The shock therapy jolts were signaled by loud ringing bells, and Casey struggled against the bonds that held him down. More ringing...and lightning flashed from temple to temple. As the pain increased, a final lunge from Casey brought him crashing to the floor - but from his bed where he’d wrapped himself up completely in his blanket rather than a stain-less table with restraints in some dreamland mental ward...

He hardly had time to feel relief before the bells signaled another jolt, and he instinctively swiped his arm over the nightstand, knocking the phone to the floor and abruptly ending the phantom electro-shock therapy session. As the ringing died away the pain subsided, but not enough to erase the ache Casey recalled starting shortly after the third bottle of tequila. The jangle was replaced by a tinny voice in the distance as the handset swung from it’s cord, but a voice commanding despite being almost comically inaudible.

“Probate! PROBATE! Acknowledge! barked the tiny drill sergeant voice, growing clearer as Casey managed to pull the handset closer to his ear. “Do you read me?” it shrilled – a sharp cackle that made Casey flinch.

“Huh? Wha’ fuckin’ time is it?” was the best response he could manage.

“Time to ride, probate!” snapped the voice. “You’ve been waitin’ on your Run...here it is!”

Casey’s brain was in low gear, but through the cactusfog he dimly recalled he was probating for the Dixie Dragons, and had been all summer. There was a mental clank as  his brain shifted to second, and he realized that not only was his current state of agony due to his brothers slicin’ lemons and pouring shots of cheap mescal’ juice, but calling him up at this early hour was probably part of some plan hatched while the boys kept him drunk, happy, and playing poker until almost dawn.

“PROBATE!” came the yell again, shocking Casey,”Up and at em’!”

Clank! His mind found second. “Damn!” he thought. It was the call! Time for his Run! He was about to cast off the rags of  the probate for full membership. He wrapped himself up in the phone cord as he unwrapped himself from the blanket.

“Yeah! Yeah...I’m with ya’” he mumbled, and was, almost. He brushed his hair back from  his damp and throbbing forehead. “What’s up?”

“Head North on I-26,” replied the voice. “We’ll catch ya’ with instructions at the State line. It’s eight now. Be there by ten.  No excuses.”

Casey=s mental clutch plates slipped a little, “Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!” he grunted, reaching for a cigarette. “Who’s th...YOW!” he yelled as the line disconnected with a loud static burst. It didn’t help his head at all.  He dropped the phone and staggered to the bathroom - where the light did a flashbulb burnout, leaving the john dark.

“Damn!” he muttered, and feeling his way to the medicine cabinet, groped out the aspirin bottle and dumped several pills in his palm, gulping water from the faucet to wash them down. Straightening up, he did a fairly good job of aiming by splash, when it dawned on him...

“Ten o’clock!! Holy shit!” he moaned, as he quickly figured the distance to the state line. “That’s two hours to go 115 miles! Holy SHIT!” he repeated emphatically.  He stumbled from the bathroom, grabbing a pair of jeans that lay on the floor near the bed. He crossing to the window, pulled the shade, and looked out on the  gloomiest Sunday morning he’d ever seen in the month of August. “HOLY SHIT!” he exclaimed for the third time- bursting out the door. One kick, and out into the ‘wunnerful world of asphalt and assholes!

As he cleared the edge of town and hit the on ramp to the freeway, he glanced at his watch. He almost had to squint to catch the digital readout - 8:21 - in the gloom of the overcast morning. He gripped the throttle firmly and twisted the shovelhead up to 75 mph. He hunched into the chill morning wind, his leather jacket zipped to the neck, and his hair blew back in the air stream. What the hell! The rear-view was cracked, and his head hurt like a sum’bitch! As the miles flew by, Casey felt uneasy running between 75 and 85 mph without seeing so much as one patrol car. His thoughts drifted off but his conscious self watched for “official” type autos in all directions. He knew how to push his luck - hell, he was a born hustler - but he had an uneasy feeling. He felt like now, more than any ever, he’d gotten away with too much for too long. If he got stopped he’d blow the Run. If he didn’t keep his speed up, he’d blow it anyway. Damn! You didn’t blow your Run! A sign blurred by, and once again Casey glanced at his watch, figuring that he had 55 minutes to make about 70 miles. He smiled to himself; he’d cut it close but make it, no sweat. He’d been on the road for an hour without noticing how few vehicles he’d seen, his pounding skull never having madetop gear. A frown crossed his face, and vanished as his brain’s inner clutch smoothed him up to third.

His five-gallon fatbobs were filled the evening before, and he’d only ridden a few miles to the clubhouse for the Saturday evening poker game. He doubted he’d have to coast across the state line. His head wouldn’t quit, so he chewed a few more

aspirins. Money he had - a hundred or so tucked in a back pocket from his usual poker winnings. He thought of how many times he’d gotten over on his new brothers at the cards, and he smiled. Then all he was aware of was the drone of the motor as the lines flew by, occasional bugs hitting his teeth...and his splitting headache.

Cresting a rise on the Interstate, he slowed quickly at the sight of a blue light flashing in the distance, but kept the bike near ten mph over the limit until only a few hundred yards away. As he approached, the scene caused him to slow down dramatically. It was no traffic stop, instead a grisly wreck. The car had apparently left the road at high speed, hitting a stand of trees close to the highway. Several large trees had snapped before the front end of the car had caved in as it halted, slinging the drivers’ body through the windshield, where it still hung...grotesque and bloody. Casey slowed to a stop just past the wreck and gawked. Other than the two bodies of the occupants, there was no sign of anyone! Where was the cop?

The blue lights flashed a silent warning...  Casey shuddered, or maybe it was the idling Harley engine. Dismounting the still-running bike and checking the wreck closely, he saw no sign of life in either body.

“Hey!” he yelled, looking around, “Anyone around?”

He thought he might use the cop’s radio, but it dawned on him that he didn’t have the time. He was on his Run and excuses didn’t cut it. No time to spare at all. Spooked, he shook of the feeling as he remounted his shovelhead and quickly pulled out on the asphalt. Gunning the engine as he slammed through the gears, the scene faded quickly behind him as he hit 70 mph, but not the spooked vibes.  Another mileage sign; he glanced at the watch. He had barely thirty minutes to go 35 miles. Rumbling up the highway, it finally dawned on him how few cars he’d seen on the road since he’d started out, and as he ran a hand through his blowing hair, he also noticed that even with the wind his head was still damp. Damn tequila! He glanced at his broken rear view to see if he could see sweat on his forehead, but jerked his head up as he heard squealing tires to his left. A black Ford, no doubt Heat, was coming out of a power slide behind him. It had come across the median behind him some few hundred yards and  boiled smoke from the tires as it caught the pavement.

The car lifted as it surged into passing gear and gained on him, shifting into his lane. Casey’s speedometer hovered over the 70 mark. He didn’t need to think...instinct sent the twitch down his arm that ripped the throttle back, and the S&S Two Throat sucked air with a whoosh as the shovelhead surged past 90. The black Ford sped up as well. Quickly glancing back, Casey saw the windows of the car were blacked out, and spotted for the first time the blue circles of light behind the grill. He knew the bike was powerful, but the car seemed to be gaining. He wrenched the throttle back the last half-inch, and the screaming shovel topped a hundred, the speedo a vibrating blur. He knew he had to pull something to shake the wicked black Ford off his tail. Straight up the highway wasn’t getting it.  It was less than 50 feet behind him as he passed the sign which read “Weigh Station Closed”. He slung his body down lower and veered  onto the station off ramp, passing through the lowered barriers with inches to spare at a speed which would have cut him in half had he miscalculated.  The black Ford, hot on his ass, was not as fortunate. The tubular steel gate barrier virtually sliced the roof from the car, and it slung sideways and began to flip over and over...bursting into flames as Casey boogied away from the scene. He glanced back at the pillar of smoke forming behind him, and allowed his engine RPM’s to drop.

The broken rear-view fragmented the fireworks display.

He wondered if the Ford had made any radio contact before the kamikaze run into the barrier. He hoped not. If they had, it wouldn’t matter that the state line was drawing closer. Must be only 3 or 4 miles now.

He was wrong. It was less. He crested another hill as the highway climbed into the foothills, and saw the large sign informing him he’d crossed the Genuine State Line, and would he kindly put on his helmet, lights, etc. Beneath the sign sat a battered figure on a battered Harley. The figure motioned him over and he pulled off the asphalt, slowing to a stop next to a 47’ Knucklehead complete with “geezer” astride it. The “geezer” was closing a Bull Durham bag - pulling the strings with his teeth. He stuffed it in the pocket of his ancient colors and licked the paper, glancing up at Casey.

“Cuttin’ it kinda’ close, boy!” he grinned around the smoke he’d rolled, and pulled a battered pocket watch from a pocket. He snapped it open, glanced at it, and snapped it closed.  “Nope...you made it! Nice trick with the black Ford!” he said, leaning over and unstrapping a dusty saddlebag.

He pulled out a dusty half-helmet which he tossed to Casey. “Better tie this on!” he quipped.

Casey caught it, but his attention was on the old man’s patch - it looked like one of the “originals” he’d seen at the clubhouse! This guy must be a legend, he thought as he studied the antiquity of the bike and rider. The Gramps! This must be Gramps! He was a founder of the  Dragons he’d heard stories about...started the club in the 50’s, retired in the 80’s. A bona-fide legend for sure, thought Casey, looking back in the distance at the plume of smoke, wondering how Gramps knew about the Ford...

“Come on, Probate!” cackled the legend, “Don’t need to hang around and see who comes to put out the fire! Get that lid on, and let’s ride!”

      Casey complied dumbly. He suffered the vibration rush that comes after a long haul, and his mind was numb from the events of the morning.  He again straddled his hog, starting to ask a question - cut short as the knucklehead peeled out, and he followed. The rumble of the two hogs reminded him of the headache from hell as the bikes roared into the mountains. The view was gorgeous ahead as foothills loomed in the clearing mists, the August heat not affecting the greenery at this altitude. A few  minutes later Casey followed as Gramps hand-signaled and left the highway on a road marked “Graceland”.

Almost instantly as they exited the highway the scenery changed into tunnels through the greenery formed by tall trees on either side, occasionally clearing as they rode through valleys laced with streams.

Even as it dawned on Casey that he was riding on fumes, Gramps slowed ahead, pulling into a rickety gas station. As Casey pulled in to the antique glass topped pump, Gramps dismounted, telling him to “Filler’up, Probate!” and he turned and grinned -and Casey thought for a second Gramp’s face looked like a bearded, helmeted skull. He shook off the feeling and topped off his nearly dry tanks. He fumbled for the bills in his jeans, but Gramps emerged from the door polishing off an RC Cola.

“Don’t sweat it boy...it’s covered,” he said as he kicked the half-century old bike to life with a single stroke.

Casey again fell in behind his leader. On Gramp’s ancient rags, the Dragon seemed to leer at him as the old man pulled ahead. They rode along at a leisurely pace and trees gave way to laurels as the road followed a stream. Casey was sure he spotted the flash of jumping trout. He felt almost peaceful for the first time that morning. Now if the ache in his head would just fade!

He could smell a cool snap to the air that didn’t exist in the grimy city he’d left only hours before, and the hustle of everyday life seemed far away. It was.

Ahead the road forked - following the stream on the left and climbing up the mountainside on the right. Gramps took the high road and Casey followed. The foliage grew thicker and the road narrower.  Ahead, the Gramps turned off yet again, on a gravel road marked “Private” that was barely a road. Casey guessed they were headed to a hidden clubhouse in the foothills - a “retreat” of sorts, and grinned - thinking himself privledged - only full members must be privy to the “other” clubhouse, as it hadn’t been discussed around him before.

He felt a little less privledged as he battled the dust raised by Gramp’s tires, wishing he’d brought a bandana. The ordeal didn’t last much longer, as the gravel road opened into a spread of oaks by a lake. There were several bikes parked nearby, and a fire near the lake with several guys around wearing the club patch - but the older, hand embroidered one like Gramps wore. The guys seemed to be about the same age but Casey couldn’t tell if that age was 40 or 70. Strange! He and Gramps shut down the bikes, the ticking of the cooling pipes mingling with cricket song.

“Geez!” said Casey, attempting to break the ice, “I thought there’d be a clubhouse, but I dig nature!” It came out sounding  awkward, so he stuck out a hand to the nearest figure. “Casey.” he stated. “Pleased ta’ meet’cha!”

The figure removed the cigarette from his lips and dropped it, crushing it with a heavy boot heel. He didn’t offer to shake.

“Steve. 85’. High side,” he stated.

“Huh?” managed Casey, and started as a hand was laid on his shoulder and turned to see Gramps.

“You know! High side! The big crash-ola! Eighty miles an hour right up the asshole of big rig!” grinned the bearded skull-faced old man. “Douche’!” he chuckled.

“Say what?” croaked Casey.

“Hell, boy...you dense or what?” spoke another of the group. “What’n hell you think you’re doing here, anyway?

“Uh,” managed Casey, “getting rid of this probate rocker and getting my colors?”

“Here’s yer’ fucking colors!” spat another guy who tossed a card in Casey’s direction. It landed face up at his feet - the Ace of Spades. “Look familiar?”

Casey didn’t make the connection for a few seconds. The night before, he’d casually “thumbnailed” the Aces in the deck as he’d handled them. He’d used the marks to win several hands based on...Aces, naturally. He’d laughed good-naturedly as he’d pocketed his brother’s bucks. He wasn’t laughing now.

“You want colors? There they are, pick em’ up!” snarled the card tosser, pointing to the Ace. “You earned em’!”

As Casey looked at the card, it changed before his eyes into a set of rags with the club logo on it.

Not knowing what else to do, Casey picked up the vest, which changed instantly in his shaking hands to the Ace of Spades. He tried to throw it down, and couldn’t.

“Must be your Death card!” chuckled Gramps.

Casey looked up with fear in his eyes. “You guys aren’t gonna...?” he trailed off. His head was really hurting now!

“Waste you?” chortled Gramps, “It’s a little damned late for that!” And as he looked at Casey, he grew serious, poking his leathered face into Caseys’, and asked, “You ain’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?!” whined Casey. “I ain’t noticed anything!”

“Hell, boy...” laughed Gramps, “You’re dead already! You recall seein’ anything alive this morning? At that he pulled Casey over to the nearest bike and shoved his face into the rear view mirror. Casey looked, and the image that stared back made him recoil in horror. His face! In his forehead was a blackish hole - a bullet hole. He opened his mouth to scream, but couldn’t manage a sound.

“The dumb probate didn’t even notice he was dead!” chuckled the card tosser. “He thought he was ridin’ for his colors!”

Casey continued to make strangling noises...finally hissing, “But the black Ford!”

”Dumb sonuva’ bitch!” grinned Gramps, looking a lot more like the bearded skull again.

“That was the God Squad! Lousy drivers!” 

“But why..?” stammered Casey.

“Did you think the boys were so cherry they didn’t notice you workin’ the cards? Helluva’ way to treat your brothers!”

Another gaunt figure ambled over, picking up the Ace which Casey had dropped and shoving it at him, and he noticed the bullet hole in it before it once  again melted into colors.

“Don’t sweat it Probate...,” he stated, “you only have to wear em’ forever...” and he ambled away, chuckling.

As Casey caught the rags, the embroidered message leapt out at him - ETERNAL PROBATE. It was the last thing he ever read. The woods began to dissolve in flames. They burnt like a house of cards...