deepundergroundpoetry.com

One of Hells Angels

With all his weight he rammed down the kick start of the Norton Commando. The bike spluttered but didn’t catch. Under his breath he cursed the bitch and threatened to swap her for a Jap bike with an electric start. “Now just fucking start”, he shouted as he bounced once more. The bitch complied slowly at first until the choke did its job. ”Hey Pan Head, where you off to?”, asked one of the chapter's younger members. “Got to sort out some trouble with one of our own”, he replied, then rode away from the ramshackle sheds that the Forest of Dean Hells' Angels called their home. He never glanced back.
 
He had always been called Pan Head and most of his people assumed that was due to a love of Harleys; those that had been around in the early days knew that the name was due to the way he cut his own hair. He had joined the chapter at sixteen, a runaway on a BSA Bantam. Even at this tender age they soon learned not to mess with Pan Head. If there was ever any trouble he would be the first in and always the last to leave.
 
The road and years had not been kind to this now old greaser. Long rides would cripple him for days and sometimes the pain in his knuckles would get so bad he would drink himself into a stupor. He rarely spoke and the members of his chapter had stopped trying to converse many years ago, only the new members asked him questions and only occasionally did they get an answer and that was usually, ”Fuck off”.
 
The Norton's parallel twin thumped its way out of Gloucester through heavy rain and up onto the spinal trail of the M6. He rode like a zombie into an apocalypse stopping only to feed the bike. He tucked in tight to the tank, hardening against the cold and the foreboding giants that stalked the road as he entered the Jaws of Cumbria. He started to lose the light around Lockerbie but roared on towards East Kilbride and took the ring road round Glasgow heading for Stirling.
 
The bike had been thrashed for nearly six hours straight, through the worst weather God could throw at any of his fallen angels. Pan Head was pretty pissed off as he passed into the Kingdom of Fife and Perthshire. As he entered Bridge of Gaur he was ready to kill anything or anyone that even tried to get in his way. The sleepy hamlet was getting ready to go to bed, the rain had stopped and the street lights reflected orange on the rain-soaked road. The Norton was now moving slowly, searching out its prey. Finally it stopped, slumped to one side like a horse on its last legs as the rider climbed off.
 
Inside Rannoch church the congregation had just started evening prayers; two small children at the back were giggling and snatching prayer books out of each other’s hands. Pan Head slammed open the doors at the back of the Church and stepped inside, the steel segs in his boots clicked on the cold tiled floor and pools of rain collected at his feet. The whole back row of the pews were now wishing they had sat at the front as they turned to see the Hells' Angel that had descended onto their sleepy hollow. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he spat. “Where is she?” he hollered above the faltering pipe organ.
 
The vicar tucked up his robes and trotted towards the crude stranger that had broken his routine. As he passed the front row Alan Edgar, a man well respected for his generosity about Gaur, spoke his mind. "That's right vicar, send the uncouth lout packing”. This prompted others to join in with ayes of agreement.
 
The Vicars' stride broke, he turned to face his congregation. "I can't believe what I'm hearing, is this the way we welcome strangers? tell me, what do you make of this man who visits our church?" he asked. “It needs a bath. Coming in church dressed like that, it’s not right". "Aye who does he think he is?”. “Someone that’s not welcome, I would say”, voiced Alan Edgar, getting braver with the support of his townsfolk. “Why Vicar?. What do you see?”
 
“Alan Edgar! I'll tell you what I see, I see a man who is worth 818 words, I also see a man that has travelled a great distance to be beside his mother when she needs him most. Come in Michael, you must be frozen, let’s go through to the back. I’ll make you some tea. Mums' in bed; she’s very weak but at least she’s home”.
 
With his arm around his son the Vicar turned to look at his flock. ” I think you've held your own sermon tonight; see yourselves out”.
Written by Razzerleaf
Published | Edited 20th Jun 2022
Author's Note
Hells angels
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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