I have a will for survival Who: Bishop Coldiron and Arthur Jenner Where: Dog Park -- near the bonfire What: The changes in Austin has Bishop checking in with his guys, Art happens to be at the top of his list. When: [backdated] June 8th, 2019 - Early Morning.
You think it’s easier To put your finger on the trouble When the trouble is you And you think it’s easier To know your own tricks
Some of the duties of being President didn’t seem particularly different than what he had been doing as Chaplain, like what he was doing that morning, systematically checking in with his guys about things. Or not so much things as one thing -- the changes in Austin, the changes in the way the MC was run. Bishop wasn’t an idiot, he knew some of his guys (probably most of them) wouldn't seamlessly ease into this change in how they operated and would have even more issues with getting into bed with the government. It would be a lie if Bishop said he was completely comfortable with the latter, because in all honestly he wasn’t -- not even a little bit. But being the man in charge meant he didn’t necessarily be the luxury of making decisions solely based on his own feelings.
Working with the government was their only option, either that or watch as each of them eventually ended up back in La Quinta, or wherever the government would cart them off to now. The Hellhounds couldn’t function as criminals anymore. The outlaw life lead to only one thing, and He was sick of seeing their guys taken away, either by men in uniform or by death.
That’s why he was doing this, why he felt so strongly about the changes they needed to make. Bishop didn’t expect to convince people to register, he wouldn’t, actually. But he wanted everyone to know why he was doing this, why they had decided to take the club in this direction. There was of course a hierarchy of who he wanted to talk to, his officers being top of that list and Art was sitting right at the very top.
Thankfully it didn’t take him long to find his secretary that morning, the older man lounging in a chair near the still burning bonfire. “Hey,” Bishop greeted him as he dropped into the open chair next to Art’s. “You got a moment to talk?” He questioned, figuring Art knew why he had searched him out to talk. The changes were on everyone’s mind, a shadow hanging over the whole camp basically.
Bishop wasn’t an idiot, but Arthur damn was. He was quick on his feet, sure, and he could handle any physical situation thrown his way. A few times, his Irish blood shone through and he could quote poetry like a learned man. But there was a reason why Arthur adjusted so well: he didn’t tend to overthink things. Except this time; paranoia stormed through him. What if, somehow, this government knew his story? What if it was a trap, a terrible trap? What if everything they’d worked for fell apart?
Truthfully, if they’d left Savannah the hell alone he wouldn’t even be walking down the path of thinking about the future.
“Course I do, Pres,” Art said, smiling all the same. He had on his prized aviators, and in his hands was a collection of what looked like weeds- on closer inspection it was easier to see that he’d gotten a few blocks of clean wood and paint. Maybe from when he’d raided craft stores to find his pretty blonde some roses. He’d been whittling and using sandpaper to smooth his creation- a rudimentary car shape.
By now anyone who knew Bishop knew that he wasn’t the type to beat around the bush with something, so when Art confirmed he had time to talk, the Hellhounds president didn’t waste any time in jumping right to the point. “I wanted to hear your thoughts on all this government business and how you’re doing with it,” he began, knowing full well that Art was likely the most suspicious of the USG of any of his officers. “I know it’s one hell of a change here, changing our ways and cleaning up our image, but I mean it when I say we ain’t got a choice,” Bishop paused. “Not unless we want to see the inside of La Quinta again.”
Bishop was still adjusting to this new role he had been voted into, but he took it seriously. His number one priority was to make sure none of their guys found themselves on the wrong side of the law again. They may never be Boy Scouts, but they also couldn’t be outlaws anymore either.
Art visibly bristled at the mention of La Quinta; his eyes went a little more narrow as he worked on the bumper of the car, almost cutting his thumb. The questions Bishop asked, those were tough. He didn’t really know what those people had in mind, or what information they had. What if they had a nice computer with notes on everyone still alive? What if when he showed up and gave his name or thumbprint, his service record came up? Would anyone forgive him for having been a cop? What about his alcoholism? Cherry knew about rehab, but she was one of the few. And god knew that he still drank Bishop’s shine whenever given the chance.
“I think that I don’t trust ‘em, but I trust you so I’ll follow suit in playing nice. But Bishop, I have… Jesus,” Art began, putting the small car and knife down. He’d gotten himself that time- a small cut in his thumb, a papercut. He sucked on it for a moment. “What if they got files on us? About who we used to be?” he asked.
Uttering La Quinta around camp without fail got the same reaction from each Hellhound that had ever been in that place, a reaction that nearly resulted in an injury for Art and Bishop did regret that fact. But he didn’t regret tackling this conversation with his Secretary. With all the changes in Austin coming down the pipeline, he needed to feel solid about the guys on his council, needed to know that even if they didn’t register, they wouldn’t do anything in endanger their efforts in reimagining the Hellhound image in Austin. None of them knew what might come after June was over, for all they knew the government would roll in with tanks and capture their whole camp. Bishop for his part was trying to believe that that wouldn’t be the outcome, that just as they were being honest with the US government now, they in turn would be honest with them.
“That’s means a hell of a lot, the fact that you’d throw your hat in the ring for this thing just ‘cause of the trust you have in me,” Bishop began, not taking it lightly the fact that Art was setting aside his own distrust in the situation to follow his lead because he trusted Bishop’s judgment. Bishop himself just hoped that his judgment wasn’t faulty in this, that he was making the right damn decision here. A clouded expression slipped over Bishop’s features for a moment, making him hard to read, but Art brought up a good question. It was highly likely there were folders and each and every man in this camp, with information that could be used against them. “I’m going to be real damn honest with you, I would bet money they’ve got a fucking folder on each one of us. On who we used to be and the things we’ve done,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “But, they’re saying the slate’s been wiped clean here, so I gotta think those folders ain’t going to see the light of day,” Another pause. “And truthfully nothing they got in that file is worse than the things I’ve done here in Austin back when we were trying to set this place on fire.”
Art’s stomach went from churning fear to almost calm, and he knew it had shown on his face. His old habits from his undercover days were starting to kick in: there was no way his questions would go unnoticed by Bishop, and he knew the man was smart enough to catch that Art was asking some real direct things. He couldn’t tell Bishop the truth, but he could give him a few grains to cover it all up.
“Bishop, I think… if those files did come to light, you ought to know before,” he began, rubbing the back of his sunburned neck and leaning back in his seat. “I’m from Boston. But I was in Austin when everything changed, and it wasn’t for a vacation,” he admitted, trying to decide how to come out and say it. With Cherry, it had been a pretty lady being clever and asking the right things to make the ex-cop think with his dick. Sadly, Bishop was a burly man with a beard and not a camp bitch. He chewed his cheek a little bit.
It wasn’t just saying that he’d had issues with substance abuse, plenty of the bikers had. The issue was that it was for something that Bishop provided. Art couldn’t help but feel like if Bishop was trying to clean up camp, trying to set them straight, he wouldn’t hand Arthur moonshine as easily as before.
He sucked it up. Spat a little on the ground.
“I was in rehab, Bishop. For booze.”
Bishop raised his eyebrows when Art spoke of something he thought he should know, something that would easily be in whatever file the government had on him. Of course his mind began spinning on all the possibilities, some as far fetched as Art having been some kind of plant -- though they had already had one of those and he hoped, maybe selfishly, that they couldn’t have been so dense as to not noticed as second rat in their mists. So when his friend, his brother, admitted that his big dark secret was the sheer fact that he had a previous history with booze, Bishop couldn’t hide the way his shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Shit, that ain’t what I thought you’d say,” he breathed out, blue eyes studying the other man closely. Of course this admission brought to light the fact that in the last three years Bishop had been happily supplied Art’s vices, a fact he might have to wrestle with. “But it don’t change my opinion of you if that’s what you’re real concerned about.” He continued, certainty woven through every word he spoke.
Would his actions with Art change? Probably not. Art was a grown ass man, one who had had his back on numerous occasions. His only concern was that this vice wouldn’t eventually lead to issues with them trying to walk the straight and narrow. “‘Course I’m the leading provider of booze, but if you give me your word you can handle yourself, I believe you. We’ve known each other long enough that I know you ain’t going to do anything that’ll put any of the people in this camp at risk. I trust you, Art.”
It was honestly better than what Art had assumed, and maybe that was why guilt ran through him like a firecracker. Bishop didn’t press at all, hell- he even told Art that he trusted him to make his own choices. With the skills he’d learned the hard way undercover, he masked the pain with a smile and nudged his foot into the ground to keep centered.
“Nah, I’m fine. Trust me, I don’t drink half as much as I used to. I used to drink whiskey like they were going to run out of it in Boston. Can you imagine? We started the Revolutionary War over tea, god knows what we’d do for our booze.”
“You know if you ever end up not being fine you can talk to anyone one of us, right?” There was a seriousness that shone in Bishop’s blue eyes. The Hellhounds were like family and his officers were practically his brothers, so he wanted Art to know that if things changed, he wouldn't need to hide it. “Considering my family made a living on providing booze to people who couldn’t get it, I’ve got a fair idea what could happen.” He added with a upturn of his mouth, something that fell between being a smirk and a smile.
After a brief pause Bishop continued. “Now, is your history with booze the only thing that’s got you worrying ‘bout the government and signing up for their fancy little I.D.?”
Bishop hit the nail on the head, but Arthur knew not to flinch. He smiled, and put on his best undercover sincerity mask on. It felt uncomfortable.
“Nah, I’m clean otherwise,” he stood up then, picking up the little wooden block toys and putting his knife back into his pocket. “I gotta keep working on a bike while I’ve got the light, Bishop.” He’d never outright lied to any of the hounds, not something that he couldn’t mold with half truths. Lying to Bishop left a tinnie taste in his mouth, like blood.