GGS: Good Gaelic Souls A Biker Saga (G.G.S) (3 page)

"Who here believes that they have the right to drink from this honorable mans cup?" Stax asked loudly as Samson set the drink on the bar. "No soul on earth has earned that right, no matter how much we love him!" The room yelled in unison. There was a slight pause before they continued, "However it is agreed, that of such good whisky, there shall be no waste!" added the crowd. Stax took Slider's last drink off the bar. Slowly she poured the drink into her own embossed glass and raised it high into the air. Every member raised their own with her's and cried out, "Know that you are Loved my Brother, Know that you are Loved!" and with that, they downed their drinks without hesitation.

"Bartender!" Stax cried out again, "While it's still wet with whiskey, seal Slider's glass in the acrylic cube for all to see. Set it in a place of honour behind this bar that he built with his own hands." Realizing that her hands were shaking, she set down her glass before anyone had a chance to notice. She needn't have worried though, all eyes were on Samson as he lovingly placed the glass in the acrylic cube that bore a gold name plate. "
Slider
" it read, "
G.G.S -Founder & President
." As he placed it on the center of the shelf, directly under the big portrait of her father, she walked slowly over to the Officers table. Everyone in the room followed her.

"V.P." she cried out, "Which is Slider's chair?" Strangler walked over to the big mahogany chair that Slider had made for himself when he first built the Clubhouse. He placed his big hands on the back rest, gripping hard as he tried to steady his own emotions from within. "This one here, this is our Founder's Chair!" He yelled.

Looking out at the faces of Slider's family, she asked them, "Who here believes that they have the right to sit in this honarable man's chair?" Again, in unison, they yelled. "No soul on earth has earned that right, no matter how much we love him!" After a moment of silence they spoke again, "However, we cannot be expected to stare at an empty chair, that no longer seats our Slider!"

At this group announcement, Stax exclaimed, "V.P.", Carry Slider's chair to the fire, not one among us can fill his seat." At which point Strangler, with the help of Samson, hoisted up the heavy chair and carried it out the back door to the fire pit awaiting in the backyard. The entourage followed and watched solemnly as the chair went into the fire. Everyone gathered, reflecting on their lost loved one, as the flames licked at the wood, slowly devouring the chair.

For several long minutes they watched the fire do it's work, while Samson, following tradition, went inside and came back with a fresh drink for Stax and Strangler. Stax briefly allowed him the honour of holding her father's leather while they quickly downed their drinks. Samson fought a personal battle against an instinctive urge to cling to the Cut and run. Slider had been like a grandfather to him and he wanted nothing more than to hold onto this precious piece of love and history. Before he could act, he regained his sanity and held the vest out to Stax. Tears filling her eyes and a lump in her throat that nearly caused her to choke, she swallowed hard and walked over to the fire with her father's colors in her arms. Rubbing the leather against her wet cheek, she took one last long smell before she spoke.

"Who here believes that they have the right to wear this honorable mans Cut?" She yelled. Silence greeted her question, sniffles were heard and tears were flowing from every eye, but no one was capable of a response.

"Who here believes that they have the right to wear this honarable mans Cut?" She all but screamed, her emotions raw and frayed. Several seconds ticked by and all at once the crowd came to life. "No soul that walks this earth has earned the right to wear our Slider's Cut, no matter how much we love him!" And at that, she quietly breathed the words, "I love you real hard Da" into his leathers and threw them into the raging fire. Samson walked over and poured a full bottle of Irish Whiskey on top of the fire pit, completing the ceremony.

Everyone was respectful and gave Stax the space that they knew she needed. Nobody tried to tell her ignorant stories about being in a better place or that it was just his time, nor any of the childish religious bullshit that most people tell each other when something like this happens. It was what it was, death. An accidental death, point blank. There is no reason to ask why, it simply happened, the end. They were all of the same mind here, nobody wrapped life up in a pretty package and told fairy tales about what went wrong. Life happens and then somehow, someway, life ends. It's all about how you choose to live it, for whatever time you have it. Simple, easy, reality. There was nothing that could be said that would change the recent events or make her somehow feel better. As she walked through the sea of hugs and loving looks silently, she knew that whatever came, these good souls would have her back. Looking back at them all before she entered the Clubhouse, she reminded herself of their life motto:

"If you surround yourself with Good Souls;  You will never be Alone, you will always be Loved, and you can get through Anything."

These were words that they lived by on a daily basis, it was who they were. Making her way back to her private room in the back, she sat down in the big chair in the corner by the window and stared quietly out at the fire pit in the backyard, watching the flames lick the sky. She thought about those big loving Irish hands that had built this chair especially for her. Trying to light a cigarette, the tears began to flow and she had no choice but to lay it down in the ashtray.  She cried until she heaved and the tears still flowed. She drew a small amount of comfort in knowing that though her father's beloved Cut was out there in ashes, she still had his Kilt. This she would cherish forever, and if ever she had a son, it would be passed to him.

She was alone now. Da was gone, and she was alone. The last several days came crashing down on her like an avalanche. She couldn't stop the pain, she couldn't stop the mental images and she couldn't see what lay ahead. Finally, the tears subsided. She wasn't scared and she wasn't weak, she was numb. Simply numb, and even though she hadn't slept more than 5 hours in the last 3 days, she was wide fucking awake. She craved the mental peace that comes with sleep, but she wasn't going to get it tonight and she knew it.

"For fucks sake," she said to herself aloud, "I don't want to be alone and I don't want to be around anyone either, so what the hell am I supposed to do?" She stood up and started pacing around the room, rubbing her hands together and stomping her feet. "What do I do now" She asked herself. "What's next?" She screamed at the alarm clock on the nightstand "How do I fill all of these fucking minutes that you keep ticking off?"

Still pacing back and forth she screamed again at the relentless rythmic ticking of the little clock. "Unless you can turn back time you worthless piece of shit, just shut-the-fuck-up!" And with that, she grabbed the clock from the table and hurled it against the wall. It smashed into several smaller pieces which fell to the floor and stared up at her as if taunting her to do it again. And so she did. She picked up the table lamp and hurled it against the wall, followed by the ashtray and her empty whiskey glass. All of which now lay in shattered pieces on the floor near the wall from whence they bounced. Feeling a small sense of relief, she went to the bathroom and started the shower.

Stax tried to wash away this awful day, knowing that she would not be bothered by anyone unless requested. Someone, probably Strangler or Samson, would have locked that back door after she went through it, and the prospect would have been posted at the end of the hall. Even though no one in this family would be so disrespectful as to try to come see her right now, she knew that this would be enforced. What she didn't know, was that Strangler had posted himself immediately outside her door in the event that
he
felt that she did need someone. He had heard everything that had went on inside that room.

Once he heard the shower running, he quietly went in and cleaned up the mess on the floor. He poured her a fresh drink and set it on the table. Next, he left a joint for her in the ashtray that he had taken from the dresser, giving it a new home on the bedside table. He then lit the big lavender candle that sat in the middle of the dresser, the one that her father had given  her for her last birthday. He had also given her a case of Irish whiskey and a new pair of riding chaps, which he had custom made with her name embossed in the leather strap across her backside. Then he walked over to the closet and laid out some clean clothes for her on the bed. Leaving the room with a waste basket full of little casualties, he silently closed the door behind him and went back to the bar to wait. Filled with relief, knowing that since she had made it through this day, all she would need now was time. He sat down on a barstool to wait.

Stax came out of the bathroom wet and naked and noticed immediately that the candle was burning. Glancing around the room she saw what Strangler had done. Of course it was Strangler, that was a given. Nobody else would have made it down the hall for one, and only someone who knows you that well, would know how to make a smile cross your face at a time like this. She felt grateful, she felt loved and she realized at that moment that she could still feel something other than pain. It was a start she thought, as she picked up the joint and lit it. "Baby steps." she thought, "Heartbeat by heartbeat, minute by minute, hour by hour, I will get through this."

Sitting at the bar, Strangler continued to wait for her. It was well after midnight and everyone had either dispersed, was in quiet conversation or was solemnly staring at the picture of Slider that hung over the center of the bar. He glanced over at the three remaining original members, all of them veterans, Slider's lifelong companions, his brothers. He could not imagine the heartbreak that these men were enduring as they witnessed the first of them leave this world.  Slider was gone and their sorrow was unfathomable. He could tell that each man was packing by the way they sat, and he knew that if anything had gotten out of hand on this day, they would have been of the mind to make it stop, without negotiation.

Rage, the clubs Road Captain, was a long legged 6'7, Scottsman, complete with a thick accent. He had black hair with a blend of gray, that he kept in a long braid. His chiseled face bore a full mustache and deep green eyes. He was fully sleeved in pin-up girls and had a tattoo on both sides of his neck of the Scottish thistle. Like most of the family, he was a huge flirt and though he loved his ol' lady Dimples, deeply and without question, he was notorious for having women fighting for his attention. At times he had to be downright rude just to keep them at bay. His heart was huge, and giving to other's was his nature. On the other hand, he was trained by the military as a Sharp-Shooter and had no problem changing gears when necessary.

Moby, the club Secretary, was 5'11 and as Irish as they come. His naturally spiraled, medium brown hair was also showing age, but the women loved nothing more than to run their fingers through it. Females would pay big money to have what grew natural for him, and he enjoyed the attention. To him every women was a treasure to behold, and he had made a life's work of beholding as many as would allow it. He just never wanted to be beholden to any of them for too very long. His handsome jovial face was embellished with laughing blue eyes and a trickster's smile. Though charming, he also possessed a sick and somewhat twisted sense of humour. He could put it out there in such a matter-of-fact tone, that most people couldn't tell if he was serious or being funny . On a daily basis, he wore flannel shirts and blue jeans with black leather suspenders that read "Moby" on one strap and "G.G.S" on the other. His trade mark piece of apparel however, was his Kelley green custom made boots. Unless he was sleeping, you could put money on the fact that those boots were on Moby's feet.

Griff, the clubs Treasurer, stood an even 6' with a full grizzly beard and wild dark brown hair. He looked like he would eat you alive, but you really had to push his buttons or fill him full of whiskey, before he would lose his composure or his temper. Once that was done, there was no turning back, Griff was unable to reign himself in once he let loose. His brothers had to keep a constant vigil, to steer trouble away from his direction. Proud of his duel Scottish/Irish ancestry, his back-piece was a large Griffin surrounded by Celtic knots.
Griff and his ol'lady Cat, couldn't have children, but they made up for that by becoming 'second parents' for every child in the club. Through the years, they had taken in several of them long term, due to a variety of circumstances. Their house was basically a Day Care Center for the G.G.S. It was rare that they were alone in their own home, but that's exactly how they liked it. About every three months they would take a three or four day weekend to go to a local Bike Rally or just maybe ride off into the sunset together to refresh themselves with a little alone time.

As Strangler sat listening to them reminisce and offer up another toast to their fallen brother, he lifted his drink and spotted Stax coming down the hall towards him. She was freshly dressed, her towel dried auburn hair spiraling down her shoulders in wild abandon. He thought that she was most beautiful, at the times that she felt that she looked like shit. He quickly noticed the relaxed, almost peaceful look on her face and realized that she was pleasantly stoned. "Good." he thought, "That's exactly what she needed, something to even her out for a minute." He would take what he could get right now, as long as she was headed in the right direction. There had been a few times in the last several days, that although he was painfully aware of how strong, willful and independent she was, he had still feared that it was possible that the sudden loss of her father might throw her over the edge.