He was big, greasy and drunk. I couldn’t tell, as he shambled towards me with an almost empty flagon of cheap port in his large fist, whether his intentions were friendly or hostile.
I was new to the bike scene, but had learned already that you could never predict what reaction you’d get when you first made contact with a group of outlaw bikers. I stood there under the street lamps only too conscious of my leathers, still shiny from the shop, and my own club colours emblazoned on my back. Gods Squad, Melbourne they read in mock gothic script.