Ghost looked over at Blood. “How does a man with your obvious people skills end up like this?” He rattled his cuffs against the rail.
“Shut the fuck up,” Blood growled back with a half grin.
Sandman, who was cuffed to a support post with Blood, looked over at him and remarked, “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be cuffed to a pole with than you, peaches.”
Blood glared back at him. “Yeah, well I can think of a few people I’d rather you be cuffed to a pole with.”
“I fuckin hate being handcuffed. This sucks,” Ghost grumbled.
Sandman mumbled, “Life should be more like hockey. When someone pisses you off, you just beat the shit out of them, then sit in the penalty box for five minutes.”
Ghost rattled the metal cuffs against the pole again. “Clue in, Sandman. This is the MC version of the penalty box.”
“Yeah, well we’ve been here a fuck-of-a-lot longer than five goddamned minutes.”
It took the officers a while to get everyone’s story, including that of the owner, who nodded towards Shades.
Shades could only wonder what he’d told him as the County Sheriff ambled toward Shades. Since both the owner and the sheriff were on the Evil Dead payroll, he had an inkling how this little chat was gonna go. The sheriff stopped in front of him and put his hands on his hips.
“The owner says the Death Heads are the ones that started this. Said you all were quietly drinking inside and not causing any trouble. That true?”
“Of course, Sheriff,” Shades agreed with a smug smile.
Sandman went to lean back against the horizontal railing that attached to the vertical post he and Blood were cuffed to. He stumbled and landed flat on his ass.
Ghost looked down at him. “You missed.”
“You are so disappointing,” Blood muttered down at Sandman who lay on the ground at his feet, his hands still cuffed to the post.
“I’m okay,” Sandman replied and tried to stand, but banged his head on the connecting horizontal railing with a loud crack. “Less okay.”
Ghost chuckled.
The Sheriff peered down at Sandman, then asked Shades, “Your friend here party a little too hard?”
“Don’t worry, Officer, I’m the designated driver,” Blood put in.
The sheriff, who apparently had a pinch of chewing tobacco between his cheek and gums, turned his head and spit on the ground. “Smart ass is what you are.”
Blood looked over at the man’s spit. “That’s just gross.”
The men all snickered.
Even though the two MCs were separated, the Death Heads began yelling shit to the Evil Dead across the parking lot.
“You’re all dead, motherfuckers!”
Without missing a beat, Case yelled back, “Yeah. Evil Dead, and don’t you fucking forget it!”
Ghost shouted, “Go back to Gatorville, dickhead! We claim this bar. This coast. This state. It all belongs to the Evil Dead, and the fucking Death Heads aren’t welcome in this state.”
“Not for long, asshole!” came the response back from across the parking lot.
Shades looked over at the sheriff and quirked a brow. “You hear that? Is that what you want? The Death Heads MC getting a foothold in this town? In this state? Because let me tell you that’s only the start. You allow them across that bridge, you let them cross that inter-coastal, and you are opening hell’s gates.”
“Oh, and your boys are a bunch of boy scouts, huh?”
“Have we caused any trouble in this town?”