There’s no problem that drugs and money can’t fix

December 28, 2023June 8, 2024 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

The clock over the mirror in Benny’s Bar had struck 1 a.m., and the joint’s raucous energy now simmered at a low hum.

Cousin Jake chugged his beer, adjusted his Stetson, and told Garner to spill the beans from his meeting with the biker who could fix any problem.

“So, Maddox’s plan,” Garner began, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all about Danny having stepped into Scarab territory. Maddox and the Scarabs, they’re not gonna let that slide.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What about the meth you sold to Danny? Aren’t you on the hook, too?”

Garner shook his head. “That’s the leverage. I hand over the fentanyl to the Scarabs, and they take care of Danny and his crew. An ‘unfortunate accident,’ Maddox called it.”

Jake smirked, a mix of disbelief and admiration. “That’s it? Just hand over the goods, and poof, problem solved?”

“That’s it,” Garner said. “But Jake, we can’t breathe a word of this. Ever.”

“No problem, cousin. I never told you what Maddox did for my dad, did I?”

Jake signaled for another round, then turned back to Garner, his demeanor shifting from serious to jovial. “Hope you’re good to drive, bro, ’cause I’m about to get hammered!”

I kept his dirty jockstrap in a Ziploc bag

December 28, 2023June 8, 2024 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Hot hunk with military-short haircut, trim beard and hairy chest is shown in a locker room, drenched in post-workout sweat.

Ethan never knew me, never even saw me, but I saw him – first in those fleeting, intimate moments at the gym. It started when I glimpsed him in the showers and noticed how the lather dripping off his cock looked like a massive load of cum.

I crossed the line when Ethan left his locker door ajar. Inside lay his sweaty jockstrap, unwashed for a week, a piece of him waiting to be claimed.

That jockstrap became my secret treasure, a real piece of Ethan. I kept it in a Ziploc and hauled it out when I gooned on Pig Sweat, stuffed the pouch in my mouth, and beat off watching Put It In Me, Coach!

I followed Ethan, learning his routines and habits, and discovered where he lived – a shitty studio apartment where his disappointments played out.

Amelia wouldn’t give head. Caitlyn balked at anal. Morgan refused to be spanked.

I vowed to make my move on New Year’s Eve when he’d go home alone or with some precious bitch who never ate a man’s asshole. I’d knock on his door, he’d invite me in, and I’d get him off like he needed.

When Ethan didn’t show for Christmas dinner or answer his phone, his 17-year-old sister drove to his place and got the manager to open the door.

I shouldn’t have waited for New Year’s.

How did they know what underwear to get me?

August 15, 2023August 15, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Hunky biker Jim Wilson is fresh from the shower, a white towel around his neck. He looks confused. Who's paying for this hotel room? And who left a new set of clean clothes? — **Take a shower, the note instructed. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

I walk into the Hotel Kendall, a place too fancy for my usual digs. The place smells like money and wood polish, a far cry from my jail cell just an hour ago. Something’s up. The Twisted Paladins aren’t known for their charity.

“Welcome, Mr. Wilson,” the front desk clerk says with a grin that seems too perfect. “We’ve been expecting you. Your room’s been reserved.” Reserved? By whom? “Third floor, overlooking Main Street.” The guy talks like I’m royalty, not some ragged biker fresh from the slammer.

A bellboy’s on me before I know it, escorting me to the third floor. He keeps glancing at me like he’s sizing me up. But it’s not an ugly sizing up, more like curiosity. The elevator’s too slow for my liking, and finally, we’re there.

“Enjoy your stay,” the bellboy says, sounding like he means it, and then he’s gone. Doesn’t even wait for a tip.

The room’s nice, real nice. Martha Stewart wouldn’t mind getting laid here. There’s an envelope on the bed. Inside, a note: “Take a shower, change into clean clothes, and await further instructions.”

Further instructions? What is this, a spy movie?

I’m filthy, that’s true, but my only clothes are what I’m wearing. That’s when I see a neatly folded paper bag on the dresser. Inside, there are exact copies of my black T-shirt, Wrangler jeans, and even my socks and underwear. How’d they know about the underwear? Creepy.

I don’t think about it much. The hunger’s gnawing at me, and the hot shower washes away all my worries. Well, most of them.

I change into the clean clothes, looking out the window, down on Main Street. Bike Week’s over now, and Sturgis has returned to its small-town slumber.

As for the Twisted Paladins, my benefactors, mystery envelopes — it feels like a scene out of a Tarantino flick. Only thing missing’s Samuel L. Jackson telling me what to do.

I sit on the bed, lean back, and wait. The Twisted Paladins did me a solid, got me out of jail. But nothing’s free, not in this world.

Twisted Paladins: Who’s behind the vest?

August 14, 2023August 14, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

An eager young biker wearing a vest with a patch that reads "prospect" stands in front of Jim's Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. The Meade County Jail in Sturgis, South Dakota, is in the background. — **My one-percenter benefactor has a prospect deliver my Fat Boy just in time for my release from Meade County Jail. (Photo by Midjourney/Google/Harley-Davidson, Ivamis)**

I’m stepping out of Meade County Jail, unsure what to expect. Been in worse spots, but this ain’t exactly a walk in the park. A young guy in biker gear approaches me, and his vest tells me he’s a “prospect” with the Twisted Paladins.

Prospect’s a young guy with a face that looks like he’s spent more time on the cover of Teen Vogue than Easyriders. There’s an eagerness in his eyes trying to prove something. Not to me, but to someone. Maybe to the Paladins.

His gear’s still got that shine of newness; he hasn’t settled into the role. He’s in, but not all the way.

“Yo, Jim! Room’s reserved for you at the Kendall Hotel,” he says.

He’s eager to please, this kid, but he’s not falling over himself. There’s a coolness to him. He’s done this before and has something to prove but doesn’t want to show it.

“You part of this?” I ask, nodding at his vest.

“Just doing a job,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

His smile’s practiced but not fake. He hands me the keys to my bike, fingers lingering a moment too long as if he’s unsure whether to let go.

A young woman rolls up on a Harley, and the prospect climbs on back, leaving me with that lingering sense of something more going on. He glances around once as they pull away, and something in his eyes says this isn’t a simple favor.

I watch him go, still puzzling over the kid before I return to my Harley. Fresh and gleaming, it’s been washed, waxed, and detailed.

Something’s going on here, but I’ll figure it out later. For now, the Kendall Hotel’s waiting, and so is the night.

No good deed goes unpunished

August 13, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Sturgis police department mugshot of Jim after he's been arrested. — **I’ve been arrested plenty of times, but never for something this serious. (Photo courtesy Midjourney/Depositphotos)**

Here I am, sitting in a cold jail cell in Sturgis, my jaw throbbing.

Yesterday, I took a stand in that dive bar, thinking I was doing the right thing. Now, I’m facing charges of felonious assault, and I can hardly believe it.

The woman I thought I was protecting now claims her man wasn’t abusing her. How could that be? I saw it with my own eyes. But she’s singing a different tune, and now I’m the one in trouble.

The whole situation stinks, and I can’t shake the feeling that something fishy’s going on. I replay the scene in my head, over and over, looking for clues. Was there something in her eyes? A hidden plea for help, maybe? Or did I read the whole thing wrong?

My thoughts are interrupted when the cell door clanks open, and a heavily tattooed guy with a wild beard is tossed in beside me. His ink marks him as a one-percenter, and I immediately sense trouble.

“What’re you in for?” he growls, sizing me up.

“Felonious assault,” I say.

He laughs, a harsh, gravelly sound. “You’ve got it easy, man. They just captured me on an outstanding warrant for first-degree murder.”

I’m taken aback, but something in his eyes tells me he’s not joking. He’s lived a hard life, and this is just another chapter.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I say, more to myself than him.

He leans back, eyeing me with a strange mixture of curiosity and contempt. “Right thing? Wrong thing? Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with truth.

Kenny Rogers is right: Sometimes you gotta fight

August 11, 2023August 20, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Hunky young biker after getting in a fight. He has cuts and scratches on his face and the beginning of a black eye. — **Jerks need an ass-kicking. I can’t always give them one, but I’m sure as hell gonna try. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

It’s just before noon and I’m sipping my Jack and Coke in a Sturgis bar I won’t name when the shouting starts.

Big guy’s shoving his girlfriend, and she’s trying to get away. I look at the bartender, but he pretends to be busy polishing glasses. I look at the bouncer, but he pretends to be talking on his cellphone.

“You lay off her!” I yell, getting up from my stool.

Everyone’s looking at me now.

The guy turns, eyes blazing. “Mind your own business,” he spits.

I don’t like his tone. Don’t like what he’s doing either. “Your business is my business when you treat a lady like that,” I say.

A fist comes at me, connects with my face. The guy’s buddies join in, and I’m swinging, hitting, dodging until WHAM! Something slams into my jaw, and everything goes black.

When I come to, I’m on the curb, jaw aching — and a dozen people are taking photos and videos of me. I feel a smear of blood pooling under my left eye and touch it gingerly. That’s going to be a beauty of a shiner.

Inside, the bar’s careening along like nothing happened. “Hey,” a voice booms from inside, “did you see how we tossed that loser out like a box of cat shit?”

For an insane moment, I consider pulling my hunting knife from my right boot and going back in. But the last time I did that, things didn’t turn out well, so I let it rest.

I check for my bike keys. Still there. Good.

A craving for Norco sets in, gnawing at me. That’d fix things right up. Instead, I pull myself to my feet, stagger over to the Harley. Don’t feel much like a hero.

I start her up and ride off, the roar of the Fat Boy cutting through the music and noise. I’m just another guy with a sore jaw, a developing black eye, and a head full of thoughts I don’t want to think.

It’s been a lousy day and it’s only half over. But that’s life. You step in, you take a swing, you end up on the curb.

Maybe next time, I’ll mind my own business.

Maybe not.

Harley for a Triumph: One-day challenge at Sturgis

August 10, 2023August 10, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Young guy dressed in beige leather jacket and skinny white pants poses in front of his vintage Triumph Bonneville behind The Knuckle Saloon. — I swapped bikes with this dude for a day. Yeah, I know he looks like Joran van der Sloot posing for his Aruba arrest mugshot and dresses like a douchebag, but I felt an immediate connection with the guy and trusted my gut. (Photo courtesy Midjourney. Triumph component licensed from Rama under Creative Commons CC BY-SA 2.0 fr.)

Belly full of beer outside The Knuckle Saloon and a dare in the air. The stranger’s eyes lock onto mine, and he’s talking crazy.

He challenges me to switch rides for the day, my Harley Fat Boy for his vintage Triumph Bonneville T120R. All for the thrill of it.

“Yeah? You serious?” I say, not believing it.

“As a heart attack,” he says, hand outstretched.

Should I do it?

My pal Larry from Cleveland says you can’t drink all day unless you start at breakfast, and it’s almost 10 a.m., so . . .

What the fuck!

Deal’s done with a handshake, and I hop on that Triumph, nowhere near as hefty as my Harley, but she’s got spirit, and we’re off like a prom dress.

Start riding, wind in my face, new beast under me. Triumph’s nimble, dances around curves, growls at stoplights. Ain’t my Harley, but she’s something special.

The Triumph attracts her own crowd. Folks I wouldn’t usually cross paths with.

I head out on U.S. 14A and stop at some bar I’ve never heard of halfway to Deadwood. Dixie admires me and the Triumph, invites me inside to watch a mini bike slow race and buys me a Jack and Coke.

Dixie says she rode in from Coos Bay, Oregon, with 47 cancer survivors. She shares stories of the road and of the breasts she lost. Hugs me solid when we part.

Outside, I bump into Pembroke, an old-timer — you have to be with that name. I think he’s fucking with the Triumph, but he’s running papyrus hands across her curves with eyes closed as if reliving his youth through Braille.

“I’ve been fixing bikes since God knows when,” he says. “They’re like robots, fine and wild machines — they need a human brain to be complete.”

Wisdom wrapped in grease-stained stories.

Nightfall. I meet the stranger again at The Knuckle and swap back, but we’re no longer strangers. Share a drink, trade stories. He’s had a hell of a time on my Harley. We laugh, promise to keep in touch.

By the way, I know many of you are going to harsh on me for letting this guy ride my hog. But I knew what I was doing, so fuck you.

Biker patch that reads Yeah they're fake, the real ones tried to kill me. — **As we hugged goodbye, I noticed this patch on Dixie’s jacket.**

Sturgis hookup gets me a modeling contract

August 5, 2023August 25, 2023 L.T. Hanlon2 Comments

Attractive young biker couple have morning coffee in a rainslicked parking lot in downtown Sturgis, South Dakota. — Allison and me after that night of passion and promise. **(Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

Allison’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, staring at me across the greasy diner table. She’s an art director at a Chicago ad agency.

She lays it out: Tom Horn Smokeless Tobacco needs new faces.

“Think you’ve got what it takes?” she asks.

I sip my coffee, thinking about my rent, bills, and half-paid-off Harley parked outside and all those suck-ass nights behind the bar, pretending to enjoy serving booze to frat boys and Lincoln Park trixies.

“Pay any good?” I ask, playing it cool like McQueen in a getaway car.

“Pays enough to get you out from behind that bar,” she says.

Allison must see something in me other than a 30-year-old bartender riding life’s rough road. Maybe I’ll try it. Hell, I might even take my clothes off for the right price.

I meet the casting director, an excruciatingly well-groomed guy named Mr. Jones with a Harvard accent and a Vassar attitude. He eyes me like I’m fresh meat or maybe yesterday’s leftovers.

“Allison tells me you exude a certain charm,” he says, making “charm” sound like something linked to herpes.

Pay’s more than good. It’s damn good. I sign the contract, fill out a form for direct deposit, and we shake hands. Allison’s smiling like she’s won the lottery.

“Ready for the big time?” she asks as we walk toward our bikes.

“Born ready,” I say.

I love blondes and nights in wet leather

August 5, 2023August 23, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

A young dark-haired man with a beard and a blonde woman embrace under tent as rain fills the night in Sturgis, South Dakota. — **Allison walks into my night and pushes buttons I never knew I had. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)**

I start the night under Sturgis’ churning skies, drinking like drowning, figuring I’d spend the night under some godforsaken overpass.

But Lady Luck, that harsh mistress, has other plans.

At closing, Allison — pure Manhattan fireworks in the form of a blonde bombshell — saunters in. She plays coy, all curves and smiles, evaluating the men like a fat chick choosing a Spirit Airlines seat.

She finally reaches the patio. “You’ll freeze out here, you idiot,” she says, reaching for my hand.

Now here we are, in her company’s sprawling hospitality tent, more extravagant than my one-room Rogers Park rathole back home.

Around us, the rain slaps canvas like a drunk looking for a fight, and the cool wind teases goosebumps from my skin.

Folks around us are grousing about the weather, but Allison and I are talking bikes, roads, everything, and nothing. No mushy crap, no whispers or longing looks. Just two strangers nuzzling like two old hounds under a porch in the rain, finding solace and maybe a little more in the comforting scent of wet leather and shared dreams.

Tonight isn’t romance. It’s the whiskey-kissed breeze, the thunderous applause of the storm, and the woman who, against all odds, shared her shelter with me.

And as the world outside turns into an ocean worthy of a goddamn Noah’s Ark, I grin because I’ve got Allison, the storm, and this ridiculous canvas castle.

Sturgis, you unpredictable bitch, you sure know how to keep a guy guessing.

She cheated with my best friend, so I’m in Sturgis

August 5, 2023August 9, 2023 L.T. HanlonLeave a comment

Nighttime view of a lonely biker sitting alone at a outdoor bar in Sturgis, South Dakota. It's raining and he's the only one at the bar.

It’s raining on me and I don’t care. (Photo courtesy Midjourney)

Sitting here on a stool at an outdoor bar in downtown Sturgis, feeling the cold rain pierce through me, my heart aches with a pain I’ve never known.

The betrayal, the confusion, the anger – it’s all too fresh, too raw.

Lollapalooza was supposed to be a celebration, a time to enjoy with friends and my true love. But when I opened that porta-potty door during Billie Eilish on Thursday night and saw my best friend finger-banging my girl, I knew I had only two choices:

Kill them.

Get the hell out of Chicago.

So I fired up my Fat Boy and headed to Sturgis.

I’m half-hammered on a downtown bar’s patio. The other riders move the party inside, but the thunderstorm resonates with my soul, its crashes echoing my inner turmoil. So here I sit, soaked and broken.

I still love her, but it’s a twisted love now, gnarled and painful. And my best friend’s betrayal cuts even deeper. That trust we’d known since Dean Morgan Middle School is ashes. Fuck him.

I want to scream, to hit someone, to understand why I’m on the verge of losing control. But maybe some things aren’t meant to be understood, just felt in all their terrible glory.