Post by Ty Rant on Jun 15, 2017 17:42:39 GMT -6
“You really shouldn’t have come back home, Boy.” That voice rasped out from the side, cigarette raped and whiskey cured, it was the kind of voice that sounded like gravel shifting over a chalkboard, and it came from the old man himself. The man who’s loins produced the Tyrant. Heavy set, and old, with deep lines in a weathered face that’d been baked by the sun. Long, muscled, limbs that were once capable of ripping men to shreds. Flab had taken the place of muscle, and an oxygen tank was now next to that carved out ‘throne’ that the President of the Warwolves MC sat upon in the back of that club house.
The clubhouse where Ty now stood.
The clubhouse where those men he once called family surrounded him like their namesake, all but circling the man as he stared down their king. One wolf among many, but an apex predator didn’t bare his stomach in submission because he was outnumbered. One could practically hear the pop of his knuckles as he clenched those fists of his, those dark brown eyes of his narrowed in scrutiny while he sized up the man who was on death’s doorstep, but refused to surrender just yet. They were a stark contrast, whereas one looked amused, even mirthful despite the potential for cruelty lurking behind those eyes, Ty was nothing short of a manifestation of fury.
There was no doubt that these two came from the same stock.
“You’ve got a grandson.” Finally, it seemed that Ty would speak, and for a moment, the room’s tension seemed to become all the more pregnant as some of those alleged wolves cast their eyes to the throne, and for once in his life, Elijah Steele looked surprised.
“No shit? When’d this happen?” Dry mouthed, but still on beat, he hadn’t been taken entirely off guard.
“Five years ago, give or take.”
“Yeah? Just now tellin’ me, why?”
“...Didn’t know about’im, just now found out.”
“And who’s the mother? Anyone I know?”
“Davina. Davina Acerbi.”
Oh, the cackle that left the old man then, nearly a barking laugh followed by an even louder, hacking, cough that was spilling from his lips in the same run of motion. “Wooo! Boy, when you shit the bed, you shit the bed. You knock a woman up, and you fuckin’ choose Frank Gracciano’s fuckin’ niece!” Finding it necessary to bring up the legendary boxer, the man who’d trained Ty, the man who’d helped drive a wedge between his father, and himself. “That’s.. That’s some karmic shit in action, Boy. Guess you had decent tastes, she’s a good lookin’ girl, good breedin’ stock, can’t be a bad pup with a nice lookin’ bitch like that for a mo--”
That’s when Ty had decided he’d heard about enough. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for his father, he made that decision when six bikers were between the two. When he stepped in? Their hair seemed to bristle. When he moved in, they were ready to intercept him. Five were, anyways, the sixth was too busy reeling backwards while clutching his throat after Ty slammed the edge of his hand into the front of it out of sheer instinct. The big man was steppin’ backwards, ready for the bloodshed about to ensue, preparing for the slaughter and the end result. As good as he was, he was still outnumbered by men who were experts in the application of violence, and no end result was going to be pretty, or so he thought. He made peace with it at least, as those hands of his were raised upwards, his left leading out.
“First one to touch’im gets a bullet in the fuckin’ brainpan.” The old man sneered as a nerveless right hand rolled back the hammer of that Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolver that was kept close at hand, stopping the fight before it started. “Man has a right to defend the woman who mothered his child, just like I got a right to tell’im to get the fuck outta here while he still has kneecaps for puttin’ his grubby hands on one of mine.” His words were harsh, his gun was pointed directly at Ty’s chest, and yet.. Heh, the smug grin on his face said that he couldn’t be more proud of the big, ugly, bastard. “Now, get the fuck out of here, Boy. We got better shit to do than listen to you be all fuckin’ dramatic.” Sneering, he gestured to the door all the same, motioning for the giant of a man to take his leave, and Ty did just that, but as he turned, he couldn’t help the grin that snuck its way across his face as he left.
Their relationship’d never make sense, and they’d never try to make sense of it. Violent. Wolfish. Utterly insane.
Like father, like son.
Who the fuck cared if they never hashed out the whos and whys of what they were? His father didn’t want him being like him, and Ty had no desire to let his son follow in the footsteps of the two. They were three generations of “don’t give a fucks,” now. That was all that mattered.
Blood was always all that mattered, Ty mused as he started up that Chopper once he hit the parking lot. Blood was always, and the only thing, that mattered.
The clubhouse where Ty now stood.
The clubhouse where those men he once called family surrounded him like their namesake, all but circling the man as he stared down their king. One wolf among many, but an apex predator didn’t bare his stomach in submission because he was outnumbered. One could practically hear the pop of his knuckles as he clenched those fists of his, those dark brown eyes of his narrowed in scrutiny while he sized up the man who was on death’s doorstep, but refused to surrender just yet. They were a stark contrast, whereas one looked amused, even mirthful despite the potential for cruelty lurking behind those eyes, Ty was nothing short of a manifestation of fury.
There was no doubt that these two came from the same stock.
“You’ve got a grandson.” Finally, it seemed that Ty would speak, and for a moment, the room’s tension seemed to become all the more pregnant as some of those alleged wolves cast their eyes to the throne, and for once in his life, Elijah Steele looked surprised.
“No shit? When’d this happen?” Dry mouthed, but still on beat, he hadn’t been taken entirely off guard.
“Five years ago, give or take.”
“Yeah? Just now tellin’ me, why?”
“...Didn’t know about’im, just now found out.”
“And who’s the mother? Anyone I know?”
“Davina. Davina Acerbi.”
Oh, the cackle that left the old man then, nearly a barking laugh followed by an even louder, hacking, cough that was spilling from his lips in the same run of motion. “Wooo! Boy, when you shit the bed, you shit the bed. You knock a woman up, and you fuckin’ choose Frank Gracciano’s fuckin’ niece!” Finding it necessary to bring up the legendary boxer, the man who’d trained Ty, the man who’d helped drive a wedge between his father, and himself. “That’s.. That’s some karmic shit in action, Boy. Guess you had decent tastes, she’s a good lookin’ girl, good breedin’ stock, can’t be a bad pup with a nice lookin’ bitch like that for a mo--”
That’s when Ty had decided he’d heard about enough. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for his father, he made that decision when six bikers were between the two. When he stepped in? Their hair seemed to bristle. When he moved in, they were ready to intercept him. Five were, anyways, the sixth was too busy reeling backwards while clutching his throat after Ty slammed the edge of his hand into the front of it out of sheer instinct. The big man was steppin’ backwards, ready for the bloodshed about to ensue, preparing for the slaughter and the end result. As good as he was, he was still outnumbered by men who were experts in the application of violence, and no end result was going to be pretty, or so he thought. He made peace with it at least, as those hands of his were raised upwards, his left leading out.
“First one to touch’im gets a bullet in the fuckin’ brainpan.” The old man sneered as a nerveless right hand rolled back the hammer of that Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolver that was kept close at hand, stopping the fight before it started. “Man has a right to defend the woman who mothered his child, just like I got a right to tell’im to get the fuck outta here while he still has kneecaps for puttin’ his grubby hands on one of mine.” His words were harsh, his gun was pointed directly at Ty’s chest, and yet.. Heh, the smug grin on his face said that he couldn’t be more proud of the big, ugly, bastard. “Now, get the fuck out of here, Boy. We got better shit to do than listen to you be all fuckin’ dramatic.” Sneering, he gestured to the door all the same, motioning for the giant of a man to take his leave, and Ty did just that, but as he turned, he couldn’t help the grin that snuck its way across his face as he left.
Their relationship’d never make sense, and they’d never try to make sense of it. Violent. Wolfish. Utterly insane.
Like father, like son.
Who the fuck cared if they never hashed out the whos and whys of what they were? His father didn’t want him being like him, and Ty had no desire to let his son follow in the footsteps of the two. They were three generations of “don’t give a fucks,” now. That was all that mattered.
Blood was always all that mattered, Ty mused as he started up that Chopper once he hit the parking lot. Blood was always, and the only thing, that mattered.
