The Saints' Devil

I

A new guy sat at the bar that night. A tourist. One of the kind who travels around with nothing but a backpack full of pointless things and the clothes on his back. He, although covered in dirt and grime, looked the cleanest out of all the men in the bar and yet he still looked out of place, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

"So," the new guy spoke to the bartender, noticing the night was slow for hardly anyone was sitting at the bar or ordering, for that matter. "Is this the home of the Saints?"

Although unnoticed by the man who spoke, the bar had gone significantly quiet the soft hum of the music still playing. The bartender stopped his movements and looked up at the ignorant man's smug grin. "Aye, it is," he spoke, revealing his heavy Irish accent. "The fuck it matters to ya, huh?"

The guy chuckled lightly, taking a slow sip of his Jack Daniel's. "I came all the way here to hear the story about the Saints' Devil."

"Where'd an outsider hear about that?"

He laughed now. "I've been in this town a few days, that was enough time for me to hear something that sparked some unknown curiosity in me. You know anything about him?"

The bartender, without the man noticing, looked up and across the bar and stared at the table in the back, hidden in the darkness, where he could slightly make-out the figure that sat at the table and nodded at him. Taking that cue to continue, he sat down the glass he'd been cleaning and leaned over the bar, staring at the new guy who acted all high and mighty over the entire situation.

"His name is Frank Bellinor," the bartender began, the other guests in the bar returning to their own conversations. "He's one of the original members of the club. He helped build the foundation of what it is today."

"But why's he called the Saints' Devil?"

"Well, ain't it obvious?" he snapped. "He's the club's torturer. A stone-cold killer. He rides for the club, lives for the club, and dies for the club. Whatever his president tells him to do, he does. He's the clubs hound, but he's more lethal. He's named the devil for death is certain."

The smug grin on his face immediately faded and he looked more troubled than ever before. He was regretting even asking about it now. An awful chill ran down his spine, and he cleared his throat in a poor attempt to act tough. "How come I've heard the guy wears a mask, what's with the mask? Why would the devil wear a mask?"

The bartender looked up at the dark corner once again, scoffing lightly. "Now, there's many stories behind that one. Some say he was in an awful accident, scuffed his face real bad. Some say he was in a tragic house fire when he was younger. Some even say there's nothing wrong with his face, that he just wears a mask."

"Well, which is it?"

He shrugged. "Not even I know that, lad," he spoke. "But, it adds to the whole devil appeal, I suppose. Makes him a whole lot more mysterious, it makes people want to know what lies beneath the damned thing."

"Doesn't sound like the this devil is all that scary," he said and his words had silenced the room once again.

A chair scooted loudly in the back but he was too afraid, suddenly too nervous, to turn around and look back. He sat there, stiff as a piece of wood, wishing now that his cup was full and not empty. Loud and heavy footsteps came up behind him, slowly but surely. A nervous sweat broke down his spine and he was beginning to shiver slightly with fear.

He watched the bartender, watched as he looked next to him at whoever was coming up behind him. He nodded to him. "Evening Frank," the bartender spoke right when the footsteps stopped. The man's eyes widened with fear as he felt the sudden presence behind him. "No need to scare the poor fella, he's just being curious."

"Sticking his nose," Frank spoke, his voice sounding muffled behind the man. "In other peoples' business."

Slowly, the man turned his head to look at the source of the voice. A man stood behind him, tall as a mountain, built like one too, clad in a black jumpsuit with two white stripes horizontally across his chest, thick black combat boots, finger-less gloves, and a black mask that had only two slits for the eyes, but it was too dark so it looked like dark abyss' staring back at him. Almost instantly, the man had jumped out of his seat and backed away from the Devil, now fully trembling with fear.

"I-I-I-I....meant-t-t no...h-harm..." the man said, grabbing his bag and readying to bolt at any sudden movement from the Devil.

The Devil turned his head to him, a hand on the bar. "Scram," he said and that was all it took for the man to fly out of the bar with no other trace.

"Aye, you're always scaring them newcomers off," the bartender, most commonly known as Ryan, spoke, returning back to cleaning the glasses. "Have ye been waiting for him to show up here?"

Frank looked at him, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter and snapping the cap off. He only nodded to Ryan and turned and left, moving back to his dark corner where he was hidden from all the other members, allowing him to lift up the bottom of his mask only slightly to drink straight from the bottle of whiskey. His brothers let him be, they had learned long ago not to ask about his mask and not to try and peek under it. The last guy who tried it was killed by him.

The members held a silent admiration for Frank, a silent respect. They hardly conversed with him and he hardly conversed with them but they all knew Frank was, hands down, the most devoted member. After the commotion the bar had gone back to it's normal buzz, forgetting the events that had just unfolded before their eyes and, most, turning back to the alcohol in their hands or the whores in their laps.

Frank sat alone and drank alone, hardly anyone sat in the tables around him, mainly out of fear of what he might do and out of what they might see if they catch a glimpse under his mask. 

"Frank," spoke the President and good friend, Fury, as he neared Frank's table. Frank grunted quickly, stopping Fury in his tracks as he placed his mask down on his face once again. "Where ya been all night?"

Frank shrugged, watching him take a seat at his table. "Workin'."

Fury chuckled. "No shit, I didn't send you on any run tonight though."

"Just ridin', then," he said, wanting to take a another drink of whiskey but knew he had to wait until he was gone. "Whaddya want?"

Fury laughed and rubbed his neck. "About that. Look, I wanted you to be the first to know that my sister is going to be staying with the club for a while, working in the garage. Now, I don't want you to even think about killing her. She can and will be annoying. She talks a lot. Don't stab her when you want her to shut up, got it?"

Frank scoffed.

"You laugh now but tell me I'm wrong, Frank," he commented, awaiting for Frank to say something but he didn't. "I'll make an announcement tomorrow when she arrives. She's the last family I got, Frank. I thought she was dead, she was in a rough spot back when...well, you get it. I just don't want to have to kill you if you kill her, alright?"

"I don't kill women," Frank finally said, assuring his brother and friend. "She's your family. I won't hurt her."

Fury nodded. "Well, I know how you are with surprises so I mainly wanted to let you know now so you didn't blow up on me tomorrow."

"Right," Frank said, shooing him away.

Fury laughed and roughly patted him on the shoulder before leaving to the back end of the bar where his office was. Frank had gotten used to people fearing him a long time ago so he was hardly even close to be offended by his one true friends concerns regarding him. What troubled him the most was the fact that a woman would be working in the Garage with him, in his auto shop. Fury was right to tell him first before surprising him, Frank would've gone ballistic if he barely heard the news tomorrow when his sister showed up.