A would-be silent night made noisy. The roar of a motorcycle travels alone but makes way for a breeze, shaking of trees surrounding a fortress of a town. Destination to many, it’s a home to less, but a home nonetheless. Those who call it so have a certain way of dealing with what they’ve come to expect, and few things are as obvious as a chopper throttling down the bottleneck that runs straight through their existence. They’re used to this.
Rider, speeding obliviousness, doesn’t note the absence of obstacles and potholes, goes right past the fact that the road is clearly maintained to afford people like Rider a problem free path. Sent here, like so many others, to prove self-worth, Rider has no reason to question the ease of progress; the focus is on results.
To become a full-fledged member of the Pagans, Rider must rob a bar. Doesn’t matter where, or how it gets done, just that it does. And conveniently enough, the one now pulled up to has reserved motorcycle parking in front; a passerby stops to advise, “Pull closer to the curb, be a shame if someone ruined your ride.”
Inside, an atmosphere alive bright lights and clinking glass and screams doesn’t register Rider’s entrance. Phantom-like presence paused in the doorway observing a different dimension, the fantasy is shattered, Rider brought back to reality by the expectant face of the business’ Maitre D’. “This is a…” Rider’s words come out weakly.
“Robbery?” The employee offers up helpfully.
Rider’s hands fumble, then come up shaking with the weight of a pistol. No silencer, it still quiets the room, a conversation-stopping attention grabber, the start of a new paragraph.
“Please! Don’t shoot me!” Maitre D’, tone uber dramatic, as unserious as can possibly be, hands raised in surrender, turns to the crowd, “I hate peas!” The people laugh, resume drinking.
Still brandishing the weapon, Rider’s eyes bounce between it and the employee confusedly. “What?”
“They used to send you people out with sawed-offs. Should probably talk to someone about that.”
“The money.” Rider says forcefully.
Maitre D’ rolls eyes, walks away.
Rider, following, notices, beneath feet, a yellow line predicting their steps; a quick look back confirms its start at the door, a predetermined path from which there’s been zero deviation. Rider steps to one side and instantly the crowd stands up, offended and tough-skinned gargoyles, scowling townies, threatening enough to make flee any thought of anything further.
The weapon can’t solve for everything. Rider isn’t even sure of shooting what’s aimed at. They’ve never used a firearm before.
Back in line, Rider rushes to the bar where Maitre D’ snickers gleefully. “Least you learn fast.” Cash register’s bell rings, its metal drawer opens with a crash. Paper is exchanged.
“The fuck is a certificate of robbery?”
“What you’re gonna take with you.” Maitre D’, freed of the piece of paper, bends beneath bar then pops up with a shotgun. “Now leave.”
Rider backpedals from the bar, eyes on ground, line as guide. Outside, pulls trigger, and a plastic BB lands somewhere in the darkness, not too far away.
Back on the road, certificate in tow, Rider is now officially in the gang.
Vincent Santino Smarra 
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