<div class="floatleft">(http://www.inyourbones.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/David400-228x350.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Ryan 'Private' Murray (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=250173.msg12379624#msg12379624)<br/><strong>City | Date | Time:</strong>San Francisco, California / August 2017 / 8:30 PM<br/><strong>Tagging | Mentioning:</strong>Billie Tucker<br/><strong>Content:</strong>End of a Long Trip<br/><hr/>There was an American tradition when it came to long road trips, starting back in the fifties and the sixties, when there wasn't any internet or smartphones and teens were starved for new and improved things to do. Getting into their parents' vans or VW Kombis and hitting the road, travelling to the furthest coast and back for an epic quest or story to one day tell the grandchildren. Like most things, the American Road Trip had evolved and eventually gone extinct as people found safer ways of exploring their adventurous natures. But the tradition and culture were there, and had lived on in the various motorcycle clubs that had survived the turn of millenia.<br/><br/>And travelling across the entirety of the country did have it's appeal, Ryan had to admit. It was an incredible journey, seeing all the different bits of the US in the span of a little more than a week. It was a journey that he had made before and would gladly repeat, despite the uncomfortable situation of being on one's posterior for hours on end, hands feeling numb from the vibrations and the fun lottery of what condition his rooms would be in in the various cheap motels that he had stopped in. He had taken the camping route on a couple of the nights too, unrolling his sleeping bag and sleeping under the stars.<br/><br/>All that said, Ryan was glad that the ride was finally at an end, pulling the bike to the stop a few hundred yards in front of the Bay Bridge, a welcoming sight to all of the hundreds of vehicles zipping by him on the shoulder of the road as the sun was beginning to touch the western horizon. There waiting for him just before he entered the city in proper MC tradition, was a greeting party of five members of the local charter, all on their favorite bikes, and one of them the president of the charter. The man had a head of long white hair tucked underneath his black helmet and a bushy mustache of the same color, but he looked as hale and hearty as a man half his age. Bushy eyebrows, thunderous blue eyes and a no padding needed under his leather jacket, he looked like he would be riding bikes until time ended.<br/><br/>"Ryan," The man said, coming up close and showing off his impressive stature, a good three inches taller than him. Both men hugged.<br/><br/>"Ol' Jimmy," Ryan responded, giving the man a hearty slap on the back and then took a step back," Still alive, looks like."<br/><br/>"Not for the lack of trying, I'm here to tell ya," The man was tied to the Irish mob by association only, his own origins as diffused as most folks tended to be out in the west coast. It wasn't any trouble, really. The Irish were an open bunch, and the man knew how to handle their particular brand of business in Cali as well as the best of stock brokers. It made him a lot of enemies, though.<br/><br/>Ol' Jimmy turned to his four fellow Brothers and indicated for them to come closer," You've met Ryan already Joker," He indicated to a man with fiery red hair and an ugly Glasgow smile, who made it uglier by smiling and coming over to give Ryan a hug of his own. The rest remained back.<br/><br/>"Westie, Knuckles and Conan, allow me to introduce you to the best fistfighter I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and a great biker overall, Private Murray," The three men nodded at Ryan, who gave them a half-hearted salute.<br/><br/>"Nice to meed you, boys."<br/><br/>Ol' Jimmy stepped in again and slapped Ryan across the shoulder," We have a bit of a party ready at the chapel for ya, man. Got some meat cooking over the grill, lots of booze and some of the local talent hired to make things spicy and interesting. It'll be a night you won't soon be forgetting."<br/><br/>Ryan nodded and smiled, understanding the meaning hidden underneath the man's words. Here wasn't a good place to get rid of that particularly loaded sleeping bag that was burning a hole in his back seat. The chapel, or where the MC called headquarters, a Bar that had the same name as the club, The Wildling, would be where the exchange would take place. All six mounted up quickly and rode off into the glittering lights of San Francisco, across the bay.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The bar itself wasn't much in the way of showiness. It was decently lit with a lot of bulbs across the walls and a dusty ceiling lamp, cleaner than most similar establishments tended to be. It was big too, with almost twenty booths spread scross the outer wall and fifteen seats set up in front of the oaken bar, manned by two of the prospective members of the MC for tonight. The floor was stone and the chairs and tables were all in good shape. There was a bit of an open area out in the back, where the grill had been set up, as well as a dozen more tables, four chairs each as a rule and a makeshift bar with yet another prospect manning it. Most of the men and women there wore the Wildling patch, marked with an Irish Arrowhead flower with white petals and a yellow center just below a skull with a knife and revolver crossed behind it, the same patch that was old and scarred on the back of Ryan's own jacket, formerly his father's, until arthritis condemned the man to ride no more. The rest were affiliates, prospects, ol' ladies, and the aforementioned Local Talent. There were usually the random unknowns that came in as large numbers as they dared, wanting to feel the rush of danger that came from drinking at a known Bikers' bar, but not tonight. Tonight was a private party, and anybody that the bouncers out front didn't know were turned away with a gruff word about them shoving baseball bats up where the sun hadn't lifted the darkness.<br/><br/>The grill was going at full speed. The Wildlings could out eat the entire American Armed Forces if they put themselves to the task, and tonight that task seemed to be what they were putting themselves to. With enough burgers, ribs, sirloins, sausages, chicken wings, corn cobs and the various other kinds of cuts and foods that came with a barbecue, as well as the quality and quantity of booze that only Irish bars could produce, it was going to be one hell of a party. And in the middle of the week too. For shame.<br/><br/>Ol' Jimmy came over to where Ryan was sitting, handing him a well frosted mug of lager, likely touched with a shot of good Irish Whiskey to make things interesting.<br/><br/>"What's up, Jim?" Ryan asked before taking a long sip from the lager.<br/><br/>"The guns are appreciated, Private. We were in some need out here. Lots of competition out here in the west, ya know. It's just that... I need a favor."<br/><br/>"Ask."<br/><br/>"You ever been in the big house?"<br/><br/>"I did a stint for... oh eight months back in '15 for possession. Why?"<br/><br/>"Well, my son - you met him, Gunther -" Ryan nodded, recalling the bearded fellow," He's been locked up for holding an unregistered gun for a pal that was on his second strike. Anyways, you know how the county jails are around here. A lot of our enemies are inside, and not enough friends, you know what I'm saying?"<br/><br/>"You're hoping I could give my uncle a call, ask him to get some of his allies in county to keep any shivs from ending up in Gunther's back," Ryan nodded again, taking another sip.<br/><br/>"Yeah."<br/><br/>"I'll give him a call. I'll need to use one of your phones though. The one that I have is a burner only to be used in emergencies. I don't think it'll be a problem. The Wildlings have been helping my uncle for as long as I can remember. If my uncle gives me a hard time about it, he owes me a couple favors. I'll make it happen. Until he can get something arranged though, you can start spreading the word that to mess with Gunther is to get oneself and one's family, friends, loved ones, high school crushes and passing acquaintances in serious trouble with the Irish boys."<br/><br/>"I appreciate it Ryan. There's a phone out back that you can use. What time is it on the East Coast anyways?"<br/><br/>"Robert's up at all times of the day or night. He'll take my call."<br/><br/>And he did. Not much hard time was given over the request, although a few days were needed to have everything arranged. There were lawyers to be given messages, messages to be passed along through the various different paths and then finally, a contact with Gunther himself. Hopefully, the word and threat of dire retribution would keep the shivs contained until everything could be set up.<br/><br/>Ryan was a little surprised. The Mob must have angered the Wildlings pretty bad to be giving them free guns and free prison protection to keep the peace. Or maybe they just wanted things on the west coast to stay smooth and cozy. It was a major cash cow for them and the IRA back home, after all.<br/><br/>"Taken care of," Ryan said stepping back outside into the warm summer evening.<br/><br/>"Thanks a million," Ol' Jimmy said, looking genuinely relieved.<br/><br/>"Anything for the Wildlings, am I right?"<br/><br/>"Damn fucking straight," Both men slammed mugs together, spilling the enhanced beer and taking long gulps from their respective drinks," Enjoy the party!"<br/><br/>Ryan chuckled, intending to do precisely that. He needed some relaxation after having spent the better part of the past two weeks on the road. His eye caught on one of the local talent, a lean brunette with a distinctive European look to her, carrying herself across the bar floor like she owned the damn joint. He indicated for the barkeep to pour another mug, and, once that was done, he strolled over to where she was standing.<br/><br/>"May I interest you in some of the Eire's finest stout?"