"This is a long drive just for some beer. We're not really going to some Order training center again, are we?" Sammy slumped his shoulders and rolled his head. "I'm not in the mood to fight four guys at once again." He knew Hatchet hated whining, but Sammy couldn't help it seeping into his tone this time. It was, after all, his birthday, and combat training was not how he wanted to spend it.

"Kid, you know I don't bait and switch. I told you we're going out for drinks, so we're going out for drinks."

Free beer or not, with the money Hatchet spent on gas driving the Beast out here, it would have been cheaper just to go to one of the bars in Cedar City. But Sammy kept his mouth shut and assumed this was either a stubborn old man thing, or the owner of the bar would turn out to another old buddy of Hatchet's. For a man a) who couldn't get drunk, and b) scared the bejeezus out of most younger werewolves, Hatchet seemed to have no end of old buddies who ran bars.

They had just crossed the border into Wyoming when Hatchet veered off the highway and turned into a nigh-imperceptible groove in the earth that could only generously be described as a dirt road. The only sign that he had a definite destination in mind was, well, a large sign with only two-thirds of its surface illuminated, displaying "tering ole" in big blue letters. The other side, once they drove past, provided the other pieces of the puzzle with "Water Ho."

"Tearing Ole," Sammy mumbled, because it amused him.

"What?"

"Nothing, just bein' stupid," he said as they parked at the far end of the lot. "I'm confused. Isn't 21 the traditional year to take someone to a bar for their birthday?"

"You were busy spending it making kissy faces with your girlfriend."

Sammy grumbled. "Yeah well [i]that[/i] sure was a waste of time."

"Maybe, maybe not," Hatchet said, and then got out of the car without another word.

Sammy had seen plenty of filth during his homeless years. He had eaten out of dumpsters, and one time had even slept on the floor of a public bathroom to escape a storm. Which said something about the grime on the walls when they made even him balk at the door. The bar must have been haunted by the ghost of every cigarette smoked inside its walls. Even the pool table looked sticky. [i]This[/i] was how Hatchet wanted Sammy to celebrate his 23rd birthday?

Of course, Sammy could have said "No, thank you," but... well, no, he couldn't.

Hatchet planted himself on a stool and raised a pair of fingers in the air. "Two Sam Adamses," he said.

Sammy started to reach for his ID, but the bartender, a portly bald man who looked old enough to have fought in Vietnam, placed a pair of dusty bottles on the table and returned to washing the dishes. Sammy watched the space between the two, but neither man acted like they knew each other.

Either stool on both sides of Hatchet seemed just as likely to give Sammy tetanus, so he lowered himself onto the one to his elder's right and sniffed the drink Hatchet had not-bought for him. Truth be told, he didn't really see the appeal of beer. If something was an acquired taste, why go to all the work of acquiring it? But then, his elder packmate seemed to honestly want to spend time with him, if only just to "man him up." They had long ago passed the point where it had to be out of pity. Well, whatever the reason, it was probably a better idea to keep in Hatchet's good graces than fall out of them. He took a sip of the bitter, dark fluid. Honestly? Not that had. Not [i]good,[/i] either. But not bad.

"You don't belong here," came a greasy voice behind them. "Go back to Mexico where you belong."

Sammy's backbone went rigid when he realized the voice was directed at him. Mexico? The gaps in Sammy's memory had never fully filled in. Sometimes he got glimpses, echoes of childhood memories in his dreams, or perhaps they were just dreams. He still couldn't even recall his parents' names. He could very well have some Mexican heritage, but he was pretty certain he had been born in this country.

Hatchet swiveled around in his seat faster than Sammy. "You got a problem with my nephew, kid?" he spat.

Nephew? This merited a glance Hatchet's way before he gave his harasser any attention. While, yes, cubs were encouraged to think of any senior packmate they weren't actually related to as an aunt or an uncle, this was the first time Hatchet had called him anything other than "kid," "cub" or "pup." He had seen glimpses of sentiment before from the old man. But did Hatchet really think of him as family? Was [i]that [/i]why they were doing this?

Back to the problem at hand... or rather, in his face. Sammy found himself under the permanent sneer of a greasy, drawn-out face with minimal chin and a shaved head. He aimed his sneer at Hatchet. "This is our bar. Whites only."

Hatchet was, of course, completely unimpressed. "Y'know, if you boys bothered to read a history book, you'd know Mexicans are a hybrid race of the Native Americans and the Spanish who colonized Central America long before the rest of Europe came in here. So my boy's ancestors have been here far longer than yours have."

"Doesn't matter," the smarmy face said. "Whites are the ones who made this land our own. Our blood, our soil. So get [i]OUT![/i]"

"'Blood and soil,'" Hatchet repeated, unimpressed by the harasser's growing rage. "'Blood. And. Soil.' Seems like you boys [i]have[/i] been studying history. Just not learning from it. The blood spent for this soil was Indian and black blood. Not your own."

"It's natural selection. The better species beats out the inferior ones."

Hatchet finally stood up so fast that their harasser stumbled back. "Who's filling your heads with that bullshit?"

A fat, older man in a suit stood up, and all the other heads whipped around to watch him. It was then that Sammy noticed all nine humans in this bar had several things in common: white, shaved heads, and marked up with tattoos of some kind or another, a gallery of skulls and flames and Celtic knots and runes. Presumably their leader had some tattoos too, concealed under his suit.

Hatchet hadn't come all the way out here for drinks. He had come out here to continue a job he had started in the 1940s.

Even though Sammy's hearing was not as keen in human form, it was still sharp enough to hear the distant slam of the back door as the owner made his escape, then the sliding of a massive bolt sealing that route shut.

Hatchet jutted his chin at the fat man. "Where d'you get off teaching a bunch of angry virgins they're better than anyone?"

Oh, that did it. Every single one of the skinheads jumped to their feet. At this point, Sammy's heart was pounding in his ears... ears which wanted to migrate to the top of his head. He clenched his fists, willing his claws to stay buried under his finger tips.

"Race traitor," the fat man barked. He pulled a gun out from under his suit, and handed it to the boy nearest him, a scrawny thing in a denim vest and celtic crosses tattooed on each arm. "Frank, make me proud."

Sammy finally found his tongue and leapt onto his feet. "Hey now, what is this?"

Murder. They were going to try to [i]murder[/i] him and Hatchet. Which meant... oh no...

Frankie stepped forward and brought the gun up.

"Please," Sammy said. "You don't have to listen to [i]him[/i]."

"For god's sake, cub, no whimpering," Hatchet growled, and then stepped forward, eyes boring down into Frank. "What d'you think you're doing, you little pissant? You think you got the balls?"

The little pissant fired. Hatchet lurched back, falling onto a table and toppling it over with a horrible clatter.