I know why my father and brother don’t drink. It’s because they have both experienced the black-out… Come back around to the keening and wailing, felt the sticky-slippery texture of blood between the fingers.

We are Beserkers.

Literally it means “Bear Shirt”.

If you think about it, there’s only one way to get one… That’s by skinning a dead bear. One man. One bear. If you live, no man will ever be a challenge. Fuck your SAMCRO cut, this is the utmost honour one could aspire to.

Trouble is, you don’t ever inhabit the Beserk state in day-to-day life; it’s a state you enter in the thick of battle. These days, that’s a rare occurrence.

Which is not to say that it is a rare occurrence to enter Beserk state… Getting over-drunk can flip that switch just as readily as confronting a ravening Grizzly.

Which is why my brother and father don’t drink.

I stood looking at my ancestors on the wall of photos, and for the first time I *actually* looked hard at each male. Were you a brawler? A wife-beater? If I go delving into my family tree am I going to find the inadvertent murder of drunken fools?

I don’t yet understand how my medicine and poison are the same brew.

I don’t want to meet you when I’m drunk.

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