Page 60 of Meet Stan

I cocked my head to the side. Something was off with this biker and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“And as far as how it applies in this case, well, you ran down to the wire on that deal, and you didn’t give up.”

“Are you trying to say I shouldn’t give up on Ivy?” I scoffed. “Give me a break. How am I supposed to convince her of anything if she won’t even listen to me?”

“I’m not sure how to work that out. But let’s just assume, hypothetically for a moment, that someone was able to get you to an in-person meeting with Ivy.”

“How?”

“Never mind that now.”

“No, seriously, how? She might even have boarded her flight by this point. It’s too late.”

“Just humor me for a moment. Do you know what you would say?”

I thought about it, and nodded sadly.

“Yes, I do. I know exactly what I would say. Too bad it’s much too late.”

The biker finished his beer and slammed the can on the bar. Then he stood up and bellowed at the top of his gravely lungs.

“Hey, you bunch of sons of bitches!”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to call them that?” I asked.

He glared down at me.

“Check out the back of my jacket, skeezer.”

I did. There, on a logo featuring a wolf with an American flag in its mouth, were the wordsBunch of Sons of Bitches, NY chapter.

“Our friend Stan here has got a problem. He needs to get to the airport like right fucking now if he’s going to keep the love of his life.”

“Now wait just a minute here,” one of the old salts said. “You want us to give a Laredo escort to some buffer boy?”

“Yeah,” said the giant man from before. “How do we even know he’s in love?”

The bar fell silent. Suddenly I was the subject of dozens of gazes, many of them borderline hostile. I wasn't sure what to say. I swallowed hard, and cleared my throat.

“Well,” I said. “Because… it hurts?”

The big man sniffed.

“That’s so true. Love is painful.”

“Here here,” said one of the other bikers, and slammed back his can. “I say we give buffer boy the Laredo escort—but he has to undergo initiation.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said.

Five minutes later, I stood outside the bar with a chain padlocked around my waist and my feet duct-taped to a skateboard.

“And everyone had to go through this insane initiation?” I snapped.

“I don't know,” the biker said. “I think they’re just making up shit as they go along, honestly.”

“What?”

“GO!” shouted my biker friend.

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