“Can you kill my stepdad for me?” a little boy approached our motorcycle table.
All discussions came to a halt. As if he were asking for more ketchup, fifteen leather-clad veterans sat still, gazing at this little child wearing a dinosaur shirt who had just asked us to kill someone.
His mother, who was in the restroom, was unaware that her son had approached the most eerie table in the Denny’s and was about to make his revelation.
In a tiny but resolute voice, he said, “Please.” “I’ve got $7.” He placed crumpled money on our table between the coffee cups after taking them out of his pocket. Although his tiny hands were trembling, his gaze were intensely focused.Our club president, Big Mike, who is a grandfather to four children, knelt down. “What’s your name, friend?”
“Tyler,” said the youngster in a whisper. Mom is returning shortly. Are you going to assist or not?
“Why do you want to harm your stepdad, Tyler?” Mike gently inquired.
The boy’s shirt collar was pulled down. There were faint purple fingerprints on his throat. He claimed that if I tell anyone, he will harm Mom more severely than he harms me. But you ride motorcycles. You are tough. You can put an end to him.
At that moment, we became aware of everything else, including his preference for his left side, the brace on his wrist, and the faded yellow bruise on his jaw that someone had attempted to conceal with cosmetics.
Before anyone could respond, a woman came out of the restroom. Beautiful, but exuding the cautious gait of someone who is concealing suffering. Her expression changed to one of panic as she noticed Tyler at our table.
“Hey, Tyler! I apologize; he’s causing you trouble. We all watched as she hurried over and winced. The thick layer of makeup on her wrist, which was slightly smudged to show purple bruises that matched her son’s, was also visible to us.
“No problem at all, ma’am,” Mike remarked as he gently stood up. Actually, how about you two come along? Dessert was on the verge of being ordered. Our sweet delight. It wasn’t a plea.
Reluctantly, she took a seat and drew Tyler near. Mike asked, “Tyler, are you and your mother being harmed by someone?”
She lost her composure. She said in a whisper, “Please.” “You’re not understanding. He’ll murder us.
“Look around this table, Ma’am,” Mike said softly. All of the men here were war veterans. We have all defended the defenseless against bullies. We do that. Are you being harmed by someone now?
We only needed her sobbing, quiet nod as an answer. Then, from a booth on the other side of the restaurant, a man wearing a polo shirt bounded up, his face flushed with anger. Sarah! How in the heck are you conversing with these jerks? You too, child! Now come on over here!
He began to briskly approach our table.
Big Mike got to his feet immediately. His voice remained low. He didn’t make a fist clench. All he did was turn into a mountain. He muttered, “Son,” in a deep, menacing rumble that broke through the diner’s conversation. “You should return to your booth,” I said. Together with us, your family is enjoying some ice cream.
“Gosh, they are!” The man spit out, who was clearly the stepfather. “That’s my spouse and child!”
“No,” Mike answered, stepping forward a little as the other fourteen motorcyclists stood motionless behind him.“That is a mother and child that are currently in our care. They will not go anyplace with you. After you pay your payment and return to your table, you will go. Additionally, you will not follow them. Do I understand correctly?
The man gazed at the wall of leather and rage that had fallen between his victims and himself. Because bullies are cowards, he was one. He stumbled, went pale, and backed off.
Even if the battle was over, the war had only begun. We refused to let them return home. While Tyler and I were taking him to the clubhouse, one of our guys, a lawyer we call “Shark,” accompanied Sarah to submit a restraining order.
He had never seen a larger chocolate milkshake than the one we got him. He didn’t look like a desperate customer, but rather like a young lad for the first time in the day.
We didn’t murder the stepfather. What we did was worse. We deleted him. Shark made one last visit to him with some of our more… convincing brothers. They didn’t touch him at all.
The future they outlined for him included witness protection for Sarah and Tyler, a lengthy list of assault accusations that we would ensure were upheld, and the undivided attention of fifteen veterans who now took his every action as their own. By daybreak he was gone.
But in addition to eliminating the creature, we also assisted in the wounds’ healing. Thanks to our combined efforts, Sarah and Tyler were able to move into a new, secure apartment across town.
Our screaming Harleys provided the most scary moving truck escort in history as we assisted them with their relocation. Tyler’s uncles were us. We took him to the ball. We showed him how to fix an engine. On the night of his school’s parent-teacher conference, we arrived in a line of giants in leather, making sure that everyone knew he was safe and loved. We taught him that men are guardians, not hunters.
Tyler approached Big Mike at a clubhouse cookout a few months later and gave him a drawing. An enormous, beaming T-Rex with a biker vest was depicted standing over a little youngster. “That’s you,” Tyler remarked. “You are the T-Rex who frightened the evil dinosaur away.”
Mike grinned, a haze in his eyes. He took the seven crumpled dollars out of his wallet, which he had secured and kept flattened. “Greatest salary I’ve ever received for a job,” he added, his voice heavy.
That day, Tyler attempted to hire a hitman but was unsuccessful. Something so much better was given to him. He has a family.