Our club is presently called Satan’s Saints. Maybe Motley Crew would be a better name. I’ll worry about that later.
I am the oldest member of the Saints. I had another biker name until my brothers began referring to me, at first, as “Old Goat”. Then they began dropping the “Old” and now they just call me “Goat”.
I am 68 years old. I am one of the shorter members standing 5’7”. I have a square muscular frame for an old guy and I weigh about 220 pounds. I have a barrel chest and no ass. I can’t wear a belt because my jeans slide down over my ass. So I have taken to wearing suspenders to keep my pants up and it has become a sort of trademark for the Goat. The joke is that I have a big gut and no butt.
I don’t enjoy riding my bike as much as I did at one time and I have attached a side car. I did that for convenience and safety. I no longer have a need to impress people with acrobatic motorcycle skills. Speed is not my thing. I own a 2004 Harley Davidson Fat Boy. The bike is perfectly maintained. Its factory paint is suede blue pearl and the side car is the standard Harley model in the same color.
Owning and riding a bike is a club requirement. If there was no rule, I would be happier driving my Ford F 150 pickup truck all the time.
I no longer have the stamina or the appetite for heavy drinking or drugs. My club brothers are frustrated with our club’s lack of success and, as a consequence, our lack of respect by other outlaw clubs. Most other clubs regard us a joke. Most of my club brothers would never be accepted into membership by other clubs. Frankly, we are better off in our club where there are few demands for violence. Although some of our members like to brag about their machismo, they wouldn’t be any good at mayhem.
Without being obvious, I try to be the peacekeeper in our club. It’s an unofficial role and I don’t flaunt it. I also try to provide sane guidance when the boys make some ridiculous proposals. When we are short of money, which is 90% of the time, I have Lois pay the club’s light bill, utilities, phone and taxes.
Some of the guys are mostly drunk or half drunk all of the time. Others have fried their brains on meth or other drugs. They don’t think clearly so I provide some quiet guidance when I can. They do listen to me, probably in deference to my age.
If you read about outlaw biker clubs, you will find they each have a specialty crime. Our club is supposed to be making and distributing methamphetamine.
It ain’t true.
We have never cooked up a successful batch of meth. In fact, our “lab” has exploded and burned three times. One explosion killed a valued buddy and member, Hootie Swearingen.
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