PART 2: The Sketchbook Boy at Rust Saints
Warm amber light wrapped around the boy the moment he stepped inside Rust Saints Bar & Grill.
The heavy wooden door closed behind them—
shutting out the cold rain and gray city noise.
Inside the biker bar—
classic rock hummed softly beneath the sound of clinking glasses and low conversations.
Blue neon signs glowed against dark wooden walls covered in old motorcycle parts, faded road maps, and military patches.
Several bikers looked up immediately.
Their eyes locked onto the soaked little boy standing beside the massive tattooed stranger.
The child clutched the worn sketchbook tighter against his chest.
Nervous.
Silent.
The salt-and-pepper biker slowly removed his wet gloves and nodded toward an empty booth near the window.
“Sit down, kid.”
The boy obeyed quietly.
Rain streaked across the glass behind him while motorcycles outside glistened beneath the neon reflections.
A waitress approached cautiously.
Dark ponytail.
Black denim vest.
Tired but kind eyes.
She looked between the biker and the child.
“Everything okay, Reaper?”
The biker grunted softly.
“Get him something hot.”
“And food.”
The waitress smiled gently toward the boy.
“What do you want, sweetheart?”
The child hesitated awkwardly.
“Anything’s okay.”
That answer alone changed the atmosphere.
Several bikers nearby slowly stopped talking.
Because children who had homes usually didn’t answer like that.
Reaper noticed too.
His expression darkened slightly beneath the warm bar lights.
The waitress quietly disappeared toward the kitchen.
For a moment—
only rain and soft music filled the silence.
Then Reaper nodded toward the sketchbook.
“You draw?”
The boy looked down at it nervously before giving a tiny nod.
“A little.”
“Lemme see.”
The child hesitated.
Then slowly opened the worn cover.
Inside—
page after page of motorcycle drawings filled the sketchbook.
Beautifully detailed.
Harleys.
Old choppers.
Road sketches.
Engines drawn with impossible precision for someone so young.
Even the bikers nearby leaned closer in surprise.
One tattooed mechanic whispered quietly:
“Damn…”
Reaper slowly flipped another page.
And froze.
The final drawing showed a biker standing beside a little boy outside Rust Saints.
Rain falling around them.
The exact moment happening right now.
Reaper looked up sharply.
“You drew this already?”
The child suddenly looked embarrassed.
“I draw places before I go there sometimes…”
Silence spread slowly through the booth.
The older biker stared harder at the sketch.
Then noticed something else.
In the corner of the drawing—
a date.
Tomorrow’s date.
His rough fingers slowly turned the page again.
Another sketch appeared.
And this one changed everything.
The drawing showed Rust Saints Bar & Grill at night—
windows shattered.
Flames everywhere.
Motorcycles overturned in the street.
And standing in the firelight—
was Reaper.
Holding a shotgun.
Blood running down his arm.
The entire booth fell silent.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while distant thunder rolled somewhere beyond the city.
Reaper’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Kid…”
The boy lowered his eyes nervously.
“I didn’t mean to draw it…”
Nearby bikers exchanged uneasy looks.
One man muttered softly:
“That ain’t normal.”
Reaper slowly looked back toward the frightened child sitting across from him.
Then toward the burning bar drawn in the sketchbook.
Outside—
lightning flashed across the rain-covered motorcycles.
And for the first time in years—
the hardened biker felt something cold crawl down his spine.
Our Facebook Group
Join Our Group
