No Pack, No Promise

I was twenty when the club enforcer walked back from the war, looked at the girl holding his carburettor, and told the whole lockup I was a kid. I was on a Greyhound before the coffee got cold. Ten years of race shops later, the man who raised me dies and leaves me a garage, a debt, and a seat in a vote I never asked for. The Kings hate me. The garage is six months from the auctioneer. There's a charter running product through the back lot and a man in a leather cut who brought me the names of every one of them. He's been sober since the year I left. He hasn't touched anyone since the night I did. Good for him. I'm here for the deed, the debt, and the door with my name on it. If he wants the bond, he can line up behind the mortgage.