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Inhabitants of the biker den

Wil Winters and the Bikers' Den

... where succeeding will get you killed

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I had a friend who was a poor judge of character, as I found out. I guess by the transitive property of relationships, this makes me a poor judge too, if not more so.

One night, said friend Jaxson told me about a guy he met at the gym who invited him to a great party that we had to go to. Now, I’m not a superstitious or woo-enabled kind of guy, but I have a predisposition towards nominative determinism. Some names seem to inherently belong to certain types of people. I should’ve known Jaxson might add a weight of evidence towards this theory when my crystals started vibrating when we first met.

So, we’re in a cab late one Saturday night, heading to the outskirts of town. My first warning should’ve been when the cabbie refused to go down the driveway to drop us off. The place was one of those enormous blocks in the middle of nowhere, unless you count a wooded swamp as somewhere, and the driveway was several hundred yards long.

We hauled our booze towards a very tall fence, at least three feet over regulation, and were greeted by the grunting from an unwashed beard enthusiast atop a watchtower. “Horo invited us!” Jaxson yelled up. The man grunted, and a few seconds later he’d unbarred and opened the gate’.

I was struck by how the effectively the fence muffled the loud music coming from within. We came to see a large house in disrepair teeming with other bearded gents, all wearing denim vests or leather jackets with matching patches. Normally this would be adorable, but it quickly dawned on me that we had either found ourselves at the filthiest beard Olympics, or we had somehow stumbled our way in to an outlaw biker compound.

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