Becoming Zen

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The events accompanying Monk's funeral.
5.7k words
4.29
10.1k
5

Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 01/01/2023
Created 01/26/2017
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HarryHill
HarryHill
98 Followers

Harry's Notes: No matter how this story began or the time it took simmering and chilling from then to now, I've concluded there must be peace within us to accomplish any worthwhile objective, something only you can determine. Follow your own path my friend and be still.

*****

Graveside:

Lizzie felt silly in heels and a dress trying to wield a shovel and stand at the same time. Mad Dog reached forward steadying her when she tottered, pushing it deep into the piled earth. She regained her feet, looked back as he released her. Frost blue eyes that seemed to show no emotion in their wolf like gaze met hers. His nickname came after a bar fight; someone said he looked like a mad dog, searching for its next victim; the name stuck. He was a good man to have at your back when things turned bad.

She blinked tiredly and he nodded, releasing her, watching while she heaved dirt into the hole then he took his turn, popping a beer, taking a healthy drink, tossing the remainder in, shoveled silently, then unzipped and took a piss with his bro one more time this side of Harley Heaven.

Some of the club mama's and old ladies tittered, Wanda called out a crude remark and all of those at the graveside laughed and hooted. Liam just smiled off into the distance, eyes shut, taking his time.

Preacher Bob quoted a little club twisted scripture and added he'd see him in the God damned afterlife, stepped back handing the shovel to Michael, Vice President and de facto Prez until they voted to fill the vacancy. He pulled a bottle out of a pocket inside his cutoff, broke the seal and drank half in a long swallow and poured the rest in.

"Ride free, Bro, if you see the devil, kick his ass for me. I'll be there to watch your back some day like you watched mine while you were here;" he passed the shovel on, standing with Preacher and Dog, arms around shoulders, unspeaking as the rest began their turns saying goodbye, doing good service to the man who had taken a hand full of scooter tramps and turned them into a club.

Lizzie stood beside the grave, watching as the prospects started shoveling the remainder of the earth over her uncle's casket now that the full patch brothers were finished. It was their time to provide one more requirement for membership. A shower of cans, beer and farewells, then they bent to task, seeing which one could move the most dirt under the patch holders gaze. Now and then eyes moved around the circle of tough young men wondering which one would be next to fight for their patch.

There were only a few memorial tattoos, a wake and a final run to the low lands where Dan had led the pack on so many other occasions; then he would fade into memory, dredged up in anecdotal stories shared around a campfire or late night party when thoughts turned introspective and conversation slowed. A man elevated to god like status in the wide eyes of hang a rounds and prospects.

While they finished, the brothers walked to the road, leaving Lizzie in her citizen wardrobe to quiet thoughts as they gathered to stand beside their bikes talking quietly. The last of the earth was thrown into the grave; the grounds keepers took over. Michael started his bike, sitting astride while the rumble of motorcycles echoed over the graveyard, filled the air like a herd of unseen thunder horses galloping across the sky.

He raised his hand, making a circle in the air, high over his head; the pack pulled out onto the highway, sounding like some internal combustion performance art as they accelerated up through the gears for the ride back to bar and wake, leaving only Liam, Lizzie, and hang around Billy waiting on Lizzie's idling BSA for the patch holder to pull away. Billy was sent after them with a gesture of Liam's head. Eyes on her, head bowed, staring at the mound of dirt, wanting to go to her, hold her close, share her loss and his that was like a stone within the chest; instead he left, face grim, passing Billy quickly to chase the pack and leave her to thoughts she was not ready to share yet.

Uncle Dan was the only father Lizzie ever known; now gone he left her only a sense of emptiness, his bike, the bar, and memories of riding in his lap as a child, wind blowing her blonde hair back as she held his massive forearms, steady thunder of the bike while she laughed and screamed,

"Faster, Unk, go faster." Finally, Unk became Monk and Lizzie became Little Bitch, but only out of Monks hearing, always with respect for the young girl that fought her way through grammar school, invariably the butt of ridicule as another of Monks old ladies took over the job of feeding and clothing Ms. Lizzie, even though Elizabeth was on her birth certificate.

Lizzie became known Lezzie in high school, until in a fit of anger, she lost her virginity behind the gymnasium during a Halloween bash, then Lezzie became Slut and lumps were handed out to the ones that let her hear them, followed by a flurry of notes from school, detention, and a steady supply of young men that masturbated to the exploits of the few that were able to stand under the glower of uncle Dan's bulking presence long enough for Lizzie to decide she was ready to go.

The first boy that slapped her got a black eye and a busted lip. He claimed that he had tripped and fallen, but the word got around that Lizzie liked it rough. The last one that tried it got a taste of what she learned from watching the brothers putting a fine tune on some asshole that needed it. He never told anyone what happened, but he would cross the street if she was seen walking his way and he never looked in her eyes again when they met by chance.

In between the first and last she began taking martial arts classes when finding out she was not as tough as she imagined; blind rage was not as effective as foresight and skill, and they, formidable tools in keeping the world at bay. She buried herself in books and school, receiving top marks, better even than the nerds that avoided her too. After that, boys became scarce; the brothers wouldn't touch her because of Monk, and their own avuncular feelings. Any outside riders that happened through and became interested were soon warned off.

It was, she had imagined what living in a nunnery was like, until discovering that Wanda had a taste for pussy; she put that to good use whenever things got a little too uncomfortable, always after hearing her tell of some sexual encounter with one of the members. Her favorite stories were those that involved Liam, invariably ending with her fist in Wanda's hair, pushing her against her cunt while imagining Liam's legendary cock deep in her.

Lizzie shook her head at the fast emptying graveyard and walked miserably back through the stones to her truck, sliding in, removing her high heels with a sigh; opening a beer from the small cooler on the floorboard, Lizzie drank, letting the silk of night settle, covering the graves and groundskeepers that soon drove away, discreetly leaving her to empty the cooler in solitude.

She heard a bike in the distance, listened to the music of a well-tuned v twin, whose sound was a signature of the rider grow closer. Liam, back to check on her; a small, smile, backwards toss of her empty into the truck bed, she opened the last and took a drink, waiting, always waiting. Maybe now that Uncle Dan was gone... Mad dog pulled up beside the window, letting his bike idle in a slow lope and glaring in.

"What are you still doing here? You can't sit in the dark looking like that." She took a drink, tasting lipstick, looked down at the black knee length dress, stockings, patted her upswept hair and frowned at his tone.

"I'm a big girl; don't you think I looked nice today?" The club brothers had become silent when she showed at the mortuary; their eyes examined her with a new realization that the blue jeaned girl that had worked behind the bar since she was 18, was a woman of great beauty and desire. She took a drink and looked out the window at him, waiting on a compliment that had not been given yet.

Liam looked back, confused by the lack of her usually volatile temper and the scent of perfume she'd never used before that made his insides want to do funny things.

"No, I mean yes;" desperate to make his point, he said forcefully, "you are going to get raped out here alone."

"Yeah, who's going to do it?" She gestured to the vacant night that only held them. "Who's going to do it, Dog, you?" Liam searched her green eyes, seeking his with such soft intensity that made him wonder what it would be like to hold her, kiss those lips that looked so inviting, run his hands over those long legs that promised a world of pleasure just a little further up the hem of that black dress. He shook his head, clearing those thoughts with anger and pissed words and screamed back.

"You need to get your ass home, Little Bitch, fuckin' now!"

"Fuck you, I'll go when I'm ready," she blasted back in his face, leaning out of the window, spraying beer spittle and venom. Liam's face contorted as he rapped his throttle, toed the bike into first with a clunk and did a burnout U-turn., leaving the stench of hot rubber as well as curses in a cloud of angry smoke.

"I was ready to go anyway." She said to the diminishing sound of his bike, running flat out, moving away in a fit of mechanical anger that expressed Liam's rage and frustration so much better than words. Lizzie got out of the truck and squatted beside it, pissing on the pavement instead of Uncle Dan's grave that was too far away to walk barefoot or wearing those god damn heels.

Lizzie drove back to the bar, passing the lot full of bikes and vehicles and went in the back door, catching Wanda's eye in the crowd of brothers and guests that had come to pay their respects. She motioned her over and placed a wad of cash in her hands."

"Give this to Preacher and tell him to send a couple of prospects to the liquor store to buy enough booze for the weekend. Make sure they return with receipts. The club can pay for food; if there's not enough in the treasury they can take a collection, but by god we're partying for the next three days." She let her eyes rest on Wanda for a few seconds "Come upstairs when you are finished and help me take my hair down, then we'll start going through Monk's things."

Liam knocked on her door. Lizzie answered, barefoot in a big t that hung down below her knees, braids askew but not yet combed out, surprise and pleasure displaced by remembrance and a soft cautious query.

"Yes, Dog? She decided he really did look cute, standing there all contrite and shit and waited for him to say something. He had a hard time getting it out.

"Sorry about the burnout, it's been a long couple of days. Monk told me to take care of his stuff. I'm going to crash in there tonight. If you see Wanda, tell her to wake me in a couple of hours so I can give Michael a break in the bar room." He struggled to say one more thing, "you really did look good today."

The Wake:

It wasn't easy riding herd over uncle Dan's brothers, especially at 3:00 in the morning drunk, high, ready to take insult at the smallest slight, imagined or otherwise, but she took her turn at the front door, checked the parking lot, walked among the bikes speaking to the bleary prospects watching and the few patch holders that wandered the grounds.

After Tallman took over her post, Lizzie escaped to the small shop built on to the back of the bar, standing for a moment and examining the room that Monk always seemed to fill, that felt so empty now. She walked around picking up tools, returning them to their places, and at last sat on a milk crate, cleaning imaginary spots off the chrome of the '47 Knucklehead that Monk had left her. She paused, remembering the shock of hearing uncle Dan's lawyer reading the will yesterday, Liam there beside her, both wide eyed with the words Monk had left them.

~

My darling, Elizabeth, well hell Little Bitch, I'm gone; and you are wondering what to do next ; if it's money don't worry because your father was pretty successful when he left his estate and you in my care after his death. The bulk of the cash is in a trust fund which reverts unequivocally to you on my death. There's some land in another state with a long-term lease on it; Mr. Bright has been instructed to assist you in any way possible and his fees are prepaid. Feel free to call on him with any concern, no matter how trivial.

Old business, now new, I'm leaving you the bar and my bike; set 'em up, ride 'em, or sell 'em but don't let them define who you are. Your teachers said that you were too smart for this town. You could have gone to college if you'd asked, but you never did and I never said anything for fear you would say yes. You were the only family I had left, Lizzie. Now you must start your own and I hope it will include the brothers, help them find their center before you make any definite plans. I know they will be hurting without me.

The bar is doing well if you've been paying attention to the day logs. Mr. Bright has the other details. All you have to do is continue ordering, making deposits, and selling beer to the thirsty. Your drawing account will be the same as mine was. Hire another girl or a counterman.

My bike, hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Give her a good once over before you ride, no telling what has shook loose since I last updated this. Take a little time getting used to it before you go faster, Lizzie, and I'm talking about all of it, the bike, the bar, the money.

Now brother Mad Dog, I raised you from a puppy to the rabid bastard you are today. It's been fun; if I were there instead of you I'd be feeling a little pissed at being called to a lawyer's office but curious as to why, Lizzie is too, although she is glad to have you there but will not say so. I'm leaving you some instructions in a separate letter along with some cash. Mr. Bright will read you my words and answer any questions you might have. If anyone asks it was only liquor and gas money and the request to drink a beer with me and piss on my grave.

So goodbye you two, take care of each other until things level out again. This is the most talking I've done sober in a long time. I need a beer and the stenographer looks to piss her pants. Ride free or die trying.

Daniel McGuire Boudrox

~

The words had rung in her ears as she was set before a pile of papers; they were described in a voice that did not quite register in her mind as she signed, nodding in dazed acceptance and strived to understand the explanation of the next legal document. Liam was ushered away to Mr. Bright's office where he stayed for a long time, then came out with the strangest expression, met her eyes briefly and left.

A silent drive to the funeral home where there were more papers to sign, but no decisions. Monk had that taken care of too, followed by a silent ride back to the bar.

Lizzie blinked, returning to the present, letting her eyes search for anything amiss on the bike. There was a noise at the door; she looked up to see Liam lounging against the sill, watching her. His head was cocked to one side with an intense look on his face. She wondered how long he'd been standing there; she met his eyes, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming. Dropping them briefly and then returning full to his face with a shy smile, she was rewarded with a small movement at the corner of his beard.

"I thought I'd find you back here," Liam said. His normal party smile emerged as he walked across the floor and made himself comfortable astride the bike; he handed her a beer, leaned back further on the bike, put a boot on the peg beside Lizzie, and asked curiously, "what are you doing?" Lizzie, saluted with the beer, noticing that the boot on her peg was Uncle Dan's

"To Monk," she toasted, and then drank half the bottle down with a gurgle. "I'm just making myself acquainted with his bike; you're wearing his boots?" she made it sound like a question. He killed all his beer in a long swallow, tossed the empty in the trashcan with a clink. He sat up straight, taking the handlebars in hands and standing the knucklehead upright in a smooth movement. Liam shook the forks back and forth, checked the clutch and brake levers.

"He left the boots to me in his letter and some other things, club patches, personal stuff, and ahhh..." His voice was almost a whisper. "His room for a year or whenever you sold the bar."

"What, that's not going to happen; you can forget it right now! Why didn't you tell me that before?" The shop was loud with her voice just short of a desperate scream.

"It's what Monk wants me to do and I'm going to; besides there's nothing you can do to stop me." His reply matched hers in volume, and then they were shouting at each other so loud neither heard what the other was saying. Preacher and Michael showed at the door, bursting into the room, alarm on their faces at the loud voices.

"Get out." Both of them said practically in unison. Bob held up his hands, palms outward and backed from the room that became as quiet as Dan's final resting place. Michael stuck his face in, looked at each of them.

"I'm headed home to shower and pack. Tallman has the last watch. I let the prospects go wash up and get ready. Try to tone it down during the run. Let's say goodbye to Monk easy; see you in the morning."

"See you later, bro; ride safe." And then all was quiet between the two, Liam's eyes drifted and a question formed on his face. Where's your Beezer," he asked in the long silence. "I would have thought hang around Billy would have brought it back by now"

"I sold it to him and used the money to buy booze for the run."

"You know you may be a little bitch but you sure do have some style. Let's get this bike on the milk crate and take a look." He lifted the rear of the bike while Lizzie slid the crate under; then they checked it from front axle to tail light. Lizzie wore a intent smile as they worked and Mad Dog a patient look, performing tasks that every rider should know. He kept a running commentary going as inspected, wrenched, and discussed the modifications Monk had made to the old machine that was becoming somewhat of a rarity.

The Run:

The sound of the pack was like angry bumblebees on steroids, growling over the arrow straight road that was nothing but two black strips running straight through green swamp land; they rolled south at speed, a hundred miles down and a hundred to go. Liam's head moved to the right and then he held his arm down to the side, palm back, calling for the pack behind him to slow and stop.

Lizzie pulled close, laid a hand on his arm and yelled into his ear over the sound of the slowing pack

"What is it?"

"Meat," he shouted, looking behind. "Just park and kick back; this should be fun." He veered left out of the line of bikes and circled up the highway, pulling off on the shoulder a quarter mile or so to the rear, a few bikes followed, curious; the pack parked along the road side and shut down. The tarp on the beer truck was pulled back and the riders began to quench dry throats and move about the column, checking loads and stretching legs.

"Prospect!" Liam called loudly and waited for the five, plus the hang around, to gather. Pointing to a 4-foot alligator sunning in the swampy morass below the embankment. "Fetch boys."

Fast John snapped open his buck knife and charged downhill. A half hour later the bloody gator was bungee strapped to his bitch bar; the five muddy wranglers were treated to a beer bath and laughter, then the pack fired up and rolled once again toward the old fort near the coast

Just shy of the state line they were pulled over by a pair of troopers who parked before and after the long line of bikes; it was nothing much to be concerned about, there were only two. It was a routine stop when large numbers of motorcycles were involved. The sergeant walked up from the back of pack, collecting driver's licenses and examining their faces closely. He stopped when he saw the gator and five muddy riders that somehow seemed to smile and look repentant the same time. He shook his head with a faint cast of disbelief then continued up the line

HarryHill
HarryHill
98 Followers
12