping slightly and massaging his clearly unbroken arm. Shouted something like “stupid bitch,” and slapped me across the face.

330 was on him in a second. Might be my memory exaggerating, but I swear I think she punched him across the room. His friend tried punching 330 as revenge, only to get kneed in the groin. Others saw the scuffle starting and ran over to join in, resulting in several more people getting punched across the bar.

“What the fuck are you idiots doing.”

Whole place went quiet. A new man had entered the bar, wearing a black leather studded jacket with some kinda triangle pattern on a sleeve. He towered over everyone there; must have been at least a head above the next tallest person in the room. Surprisingly old, compared to the other bikers who had stormed inside. Had a big white beard which almost made him look Santa, if Santa lifted weights in his free time and had a face covered in a patchwork of scars. He was glaring at everyone inside, eyes demanding an answer.

Finally, one brave soul spoke up. “Well, you see, boss, Rick and Sam went over to… over to have a talk with those two fine ladies over there, and, um, they were attacked, completely unprovoked, and we were trying to help them defend themselves… against… against that one girl….”

No one spoke as the “Boss” walked over to 330. The two stared each other down; for all I could tell, neither looked like they were going to blink anytime in the next year. Finally, the boss pointed a finger at 330 and spoke.

“I remember your face. Winter of 1999, that battle at the Port of Boston.”

“Oh, you were there?” 330 grinned rather sadistically. “I didn’t realize I’d left any survivors.”

Brief moment of tension, where I thought the man was going to explode in violence. Instead, he exploded in laughter; a hearty “Ho ho ho!” which only further added to my belief that he was Santa’s evil twin.

“You kids better show this women here some respect!” He bellowed to the motley assembly. “She sent more people to the Archangel in one day than any of you likely will in your entire lives! Now someone drag the bartender out from behind that table, he has customers here to serve!”

The change in the bikers’ behaviors which took place was unbelievable. They were still loud, boisterous, and aggressive, but it was far more constrained than before. It was like watching a class of kindergarteners after the teacher walks back inside the room, and each one is trying to be on their best behavior, hoping that no one mentions all the crayon on the wall. Think I even heard one of them say “thank you” to a waitress after she brought them their drinks.

Their boss grabbed a seat for himself and sat down at our table. “Now, if I recall, the last time we met, we were too busy shooting at each other for much in the way of introduction.” He held out his hand. “Roy Makhno. I lead the Timberwolves in this area.”

330 shook his hand. “You can call me I-330.” Roy paused at the odd name, but didn’t seem too bothered.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” He said to me.

Struggled to find words. “Lisa Wells.” Tried to think of something else. How had 330 introduced me last time? “I once shot the Intrusion with a flamethrower.”

He burst into another round of laughter, and slapped me on the back. “That’s the way to do it! Never did like those bugs, anyways! Waitress! Get my friends here some drinks!”

As he was ordering for us, I whispered to 330, “What are the Timberwolves?”

“A gang that serves an unspeakably monstrous abomination which enslaves peoples’ souls.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Most of them aren’t this nice. First chance we get, we get out of here.”

That’s what she said the plan was. Then she got distracted. It would seem that 330 is never averse to people offering her large quantities of alcohol, no matter what dark masters those offering may serve. And of course there was no way she could leave after the arm wrestling contest started. Followed by the drinking sings, which I tried my best to hum along to. Hadn’t quite drunk enough to sing yet. When we left, a very inebriated Roy gave us a massive bear hug, slurring that we “were the best damn runner [he’d] ever met, and [he’d] be sure to kill us in an awesome way if we ever were to fight.” Which I think is his of giving a compliment… I guess?

And that was how I befriended an evil biker gang cult.

-Lisa