Road To The Throne

An MC riding together down a long road

The roar of engines echoed through the barren Arizona desert as the Black Vultures Motorcycle Club rode into the fading light. Dust clung to their leather cuts, the back patch of a black vulture spreading its wings like a promise of violence. At the back of the line, Colt "Rookie" Malden clenched the handlebars of his aging Harley, his patch bearing only the word Prospect.

Colt knew the rules. Prospects were glorified errand boys, a rung above nobody. But Colt wasn’t like the others who came and went, hoping for camaraderie and the illusion of family. Colt had ambition.

The Black Vultures president, Gage "Ironjaw" Trenton, was an old-school biker with a voice like gravel and fists to match. But his grip on the club was slipping. A drug deal gone bad had cost the Vultures half their cash reserves, and whispers of dissatisfaction rippled through the ranks. Colt saw his chance.

The turning point came during a bar brawl at the Red Hawk Saloon, a seedy dive where bikers, criminals, and lost souls mingled. A rival gang, the Copper Fangs, showed up uninvited, spoiling for a fight.

When fists started flying, Colt saw Ironjaw struggling against two Fangs, their knives flashing under the dim bar lights. Without hesitation, Colt dove in, grabbing a broken pool cue and swinging it like a baseball bat. The wood cracked against skulls, and by the end of the chaos, Colt stood bloodied but victorious.

“You got guts, Rookie,” Ironjaw muttered, nursing a split lip. “Might make a Vulture outta you yet.”

The patch came a week later.

Colt’s reputation grew quickly. He took the jobs no one else wanted—collections, protection runs, and even the occasional execution when Ironjaw’s orders called for it. The older members of the club began to respect his ruthlessness, even if they whispered behind his back.

But respect wasn’t enough for Colt. He wanted the president’s chair.

The opportunity presented itself six months later, when the club convened to discuss a major alliance with the Copper Fangs—a move many members viewed as a betrayal. Colt seized the moment.

“This isn’t what the Black Vultures stand for!” he shouted, standing up during the meeting. “We’re not here to bow to anyone. We take what we want!”

Ironjaw slammed his fist on the table. “You don’t get to decide what we stand for, kid!”

“Maybe not,” Colt said, locking eyes with the president. “But maybe it’s time someone else did.”

In the world of outlaw bikers, leadership challenges were settled with violence. Colt knew this. When Ironjaw accepted his challenge, the entire club gathered in the yard behind the clubhouse, forming a ring around the two men.

Ironjaw was bigger, stronger, and meaner. But Colt was faster, and years of street fights had taught him how to exploit weakness. The fight was brutal, fists and boots connecting with sickening thuds.

In the end, Colt played dirty. When Ironjaw hesitated for a fraction of a second, Colt drew a knife from his boot and slashed the older man across the thigh. Ironjaw crumpled, roaring in pain. Colt kicked him to the ground and pressed the blade to his throat.

“Yield,” Colt growled.

Ironjaw spat blood and growled, “You’ll regret this, kid.” But he said no more.

Colt stood tall as the Black Vultures roared their approval. By tradition, the defeated president was stripped of his patch, and Colt took his place at the head of the table that night.

Under Colt’s leadership, the Black Vultures abandoned alliances and expanded their territory through sheer force. He ruled with an iron hand, earning loyalty through fear and respect. The club prospered, but Colt never forgot how he’d climbed to power—through violence, betrayal, and blood.

And he knew, deep down, that one day, someone else would rise the same way. The throne was never safe.

But until then, the road was his, and the Vultures followed his lead.

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