Meeting Meathead Moe

Bridget's eyes quickly adjusted to the lower light inside the old school bus factory. Her vision was filled with hundreds of cars on lifts, stacks of tires, welding and grinding sparks, and the sound of roaring engines being tuned and worked on. The Meatheads, it seemed, were quite industrious. It didn't strike her as a small factory as much as an enormous chop shop on one side and custom shop on the other. A shirtless and leather pants clad 30-something year old woman dripping with sweat down her lithe form and closely cropped blonde hair rolled a deep tread tractor tire onto a lift and pressed the green button on the control switch to elevate it into place onto what looked like was once an armored bank car but now more closely resembled an **** vehicle. A man with round welding goggles pressed it onto the axle and started tightening the lug nuts with an air tool. As he did so, the woman casually sucked his cock through his open fly.

Bridget started to feel eyes on her as she walked through the chop shop. Hardened men glanced at her as their grinders showered the floor in streams of yellow-hot metal; and she could tell by their leers that they were, one by one, making plans for her athletic form. Anticipating this, she smiled back at a man with graying hair and a braided beard. "He looks tight." she said to her escort as she ran a finger down the length of her chrome phallus, loud enough to be heard. The man's gaze went wide, and quickly back to his work.

"This way." her escort said, amused at her gambit. He pushed open a creaky side door that led into what was once a series of offices that had been opened up to serve as a rec room. It boasted six pool tables with fading green velvet and badly chipped and scoured wood, a large Meatheads flag in the back behind a surprisingly well-stocked bar, and a dozen or so men and women lounging on a number of sofas in various states of sexual gratification. Her escort held his hand out to stop her, and raised his voice to carry over the guitar-heavy, grinding music the Meatheads favored.

"Hey, Moe! Gotta broad here that wants ta' speak ta' ya'." he bellowed. Bridget watched as the conversations and copulations came to pause; first onto her, but then onto a group in the center of the room. The center of attention was, with no doubt, the man seated on a bucket seat from an old roadster and surrounded by four monstrously large enforcers decked out in leather and spikes. Unlike the other men and women she had seen, these were almost in uniform: Black leather vest with identical badges, black sleeveless shirts, faded blue jeans, and a red bandana tied just below the knee of the left leg.

The man himself was similarly attired and likely in his mid 50's, save for his red bandana was tied around his black and silver haired-forehead, and a necklace of 30.06 shells, each tipped with a red projectile; around his broad, grisled neck. He also wore G.I. issue paratrooper boots and spats, and his tattoos were almost certainly done in the field of some distant battle against the Stadt. A large, spider webbing scar peaked out from the collar of his shirt and up to his neck. It was different from the usual shrapnel scars, and Bridget had to admit to herself she was curious as to how he got it. Bridget held her breath as she squared up to face him, and couldn't help but notice her escort was now casually squeezing her ass with a dirty hand.

"Alright, doll; you gotta' bout two minutes before my boys turn you into a cum-stained skidmark on the concrete an' send you home with that doohickey up your ass, so make it quick." the man said, casually plucking a cigarette from his vest pocket with an older model prosthetic "trench-style" hand and forearm. The knuckles were solid brass and intricately carved with trench art, and a long, triangular spike jutted out where the middle knuckle should have been.

"Why the bandanas? Seems...Nazi-ish." she asked; hoping to throw him off gaurd. He tilted his head as he took a puff before waving his hand through the smoke to dismiss her observation.

"Nah, symbolic-like. Badges of Honor. Every Meathead you see with one took a spill in battle, survived, and came out victorious. Not an easy thing to do when you've got a Buick decked out with a spike roller to deal with, like my boy Tony here." Bridget turned her attention to the man. One of his legs was slightly longer than the other, she realized. She could only imagine the pain of having it crushed and shredded by the type of rolling mass of spiked metal she herself had installed on a handful of vehicles for the various clubs in the past.

"What about you?" she questioned. He grinned to reveal chrome teeth and pushed the bandana up slowly to reveal a white and pink circle on the skin of his forehead.

"Sniper shot. Kraut plugged me mid-air back in '47. I saw the glint from his scope and like a doofus looked right at 'im. Docs told me the round passed upward and cleanly through the center with minimal damage. Rehabbed for nearly two tours from that. Didn't do any favors for my impulse control, though."

Bridget began to seriously worry. She'd never dealt with someone this deranged and brain-damaged as this. She felt her escort start to press his index finger into her asshole; and she knew she had to think of something; and quickly.