My Entitled Neighbor Bullied My Son So A Biker Gang Arrived To Teach Him Manners

Then it became a roar.
Mark froze, his hand still half-raised.
We lived on a quiet cul-de-sac. We never heard traffic. But this sounded like an earthquake was rolling down the asphalt.
I looked up, wiping mud from Leo’s eyes.
Rounding the corner was a formation of motorcycles. Chrome flashing in the sun, heavy black leather, the deep, chest-thumping sound of Harley Davidsons.
There were at least twenty of them.
Usually, they would just drive past to the highway.
But they didn’t.
The lead biker—a mountain of a man on a black bike with handlebars that reached his shoulders—slowed down. He was looking directly at our driveway. Directly at Mark standing over us.
He raised a gloved fist.
Behind him, twenty engines cut their revs, dropping to an idling growl that sounded like a pack of wolves.

They turned in.
One by one, the bikes lined up along the curb in front of our house, blocking the driveway. Blocking Mark’s precious truck. Blocking the exit.
Mark’s face went pale. He took a step back, suddenly looking very small in his white polo shirt.
The lead biker kicked his kickstand down. The sound of metal hitting asphalt rang out like a gunshot.
He turned off his engine. The silence that followed was terrifying.
He unbuckled his helmet, pulled it off, and hung it on the handlebar. He had a gray beard, a scar running through his eyebrow, and eyes that looked like they had seen war.
He didn’t look at Mark. He looked at Leo, covered in mud, shaking in my arms.
Then he looked at the juice stain.

Then he looked at Mark.
“Seems like you got a problem with gravity, friend,” the biker said. His voice was gravel and smoke. “And we got a problem with bullies.”
Mark tried to put on his ‘insurance salesman’ smile, but it looked like a grimace. “Gentlemen, this is private property. I think you’re lost.”
The biker didn’t smile. He stepped off his bike and opened the gate to our perfectly manicured lawn.
“No,” the biker said, cracking his knuckles. “I think we’re exactly where we need to be.”
Part 2 : Mark’s face went pale. He took a step back, suddenly looking very small in his white polo shirt.
The lead biker kicked his kickstand down. The sound of metal hitting asphalt rang out like a gunshot.
He turned off his engine.

The silence that followed was terrifying.
He unbuckled his helmet, pulled it off, and hung it on the handlebar. He had a gray beard, a scar running through his eyebrow, and eyes that looked like they had seen war.
He didn’t look at Mark. He looked at Leo, covered in mud, shaking in my arms.
Then he looked at the juice stain.
Then he looked at Mark.
“Seems like you got a problem with gravity, friend,” the biker said. His voice was gravel and smoke. “And we got a problem with bullies.”
Mark tried to put on his ‘insurance salesman’ smile, but it looked like a grimace. “Gentlemen, this is private property. I think you’re lost.”
The biker didn’t smile. He stepped off his bike and opened the gate to our perfectly manicured lawn.

“No,” the biker said, cracking his knuckles. “I think we’re exactly where we need to be.”