Sons of Chiron
Fiction: A law student seeks revenge against a biker who humiliated him.
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The offices of Everhart and Wainwright were located on the top two floors of a thirty-story sky rise in Richmond, Virginia’s financial district. Brennan glanced up at them as he approached. He had come to dread them. He was twenty-four years old, and six months into his first year of legal practice. The Bar Exam would be in a month. But none of that mattered to him as he pushed through the glass doors and entered the lobby with its waxed soapstone floors and aggressive overhead lighting.
He rode the elevator up, adjusting his navy-blue tie, and running a trembling hand through blond wavy hair. It was cut close on the sides, and combed back on the top, but his habit of sweeping a hand through it had already made a mess of it.
He’d spent the last six months of his life cursing the very day he’d decided to become a lawyer. It was all grunt work. File this brief, write this letter, study, write another letter, get the first letter back with passive aggressive edits, make the suggested changes and send it back, write a third letter, get the second back with edits; then the first letter comes back again, this time with even more edits, but half of the new edits are for things he was previously asked to cut.
Perry Mason never did this shit.
And he knew it would get better, or at least that was what everyone told him. The first year is the hardest they would always say. Stick with it son, it's important work.
At his desk, he dropped his bag, and set up his laptop. He plugged it into the dual monitors and then pulled up the third letter. It had come through with more edits at 11:59 pm last night. It was little things like that which told him it didn’t get better, you just got too invested to quit.
Sunk cost fallacy.
That was the reason he hadn’t broken up with her yet. Hadn’t confronted her. And she was the reason that the edits on this third letter were impossible to focus on.
She stared at him from the framed Polaroid next to the picture of his college wrestling team. Isla—that was her name. Her arms around him, smile genuine, the engagement ring on her finger prominently displayed. She was a flirty looking blonde with a slim build and honest eyes. He’d spent good money on that ring. Great money on that ring. Money that he didn’t have, student loans and all.
Two nights ago, he’d gotten back to their loft late from the office. It was midnight. Isla wasn’t home, which he had expected, because she was out with girlfriends. He texted her goodnight and told her to have fun. That was at 12:01. She’d sent him a message back almost immediately.
Wish you were here! Goodnight though. Heart eyes emoji.
He had dropped off to sleep after that, and all was right in the world. It bugged him a bit that she was out. He wasn’t the jealous type, and he trusted her. She’d spent more and more nights out, as he had worked later and later. He didn’t mind much, in fact he thought it was great. It was great that she could occupy herself, even if he felt a bit guilty that she needed to. He trusted her, besides, he wasn’t the jealous type.
In the morning, he woke to an empty bed. He checked his phone. She had texted him.
Too gone to drive. Staying at Abby’s.
But his buddy Jack had also texted him. One of the guys from the boxing gym that he used to go to. Work and school and the bar had stolen that time too. He would cancel the membership if he wasn’t so attached to the delusion that he would eventually find time for it.
He opened the message from his buddy. It was a picture of his Isla—his fiancée—dotingly wrapped around the arm of a handsome looking man, a man that wasn’t him.
Brennan shot out of bed then; his heart caught in his throat. He felt sick. Like he’d been sucker punched in a kidney and then fallen face first into a squirming pile of maggots. The anger was immediate. Visceral.
He started to dial Isla, but he couldn’t finish. She was LOML in his phone. The sick feeling stopped him. God, he felt like such a faggot.
Then came the hyperventilation.
Then came the pacing.
The guy looked a surprisingly lot like him though—a fade, sandy blond hair, wavy on top. No facial hair. Somehow the similarity made it all worse. The malfunction wasn’t his looks, but him.
The guy’s dress was different though. He wore a flannel, and a black leather vest. A biker’s cut.
Brenan pinched the phone and zoomed in on the vest—Sons of Chiron.
I’m sorry buddy, give me a call, read the rest of the text.
He dialed Jack.
No answer. He was probably hungover.
He paced some more.
He did eventually get ahold of Jack, and Jack told him everything. Told him he watched them flirt all night. Told him he had a picture of them kissing if he needed it—or wanted it. That he hadn’t want to just drop that one on him. Told him that they left together. Seemed to him like a one night stand sort of thing.
“Brennan,” a voice interrupted his reverie. It was Clancy Everhart. He waved a hand in front of Brennan’s face as if trying to wake him. “Good morning, buddy, did you take a look at those edits yet?” Clancy slid his ass onto the edge of Brennan’s desk and sat down.
Brennan bristled, at being called buddy, and at having both his silence and his desk invaded by his phlegmatic boss. The man was cool, but not in a cool way, in a far too potent way. As if through years of careful study, and occult research he’d cracked the code of success, boiled down Paul Newman and Clint Eastwood to a single alchemical recipe. But as with all alchemical recipes, lead never makes gold, and he had instead doomed himself to life as an inanimate object, three ex-wives, and three Porsches. He was even on his third nose job.
He’d once bragged to Brennan that the last pair of natural tits he’d ever felt was twenty years ago in the back of a 1997 Ford Taurus. That was Clancy.
The Rusty Anchor was a dive bar. He’d been here before, back when he had a life. It was five p.m. now and just starting to fill up with the dinner crowd. Brennan found a seat at the bar. He ordered a Coors Light. It took three of them before he got up the nerve to ask the bartender if he knew anything about a group of bikers that came in here.
“The Sons of Chiron,” the bartender said. “They hang out here quite a bit.”
“Any time specifically?” Brennan asked.
“How come?”
“Kind wanted to see if I could join?”
“I don’t think you can.”
“How come?”
“They seem pretty tight knit,” the bartender said. “Saw a guy ask how to join last week, and they just laughed at him.”
“So, when do they usually come in?”
“Thursdays for sure.”
“Thanks.”
That night he slept on the couch. Isla made a big show of being hurt. Told him he could tell her anything. She approached the couch in the middle of the night. Tried to initiate. He declined. Said he had a lot on his mind. She harumphed and threw a bit of a pout. He almost lost it at that.
The pawn shop had bars over the windows. It was named The Pawn Shop. Only the letters P and S still lit up in bright red. The guy behind the counter was old. He had sleeves up both of his arms. Tacky looking pin up girls, lizards, a panther's head, old, faded colors. His hair was gray and stringy, pulled into a ponytail.
“I want to buy a gun?” Brennan asked.
“I’ll need to see I.D.” the man said. “And if it’s a handgun, you’ll have to wait a week before you can take it home.”
“I don’t have a week.”
“Those are the rules. They want to prevent any murders or suicides. Think seven days is enough time for someone to come to their senses.”
“Can you bend the rules? I got cash.”
“Does it look like I need money?” the old man asked with a snortle.
“I suppose not.”
“Good eye,” the man said. “So do you still want to buy a gun?” “Naw,” Brennan said.
He was at the door, when the man called out to him, “murder or suicide?”
Tyrone came through. He dropped the gun through the passenger side window. It was a Taurus 380 wrapped in a brown plastic bag. Tyrone shuffled off, his hoodie pulled up over his head, and his hands in his pockets.
Brennan had met him a year ago when he was interning at the public defender’s office. He had helped his attorney get his felony knocked down to a misdemeanor. He’d occasionally bought weed from him after.
Thursday night found him outside The Rusty Anchor. He sat in the car and stared at the line of Harley’s outside. They weren’t all Harley’s. There was a Victory and an Indian. One of the bikers stood outside smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t his guy, but this guy was clean shaven too.
What was with these dudes. They looked like frat boys in leather vests, not bikers. He had yet to see a beard.
He slipped the Taurus into the pocket of his leather jacket. He wasn’t going to do anything. He just wanted to see the guy. Confront him maybe. It seemed stupid to pick a fight with a biker and be unarmed. Not that he was planning on picking a fight, but he didn’t exactly trust him not too.
Cuck.
That was the voice again. Opposing legal counsel had shown up for the appeal. The problem with matters of honor is sometimes it seemed like the smart thing and the right thing were two opposites. A circle that could have only been squared one hundred years ago.
You won’t pick a fight. You’re a pussy.
Argumentative.
Just let her go man. None of this is worth getting kicked out of law before even starting. A hundred grand in student debt was a hell of a ball and chain.
Cuck.
His guy stood at the bar. The patch on his back was of a centaur, with a distinctly Greek design, as if it had been lifted directly from an ancient fresco. Brennan googled Chiron. Seemed a bit philosophical for a biker gang. But then again not all bikers were in a gang, some were just in a club.
These dudes seemed cool. They were just hanging out. Shooting the shit. Busting balls as the shot pool. Occasionally they would burst into laughter. He felt sick again. The voice took a double jab at his kidney’s and then followed up with rabbit punches that made his head pound.
The truth was he was a bit jealous of these dudes. They had camaraderie. He missed it. He missed his friends on the wrestling team. They had talked shit for hours in the van to away meets. Who knew talking shit would be the highpoint of most men’s lives.
His man stood up. He borrowed a lighter from his buddy. Checked his phone. And then walked to the door, phone up to his ear.
He’s probably talking to Isla now.
Speculation.
It was too late though. Sickness had turned to anger.
Brennan threw a fifty on the table, waited a minute so it wouldn’t look like he was following the guy, and then made a line for the door. Outside, the guy was smoking. Still chatting on the phone. Brennan cat walked up behind him. He stuck the gun into the guy's ribs. He didn’t flinch, just calmly ended his call, with a love you bye.
“Who was that?”
“My mom.”
“Sure buddy.”
Brennan led him to the alley behind the bar, and then stepped away from him. The guy seemed flustered, but not overly phased. He held the 380 on him. His palms were sweaty, and he felt the guns rubber grip squirm as he readjusted.
“What do you want?” the guy asked. “Money?”
Brennan fumbled his phone out of his pocket. He tried to open it with his thumbprint, but it wouldn’t accept it. His hands were too sweaty, or he was too nervous, after the fifth attempt he finally swiped up and clicked through his pin.
He held the picture of the guy and Isla kissing up. His hand shook as he held the phone.
The guy laughed. “Ah fuck man. Is that what this is about?”
“Yeah, you slept with her, didn’t you?”
“Obviously,” the guy said. “She your wife?”
“Fiancé,” Brennan said. “It looks like you do though.”
Guy held up his hand, the wedding band shining. “It’s fake. It’s like catnip for these hoes.”
“She’s not a—”
“—and that’s why you want to shoot me over her?” the guy said.
The rabbit punch was real this time. Brennan felt it at the same time he heard the crunch of gravel beneath a boot. He went down. His phone clattered across the pavement in the opposite direction as his gun.
Brennan looked up in time to see the Guy kick it away. He slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Then he ate another punch that left him flat on his back. His head went woozy, but he didn’t lose consciousness.
“What did he want?” Guy’s friend said.
“That girl I hooked up with the other night. It was his fiancé.”
“Ah fuck. What did this guy want to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” the Guy said. “Murder suicide, maybe.”
“People still do that?”
“Men do,” Guy said.
Brennan kind of liked that. It was nice to have a non-hostile witness for once. The voice didn’t have an answer.
“You want your pride back?” Guy asked.
Brennan stared upwards blankly. Guy was leaning over him now.
“I get it. Shit sucks,” Guy said. Then he turned to his buddy and asked him, “Hey, you got one of those cards?”
“Yeah, right here,” his friend pulled a little white business card out of his pocket. Guy took it and scribbled something on it. He handed it to Brennan.
“If you are really about it, show up at that time,” Guy said. “We can make it right.” Guy bent over, picked up the Taurus and slipped it into his waistband. “Don’t bring anything. Come unarmed.”
Both of them walked off then.
Brennan studied the card. It was just a business card with an address on it. On the back was scribbled 11/22 10pm sharp.
That was tomorrow night.
He had frozen peas pressed up to the side of his head. They didn’t really help with the pounding. He sat on the gray sectional he’d bought when he moved in. It had felt like a very important decision at the time, which sectional to buy. Now it had coffee stains on it.
Isla pushed through the front door. She spotted him immediately, dropped her bag, and ran to him. She kneeled on the floor in front of him, her face twisted in all sorts of feminine mock concern. The kind of face your mom made when you smashed your knee on the playground, but she knew you were kind of being a bitch about it. The true difference between women and cats isn’t the psychopathy, it's that women can make facial expressions.
“Don’t,” Brennan said. “Stop it.”
Isla sat back on one of her heels. She poured extra emotion into the twist of concern. How could eyes look so honest and—
“I know what you did,” Brennan said. “I know you slept with him. I wasn’t sure at first. But I talked to him.”
Her face flickered through a thousand tiny emotions and then landed on anger. “What are you talking about?” she cried out.
Brennan shifted his seat and pulled out his phone. He pulled up the pictures.
“Who took these? You were spying on me?” she gasped the words out like a banked fish.
Brennan kept his cool. Even keel, steady on the throttle. The key to winning fights with women is to never get angry. Anger is the cardinal sin. It's the thing that justifies every behavior they are about to commit and did commit no matter where it appeared on the timeline. She wasn’t bound by the space time continuum the way he was, future makes up for past, and past for future, the technology was called justification.
“My buddy from boxing was there that night. He just happened to be there,” Brennan continued.
Her face went slack. He could almost watch the belly fall out of her. She was sick. She stood up and paced. She didn’t say anything. She was in a panic. Then came the tears, the “I’m sorry,” the “I love you,” the “I felt so lonely.”
It was on the industrial side of town, long since forgotten by the rest of the city. Old factories rose as monolithic shadows that blocked out some of the light pollution from the Beltway. Streetlights flickered in places, while in others whole streets were dark. Here and there he saw a burnt down house, old turn of the century rubble. Potholes grabbed his car's tires as he turned down the street that his GPS directed.
He had done some research on the address before he left. It used to be an old Elks’ lodge. Now it wasn’t listed as anything. Current ownership was hidden through the use of a land trust. One that appeared to be quite large, but there was no real way to tell.
As for the Sons of Chiron themselves, they had no social media presence. There was some talk of them on motorcycle forums but nothing really enlightening one way or another. No court records besides the occasional criminal speeding charge that got knocked down to a misdemeanor. Nothing any more serious than that.
As he pulled up, a man approached him wearing the gang’s affiliated cut. He directed him to pull in. Brennan turned the wheel and guided the little Impala up towards the gate as it slid open. He parked in the backlot. There were bikes everywhere. Guys everywhere. There was a burn barrel on the east side, with flames leaping out of it, throwing sparks up into the night. A few dudes stood around it.
He pushed it into the park and opened the door. An older man was already there with a long gray beard. He reached out his hand and shook Brennan’s.
“I’m the Chiron,” he said. “ Or club president.”
Another man stepped forward, mid-forties, no beard, but piercing blue eyes, and some sort of artificial tan. He looked like an investment banker not a biker.
“This is our vice president,” the Chiron said. He turned then and pointed to the burn barrel. “That big Mexican-looking fucker is our sergeant-at-arms, and the scrawny looking white guy behind him is road captain. But don’t let him fool you, he used to be a Ranger. He won’t bite though, now he sells real estate.”
“I heard that shit,” the road captain hollered back.
Brennan just nodded. He felt out of place. Like the lamb that had walked itself into the lion’s den. But the voice hadn’t hounded him since that night behind the Rusty Anchor.
He wasn’t sure why he’d shown up tonight, but something had dragged him here. The chance to face it down. To salvage what was left of his pride.
Running was not an option; he’d do anything to not hear that voice again. He was past that point. Isla’s treachery had broken something loose in him. Now he was compelled to follow through. Yet, still, he didn’t know what the play here was.
The vice president laughed at him. “Dude, its cool. You’re cool man. Come on, let us show you around the club,” he said, as if he’d been privy to all of Brennan’s internal monologue.
Brennan followed behind them. Inside was a large room that had been converted into a bar. The walls were exposed brick. A giant neon centaur, of the same design as the men’s patches hung behind the bar. Other than that, decorations were sparse but tasteful. A bust of Ceasar overlooked the room from a crow’s nest above the bar. A reproduction of Laocoon and his Sons took up nearly a whole wall on the right side of the room. In the far-left corner of the other stood a reproduction of Perseus and Medusa.
The Chiron led Brennan through the bar, to a stairway that led to the basement. The bottom floor of the club had been converted into a gym, most of it consisting of free weights, squat racks, and a few benches. One section was astro-turfed for sled pulls, and the only real machines of any sort were the rowing machines set along a far wall.
“What do you think?” the Chiron asked.
“I think its dope,” Brennan replied.
“There’s no women allowed,” the Chiron said. “We can do that since we are a private club.”
“You’re a proper MC then?” Brennan asked.
“Oh yeah,” the Chiron replied. “We’ve got a charter. Don’t really get into anything illegal, at least nothing anybody can prove.”
“The other clubs leave you alone?”
“The other clubs love us,” the Chiron replied. “They see what we are doing. They use us when they get in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Brennan asked. He hoped he wasn’t pushing for too much, too fast.
“You’re a lawyer, right?” the Chiron asked.
“Yeah,” Brennan said.
“Well, there you go. This is a brotherhood. Everyone here day walks. They all have real jobs, and real brains. They all have access to levers of power.”
Brennan nodded slowly. Maybe the vice president really was an investment banker.
“You see that guy over there.” The Chiron pointed to an older man doing curls, he was still lean from years of weights. “He’s a judge. Shit, I was a deputy for years. Now, I’m retired.”
Brennan merely nodded.
“Fraternities are what built all of civilization. It's what they fear the most. Men that would lay their lives down for one another. Suggest a male-only space and the squawking starts. It’s why the military rotates men to a new duty station every two years. Dudes aren’t scary by themselves.”
Brennan looked around the gym. The anger and fear in his gut replaced with weird longing. The thing he’d been looking for right in front of him, but that he never knew was missing.
The Chiron checked his watch. “It's time for your date.”
“Why’d you bring me here,” the words tumbled out of him.
“You know,” the Chiron started. “Dueling was outlawed in Virginia all the way back in 1810, thanks to the death of Alexander Hamilton. I always felt Hamilton was a bit of a faggot myself for the way he set up Burr. Some truly petty shit.”
Brennan followed the old man up the stairs, his heart in his throat. The Chiron led him back through the bar, past the triumphant figure of Perseus with the HR representative’s head in hand.
Outside, Guy stood next to a table set up in front of the burn barrel. The Chiron guided Brennan over.
Two small wooden cases, decorated with carven stags and intricate scrollwork sat on top.
Brennan’s palms were sweaty again, but there was a fire in his belly and a quickness to his pulse. He should be scared. Nervous. Instead, he felt alive. Maybe it was the hurt he still felt from Isla talking. He’d always had a self-destructive streak.
The sergeant-at-arms opened the wooden boxes. From one he lifted a single-shot dueling pistol and began to load it. They were flintlocks. The sergeant at arms ran them through how to fire them.
Brennan tried to listen, but his pulse was pounding too fast, his heart in his ears now. They were going to duel. He’d thought they were going to ask him to join.
Guy nodded to him. It was a chin up sort of nod. One of healthy acknowledgement.
The sergeant-at-arms ran through the rules. “Stand back-to-back. Then thirty paces at the Chiron’s count. When he calls turn, you are free to turn, aim and fire.”
The Chiron led them to the middle of the parking lot. It buzzed with rambunctious laughter. It had filled up during his tour as more of the club members had filtered in. Some sat on stools, others on their bikes, some stood. Brennan glanced at Guy. He didn’t seem nervous.
The Chiron placed them back-to-back. Brennan felt it again. That out of place feeling. Here in his tennis shoes and blue jeans. The cold night air cut through his quarter zip fleece.
The Chiron started his count.
Thirty paces went by quick.
“Turn.”
Brennan spun on a heel. Turned. Took aim. His hand shook uncontrollably. Adrenaline surging. He hadn’t been prepared for—
Guy's gun went off in a cloud of white smoke and Brennan clinched his eyes shut instinctively. He waited for the ball to shatter his ribs, but it never came.
He’d missed.
Brennan refocused. Guy was still standing there, but his pistol was still pointed at the sky where he’d fired it off. He hadn’t missed. He’d deloped.
Brennan refocused on the iron sight in front of him. He felt the trigger under finger. But he couldn’t do it.
No, he didn’t want to do it.
Fuck her.
Brennan pointed his pistol skyward and pulled the trigger. The sweet smell of gunpowder flooded his senses. The crack from the gunshot set his ears ringing.
Guy broke into a smile then. And the Chiron and sergeant-at-arms took the pistols from them.
Guy approached and reached out a hand. “I didn’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t have slept with her.”
“I know,” Brennan said. “We’re cool.”
Guy walked off.
“Why the duel?” Brennan asked, turning back towards the Chiron.
“To see if you were about it. And cus, Guy fucked up. Wasn’t his fault though.”
The Chiron started to hand him a cut. Brennan reached for it on impulse, but the Chiron drew it back, “You’ll have to buy a bike. Guy can hook you up. He works at a dealership. And you’ll have to learn the rules and take the oath. If you ever want out, it’ll be the same way you got in. Via a duel. You’ll start as a friend of the club, same as everyone else did. Consider tonight your first test.”
Brennan took the cut.
“Good,” the Chiron said. “And now for your second test. Dump that bitch. If they backstab you once, they’ll do it again.”
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