Summary: A couple of decades ago, two guys figured out how to use a certain California city's evil nature for their own purposes. This worked pretty well ever since, so once again it's time for the Sons of Anarchy to revisit you-know-where in 1995.
"Sunnydale?" Mick O'Bannon disbelievingly read out loud from this town's welcome sign lit up beside the road where they'd just parked their motorcycles. It was close to the middle of the night after riding south together for a couple hours all the way down from San Joaquin County to a Pacific seaside city he'd never heard of before coming to the West Coast from Boston.
Clay Morrow just shrugged in his cycle seat, feet firmly planted on the street asphalt while keeping upright the Harley between his legs. "It's no worse a name than Charming, right? Anyway, we're here. Get off and put your ride in the crash truck. Opie, help him and don't take all damn night, the both of you."
"Gotcha, Clay," obediently answered the young man pulling open the rear doors of the beat-up panel truck used for hauling the club's broken-down bikes or otherwise transporting functional motorcycles when there weren't any riders for them. Yanking free the metal ramp laid onto the interior truck floor, Harry Winston (who'd been given his club nickname by his father) slid it out and down to allow the ramp's edge to touch the ground. By the time he was finished, Mick had pushed his motorcycle to the ramp. It was a bit of a strain, but the pair of bikers still managed to get the heavy machine inside quickly enough to satisfy the current president of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original.
Jumping out of the truck, Mick strode over to where Clay was waiting, ignoring how Opie was closing up everything and then climbing back into the truck's front seat. Mick instead stopped in front of Clay, calmly returning the older man's intent gaze.
Clay took a moment to grudgingly admire the prospect's nerve. Right now, it was the start of this recruit's final initiation, where he ultimately proved he had what it took to be a full SOA member. Only the toughest, meanest, outlaw biker bastards who called themselves 'the other 1%' in gleeful defiance of an annoyed American Motorcycle Association that claimed 99% of their membership were law-abiding individuals could ever hope to earn the coveted SOA colors declaring themselves a true badass to the bone.
This wasn't awarded lightly, though. Virtually anything reprehensible, up to and including actual murder, could be demanded by the nastier biker gangs knowing full well their applicants would willingly carry out these criminal tasks to demonstrate their enthusiasm for joining the gang.
Mick, though, had already gone through the whole drill with the Pagans, the dominant biker gang on the East Coast, until he found it necessary to cut his ties there due to felonious offenses involving multiple counts of rape and manslaughter. Not wishing to bring further attention of the shithead cops to his brother riders, Mick speedily left town, all the way across the country to at last arrive in Charming where he found kindred spirits and politely asked to enlist with the Sons.
A thorough background check had been made by Clay and his subordinates of this O'Bannon guy with the assistance of their Irish allies, the Real IRA, just in case this was some kind of law-enforcement sting to infiltrate a ringer into their club. Mick had come through everything with flying colors, however, including getting along quite fine with the other Charming bikers who were impressed by his ultra-cool motherfucker attitude.
It didn't give Mick a free pass, mind you, no matter what he'd done earlier or who he'd hooked up with previously. Their newest recruit still had to prove himself to each and every SOA by undergoing the same harsh trials accomplished by the other bikers when they'd gained their own colors. Which led to the whole reason why four men were gathered nearby an illuminated sign cheerfully announcing Sunnydale was a nice place to live.
Waving an impatient arm at this same displayed notice, Clay spoke directly to Mick: "Awright, we're on the west side of town and the road here goes right through this place to where another one of those stupid signs is at the east city limits. About a mile on further down the road after that, we'll be waiting for you in a overgrown vacant lot with enough trees and bushes for us to stay out of sight until you show up. If you do, anyway."
Mick merely nodded, waiting for more. Sure enough, Clay continued, "The deal is, you start out on foot from here. You've got until sunrise to reach us. You don't make it, too fucking bad. Miss it by a single minute, we're gone, and don't bother with showing up in Charming ever again. Try that, and you won't like what happens to you."
Only the slight narrowing of Mick's eyes indicated he was bothered by what Clay had just threatened. Regardless, he went on listening to the SOA President lay down some more instructions:
"When you're in town, you've also gotta do three things. You can pick whichever order you wanna do 'em, but all of those still have to get done before sunrise."
Clay lifted his right hand to hold up three fingers, one after the other. "There's a punk-ass nightclub here called the Bronze. You need to drop in and stay long enough to check out the place, so you can describe it to us later. We'll know if you didn't. That means if for some reason it's closed, you still better get inside some way."
A second finger: "There's also a worthless dive here going by Willy's Alibi Room, run by a weaselly little turd with the same first name. Convince him somehow to put down his autograph on the nearest piece of paper, and bring it with you. It don't really matter to me what shape he's in afterwards, so have fun, kid."
Mick allowed himself a sadistic smirk at hearing that, which soon altered into genuine puzzlement at Clay's next statement followed by the third and last finger.
"Tig, give him the goods."
Glancing over at where Tig Trager, the SOA's Sergeant-at-Arms and general leg-breaker, had stayed silent upon his own cycle throughout all this, Mick then saw that brutal man reach into one of the pockets of his leather jacket. This action produced a small, translucent, empty plastic bag better known as a Baggie. An annoyed flick of Tig's fingers still holding this food storage bag made Mick hastily step over and take the Baggie from Tig, who didn't say a word throughout it all.
Uncertainly staring down at what he was now clutching in his fingers, Mick looked again at where Clay was showing his teeth in an actual evil smile. "Last thing you've gotta do to get your patch is this: Find a cemetery in this shithole, dig up one of the stiffs buried there, and take a souvenir from them. Don't go overboard; whether it's fresh or not, it better fit in that Baggie. Okay, that's all. You in, or out?"
Mick instantly knew there wouldn't be anything more told to him, and that he'd also make a decision as to whether to go through with the whole thing of becoming a Son. "Yeah, I'm in."
Rather than replying, both Clay and Tig started their rides, switched on the motorcycle headlights, and drove off. They were promptly followed by Opie in the panel truck, with all three vehicles heading away from Sunnydale instead of going through the night-time city.
That last odd action had Mick thinking hard. He might've been a real thug ever since puberty, but there was nothing very wrong with his survival instincts which had kept him alive so far anywhere else than this particular area. Why the hell had they just done that, when it would've been far more easier for them to drive directly to the meeting point? Right now, it looked like Clay and his guys were either taking off completely, or going well out of their way in one big semicircle to entirely avoid entering Sunnydale, assuming they were indeed proceeding to Clay's described location on the other side of town.
There was the additional fact the rest of Charming's bikers had one and all failed to mention precisely what'd they gone through in the past to receive their own colors at any time when he'd been hanging around with them. Mick had shrugged it off then, as part of not giving him any advance information to make it easier for the newbie. Yet, in his experience, bikers among themselves tended to brag about how mean and nasty their initiations had been, just so they could take pride in still getting through these ordeals.
Exactly what kind of place was Sunnydale, anyway?
Mick warily looked around at his deserted location. Okay, there was clearly something wrong, and he'd better watch his ass. Best case, the guys were only pulling some fucking practical joke on him, and the real initiation would come later. He hadn't gotten that specific vibe from them, but they might've been good enough to fool him anyhow. Well, if it went down like that, better just take it like a man and get a little payback sometime afterwards.
Worse case, though… Oh, screw it. You could go nuts thinking twisty like that. Anybody trying to fuck him over, they'd need to bring along some serious shit, because he wouldn't go easy. In the meantime, which to do first? Breaking and entering, grievous bodily harm, or grave robbing?
"Decisions, decisions," Mick snickered while swaggering into Sunnydale.
"Clay," Tig cleared his throat.
Blowing out one last cloud of smoke from his cigarette, Clay then spat it onto the ground and grumpily stomped out the half-finished cigarette with a boot heel. Glancing eastwards at the horizon where the sun was now fully revealed this early in the morning, the SOA President sighed, "Yeah, I know. Okay, safe 'em. Opie, pack up the Claymores and make sure nobody'll ever know we were here."
As Opie cautiously disarmed the quartet of anti-personnel mines set up at the corners of their hiding place in the woods, Clay and Tig unloaded the AR-16's illegally altered into full-automatic fire and put these weapons back inside the secret panels built in the crash truck. During this, a sympathetic Tig offered, "Too bad, Clay. I honestly thought Mick would make it. We've got other guys in the club who I was positive they'd never survive their own night in that damn town, but I guess it all comes down to sheer luck in the end."
Clay nodded. "Damn straight. J.T. and Piney, both always said it was a complete accident they got out alive twenty years back. Same for me and you, when it was our turn."
"Well," Tig shrugged, "No use crying over spilt milk. Might've lost the hundred I bet on him, but there's still the chance Mick could still show up again in Charming even if it's happened only once before."
Heading for his Harley, Clay tossed over a shoulder, "Oh, don't worry. I plan to have a quiet word with Father O'Connor at the wake. He'll bless all our homes and make sure everyone's got enough crosses and holy water. Now, let's ride!"