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12th of August 2006 5:57 p.m.
Route 66, 15 miles away from Bristleville, Boarderlands County

A flatbed truck was making its way back to Bristleville on Route 66. The driver, a middle aged liger by the name of Max Johnson, and his half-brother Jared, a tiger who was riding shotgun, finished their final task for the day. They delivered a repaired Corvette to a customer, who was far too busy being rich and famous to pick up the car himself. It took the brothers, alongside the chief mechanic, the best part of two months to restore the sportscar to its former glory. They were accustomed to repair and maintain motorcycles, but no one at the bike shop would shy away from taking care of a four-wheeled vehicle.

“At least that one is over. Damn, I hate that guy. ‘No, don’t scratch my car with your brute biker claws’. Who does he think repaired it? Fairies? I can’t wait to crack open a cold one with the guys,” Jared said as he was lighting a cigarette before rolling down the passenger window with the handle bar.

“You can say that again. Acts like his fleet is a collectors edition, but his son trashes one on a nearly monthly basis. Say, J.J., can you spare me one?” Max asked and reached his paw over to his brother.

“Sure thing,” J.J. said as he placed a spare smoke into the palm of his brother’s paw. “Say, have you heard anything about the upcoming ride-out?”

Max replied after he’d lit his smoke. “Nah, nothing. I guess Slate will give us the details tomorrow at Church. I guess it will be like last time. One of us will stay back and tend to the shop.”

“Yeah, probably. I hope it’s not me again. Damn, I’m still jealous of last year. You, Chugga and Dunc. You seemed to have a good time.”

“And Doom kicked our asses since we couldn’t drive our bikes in formation the next day.”

“Yep, I heard him explode back at the clubhouse. It was amazing to… Wait! M.J., stop the truck!”

The tires screeched and M.J. brought the flatbed to halt on the side of the road.

“What is it!?”

“Look!” J.J. pointed at a black object, just a few feet from the street.

M.J. spotted the shape that his brother pointed out.

“YOU GAVE ME HALF OF A HEART ATTACK BECAUSE OF A PILE OF TRASH?!” he shouted, but his brother was already out of the cab of the flatbed and jogged towards their finding.

“Sometimes, brother, you really deserve a strangling,” M.J. grumbled under his breath before catching up to J.J.. As he got closer though, he saw the reasoning behind his brother’s excitement.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Yep, an original nineteen-eighty Pawrley Davidson F-X-W-G Wide Glide. Lower-Medium-sized.”

“Nineteen-Eighty? Don’t be an idiot, no way a cruiser that old would be in this condition,” M.J. replied, before he let his eyes wander over the bike and spotted the trashed hind wheel. “Aside from the obvious, of course.”

“Hm… interesting…” J.J. mused as he circled the bike.

“Are you even listening to me? What is so interesting that you don’t even answer?”

“This here.” He pointed at an attachment on the side of the bike. “Have you ever heard of a Wide Glide with a sidecar?” he asked before kneeling down. He didn’t wait for an answer, as he took a closer look at the handywork. He knew his brother would answer with a ‘no’, because as they grew up together, both of them developed a strong fascination with motorbikes which had accompanied them up until this point. Not one magazine mentioned a stock version of that specific model for a third passenger, nor had they ever seen a custom job like this.

“Sturdy... nice welding job... “ the tiger mused, before he pulled on a lever on the flange, which made the sidecar come off. “Huh, even detachable. Whoever made this, is one serious mechanic.”

“And probably in a club. A club that does not belong to us,” his taller brother said grimly. “And no biker with a spec of honor would leave this beauty behind. He is around here.”

With that, J.J. almost jumped up, opened the zipper of his light brown work-overall and pulled his gun from his underarm holster. M.J. had already drawn his own gun and nodded towards his brother. With that, both of them cautiously walked further off the road to find whoever owned the bike.

The search was over quickly, since the owner of Michelle laid in the dirt only thirty feet away.
J.J. found him and gave a quick two snaps with his digits to signal his brother to come over. Together, they approached the mammal before them, both guns trained on him constantly.

“Check if he is already riding in hell,” M.J. commanded. He kept his aim on the figure before them, whilst his brother shuffled closer and checked the mammal’s vitals.

“Still breathing... “

“Is this real leather?”

J.J. felt the collar of the tall bunny’s jacket. “Yep.”

“Check for guns.”

The tiger gave the unconscious form before him a pat-down, checking for firearms, holsters, as well as knifes and other items that could be used as a weapon. As he found nothing, he noted aloud, “Clear! Not only this, but also no patch, no top-, bottom-, or side-rocker, nothing. That guy is a free rider.”

“I don’t like this. Not one bit. What if this is a setup?”

In this moment, the bunny in front of them started to move and groan, which made J.J. immediately jump away and raise his pistol.

“ALRIGHT, NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS!” he shouted at the bunny who struggled to get up.

Charles learned the painful way, that he couldn’t put any weight on his right paw to get up as a hand grenade of agony detonated in his shoulder. After a second, and successful, attempt to get up, at least into a sitting position, he raised his left arm.

“I’m unarmed, please don’t shoot. I had that today already.”

“Raise your other arm!” M.J. shouted.

Charles tried, but any movement let loose another explosion of pain.

“Sorry, bud, but I can’t. My shoulder seems to have taken a blow after the crash. May I put my other arm down now?”

“Alright. Get up then... but slowly,” J.J. said, visibly relaxing now. He felt that no hostility came from the unnaturally tall bunny.

“Thanks,” Charles said, as he moved his left arm and gripped his right to give it support. Even the pull of gravity hurt in his shoulder. After that, Charles made it to his feet. Just now he realised that the fall knocked off his shades, which he’d kept since the day his father gave them to him. Luckily, they were not further away than a big step. As he went over and bent down to pick it up, he heard the triggers of the guns being cocked.

“Relax, please,” he called out before slowly turning around and revealing the contents of his paw to the two feline brothers, “it’s just my shades. Never go anywhere without them.”
Both of the felines sighed simultaneously, uncocked their guns and put them back in the respective holsters.

“Is that your bike?” J.J. asked, while pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

Charles nodded in return.

“Awesome craft you got there. I’m really impr-” the tiger started, almost enthusiastically, but was cut off by his brother.

“Who are you, and where did you get that jacket from?!” M.J. asked in a rude tone.

Charles reluctantly introduced himself with his fake name ‘Hammer’ and started to share parts of his story, while only mentioning what was absolutely necessary. He stated truthfully, that his jacket was a present back when he was just a meer kit. To the follow-up question, why it still fits like a glove, he explained that he was already relatively tall when he was ten years old and the jacket was just a few sizes too big back then. As his origin story, he gave the best lie he could think of. He was kicked out of his home after his eighteenth birthday for various reasons. Two reasons he stated, was that his father was unapproving of his passion for his bike, and his barely legal way of earning a coin. Now, he’s on the road, living day by day, from paw to maw, working temporary jobs to stay afloat.
Any details about his time on the Gaupa Farm were swept under the rug during this half-true backstory.
Lastly, he answered the following questions about his bike truthfully; how he got it, what condition it was in and how much passion flowed into restoring it.
The two cats in front of him seemed to believe the story as a whole. Afterwards, Charles asked for the names of of the two strangers and learned that the slim tiger with the yellow eyes was named ‘J.J.’ and that the heavy liger with the dark brown eyes was his brother ‘M.J.’. He didn’t know what the abbreviations stood for, neither did he dare to ask. He knew that, if someone introduces himself with a nickname, you should just leave it at that for the time being.

“So… can anyone of you two spare me a smoke? I would roll one myself, but…” Charles left the reason unexplained and only indicated his predicament by nudging his head towards his injured shoulder.

“Oh, of course. M.J.?”

“What?! You think I am freaking vending machine?!” M.J. snarled at his brother.

“Come on, it will be my treat back at the shop.”

With this, M.J. sighed and handed him a pack of smokes. Meanwhile, Charles put his right paw into the left inner pocket of his jacket, to keep it in place and freeing up his left paw to take the cigarette and take the lighter, also offered by M.J..

For a while, they smoked in silence before J.J. started talking again.

“So, shall we bring you to a hospital? I mean, your arm doesn’t seem to feel pleasant.”

Immediately, Charles shook his head. “No, no hospital. I… I’m not insured. Aside, I don’t want to have anything to do with the cops. Accident, and so forth, you know?”

The unwillingness to cooperate with the law enforcement seemed to sit well with the brothers.

“Then how about we bring you and your beauty to our workshop? Making her ready for the road again?”

“Michelle.”

“Huh?”

“The bike’s name… her name is Michelle.”

“I gotta give that to you; a beautiful name for a bike,” M.J. stated.

“So, deal, Hammer?” J.J. asked, already stretching out his paw towards the bunny.

“Sorry, no can do. You see, I have no money on me.”

J.J. lowered his paw and excused himself to make a phone call. It didn’t take all too long for the tiger to return and break the somewhat awkward silence between M.J. and Charles.

“Alright, M.J., come on, we got a bike to lift on the flatbed. You, Hammer, get into the driver’s cab.”

“But I said I don’t have…”

J.J. interrupted him by pointing a claw at his chest, somewhat intimidating but not outward hostile. “The name of the game: Fold your paws, shut your jaws! Vulc, the shop owner, wants to see what you’ve done to the bike and I wouldn’t pass up that opportunity.”

Charles shut up immediately, only nodding in response.

After lifting the bunny into the driver’s cab, the feline brothers lifted the bike onto the flatbed and were in the driver’s and passenger's seat a few minutes after, boxing Charles in-between them. The engine rumbled and roared to life as the tall liger Max turned on the ignition and they drove away from the scene. To say that he felt trapped between the two massive and well-armed predators was an understatement to say the least. This feeling, combined with not knowing where they were heading or what would happen when they got there, should’ve made him fear for his life.

It didn’t however. Instead, a grim and somewhat morbid thought nested inside the folds of his brain: It might be good, or it most likely won’t be. Whatever comes next, I’ve brought it onto myself. Best to accept this now and live with the consequences of my decisions.

The sun had just begun to set as Max made a slow turn to the right and they entered a yard. It looked like a long driveway that was solely covered in asphalt. As Charles looked through the window, he saw three garage gates, large enough to house firetrucks. His gaze wandered to the right, but only found a simple one-story brick building. As his eyes wandered to the right, he saw another building, which could have been a spacious residential house for all he knew. What really caught his eyes however, were multiple parked motorcycles in front of it. Sleek beauties of imposing sizes, but he noticed that five of them were even larger than the rest.

From this alone, Charles could gather that firstly, he definitely was on biker club grounds, with the residential-esque structure being the clubhouse itself, and secondly, the club consists of solely medium to large sized animals. Those might’ve been assumptions, but his calm exterior, which he maintained with the help of accepting his loss of control over the situation, started to break apart as fear for himself started to seep back into his conscious mind.

His attempt to come up with any plan to make a run for it, however poor it may be, was ended abruptly as Max banged his heavy paw on the outside of the truck’s door through the now rolled down window.
This startled the bunnyfox enough to make him jump and bump his injured shoulder into J.J., reminding him, that any sudden movements and with it, any chance of escape was futile.

“Brothers! Move up, more work before Church!” Max shouted and two wolves and a lion, all wearing the same overalls as the felines in the driver’s cabin, emerged from the garages. How Charles could have missed them as he scanned the perimeter was beyond him, but he blamed his trainwreck of nerves.

“Salvage?” the lion asked dryly M.J. as he came up to the driver’s window.

“You want to salvage a F-X-W-G Wide Glide? You gotta be joking, right?” J.J. chimed in which earned him grumbles of disapprovement from the other two felines. Without seeming to notice or choosing to ignore it, he continued: “Bring it into box three. Vulc wants to have a look at it.”

With this, the passenger door swung open and J.J. hopped out. Turning around, he reached towards Charles who remained frozen. His face stood stoic, but his trembling ears and the run-in moments earlier gave him away to J.J.. With a soft smile and a little wave towards him, he beckoned the terrified half-pred forward.

Charles moved forward and was immediately grabbed by the tiger. He expected a rough handling and another onslaught of agony from his shoulder, but it didn’t come. Instead, the tiger lifted him up gently, carefully avoiding any sudden movements.

“We aren’t that bad,” he whispered and winked at the somewhat surprised bunnyfox before setting him down.

“Who’s that fleabag?” came as a question from one of the wolves, who was currently busy finding a good grip to lift the damaged bike off the truck.

Still smiling, the tiger straightened himself up. “Is this how you greet a guest, customer and fellow biker, Goon? You really need to work on your social skills or we’ll get a bad review again.”

“Fuck you, J.J., you son of a bitch.”

“Well, you’re not wrong, but let’s keep the profession of my mommy-dearest out of here, shall we?”

“You’ll surely never change,” the wolf began chuckling. “Get your new friend situated and swing your and your brother’s tail to Church; the others are already there. We will finish up here.”

“Where’s Vulc?”

“Clubhouse.”

J.J. nodded as to say ‘thank you’ and shushed Charles gently towards the building he saw earlier. Before they entered, J.J. turned and took a knee before Charles.

“Ok, so here are the ground rules. Greet everyone with respect. A simple nod is not enough; you shake the paws of an Old Lady and you greet a member as follows.”

He then proceeded to extend his right paw as if he was doing arm wrestling, just without resting the elbow on a table.
After remembering that the tall bunny in front of him couldn’t move his own right arm, he switched and extended his left paw quickly.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Now you slap your paw into mine and close it.”

Charles did as he was told, and got a nod of agreement in return.

“Next, do not interrupt a member or an Old Lady while they talk to you. You’re not member; not a prospect; not a hangaround. They are well above in the hierarchy.”

“What’s a hangaround?” Charles asked.

“Third, don’t ask too many questions. No one likes a stranger sniffing around. And a hangaround is a friend of the club. The prospect to become prospect, if you will.”

So far, Charles had no objections to any of those rules; they made sense.

“And lastly, don’t try to fuck with us. Don’t go anywhere where you’re not supposed to be, don’t take what isn’t yours. We have security cameras everywhere, so you won’t be needing a lawyer if we catch you.”

“Oh.. uh… ok. I didn’t mean to anyway…” Charles stammered nervously. He couldn’t explain why he was suddenly so nervous. He knew he wouldn’t do anything to purposely upset those people, so the threat shouldn’t affect him in any way, but it did anyhow.

“Alright,” J.J. sighed as he got back to his full height. “Then we are on the same page. And try to calm down, your listening antennas are vibrating as if you were working a jackhammer.”

Self-consciously, he lowered his ears behind his head as he breathed in deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

“We may be rough on the outside, and a bit more to mammals who enter the club when we are not open to the public, but we’re still mammals and you got an invitation from Vulc.”

“This ‘Vulc’ that you’re going on about…” Charles started, but was immediately cut off.

“He is not the Prez, if you wanted to ask that. But he is a high-ranking member and he owns the repair shop. Come on.”

With this final words, J.J. entered the clubhouse. Charles took one deep breath, trying to steady his body without it going rigid.

Time to enter the lions’ cave. Or wolves’ cave? Wolves den? Whatever.

Once inside, he followed J.J. through a somewhat narrow entryway which lead him to a bar area. On the way there, his guide made only one stop to show him the bathroom.

The bar was something that could have belonged in a movie. The walls, floor and bar itself were made from dark mahogany wood. The furniture were some bar stools, three tables with varying amounts of chairs and two couches in a corner, arranged in a L-shape with a coffee table in front. On the other side of the room, where the bar connected with the wall, hung a dartboard and a rather large spot in the middle of said room, which could have been used for more seating areas, throned an impressive and well maintained pool billiard table.

The bar itself was manned by a rather strange looking wolf. While one side of his face and the rest of the body, which Charles could not see, was completely white, the other side was as black as the night. The next thing he noticed were the bartenders pink nose and piercing red eyes. Charles has heard of such a condition called albinism, but has never encountered it, even back in Zootopia, which speaks volumes for the rarity of this condition, but it didn’t explain the black fur and how it was so precisely split in the middle.

On the other side of the counter sat another wolf with dark-gray fur, with a smoking cigar between his fingers and a glass of whiskey in the other paw. The conversation they were engaged in ended abruptly as the tiger and the bunny entered.

J.J. stepped forward and greeted the two canines with the same handshake he taught Charles earlier, followed by some short whispering.

“...and this is the owner of the botched shoulder and the Wide Glide we picked up earlier,” announced the Tiger and waved him towards them.

As Charles reached the trio of predators, the two wolves gave him the greeting and introduced themselves. The grey wolf was Vulc, and the name of the black ‘n’ white wolf was Cram. Charles himself introduced himself with his fake name Charles Hammer. During the greeting, the bunnyfox had to make an effort not to stare at Vulc’s left eye, as there was a milky layer over his iris and retina, effectively blinding him on the left side.

“So, you’re the rider who had dirt for dinner? Must’ve been tasting awesome if it was worth cracking your shoulder for it,” the canine mocked.

It took Charles a few moments to think about a reply, but he decided to go with the joke. “Yeah, I would have… uhh... cracked my other shoulder as well, if J.J. hadn’t found me and stopped my feast.”

This had the desired effect and everyone was either chuckling or laughing.

“You drink whiskey?” the aged wolf asked and Charles answered with a nod. Snapping his fingers, Vulc ordered a shot of the amber spirit, which had the right size to be a normal-sized drink for the rabbit-fox.

“What brand is that?” Charles asked after taking a sip and felt the burning sensation down his throat.

“Wild Turkey. A staple of our fine establishment. Now, let’s have a look at that shoulder. And you two...” he turned as he addressed the tall mammals left in the room, “get your cuts and go to Church. I’ll be right there.”

J.J. must have seen the bewildered look on Charles’ face, because he gave him a reassuring nudge. “Don’t worry, Vulc was a good medic, back in his time in the army.”

“Good? I was freaking awesome at my job! The ninth platoon would have never made it to Bunker Hill without me.”

“Ok, freaking awesome then,” the tiger replied with a toothy grin. “Here, take these,” he said to Charles while handing him three cigarettes and a lighter “For later. We will be in there for a while.”

Charles thanked him and directed his attention back to the older wolf who had already knelt in front of him for examination. He helped the bunny take his jacket off and started to tap around his shoulder.

“Does this hurt?”

“A bit, but not too bad.”

“Alright, and here?” he asked as he tapped closer to the area where the arm came out of its socket, making Charles grimace.

“Yeah, that’s the spot.”

Finally, Vulc grabbed Charles’ upper arm and tried to move the shoulder around in a few directions, always stopping when Charles winced.

“Hm… Ok, drink up,” the wolf ordered and the bunny obliged, “this is going to suck.”

Before Charles could object to what he assumed would happen now, the grip around his upper arm tightened and the wolf’s free paw pushed against the side of his ribcage. In one quick motion, Vulc pulled on the arm and twisted it upwards, almost like playing with a doll. All Charles could register were the cracking sounds from his damaged joints, and the blinding pain radiating from there. Before the agony could manifest into a shout, there was a pop and the shoulder was back in its socket.

“Fu-uck! Dude, what the hell? Why didn’t you warn me?” Charles’ shout turned into groaning as the wolf straightened himself up, his face unphased by the bunny’s reaction.

“You’re welcome,” he said and grabbed the whiskey bottle from the bar and filled Charles’ glass. “Have another one. The pain should subside into a pulsating sensation in a few minutes. Afterwards, you will feel numb for a while. Have a seat somewhere; we will talk about your bike once Church is done.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask too many questions, but he couldn’t let this one go.
“Church? Are you religious or am I not getting something here?” he asked, still groaning from the pain.

Vulc was already back at the bar where he put on his leather cut. “Church is our word for the weekly club meeting and has nothing to do with superstition.”

With these words, the wolf walked over to the double doors on the far side of the room and closed the them behind him, leaving the bunny alone in the dimly lit bar.

Well, that went better than expected. I didn’t get mauled, I have smokes and a glass of whiskey. And, he didn’t lie, the pain eases quickly.

He slumped on the nearest couch, lit his first cigarette and sipped from his glass.

A few minutes into whiskey and chill, he started to glance around the room again and found one specific wall decoration that caught his eye. As he stood up to walk towards it, he didn’t realise that he’d used his right paw to boost him off of the couch. Once he did realise, he felt the warm feeling of happiness in the middle of his guts. The pain was not gone by any means as it fought a losing battle against the settling numbness, but the arm being somewhat useable again was a relief.
As he scooted closer, he saw that there was an area of framed photographs - no, mugshots - of what he assumed were the members. He shoved one of the barstools closer and hopped on it for a better view. On the mugshot itself, he could read the names as well as the aliases of each member and on the picture frame was a plaque which stated their current rank inside the club.

“Dominik ‘Doom’ Weber - President; Brian ‘Bryce’ Zacharoy - Vice Pres; Seth ‘Slate’ Ryden - Road Captain; Paul ‘Peace’ Whittaker - Secretary; Harrison ‘Slugger’ Slove - Sergeant at Arms; Victor ‘Vulc’ Terrice - Treasurer,” he whispered as he read the names with fascination.

He would have made it through the whole list, if he hadn’t heard someone moving behind the wall and since he was still uncertain of the do’s and don'ts around here, he hopped down the stool and put it back in its original place. Afterwards, he hurried back to the couch and tried to look as innocent as he could, which made him look like a kit who was caught with his paw in the cookie jar. There he sat, and nothing happened. No one came out of the room behind the closed doors for the next two hours, but Charles didn’t want to risk anything, so he used the time to finish his drink and the other two cigarettes he was given.

After that, Vulc came out of Church alone.

“Seems like you won’t meet the others today. Meeting is still going, but I believe we have business to attend to.”

Charles got up again and followed Vulc outside to the garages where his Michelle was waiting. As they arrived, the wolf took a fresh cigar from the inside of his cut and lit it with a zippo lighter as he investigated the bike in great detail.

“Where did you find this beauty?”

“A friend gave her to me. He found her in the junkyard that he’s working at,” he answered truthfully.

“Junkyard?! What an idiot throws away a functioning bike, especially with a custom made sidecar?” Vulc asked rhetorically, his tone filled with outrage.

“Actually, she was barely rideable when I got her. I spent months restoring her. I made the sidecar myself from scratch. All of that kinda ate away at all my savings too,” Charles answered before giving a defeated sigh. “That’s why I can’t afford to repair her.”

“Yeah, I heard what you told J.J. and M.J. Vagabond, luck thrown under the bus, hopping from job to job… every pun intended…”

A few quick minutes passed, as Vulc continued to study the bike, specifically the customisations. “You know what? I have an offer.”

“I am not selling her!”

“If you would let me finish,” he replied somewhat annoyed. “Now, listen closely: I will take her as pawn for fifteen hundred bucks. If you take the money and bounce, I will repair and sell her after six months. If you stay, get a hotel or rent an apartment with that cash, getting your life in order basically, I can offer you a job here at the shop. You can pay me back with no interest, and you can repair her in your free time.”

He let that thought linger in the air for another few seconds before he continued. “Or, you get her and yourself out of my yard. You can come back if you have the cash for the repairs. So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Why do you offer me a job? You don’t know me.”

“That is true, but I’m impressed by this handiwork. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t lie to me when you said you did it all yourself, but if you accept, we will see that on monday anyway.”

“In that case…” Charles started his answer, but was cut off by Vulc.

“Monday, oh six hundred sharp,” he said, then pulled a wad of cash out of the inner pocket of his cut and started counting out the notes. Once he was done, he handed Charles the notes and added, “Not one minute late.”

“Yessir! And thank you!” Charles answered with a salute as he took the money with his other paw. He didn’t know why he did it, but it felt just right.

This brought a deep chuckle from Vulc. “I like you, kid, but you have never been in the military. Your posture is all wrong, which makes the salute sloppy. It’s enough if you give me the greeting.”
With that, the wolf extended his right paw and Charles took it eagerly.

Just as Charles was leaving the yard, he realised that he didn’t know where to go. This hesitation was noticed by Vulc who shouted after him, “Go to Morrison’s, twenty minutes down the road. Tell that old bastard of a warthog that I send you. He will give you a room for tonight. Come here tomorrow at twelve and we will get you situated.”

Charles answered this with a gleeful smile and waved goodbye.

A few moments went by after Charles had left the yard and Vulc kept watching with mild amusement.

“Hey Doom. You really should work on your stealth; you got sloppy,” Vulc said, without averting his gaze from where Charles vanished around the corner.

From beyond the darkness of the night, a black wolf emerged, with a furless burnmark along his jawline and a white streak of fur, which went from the tip of his snout, all the way over his head and vanished under the collar of his leather jacket. “And here I thought an old geezer like you had trouble with his hearing,” Doom answered with a gravelly voice.

“Don’t underestimate your elders. Besides, it wasn’t your sneaking; the smell of wet wolf, old alcohol and cold smoke gave you away,” the old wolf replied while tapping his snout and giving his club-president a toothy grin.

“Whatever. You know that I prefer entrances with a boom. So, did the bunny take the job?” he asked, before lighting a smoke.

“Yup, sure did. And J.J. was right. He does a fine job and is humble about it.”

“So?”

“If one is not boasting about his talents, that means he shows great potential.”

“Or he is just shy.”

“We can work with that. Shyness is something you can overcome. Who knows, he might be a good addition to the club one day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Doom growled. “I’m with Slugger on that one: we started as a wolf-exclusive M.C. and we stay that way.”

“Coming from a grizzly bear like Slugger... is this why we have a lion, two tigers and two bears in our ranks?” Vulc asked sarcastically.

“Exceptions to the rules, made for large predators and surely not for any bunny or other prey. Besides, we don’t know that guy.”

“First, times change, and so do rules. Secondly, you may be right, but if he shows up on monday - and he will - we will get to know him over time.”

“If you say so. You vouch for him and as soon as he starts humping the furniture, he is out and you will face the consequences,” he stated, glaring daggers at Vulc.

“Yeah, you made that crystal clear during Church. And third - before I forget it - I don’t think he is a bunny.”

“What d’you mean?” Doom asked while flicking his cigarette bud away. “Buck Teeth, twitchy nose, ears like satellite dishes. He might be taller than your regular rabbit…”

“And he has fangs,” Vulc interrupted his superior bluntly.

“He what now?” The surprise was evident in his tone.

“He has fangs,” the old wolf repeated, “saw them while he spoke and I knelt next to his bike. It seems like he tries to hide them by not speaking much and keeping his head down whilst doing it, but they are evident once you’re aware of them.”

“So, what is he then? A prey-dator? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know yet, but I guess we’ll find out.”

“Whatever it is, him being a prospect is not your call, neither is it mine. It’s a unanimous club decision and I know Slugger and Goon will rather let hell freeze over than accepting anyone remotely resembling a prey to be part of the club.”

“What about you?”

“For me, he is a vagabond, nothing more.”

“Well, I know someone who was a homeless wanderer in his former life. Nowadays, he is your V.P.,” he said grinning widely.

“The thing with Bryce is something different, end of discussion! Now shut up and get!” Doom almost shouted while pointing towards the clubhouse.

For a few seconds, both wolves glowered at each other in silence, neither of them backing down. Then, out of nowhere, Doom started to crack a smile. “In there waits a beer-mug with your name on it.”

With this, both started to laugh.

“Sure, whatever you say, boss,” Vulc said as he walked past Doom who swatted playfully at him and missed on purpose.

“A bunny riding with the Wolves of War...” Doom mumbled to himself, still smiling as he took off after his club-brother, “that old geezer really has lost his mind.”

Twenty minutes later, Charles found himself in front of the cheap motel called ‘Morrison’s Pinecone Motels’. One where you’d expect to find drug-users, prostitutes and the occasional murderer, but none of that was present. The building was probably just old and poorly maintained. Or the scum of the city didn’t roam the city’s streets at night. Whichever it was, no one bothered him and he appreciated that.

His path lead him to a small side building, which had the letters ‘Reception’ nailed to a sign above its door. To be honest, the name spelled ‘Re ept on’ since the letters ‘c’ and ‘i’ had fallen off, but it was clear what it tried to indicate.

Charles had no idea how late it was, but that ultimately didn’t matter, since there were no opening times written anywhere near the entrance, so he knocked, hoping that the reception was still occupied.

Between grunts and short squeaks - and what sounded like the end of a stress test for bedsprings - he heard a muffled “We’re closed. Come again whenever.”

“Vulc sends me. He said you’d give me a room for the night or two,” Charles said, already sounding a bit desperate. No way he would find the materials or a place to set up a makeshift camp, neither did he ever want to be forced to do it again.

“Minute!” came the short reply and from beyond the door, Charles could hear the continuation of the stress test, before it stopped with a final loud creek. After some more moments of faint rummaging, the door buzzed and the bunnyfox pushed the door open to find an obese warthog standing behind a reinforced counter.

The dirty glass panel, separating possible temporary residents and the landlord - or whoever gives out the keys to the rooms - had one half circle hole at the bottom was used to exchange keys and cash, while another set of grated holes near at the height of the warthog’s snout, made it easier for his voice to be heard.

Charles made his way forward, using the stepping tool, provided for smaller mammals to reach up to the counter and saw an open door on the wall behind the glass. Through it, he saw what produced the metal crunching sound: an old, worn out bed frame.

“Vulc sent you, huh?” the burly swine asked, but continued before Charles could respond. “twenty-five bucks a night, no loud music, cash only, no breakfast. ID?”

“Here you go,” Charles said while handing his fake ID through the half-circle opening, along with the twenty-five dollars.

The pig studied the ID and gave out a few snorts in the meantime. Without looking up from the ID, the hog reached over to a cabinet and pulled out a set of keys. Afterwards, he grabbed the cash and shoved the ID, keys and a book over the counter back to the leatherjacket wearing bunny.

“Sign in on our guest book and you’re good to go. Vending machines for snacks and drinks and the ice-box are on the ground level, next to room three. Your room number is thirteen on the second floor.”

“Glad that I’m not superstitious, eh?” Charles asked in an attempt of humor, which only brought him a confused look.

A few seconds of awkward silence passed before the landlord continued. “You will find a set of rules in a binder on your desk. Follow them or you’ll get thrown out. The binder also contains the WiFi code.”

“Sure will do. Anything else?”

“If you have a car, or any other vehicle, you can use the parking space with your room number on it. Aside from that, that’s all.”

With a nod, both meant as a ‘thank you’ and a farewell, Charles hopped down the stool and made his way outside, across the parking lot, got himself two bottles of beer and a chicken&egg sandwich from the vending machines, then he went up the outside stairs of the building and into room thirteen.

As he entered, he realised that after the crash with his bike and the rescue by the feline brothers, he forgot to search for his duffle and that he looked far from presentable, given the dirt on his clothes.

He looked around and found a clock on the wall, telling him that it was just shy of eleven p.m.

In the lack of anything better to do aside from zapping through the T.V. channels, he decided that he could use a shower and do his laundry by paw in the bathtub or sink or whatever this place had to offer.

He laid all his belongings, which hadn’t gotten lost, on the bedside table: His wallet, the wad of cash, which he hadn’t cared to stow away in the wallet earlier, the set of room keys, the key to his motorcycle, the tobacco pouch that Harald had given him, some stray bottle caps and coins and his father’s aviators.

I should really get a phone. I mean, I have no-one to call, but at least I can browse the internet.

Pushing aside the thought about the lack of entertainment, aside from the small T.V. in the room, he unbuckled his belt and went into the bathroom. It was not as grimy as the outside of the building might have suggested, but it was far from a comfortable atmosphere. A sink with a mirror, a toilet and a shower were all that had been crammed in there. He did find complementary fur-shampoo as well as a plastic-sealed toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste on the sink, which reminded him that his breath must smell like death, given that the last time he brushed was back at his old home.

After showering and brushing his teeth - which made him feel like a brand new mammal - he went ahead washed his clothes in the sink and hung it over the acrylic glass door of the shower while he used the shampoo as a makeshift laundry detergent.

Naked and with his fur a bit too damp for his liking, he grabbed the sandwich, one beer bottle and the remote, flopped onto the bed and started zapping away to find a movie. Twenty minutes into ‘Die Hard’ & chill, he heard a knock on the door.

What the hell?! Who could that be? he thought while glancing to the clock again, who goes around knocking on doors at midnight.

“This is Deputy Siljan Clawson, open up please,” came the voice through the door.

The police? God fucking dammit, I’m so fucked.

He got up and went for the door, just in time to realise he was still naked and his clothes were far from dry.

“Give me a sec, I’m not properly dressed.”

Charles made his way back to the bathroom and reluctantly pulled on his damp undergarment and hated every second of it. There was no feeling worse for him as to slip into wet clothes.

Less than twenty seconds later, he opened the door and saw a red fox in a light brown county-police uniform standing in front of him.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

“Good evening. As I said, my name is deputy Clawson and I have a few questions. May I come in?”

“Definitely not!” Charles wanted anything else but to talk to the police. He knew that saying anything slightly suspicious, which he would if this conversation would drag any longer than necessary, would lead to his background story being investigated. This would most probably reveal his age, his origin and with that, grant him a one-way ticket back to Zootopia. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he did consider reuniting with his parents for a split second. This thought was immediately crushed by his own certainty that taking this road would put his parents’ marriage in jeopardy again though, simply by the way he was. In his still juvenile mind, he was convinced that living like this was the best for everyone involved. Nick, Judy and his siblings would move on - if they hadn’t already - and he could live as he was supposed to; wild and free. With that in mind, he tried to cut this conversation short by any means necessary. “Do you know how late it is?”

“I am aware, Sir, but you have been seen with a group of mammals we are investigating. May I have your name for the record?”

“Charles Hammer. And what mammals are we talking about?”

“A local biker gang called the Wolves of War. You were seen at their repair shop. What was your business there?”

“I was there to get my bike fixed; nothing else.”

Clawson pulled out a notebook and started to flip through the pages. “You’ve gone into their clubhouse for about two hours. Have you seen anything suspicious?”

Carles sighed in annoyance and replied, “No. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything, so I can’t say anything. Is that all?”

“Not quite. May I ask what you’re doing here in Bristleville?”

“I’m on a trip through the country and the engine of my bike cut out. What’s that got to do with anything anyway?”

Again, the uniformed fox flipped through his notebook. “Probably nothing. What about the damage on your motorcycle?”

“Parking accident,” the bunny lied. “Getting that fixed as well. Can we wrap this up, finally? If I’m not under arrest, I would like to continue my movie.” Charles knew he was really testing his luck right now, as he could be taken into custody for twenty four hours - he learned that by listening to his parents’ conversation about work in the past - but he knew the police couldn’t hold him for any longer than this without evidence of a crime. And since he technically did nothing wrong, he had nothing to lose.

Siljan Clawson eyed the tall bunny in front of him for several moments, evaluating his next step. Coming to the conclusion that if the bunny was involved with the club in any way, he wouldn’t get any new information by simply talking to him.

He would have to bring him in for questioning, but his and the department’s reputation could not take another hit. Far too many complaints have been filed in the recent years, ranging from excessive force all the way up to forging evidence.

And these complaints were not pulled out of thin air, as one officer did try to plant some drugs in the house of one club member to frame him, but was caught on that biker’s private CCTV cameras.

In this situation, bringing anyone in for questioning with nothing more than a light suspicion would push the public’s opinion further towards the club, as they would definitely use it to polish their image as ‘your friendly neighbourhood motorcycle enthusiasts’, while he would be seen as the ‘crooked cop with a lust for vengeance’.

Siljan had no other options than to keep up his stake-out and hope to catch them red-pawed.

“Yes, that’s all. Sorry for disturbing you at this hour,” he said while he pulled out a business card from his shirtpocket and handed it to Charles. “If you find anything out of the ordinary, please call us. Good night.”

“Good night, Deputy,” Charles said with a bored expression as he took the card.

“Asshole,” Siljan mumbled, as the door was closed.

Once the buff bunny closed the door to his apartment, he threw away the card in the trash bin and flopped back onto his bed.

Well fuck. What did I get into this time? Can’t I get a little rest once in a while?

You could, but you don’t want to, the voice in the back of his mind answered joyfully. You are born for the action, Charlie. If not, you’d go back to your boring life, continue your boring school and get a boring job. Or... you keep it exciting and fuck up your family some more. Need I remind you what happened yesterday at the farm after life got exciting again?

Shut up! Damn, not even me, myself and I can cut me some slack.

He pushed his inner argument aside to concentrate on the movie and finish his beer. At around two in the morning, the movie ended and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Description

12th of August 2006 5:57 p.m.
Route 66, 15 miles away from Bristleville, Boarderlands County

A flatbed truck was making its way back to Bristleville on Route 66. The driver, a middle aged liger by the name of Max Johnson, and his half-brother Jared, a tiger who was riding shotgun, finished their final task for the day. They delivered a repaired Corvette to a customer, who was far too busy being rich and famous to pick up the car himself. It took the brothers, alongside the chief mechanic, the best part of two months to restore the sportscar to its former glory. They were accustomed to repair and maintain motorcycles, but no one at the bike shop would shy away from taking care of a four-wheeled vehicle.

“At least that one is over. Damn, I hate that guy. ‘No, don’t scratch my car with your brute biker claws’. Who does he think repaired it? Fairies? I can’t wait to crack open a cold one with the guys,” Jared said as he was lighting a cigarette before rolling down the passenger window with the handle bar.

“You can say that again. Acts like his fleet is a collectors edition, but his son trashes one on a nearly monthly basis. Say, J.J., can you spare me one?” Max asked and reached his paw over to his brother.

“Sure thing,” J.J. said as he placed a spare smoke into the palm of his brother’s paw. “Say, have you heard anything about the upcoming ride-out?”

Max replied after he’d lit his smoke. “Nah, nothing. I guess Slate will give us the details tomorrow at Church. I guess it will be like last time. One of us will stay back and tend to the shop.”

“Yeah, probably. I hope it’s not me again. Damn, I’m still jealous of last year. You, Chugga and Dunc. You seemed to have a good time.”

“And Doom kicked our asses since we couldn’t drive our bikes in formation the next day.”

“Yep, I heard him explode back at the clubhouse. It was amazing to… Wait! M.J., stop the truck!”

The tires screeched and M.J. brought the flatbed to halt on the side of the road.

“What is it!?”

“Look!” J.J. pointed at a black object, just a few feet from the street.

M.J. spotted the shape that his brother pointed out.

“YOU GAVE ME HALF OF A HEART ATTACK BECAUSE OF A PILE OF TRASH?!” he shouted, but his brother was already out of the cab of the flatbed and jogged towards their finding.

“Sometimes, brother, you really deserve a strangling,” M.J. grumbled under his breath before catching up to J.J.. As he got closer though, he saw the reasoning behind his brother’s excitement.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Yep, an original nineteen-eighty Pawrley Davidson F-X-W-G Wide Glide. Lower-Medium-sized.”

“Nineteen-Eighty? Don’t be an idiot, no way a cruiser that old would be in this condition,” M.J. replied, before he let his eyes wander over the bike and spotted the trashed hind wheel. “Aside from the obvious, of course.”

“Hm… interesting…” J.J. mused as he circled the bike.

“Are you even listening to me? What is so interesting that you don’t even answer?”

“This here.” He pointed at an attachment on the side of the bike. “Have you ever heard of a Wide Glide with a sidecar?” he asked before kneeling down. He didn’t wait for an answer, as he took a closer look at the handywork. He knew his brother would answer with a ‘no’, because as they grew up together, both of them developed a strong fascination with motorbikes which had accompanied them up until this point. Not one magazine mentioned a stock version of that specific model for a third passenger, nor had they ever seen a custom job like this.

“Sturdy... nice welding job... “ the tiger mused, before he pulled on a lever on the flange, which made the sidecar come off. “Huh, even detachable. Whoever made this, is one serious mechanic.”

“And probably in a club. A club that does not belong to us,” his taller brother said grimly. “And no biker with a spec of honor would leave this beauty behind. He is around here.”

With that, J.J. almost jumped up, opened the zipper of his light brown work-overall and pulled his gun from his underarm holster. M.J. had already drawn his own gun and nodded towards his brother. With that, both of them cautiously walked further off the road to find whoever owned the bike.

The search was over quickly, since the owner of Michelle laid in the dirt only thirty feet away.
J.J. found him and gave a quick two snaps with his digits to signal his brother to come over. Together, they approached the mammal before them, both guns trained on him constantly.

“Check if he is already riding in hell,” M.J. commanded. He kept his aim on the figure before them, whilst his brother shuffled closer and checked the mammal’s vitals.

“Still breathing... “

“Is this real leather?”

J.J. felt the collar of the tall bunny’s jacket. “Yep.”

“Check for guns.”

The tiger gave the unconscious form before him a pat-down, checking for firearms, holsters, as well as knifes and other items that could be used as a weapon. As he found nothing, he noted aloud, “Clear! Not only this, but also no patch, no top-, bottom-, or side-rocker, nothing. That guy is a free rider.”

“I don’t like this. Not one bit. What if this is a setup?”

In this moment, the bunny in front of them started to move and groan, which made J.J. immediately jump away and raise his pistol.

“ALRIGHT, NO SUDDEN MOVEMENTS!” he shouted at the bunny who struggled to get up.

Charles learned the painful way, that he couldn’t put any weight on his right paw to get up as a hand grenade of agony detonated in his shoulder. After a second, and successful, attempt to get up, at least into a sitting position, he raised his left arm.

“I’m unarmed, please don’t shoot. I had that today already.”

“Raise your other arm!” M.J. shouted.

Charles tried, but any movement let loose another explosion of pain.

“Sorry, bud, but I can’t. My shoulder seems to have taken a blow after the crash. May I put my other arm down now?”

“Alright. Get up then... but slowly,” J.J. said, visibly relaxing now. He felt that no hostility came from the unnaturally tall bunny.

“Thanks,” Charles said, as he moved his left arm and gripped his right to give it support. Even the pull of gravity hurt in his shoulder. After that, Charles made it to his feet. Just now he realised that the fall knocked off his shades, which he’d kept since the day his father gave them to him. Luckily, they were not further away than a big step. As he went over and bent down to pick it up, he heard the triggers of the guns being cocked.

“Relax, please,” he called out before slowly turning around and revealing the contents of his paw to the two feline brothers, “it’s just my shades. Never go anywhere without them.”
Both of the felines sighed simultaneously, uncocked their guns and put them back in the respective holsters.

“Is that your bike?” J.J. asked, while pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

Charles nodded in return.

“Awesome craft you got there. I’m really impr-” the tiger started, almost enthusiastically, but was cut off by his brother.

“Who are you, and where did you get that jacket from?!” M.J. asked in a rude tone.

Charles reluctantly introduced himself with his fake name ‘Hammer’ and started to share parts of his story, while only mentioning what was absolutely necessary. He stated truthfully, that his jacket was a present back when he was just a meer kit. To the follow-up question, why it still fits like a glove, he explained that he was already relatively tall when he was ten years old and the jacket was just a few sizes too big back then. As his origin story, he gave the best lie he could think of. He was kicked out of his home after his eighteenth birthday for various reasons. Two reasons he stated, was that his father was unapproving of his passion for his bike, and his barely legal way of earning a coin. Now, he’s on the road, living day by day, from paw to maw, working temporary jobs to stay afloat.
Any details about his time on the Gaupa Farm were swept under the rug during this half-true backstory.
Lastly, he answered the following questions about his bike truthfully; how he got it, what condition it was in and how much passion flowed into restoring it.
The two cats in front of him seemed to believe the story as a whole. Afterwards, Charles asked for the names of of the two strangers and learned that the slim tiger with the yellow eyes was named ‘J.J.’ and that the heavy liger with the dark brown eyes was his brother ‘M.J.’. He didn’t know what the abbreviations stood for, neither did he dare to ask. He knew that, if someone introduces himself with a nickname, you should just leave it at that for the time being.

“So… can anyone of you two spare me a smoke? I would roll one myself, but…” Charles left the reason unexplained and only indicated his predicament by nudging his head towards his injured shoulder.

“Oh, of course. M.J.?”

“What?! You think I am freaking vending machine?!” M.J. snarled at his brother.

“Come on, it will be my treat back at the shop.”

With this, M.J. sighed and handed him a pack of smokes. Meanwhile, Charles put his right paw into the left inner pocket of his jacket, to keep it in place and freeing up his left paw to take the cigarette and take the lighter, also offered by M.J..

For a while, they smoked in silence before J.J. started talking again.

“So, shall we bring you to a hospital? I mean, your arm doesn’t seem to feel pleasant.”

Immediately, Charles shook his head. “No, no hospital. I… I’m not insured. Aside, I don’t want to have anything to do with the cops. Accident, and so forth, you know?”

The unwillingness to cooperate with the law enforcement seemed to sit well with the brothers.

“Then how about we bring you and your beauty to our workshop? Making her ready for the road again?”

“Michelle.”

“Huh?”

“The bike’s name… her name is Michelle.”

“I gotta give that to you; a beautiful name for a bike,” M.J. stated.

“So, deal, Hammer?” J.J. asked, already stretching out his paw towards the bunny.

“Sorry, no can do. You see, I have no money on me.”

J.J. lowered his paw and excused himself to make a phone call. It didn’t take all too long for the tiger to return and break the somewhat awkward silence between M.J. and Charles.

“Alright, M.J., come on, we got a bike to lift on the flatbed. You, Hammer, get into the driver’s cab.”

“But I said I don’t have…”

J.J. interrupted him by pointing a claw at his chest, somewhat intimidating but not outward hostile. “The name of the game: Fold your paws, shut your jaws! Vulc, the shop owner, wants to see what you’ve done to the bike and I wouldn’t pass up that opportunity.”

Charles shut up immediately, only nodding in response.

After lifting the bunny into the driver’s cab, the feline brothers lifted the bike onto the flatbed and were in the driver’s and passenger's seat a few minutes after, boxing Charles in-between them. The engine rumbled and roared to life as the tall liger Max turned on the ignition and they drove away from the scene. To say that he felt trapped between the two massive and well-armed predators was an understatement to say the least. This feeling, combined with not knowing where they were heading or what would happen when they got there, should’ve made him fear for his life.

It didn’t however. Instead, a grim and somewhat morbid thought nested inside the folds of his brain: It might be good, or it most likely won’t be. Whatever comes next, I’ve brought it onto myself. Best to accept this now and live with the consequences of my decisions.

The sun had just begun to set as Max made a slow turn to the right and they entered a yard. It looked like a long driveway that was solely covered in asphalt. As Charles looked through the window, he saw three garage gates, large enough to house firetrucks. His gaze wandered to the right, but only found a simple one-story brick building. As his eyes wandered to the right, he saw another building, which could have been a spacious residential house for all he knew. What really caught his eyes however, were multiple parked motorcycles in front of it. Sleek beauties of imposing sizes, but he noticed that five of them were even larger than the rest.

From this alone, Charles could gather that firstly, he definitely was on biker club grounds, with the residential-esque structure being the clubhouse itself, and secondly, the club consists of solely medium to large sized animals. Those might’ve been assumptions, but his calm exterior, which he maintained with the help of accepting his loss of control over the situation, started to break apart as fear for himself started to seep back into his conscious mind.

His attempt to come up with any plan to make a run for it, however poor it may be, was ended abruptly as Max banged his heavy paw on the outside of the truck’s door through the now rolled down window.
This startled the bunnyfox enough to make him jump and bump his injured shoulder into J.J., reminding him, that any sudden movements and with it, any chance of escape was futile.

“Brothers! Move up, more work before Church!” Max shouted and two wolves and a lion, all wearing the same overalls as the felines in the driver’s cabin, emerged from the garages. How Charles could have missed them as he scanned the perimeter was beyond him, but he blamed his trainwreck of nerves.

“Salvage?” the lion asked dryly M.J. as he came up to the driver’s window.

“You want to salvage a F-X-W-G Wide Glide? You gotta be joking, right?” J.J. chimed in which earned him grumbles of disapprovement from the other two felines. Without seeming to notice or choosing to ignore it, he continued: “Bring it into box three. Vulc wants to have a look at it.”

With this, the passenger door swung open and J.J. hopped out. Turning around, he reached towards Charles who remained frozen. His face stood stoic, but his trembling ears and the run-in moments earlier gave him away to J.J.. With a soft smile and a little wave towards him, he beckoned the terrified half-pred forward.

Charles moved forward and was immediately grabbed by the tiger. He expected a rough handling and another onslaught of agony from his shoulder, but it didn’t come. Instead, the tiger lifted him up gently, carefully avoiding any sudden movements.

“We aren’t that bad,” he whispered and winked at the somewhat surprised bunnyfox before setting him down.

“Who’s that fleabag?” came as a question from one of the wolves, who was currently busy finding a good grip to lift the damaged bike off the truck.

Still smiling, the tiger straightened himself up. “Is this how you greet a guest, customer and fellow biker, Goon? You really need to work on your social skills or we’ll get a bad review again.”

“Fuck you, J.J., you son of a bitch.”

“Well, you’re not wrong, but let’s keep the profession of my mommy-dearest out of here, shall we?”

“You’ll surely never change,” the wolf began chuckling. “Get your new friend situated and swing your and your brother’s tail to Church; the others are already there. We will finish up here.”

“Where’s Vulc?”

“Clubhouse.”

J.J. nodded as to say ‘thank you’ and shushed Charles gently towards the building he saw earlier. Before they entered, J.J. turned and took a knee before Charles.

“Ok, so here are the ground rules. Greet everyone with respect. A simple nod is not enough; you shake the paws of an Old Lady and you greet a member as follows.”

He then proceeded to extend his right paw as if he was doing arm wrestling, just without resting the elbow on a table.
After remembering that the tall bunny in front of him couldn’t move his own right arm, he switched and extended his left paw quickly.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Now you slap your paw into mine and close it.”

Charles did as he was told, and got a nod of agreement in return.

“Next, do not interrupt a member or an Old Lady while they talk to you. You’re not member; not a prospect; not a hangaround. They are well above in the hierarchy.”

“What’s a hangaround?” Charles asked.

“Third, don’t ask too many questions. No one likes a stranger sniffing around. And a hangaround is a friend of the club. The prospect to become prospect, if you will.”

So far, Charles had no objections to any of those rules; they made sense.

“And lastly, don’t try to fuck with us. Don’t go anywhere where you’re not supposed to be, don’t take what isn’t yours. We have security cameras everywhere, so you won’t be needing a lawyer if we catch you.”

“Oh.. uh… ok. I didn’t mean to anyway…” Charles stammered nervously. He couldn’t explain why he was suddenly so nervous. He knew he wouldn’t do anything to purposely upset those people, so the threat shouldn’t affect him in any way, but it did anyhow.

“Alright,” J.J. sighed as he got back to his full height. “Then we are on the same page. And try to calm down, your listening antennas are vibrating as if you were working a jackhammer.”

Self-consciously, he lowered his ears behind his head as he breathed in deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

“We may be rough on the outside, and a bit more to mammals who enter the club when we are not open to the public, but we’re still mammals and you got an invitation from Vulc.”

“This ‘Vulc’ that you’re going on about…” Charles started, but was immediately cut off.

“He is not the Prez, if you wanted to ask that. But he is a high-ranking member and he owns the repair shop. Come on.”

With this final words, J.J. entered the clubhouse. Charles took one deep breath, trying to steady his body without it going rigid.

Time to enter the lions’ cave. Or wolves’ cave? Wolves den? Whatever.

Once inside, he followed J.J. through a somewhat narrow entryway which lead him to a bar area. On the way there, his guide made only one stop to show him the bathroom.

The bar was something that could have belonged in a movie. The walls, floor and bar itself were made from dark mahogany wood. The furniture were some bar stools, three tables with varying amounts of chairs and two couches in a corner, arranged in a L-shape with a coffee table in front. On the other side of the room, where the bar connected with the wall, hung a dartboard and a rather large spot in the middle of said room, which could have been used for more seating areas, throned an impressive and well maintained pool billiard table.

The bar itself was manned by a rather strange looking wolf. While one side of his face and the rest of the body, which Charles could not see, was completely white, the other side was as black as the night. The next thing he noticed were the bartenders pink nose and piercing red eyes. Charles has heard of such a condition called albinism, but has never encountered it, even back in Zootopia, which speaks volumes for the rarity of this condition, but it didn’t explain the black fur and how it was so precisely split in the middle.

On the other side of the counter sat another wolf with dark-gray fur, with a smoking cigar between his fingers and a glass of whiskey in the other paw. The conversation they were engaged in ended abruptly as the tiger and the bunny entered.

J.J. stepped forward and greeted the two canines with the same handshake he taught Charles earlier, followed by some short whispering.

“...and this is the owner of the botched shoulder and the Wide Glide we picked up earlier,” announced the Tiger and waved him towards them.

As Charles reached the trio of predators, the two wolves gave him the greeting and introduced themselves. The grey wolf was Vulc, and the name of the black ‘n’ white wolf was Cram. Charles himself introduced himself with his fake name Charles Hammer. During the greeting, the bunnyfox had to make an effort not to stare at Vulc’s left eye, as there was a milky layer over his iris and retina, effectively blinding him on the left side.

“So, you’re the rider who had dirt for dinner? Must’ve been tasting awesome if it was worth cracking your shoulder for it,” the canine mocked.

It took Charles a few moments to think about a reply, but he decided to go with the joke. “Yeah, I would have… uhh... cracked my other shoulder as well, if J.J. hadn’t found me and stopped my feast.”

This had the desired effect and everyone was either chuckling or laughing.

“You drink whiskey?” the aged wolf asked and Charles answered with a nod. Snapping his fingers, Vulc ordered a shot of the amber spirit, which had the right size to be a normal-sized drink for the rabbit-fox.

“What brand is that?” Charles asked after taking a sip and felt the burning sensation down his throat.

“Wild Turkey. A staple of our fine establishment. Now, let’s have a look at that shoulder. And you two...” he turned as he addressed the tall mammals left in the room, “get your cuts and go to Church. I’ll be right there.”

J.J. must have seen the bewildered look on Charles’ face, because he gave him a reassuring nudge. “Don’t worry, Vulc was a good medic, back in his time in the army.”

“Good? I was freaking awesome at my job! The ninth platoon would have never made it to Bunker Hill without me.”

“Ok, freaking awesome then,” the tiger replied with a toothy grin. “Here, take these,” he said to Charles while handing him three cigarettes and a lighter “For later. We will be in there for a while.”

Charles thanked him and directed his attention back to the older wolf who had already knelt in front of him for examination. He helped the bunny take his jacket off and started to tap around his shoulder.

“Does this hurt?”

“A bit, but not too bad.”

“Alright, and here?” he asked as he tapped closer to the area where the arm came out of its socket, making Charles grimace.

“Yeah, that’s the spot.”

Finally, Vulc grabbed Charles’ upper arm and tried to move the shoulder around in a few directions, always stopping when Charles winced.

“Hm… Ok, drink up,” the wolf ordered and the bunny obliged, “this is going to suck.”

Before Charles could object to what he assumed would happen now, the grip around his upper arm tightened and the wolf’s free paw pushed against the side of his ribcage. In one quick motion, Vulc pulled on the arm and twisted it upwards, almost like playing with a doll. All Charles could register were the cracking sounds from his damaged joints, and the blinding pain radiating from there. Before the agony could manifest into a shout, there was a pop and the shoulder was back in its socket.

“Fu-uck! Dude, what the hell? Why didn’t you warn me?” Charles’ shout turned into groaning as the wolf straightened himself up, his face unphased by the bunny’s reaction.

“You’re welcome,” he said and grabbed the whiskey bottle from the bar and filled Charles’ glass. “Have another one. The pain should subside into a pulsating sensation in a few minutes. Afterwards, you will feel numb for a while. Have a seat somewhere; we will talk about your bike once Church is done.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask too many questions, but he couldn’t let this one go.
“Church? Are you religious or am I not getting something here?” he asked, still groaning from the pain.

Vulc was already back at the bar where he put on his leather cut. “Church is our word for the weekly club meeting and has nothing to do with superstition.”

With these words, the wolf walked over to the double doors on the far side of the room and closed the them behind him, leaving the bunny alone in the dimly lit bar.

Well, that went better than expected. I didn’t get mauled, I have smokes and a glass of whiskey. And, he didn’t lie, the pain eases quickly.

He slumped on the nearest couch, lit his first cigarette and sipped from his glass.

A few minutes into whiskey and chill, he started to glance around the room again and found one specific wall decoration that caught his eye. As he stood up to walk towards it, he didn’t realise that he’d used his right paw to boost him off of the couch. Once he did realise, he felt the warm feeling of happiness in the middle of his guts. The pain was not gone by any means as it fought a losing battle against the settling numbness, but the arm being somewhat useable again was a relief.
As he scooted closer, he saw that there was an area of framed photographs - no, mugshots - of what he assumed were the members. He shoved one of the barstools closer and hopped on it for a better view. On the mugshot itself, he could read the names as well as the aliases of each member and on the picture frame was a plaque which stated their current rank inside the club.

“Dominik ‘Doom’ Weber - President; Brian ‘Bryce’ Zacharoy - Vice Pres; Seth ‘Slate’ Ryden - Road Captain; Paul ‘Peace’ Whittaker - Secretary; Harrison ‘Slugger’ Slove - Sergeant at Arms; Victor ‘Vulc’ Terrice - Treasurer,” he whispered as he read the names with fascination.

He would have made it through the whole list, if he hadn’t heard someone moving behind the wall and since he was still uncertain of the do’s and don'ts around here, he hopped down the stool and put it back in its original place. Afterwards, he hurried back to the couch and tried to look as innocent as he could, which made him look like a kit who was caught with his paw in the cookie jar. There he sat, and nothing happened. No one came out of the room behind the closed doors for the next two hours, but Charles didn’t want to risk anything, so he used the time to finish his drink and the other two cigarettes he was given.

After that, Vulc came out of Church alone.

“Seems like you won’t meet the others today. Meeting is still going, but I believe we have business to attend to.”

Charles got up again and followed Vulc outside to the garages where his Michelle was waiting. As they arrived, the wolf took a fresh cigar from the inside of his cut and lit it with a zippo lighter as he investigated the bike in great detail.

“Where did you find this beauty?”

“A friend gave her to me. He found her in the junkyard that he’s working at,” he answered truthfully.

“Junkyard?! What an idiot throws away a functioning bike, especially with a custom made sidecar?” Vulc asked rhetorically, his tone filled with outrage.

“Actually, she was barely rideable when I got her. I spent months restoring her. I made the sidecar myself from scratch. All of that kinda ate away at all my savings too,” Charles answered before giving a defeated sigh. “That’s why I can’t afford to repair her.”

“Yeah, I heard what you told J.J. and M.J. Vagabond, luck thrown under the bus, hopping from job to job… every pun intended…”

A few quick minutes passed, as Vulc continued to study the bike, specifically the customisations. “You know what? I have an offer.”

“I am not selling her!”

“If you would let me finish,” he replied somewhat annoyed. “Now, listen closely: I will take her as pawn for fifteen hundred bucks. If you take the money and bounce, I will repair and sell her after six months. If you stay, get a hotel or rent an apartment with that cash, getting your life in order basically, I can offer you a job here at the shop. You can pay me back with no interest, and you can repair her in your free time.”

He let that thought linger in the air for another few seconds before he continued. “Or, you get her and yourself out of my yard. You can come back if you have the cash for the repairs. So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Why do you offer me a job? You don’t know me.”

“That is true, but I’m impressed by this handiwork. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn’t lie to me when you said you did it all yourself, but if you accept, we will see that on monday anyway.”

“In that case…” Charles started his answer, but was cut off by Vulc.

“Monday, oh six hundred sharp,” he said, then pulled a wad of cash out of the inner pocket of his cut and started counting out the notes. Once he was done, he handed Charles the notes and added, “Not one minute late.”

“Yessir! And thank you!” Charles answered with a salute as he took the money with his other paw. He didn’t know why he did it, but it felt just right.

This brought a deep chuckle from Vulc. “I like you, kid, but you have never been in the military. Your posture is all wrong, which makes the salute sloppy. It’s enough if you give me the greeting.”
With that, the wolf extended his right paw and Charles took it eagerly.

Just as Charles was leaving the yard, he realised that he didn’t know where to go. This hesitation was noticed by Vulc who shouted after him, “Go to Morrison’s, twenty minutes down the road. Tell that old bastard of a warthog that I send you. He will give you a room for tonight. Come here tomorrow at twelve and we will get you situated.”

Charles answered this with a gleeful smile and waved goodbye.

A few moments went by after Charles had left the yard and Vulc kept watching with mild amusement.

“Hey Doom. You really should work on your stealth; you got sloppy,” Vulc said, without averting his gaze from where Charles vanished around the corner.

From beyond the darkness of the night, a black wolf emerged, with a furless burnmark along his jawline and a white streak of fur, which went from the tip of his snout, all the way over his head and vanished under the collar of his leather jacket. “And here I thought an old geezer like you had trouble with his hearing,” Doom answered with a gravelly voice.

“Don’t underestimate your elders. Besides, it wasn’t your sneaking; the smell of wet wolf, old alcohol and cold smoke gave you away,” the old wolf replied while tapping his snout and giving his club-president a toothy grin.

“Whatever. You know that I prefer entrances with a boom. So, did the bunny take the job?” he asked, before lighting a smoke.

“Yup, sure did. And J.J. was right. He does a fine job and is humble about it.”

“So?”

“If one is not boasting about his talents, that means he shows great potential.”

“Or he is just shy.”

“We can work with that. Shyness is something you can overcome. Who knows, he might be a good addition to the club one day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Doom growled. “I’m with Slugger on that one: we started as a wolf-exclusive M.C. and we stay that way.”

“Coming from a grizzly bear like Slugger... is this why we have a lion, two tigers and two bears in our ranks?” Vulc asked sarcastically.

“Exceptions to the rules, made for large predators and surely not for any bunny or other prey. Besides, we don’t know that guy.”

“First, times change, and so do rules. Secondly, you may be right, but if he shows up on monday - and he will - we will get to know him over time.”

“If you say so. You vouch for him and as soon as he starts humping the furniture, he is out and you will face the consequences,” he stated, glaring daggers at Vulc.

“Yeah, you made that crystal clear during Church. And third - before I forget it - I don’t think he is a bunny.”

“What d’you mean?” Doom asked while flicking his cigarette bud away. “Buck Teeth, twitchy nose, ears like satellite dishes. He might be taller than your regular rabbit…”

“And he has fangs,” Vulc interrupted his superior bluntly.

“He what now?” The surprise was evident in his tone.

“He has fangs,” the old wolf repeated, “saw them while he spoke and I knelt next to his bike. It seems like he tries to hide them by not speaking much and keeping his head down whilst doing it, but they are evident once you’re aware of them.”

“So, what is he then? A prey-dator? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know yet, but I guess we’ll find out.”

“Whatever it is, him being a prospect is not your call, neither is it mine. It’s a unanimous club decision and I know Slugger and Goon will rather let hell freeze over than accepting anyone remotely resembling a prey to be part of the club.”

“What about you?”

“For me, he is a vagabond, nothing more.”

“Well, I know someone who was a homeless wanderer in his former life. Nowadays, he is your V.P.,” he said grinning widely.

“The thing with Bryce is something different, end of discussion! Now shut up and get!” Doom almost shouted while pointing towards the clubhouse.

For a few seconds, both wolves glowered at each other in silence, neither of them backing down. Then, out of nowhere, Doom started to crack a smile. “In there waits a beer-mug with your name on it.”

With this, both started to laugh.

“Sure, whatever you say, boss,” Vulc said as he walked past Doom who swatted playfully at him and missed on purpose.

“A bunny riding with the Wolves of War...” Doom mumbled to himself, still smiling as he took off after his club-brother, “that old geezer really has lost his mind.”

Twenty minutes later, Charles found himself in front of the cheap motel called ‘Morrison’s Pinecone Motels’. One where you’d expect to find drug-users, prostitutes and the occasional murderer, but none of that was present. The building was probably just old and poorly maintained. Or the scum of the city didn’t roam the city’s streets at night. Whichever it was, no one bothered him and he appreciated that.

His path lead him to a small side building, which had the letters ‘Reception’ nailed to a sign above its door. To be honest, the name spelled ‘Re ept on’ since the letters ‘c’ and ‘i’ had fallen off, but it was clear what it tried to indicate.

Charles had no idea how late it was, but that ultimately didn’t matter, since there were no opening times written anywhere near the entrance, so he knocked, hoping that the reception was still occupied.

Between grunts and short squeaks - and what sounded like the end of a stress test for bedsprings - he heard a muffled “We’re closed. Come again whenever.”

“Vulc sends me. He said you’d give me a room for the night or two,” Charles said, already sounding a bit desperate. No way he would find the materials or a place to set up a makeshift camp, neither did he ever want to be forced to do it again.

“Minute!” came the short reply and from beyond the door, Charles could hear the continuation of the stress test, before it stopped with a final loud creek. After some more moments of faint rummaging, the door buzzed and the bunnyfox pushed the door open to find an obese warthog standing behind a reinforced counter.

The dirty glass panel, separating possible temporary residents and the landlord - or whoever gives out the keys to the rooms - had one half circle hole at the bottom was used to exchange keys and cash, while another set of grated holes near at the height of the warthog’s snout, made it easier for his voice to be heard.

Charles made his way forward, using the stepping tool, provided for smaller mammals to reach up to the counter and saw an open door on the wall behind the glass. Through it, he saw what produced the metal crunching sound: an old, worn out bed frame.

“Vulc sent you, huh?” the burly swine asked, but continued before Charles could respond. “twenty-five bucks a night, no loud music, cash only, no breakfast. ID?”

“Here you go,” Charles said while handing his fake ID through the half-circle opening, along with the twenty-five dollars.

The pig studied the ID and gave out a few snorts in the meantime. Without looking up from the ID, the hog reached over to a cabinet and pulled out a set of keys. Afterwards, he grabbed the cash and shoved the ID, keys and a book over the counter back to the leatherjacket wearing bunny.

“Sign in on our guest book and you’re good to go. Vending machines for snacks and drinks and the ice-box are on the ground level, next to room three. Your room number is thirteen on the second floor.”

“Glad that I’m not superstitious, eh?” Charles asked in an attempt of humor, which only brought him a confused look.

A few seconds of awkward silence passed before the landlord continued. “You will find a set of rules in a binder on your desk. Follow them or you’ll get thrown out. The binder also contains the WiFi code.”

“Sure will do. Anything else?”

“If you have a car, or any other vehicle, you can use the parking space with your room number on it. Aside from that, that’s all.”

With a nod, both meant as a ‘thank you’ and a farewell, Charles hopped down the stool and made his way outside, across the parking lot, got himself two bottles of beer and a chicken&egg sandwich from the vending machines, then he went up the outside stairs of the building and into room thirteen.

As he entered, he realised that after the crash with his bike and the rescue by the feline brothers, he forgot to search for his duffle and that he looked far from presentable, given the dirt on his clothes.

He looked around and found a clock on the wall, telling him that it was just shy of eleven p.m.

In the lack of anything better to do aside from zapping through the T.V. channels, he decided that he could use a shower and do his laundry by paw in the bathtub or sink or whatever this place had to offer.

He laid all his belongings, which hadn’t gotten lost, on the bedside table: His wallet, the wad of cash, which he hadn’t cared to stow away in the wallet earlier, the set of room keys, the key to his motorcycle, the tobacco pouch that Harald had given him, some stray bottle caps and coins and his father’s aviators.

I should really get a phone. I mean, I have no-one to call, but at least I can browse the internet.

Pushing aside the thought about the lack of entertainment, aside from the small T.V. in the room, he unbuckled his belt and went into the bathroom. It was not as grimy as the outside of the building might have suggested, but it was far from a comfortable atmosphere. A sink with a mirror, a toilet and a shower were all that had been crammed in there. He did find complementary fur-shampoo as well as a plastic-sealed toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste on the sink, which reminded him that his breath must smell like death, given that the last time he brushed was back at his old home.

After showering and brushing his teeth - which made him feel like a brand new mammal - he went ahead washed his clothes in the sink and hung it over the acrylic glass door of the shower while he used the shampoo as a makeshift laundry detergent.

Naked and with his fur a bit too damp for his liking, he grabbed the sandwich, one beer bottle and the remote, flopped onto the bed and started zapping away to find a movie. Twenty minutes into ‘Die Hard’ & chill, he heard a knock on the door.

What the hell?! Who could that be? he thought while glancing to the clock again, who goes around knocking on doors at midnight.

“This is Deputy Siljan Clawson, open up please,” came the voice through the door.

The police? God fucking dammit, I’m so fucked.

He got up and went for the door, just in time to realise he was still naked and his clothes were far from dry.

“Give me a sec, I’m not properly dressed.”

Charles made his way back to the bathroom and reluctantly pulled on his damp undergarment and hated every second of it. There was no feeling worse for him as to slip into wet clothes.

Less than twenty seconds later, he opened the door and saw a red fox in a light brown county-police uniform standing in front of him.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

“Good evening. As I said, my name is deputy Clawson and I have a few questions. May I come in?”

“Definitely not!” Charles wanted anything else but to talk to the police. He knew that saying anything slightly suspicious, which he would if this conversation would drag any longer than necessary, would lead to his background story being investigated. This would most probably reveal his age, his origin and with that, grant him a one-way ticket back to Zootopia. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he did consider reuniting with his parents for a split second. This thought was immediately crushed by his own certainty that taking this road would put his parents’ marriage in jeopardy again though, simply by the way he was. In his still juvenile mind, he was convinced that living like this was the best for everyone involved. Nick, Judy and his siblings would move on - if they hadn’t already - and he could live as he was supposed to; wild and free. With that in mind, he tried to cut this conversation short by any means necessary. “Do you know how late it is?”

“I am aware, Sir, but you have been seen with a group of mammals we are investigating. May I have your name for the record?”

“Charles Hammer. And what mammals are we talking about?”

“A local biker gang called the Wolves of War. You were seen at their repair shop. What was your business there?”

“I was there to get my bike fixed; nothing else.”

Clawson pulled out a notebook and started to flip through the pages. “You’ve gone into their clubhouse for about two hours. Have you seen anything suspicious?”

Carles sighed in annoyance and replied, “No. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything, so I can’t say anything. Is that all?”

“Not quite. May I ask what you’re doing here in Bristleville?”

“I’m on a trip through the country and the engine of my bike cut out. What’s that got to do with anything anyway?”

Again, the uniformed fox flipped through his notebook. “Probably nothing. What about the damage on your motorcycle?”

“Parking accident,” the bunny lied. “Getting that fixed as well. Can we wrap this up, finally? If I’m not under arrest, I would like to continue my movie.” Charles knew he was really testing his luck right now, as he could be taken into custody for twenty four hours - he learned that by listening to his parents’ conversation about work in the past - but he knew the police couldn’t hold him for any longer than this without evidence of a crime. And since he technically did nothing wrong, he had nothing to lose.

Siljan Clawson eyed the tall bunny in front of him for several moments, evaluating his next step. Coming to the conclusion that if the bunny was involved with the club in any way, he wouldn’t get any new information by simply talking to him.

He would have to bring him in for questioning, but his and the department’s reputation could not take another hit. Far too many complaints have been filed in the recent years, ranging from excessive force all the way up to forging evidence.

And these complaints were not pulled out of thin air, as one officer did try to plant some drugs in the house of one club member to frame him, but was caught on that biker’s private CCTV cameras.

In this situation, bringing anyone in for questioning with nothing more than a light suspicion would push the public’s opinion further towards the club, as they would definitely use it to polish their image as ‘your friendly neighbourhood motorcycle enthusiasts’, while he would be seen as the ‘crooked cop with a lust for vengeance’.

Siljan had no other options than to keep up his stake-out and hope to catch them red-pawed.

“Yes, that’s all. Sorry for disturbing you at this hour,” he said while he pulled out a business card from his shirtpocket and handed it to Charles. “If you find anything out of the ordinary, please call us. Good night.”

“Good night, Deputy,” Charles said with a bored expression as he took the card.

“Asshole,” Siljan mumbled, as the door was closed.

Once the buff bunny closed the door to his apartment, he threw away the card in the trash bin and flopped back onto his bed.

Well fuck. What did I get into this time? Can’t I get a little rest once in a while?

You could, but you don’t want to, the voice in the back of his mind answered joyfully. You are born for the action, Charlie. If not, you’d go back to your boring life, continue your boring school and get a boring job. Or... you keep it exciting and fuck up your family some more. Need I remind you what happened yesterday at the farm after life got exciting again?

Shut up! Damn, not even me, myself and I can cut me some slack.

He pushed his inner argument aside to concentrate on the movie and finish his beer. At around two in the morning, the movie ended and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.