Chapter 3 - The Iron Skulls Mobilize
The clubhouse of the Iron Skulls Motorcycle Club smelled of stale beer, motor oil, and leather. It was a low-slung concrete building on the industrial edge of Springfield, a place where ordinary citizens rarely ventured.
Tonight, the gravel parking lot was jammed with over fifty heavy chopper bikes, their chrome engines gleaming under the single floodlight. Inside, the room was packed with large, heavily bearded men in leather vests covered in patches.
At the center of the room stood Troy. He wasn't wearing a costume tonight; he wore his official club colors, his face dark and drawn as he laid the medical estimate forms from Dr. Vance onto the pool table.
"Four hundred and fifty grand," Big Mike, the club president, said, running a hand through his graying beard as he read the numbers. "The corporate bastards are holding a three-year-old girl’s life hostage for the price of a suburban mansion."
"We can't lease the clubhouse, Mike," a biker named Snake muttered from the corner. "And even if we ran every charity raffle from here to St. Louis, it would take us three years to raise that kind of cash. Ava doesn't have three years."
Troy stepped forward, his eyes burning with an intense, desperate light. "I’m not asking for a raffle, Mike. I’m selling my bike. I’m selling my tools. I’m going to take a loan from the sharks in Kansas City if I have to."
"Shut up, Mountain," Big Mike barked, slamming his fist onto the pool table. The room went dead silent.
Mike walked over to Troy, his large hand gripping Troy’s shoulder with enough force to bruise. "You think you're the only father in this club? You think the Iron Skulls let a brother go to the sharks? If you sell your bike, how are you going to ride with the princess? How are you going to take her to her appointments?"
May you like
Mike turned around to face the entire room, lifting his leather vest. "We aren't going to the banks. We’re going to the road. We’re going to organize the biggest charity run this state has ever seen. The 'Princess Ride.' Every club from here to the Canadian border owes us a favor. We call them in. Every independent rider, every classic car club, every soccer mom who saw that Walmart photo. We block the highway from Springfield to St. Louis, and we don't stop until that hospital in Chicago opens its doors."
A loud, thunderous roar of approval shook the concrete walls of the clubhouse. Men slammed their beer mugs against the tables, their engines revving outside in the dark like a pack of wolves preparing for a hunt. The biker community had found its mission, and they were about to turn the highway into a river of steel and glitter.
