"That patch belongs on a Halloween costume," Tommy laughed.
The crowd laughed with him. It was the collective cruelty of people who felt safe mocking someone they believed was powerless. Even Sheriff Whitfield cracked a tired smile.
Arthur turned back around, facing the street, and took a long drag from his cigarette. His jaw tightened.
"Laugh all you want," Arthur said, his voice as calm as still water. "Won't be laughing later."
"Is that a threat, old man?" Whitfield asked, stepping closer, hand resting near his belt. "Because I can lock you up for disturbing the peace right now. You and your piece of junk."
Arthur let out a plume of gray smoke. "I'm not moving," he said low, almost bored, "until somebody tells me why fifty grown men in this town let a boy spit on an old man's boots."
"You're delusional," Whitfield scoffed. "There ain't fifty men here, and nobody cares about your boots."
Arthur checked his gold pocket watch, snapped it shut, and looked down the highway. "They're about two minutes out."
At first, it was just a vibration. A heavy, rhythmic pulsing in the pavement that the crowd felt in the soles of their shoes before they heard it.
Then came the sound. It wasn't the metallic shriek of Arthur's dying Panhead; it was a deep, guttural thunder that seemed to roll over the hills and swallow the town whole. The diner windows rattled. The coffee in the bakery's pots began to ripple.
Derek dropped his phone. Tommy's arrogant grin melted into confusion, then stark terror, as the source of the noise crested the hill at the edge of town.
Motorcycles. Dozens of them.
They rode in a massive, tight formation, a river of chrome, matte black steel, and heavy leather pouring into Oak Haven. At the helm rode men wearing pristine, stark-black vests bearing the exact same winged insignia that sat faded on Arthur's back.