Dirty. Not just dirty, an old dirty, stale beer and cigarettes from decades past. The music tripled in volume when I opened the door, and it sounded like it was coming from every corner of the room. It might as well have been. There was a band on stage with amps that started at the floor and ended above the rafters. Looking around at the tables, no one really seemed to notice me walk in. If they weren’t paying attention to the band, the bikers were focused on their own conversations. There were stereotypical biker mammas at some tables and a few on the dance floor. They were the epitome of biker culture: leathers, beards, and bandanas for the men; bleach blonde hair, tight tank tops, and tramp stamps for the ladies. I had walked into a bizarro Norman Rockwell painting of the American Underground. At the long bar, I saw leather vest after leather vest in a neat little row. They all had their backs turned to me, but I knew I was in the right place. Each vest had a large insignia on the back, a skull with rays of light coming from the eye sockets, RISING SONS on a banner over the top, and MOTORCYCLE CLUB on a banner beneath the skull.
