OPIE'S BIG SCORE
This is my first Sons of Anarchy fan fiction. I do not own Mr. Sutter's amazing universe. Please comment nicely!
Jax Teller was worried. His best friend Opie, unable to cope with the demands of holding down a regular job and supporting a family, was begging to be let in on the latest criminal scheme of the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle club.
"All right," fierce and cruel yet fatherly club president Clay Morrow growled, sitting at the head of the carved wooden table inside the SAMCRO clubhouse. "More than 120 Mayan bikers are holed up in the woods, guarding the stash of golden ingots they hijacked from the crooked sheriff last week. Word on the street is they're going to sell the gold bars to a crooked lady DEA agent with the face and body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. I need one incredibly cool, handsome, charismatic biker to sleep with the lady agent and keep her distracted all night with the best sex she's ever had. And I need some random loser with a SAMCRO patch to bust into the compound, fistfight all 120 Mexican gang bangers, and steal the gold."
"I'm on it," Jax said, tossing his beautiful golden hair out of his unspeakably handsome face with total self-confidence.
"Me too! Me too!" Opie mumbled, drool running down his bearded face.
"Which guy gets which job?" Asked Half Sack, the clueless Prospect.
Club treasurer and Hebrew scholar Bobby Elvis put on his half-moon glasses and read the fine print of the SAMCRO club regulations. "Anything cool that ever happens must only happen to Jax. Jax will look sexy and cool at all times while working on club business. The rest of us are all chumps, especially Opie."
"I don't know if Opie is up for taking on 120 Mexicans all by himself," Jax said worriedly. "Last time we went shoplifting six packs at the 7-11 he started crying because the baby food bottles reminded him of his little girl at home."
"This club has rules," Clay Morrow said. "Maybe you've forgotten that, Jax. Maybe you've forgotten what your father stood for when he founded this club more than ninety-seven years ago. It was the Sixties. It was a time none of us will ever forget!"
"I need to go up on the roof for a few minutes," Jax said, looking incredibly thoughtful. "Excuse me."
Dreams of hope and change can often turn sour. When I founded the Sons of Anarchy, I thought we would just ride our bikes and pollute the environment. Instead my friends all laughed at my idealism and left me bleeding in the clubhouse while they went out to steal and kill. I hate when that happens!
"Thanks dad," Jax said, closing the ancient journal. "Thanks for the practical advice about my modern day dilemma. Thanks for making it so much easier to deal with the legacy of Sam Crow!"
Reluctantly, the golden-haired hero came to a decision. He called his mother Gemma on the telephone, knowing that only his typical suburban mom – who just happened to be a paranoid, fifty-something criminal psychopath with the body of an anorexic porn star – could help him make things right.
"Big score! Big score!" a few days later, Opie came staggering into the SAMCRO clubhouse carrying a green trash bag full of empty beer bottles. "We can redeem these bottles for a nickel each! The club can use the money!"
"Is that what you two were doing all night?" Clay Morrow asked, with fatherly amusement. "Drinking beer with the Mayans when I told you to waste those greasy pricks?"
"Uh, no." Jax looked embarrassed. "You know, Clay, Gemma is your old lady, but she'll do anything for the club. Basically she got it on with the Mayans all night long, till they all died of exhaustion, and then I stole the gold ingots and used them to bribe the sexy lady DEA agent who keeps mumbling about wanting to shut us down. I couldn't sleep with her like you said because I didn't think it would be right. That's not who I am. But Opie did a great job cleaning up all the beer bottles after mom was done."
"Big score, big score!" Opie drooled, his bearded face all lit up with joy and the pride of truly belonging.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Clay Morrow said, shrugging off both his stepson's idealism and the latest psychotic rampage of his crazy old lady. Sometimes he felt just like Ricky Ricardo on I LOVE LUCY. "Opie, you're all right. You really came through for the club. Those empty bottles should net us at least three dollars and fifty cents at the 7-11."
"I need to go up on the roof again," Jax mumbled.
Sometimes a biker gang is really a metaphor for society at large. Groups come together out of needs, human and emotional needs that can only be met by the approval of others. When we ride together we become more than the sum of what we are as individuals. Putting up with morons and psycho females who lie and cheat and kill while looking fabulous over fifty is a small price to pay!