Developers redevelop and the modern gentry gentrify. It's like sweeping dirty water with a push-broom. It doesn't get clean any cleaner. It just goes someplace else. Old mugs and fresh muzzles come and go, shuffled back into the deck more bent and worn with each hand dealt. Except the money always goes back to the house.
Marcellus doesn't have to get further than Tunnel Bar before he finally finds what he's looking for. There's a large old man shooting pool with a younger version of himself, part of a raucous group of men and women making friends and getting under the influence around the game table. They all wear the denim and leather of a biker gang, and there's a pile of lunch coolers, tool belts and gloves in the corner that tells their occupation.
They're all getting drunker by the minute, having a good time and cutting loose after a long day at work, all except for one that's sitting at the back corner of the bar. The only hint he's with them is that every couple minutes they shout to him and he shouts back an answer, then goes back to contemplating the glass of water in front of him. He's short. His feet barely touch the rung of the barstool his thick and muscle-piled form is perched on. Wide as a Buick, even though he rides a Harley. Wouldn't get caught on four wheels for his life.
Not after the last time.
Jack's hood is pulled up, and he wears a leather vest of the same cut as the rest of them. Even as they shed their work uniforms, they keep on the layer that makes them a family.
"Goin' out t' watch the bikes," he says as he rises, most likely referencing the long line of hogs outside, because as darkness falls outside it becomes less easy to simply glance up out the front window and check for their safety. He gets up and passes by Marcellus on his way out, and it's at this point the reason he is a man apart becomes apparent.
No man bellows such menace and burning fury simply by existing. Simply by walking by him toward the front of the bar. The feeling is familiar for kin, but even then he avoids subjecting his own to it fully. No, he is not a man apart, but instead a protector watching the edge of camp for the dangers he knows will come.
Jack passes through the portal, the door slamming shut behind him, and kicks up one of his jackboots over the other as he leans back into the facade of the building and crosses his arms. He stares intently at the motorcycles, like doing so long enough can imbue them with the same foreboding in his heart, and he can leave them safe and return to his man-pack.
Marcellus doesn't have to get further than Tunnel Bar before he finally finds what he's looking for. There's a large old man shooting pool with a younger version of himself, part of a raucous group of men and women making friends and getting under the influence around the game table. They all wear the denim and leather of a biker gang, and there's a pile of lunch coolers, tool belts and gloves in the corner that tells their occupation.
They're all getting drunker by the minute, having a good time and cutting loose after a long day at work, all except for one that's sitting at the back corner of the bar. The only hint he's with them is that every couple minutes they shout to him and he shouts back an answer, then goes back to contemplating the glass of water in front of him. He's short. His feet barely touch the rung of the barstool his thick and muscle-piled form is perched on. Wide as a Buick, even though he rides a Harley. Wouldn't get caught on four wheels for his life.
Not after the last time.
Jack's hood is pulled up, and he wears a leather vest of the same cut as the rest of them. Even as they shed their work uniforms, they keep on the layer that makes them a family.
"Goin' out t' watch the bikes," he says as he rises, most likely referencing the long line of hogs outside, because as darkness falls outside it becomes less easy to simply glance up out the front window and check for their safety. He gets up and passes by Marcellus on his way out, and it's at this point the reason he is a man apart becomes apparent.
No man bellows such menace and burning fury simply by existing. Simply by walking by him toward the front of the bar. The feeling is familiar for kin, but even then he avoids subjecting his own to it fully. No, he is not a man apart, but instead a protector watching the edge of camp for the dangers he knows will come.
Jack passes through the portal, the door slamming shut behind him, and kicks up one of his jackboots over the other as he leans back into the facade of the building and crosses his arms. He stares intently at the motorcycles, like doing so long enough can imbue them with the same foreboding in his heart, and he can leave them safe and return to his man-pack.