Fatty laughs, reaching for a pack of smokes and lighting one. “He’s gonna be unbearable after this.”
“Oh, I know. If his head gets too big, you can just kick his ass. Cool?”
“Cool.”
I turn around, finding that the oldest Widow Makers—Keeler, Brassic, Danny, Foxer and Josephine—have already stood up and are waiting with knowing smiles on their faces. Foxer, the guy responsible for managing the grow we have underway beneath the worn floorboards of the barn, is also in charge of new recruits. I’ve already spoken to him about what’s about to take place and he’s green lit the guy. He gives me a sharp nod when our eyes make contact, reaffirming his approval. I may be the head honcho around here, but I don’t have time to personally assess every new recruit we get. I value Foxer’s opinion as much as I do Cade’s, though. He knows what it takes to be a Widower. If he’d said not now, not ready, this wouldn’t be happening.
“Carnie, you ugly motherfucker!” I shout over the top of the chatter in the bar. Carnie, sitting across the other side of the room, immediately looks up, surprise on his face. He pushes his glasses up onto his head and stands. Everyone else is silent. “What’s up, Boss?” he asks.
I collect the bottle of Trader’s off the counter and I crack it open in front of him. I wince as I take the tiniest of sips. Everyone in the clubhouse roars, the sounds of their hollering and cheering set to raise the rafters on the place. Carnie, god bless him, looks around, completely confused. I hand off the bottle to Cade, who also takes a really fucking small sip.
“It’s time,” I tell him. “You’re in.”
More shouting and hollering breaks out, coupled with the thunder of people drumming their hands and feet against the tables, the floor, the bar. Carnie lifts both eyebrows, smiling cautiously. “For real? You’re serious?”
Cade holds up the bottle of bourbon, toasting it at Carnie. “We don’t break out this stuff unless we’re for real, man.”
Nearly everyone in the clubhouse aside from Carnie knows the pain that bottle is going to bring him. There are countless groans as Cade holds it out for Keeler to take. I don’t even need to watch to know he won’t be taking a big mouthful; every single member of the Widowers will drink out of that bottle before it gets passed to Carnie, and no one will want more than a taste of the vile liquid on their tongues.
“What is that?” Carnie asks.
“That, my friend, is a rite of passage. Once everyone’s taken a sip, the rest is for you. And you gotta finish every last drop before I’ll ink you.” I unzip the black bag in my hand and bring out the ink gun that Cade brought home with him from the Dead Man’s ink Bar. It’s been about two years since I’ve tattooed anyone, but that doesn’t matter. This particular tattoo is something I can draw without a stencil. I could probably do it with my eyes closed if I wanted to. Carnie whoops, ripping his Widow Makers MC Prospect T-shirt over his head.
“Bring it on!”
The bar fills with more laughter and shouting as the other club members all gather around Carnie to slap him on the back and welcome him into the fold. Cade leans against the bar beside me, laughing an evil laugh. “Poor bastard’s not gonna be so happy in about an hour,” he says.
And he’s right. Barely an eighth of the Trader’s is gone when it’s handed to Carnie. The guy finally understands what he’s let himself in for when he takes his first big slug from the bottle. His eyes water, his face reddening to a dark crimson. “Holy fuck! This stuff’s worse than lighter fluid.”
By halfway down the bottle, he’s looking more than a little worse for wear. By the time he’s draining the last few drops of bourbon into his mouth, he’s already thrown up twice in the spillage bucket Fatty keeps behind the bar.
When I’m presented with a semi unconscious Carnie, carried between Keeler and Brassic and dumped unceremoniously onto the long wooden table that runs down the center of the room, I’m a little buzzed myself. They lay Carnie out on his front, his back bare and just begging for some fresh ink.
The Widowers surrounding me, each and every one of them wearing their cuts with pride, all stand around and watch as I fire up the tattoo gun and begin my work. Carnie sleeps like a baby through the entire fucking thing. Probably for the best. Three and a half hours later, I’m well and truly fucked on good whiskey and Carnie has a perfectly straight, perfectly perfect Widow Makers New Mexico patch inked into his skin.
“It’s a fucking masterpiece,” Keeler laughs, slapping me on the back. “You’re the only motherfucker I know who can tattoo someone when they’re falling off their fucking chair, Boss.”