Joe is so frightened he fails to recognize the racket for what it was and, as the individual looks over towards the Hotel, he jumps onboard, twists the starter wires and VAROOM--well, OK... Winnie!---and "winnieeeeeeeeessssss" down the road!
The rendezvous was to be at Wolfies Restaurant on Miami Beach, Joe was to park the bike and wait two hours before showing up.
Happy to get his "endeavor" over, Joe arrived a little after ten PM. Wolfies was packed full of bikers--more than had previously been at the Castaways. As he rib-rib-a-ribed into the parking lot, he recognized one of the guys whom were in the original group. When the guy saw him he lit into the restaurant like a rat seeking escape from a cat.
Joe un-twisted the wires, popped the kick stand down, and ventured towards the front door; he was immediately surrounded by twenty bikers...
"It's a set-up", some one whispered... "he could be wired."
"Wants to pin it on us." Another hushed voice joined in.
"What is a kid doing on a renta-bike? It's to late for a little punk to be riding on the beach?" One of them said as he patted him down.
"What the heck are you talking about?" Joe finally asked.
"We don't like kids hanging down here!" Another interrupted as if to keep Joe from saying another word.
"Oh man, you guys are stupid..." Joe began, having figured what was going on.
"Who you calling stupid..." someone exclaimed as a hand shot out and slapped his face.
Joe's reaction was immediate, he lunged for him and was immediately wrestled to the ground. .
That's when some girl, viewing the situation, called the Boss out.
"So, you managed to succeed!" He exclaimed as he handed a bottle of Jack Daniel to him.
Remembering the incident at the hunting camp in Georgia, Joe refused the bottle. Well, Harry: YOU DON'T REFUSE AN OFFER TO DRINK WITH THE LEADER OF THE SOUTH FLORIDA OUTLAWS...
He awoke in a club house in Hallendale Beach, Florida. He was soused and hung over at the same time. It seemed that after he refused, they grabbed and forced the liquor down... three pints worth...
It was weird Harry, but, for the next month, he became a sort of "mascot" for the gang. They crowned him with a black French beret, placed him on the "black" 125, and he zoomed all over South Florida along side those blasting, heavy throated Harleys. They journeyed up and down the highways, "terrorized" Hollywood Beach every Friday and Saturday night,. and scrapped it out on several occasions-- just like the Marlin Brando movie!
Had he found a friend and father figure in The Animal?
By the end of the month, reality soon looked expensive.
Though Joe was having the time of his life, he had grown tired making excuses for not excepting the drugs, sex, and offers to participate in some sort of larceny at every turn, stop, and go! When the order came down he was to get his colors, his very own colors, he put aside those feelings and jumped for the chance!
All bikers who recieved their colors had rode with, participated in, and were part of the acts of the group for a particular time. They had proved their "colors" by their deeds, often demonstrating they could be trusted through a specific act. Now, for Joe, due to his age, his special act was to assist in the delivery of some "speed" for distribution to the Outlaws Orlando Chapter.
Drug dealing was the groups main income, and being that Joe's youth afforded some protection and camouflage, he was the one selected to carry the dope! Up until this point it had been a game; a game most youth would not even dream of, but a game non the less. It had been fun--no one to tell him what to do--freedom to roam and explore--riding a motorcycle all over the place--attention from fifty "father figures"! But, the facts of this experience had to be leveled with the facts of his vast knowledge of the streets: he was soon recognizing how similar these "father figures" were with "the tough guys" whom he had hung with in NY; the wise guys his father hung with before his demise; the drug dealers whom swarmed 117th street in Spanish Harlem... when the chips went down, you went down...
His first run went by with out a hitch. With the fake ID and registration for the stolen bike the Animal had secured deep in his pocket, and a "straight looking couple" riding along side him, he could have been the teenager with his family on vacation: the alibi! , They zoomed off and returned in two days. Joe was paid one "C" note and an induction ceremony was immediately organized.
The induction for the older guys was pretty intense; Joe had not attended one but the word was preached to him for the week prior to his trip. But, in the end, and to Joe's pleasure, it was decided he would go through a less severe ritual.
Fifty members, wearing leather jackets and holding all sorts of weapons, lined up in two rows, twelve to a side. Joe put on two heavy leather jackets and a helmet that covered his face--one of the special considerations afforded him--took the fifth of Jack from Animal's outstretched, hairy arm, downed the contents in a straight guzzle (he was only able to complete this portion because much of it ran down his face) and ran the gauntlet!
Joe ran through twenty-four men with blows raining upon his person from the many objects they whipped into the three foot corridor. He had been warned not to fall down--the last guy whom had fallen wound up in the hospital!--he forced himself to stay as erect as he could as he scurried through, bumping from one side to the other. He was well through the "line" when, as he neared the second from the last duo, one guy, a fellow whom was given the "honor of the line" even though he was still on probation and had yet to achieve full membership, stepped up and delivered a blow from a chain so severe, Joe was knocked to his knees, his helmet cracked in two...
Both sides of the line came to sudden halt and The Animal, his hulking, beastly figure rushing to assist the Mascot with heart, was suddenly held in check by ten members. The rules were the rules: blows were permitted as long as a recruit was "within the line", but, no one save Mr. Probation would continue to lay a single strike.
As Mr. Probation continued to shower heavy blows, Joe rose on all fours and was crawling to the end of the line. Though Mr. Probationer was in his rights to continue "the line", the cheering had stopped and all participants were standing one step off the line in giving honor to Joe for completing the line: As the last of Joe's body, his booted right foot, broke the line in the sand, Mr. Probation raised his hand for a final blow...
Joe had cleared the line, he had made it despite the blow to the head and the ensuing shots, yet Mr. Probationer, oblivious to the fact the group had drawn back and halted the cheering, was poised to deliver another blow!
Eyes bloodshot, all thoughts wrapped up in his own excitement and pleasure, absorbed in the act of delivering submission, Mr. Probation's arm, chain standing as straight as a two-by-four, began it's powerful, rapid decent...
That's when they released the Animal...
Flying through the thick sand, The Animal hit Mr. Probationer with such force, he flew like a rag doll fifteen feet and right into the surf. Then, for violating the code of the line, the entire group, including those probationers whom were not afforded the privilege of the line, surrounded him and, by the time they were through, stuck him in a hospital for three months...
Though stunned and sore, the helmet ultimately protected Joe. He had survived the line and was rewarded with a three day party: sporting a sleeveless motorcycle jacket with the colors of the Outlaws stitched to it's back!
"How do I escape?" He said to himself as he sat along the midnight surf, a sliver of moon providing just a glint of light reflecting off the warm surf that gently stroked the sandy beach. "If I leave with out delivering the "merchandise" I'm liable for retribution. I could not stay in South Florida!"
Three weeks after his induction, Joe learned of the violence that had been adjudicated on the guy whom broke the rules. He also became privy to some of the other ventures and retributions which were being pronounced on various turn-coats, business men whom owed money, dealers whom were slow in paying.. and so on. The message was clear: this is what can happen to you now that you are official!
When he was informed he would be delivering dope two times a week to Orlando and Jacksonville, he realized he was now another tool to be used. Any previous violence or crime he may have perpetrated in the past was thus done for survival, not as a career or way of life! He had tasted the fruits of peace and happiness and had enjoyed it tremendously! These men were no more or less than gangsters on motorcycles whom were as loyal as their own pleasure and hides safety allowed: which when threatened, either by innuendo, rumor or paranoia, resulted in death or disfigurement!
The weight of his situation played heavy upon his heart. Events of his life thus far were of sudden intervention. Right or wrong, they just evolved from whatever was delivered. His life had become a rush of events; a dash from here to there--never knowing when he would die! You know how death is, it comes and goes without any hesitation. Like all of the others in his ancestral line, he led his life thinking his time could be up at any moment. In fact, he would think of his future birthdays in tens and wonder if he would be alive that decade... or maybe...
Joe was lost in thought, when suddenly, with an eerie, silent, bump in the night, someone fell over him and tumbled to the side. In the darkness, he could barely see the person. He had silently tripped over Joe -- without a sound of foot steps or noise. Joe had scarcely seen the quick, silent movement of the gun, before it's cold and smooth bored blackness was thrust into face...