The Unedited First Full Chapter of Property Of Necro... and a little taste of Chapter Two
Releasing September 10th 2025
By: Bink Cummings
Property of Necro
Chapter One
A faded Welcome to King’s Cursed sign greets us as we slowly cross the town limit. My escort snorts at the graffitied turn the fuck around scrawled across the bottom in bright red. From the passenger seat, I rub my sweaty palms on the top of my jeans.
I shouldn’t be nervous. This is what I agreed to.
Tell that to my gut when we pass King’s Cunts strip club—a small hole in the wall on the corner of what I assume is their downtown. An old neon sign hangs haphazardly on the aged brick. A printed Property of Kings of Anarchy sign is taped to the inside of the glass front door that’s in need of some soap, water, and elbow grease.
It’s midday, and there’s not a person in sight.
Not mowing their yard.
Not walking on the chipped sidewalk.
Not… anywhere.
It looks like a ghost town with a strip club that, for all I know, could be out of business.
“We’re almost there,” Dark, the reason I’m here, comments as he navigates down a street lined with older but well-kept, single-story houses. There's a church at the far end, past a sign that says no outlet. A fence straight out of a horror movie made of black iron and spikes surrounds the large plot of land. A gate made of the same material serves as a barricade to the single lane that leads to the ominous stone church on the hill. It’s open, resting in the grass on either side of the path as if they’re waiting for us.
I guess they are.
They know I’m coming.
I’m a gift.
Or so they think.
That’s how Dark explained it when he asked me to take this job for his club—the Sacred Sinners. Due to their business dealings with the Kings of Anarchy, this chapter in particular, they need a spy to keep an eye on things from the inside, and that’s what I do. I work for the club. Intel mostly. But this isn’t a normal job. I’m not infiltrating a sex trafficking ring, which I’ve done plenty of times before. I’m not communing with rich fucks who couldn’t remember a face if you paid them. I’m not spreading my legs for a mafia boss on his fiftieth birthday or, like my last job, working for a porn director that exploited women. Yes. As in past tense. That bastard is dead, six feet in the ground, rotting in Hell, thanks to me. Good riddance.
This is different than any of those jobs.
The Kings of Anarchy are friends with the Sacred Sinners, and I’m here to fuck their president.
Which generally sounds like a jolly good time. It’s not my first rodeo.
Except…
It kind of is…
Because Dark hasn’t briefed me about the club, what he needs me to find, or the men I’m dealing with.
Just as I haven’t told him, I have a poison in my backpack, courtesy of his ex-wife, just in case someone gets out of line. Death by tea, anyone?
“You ready for this?” He nods toward the church as we turn onto the lane and creep up the hill, giving the residence plenty of time to see we’re coming.
“As ready as I can be,” I reply after we park in front of the slate-gray building, rubbing my palms on my pants one last time.
A line of motorcycles looking like props from a Mad Max film are parked at the side of the lot. A shirtless man in ripped, worn-out jeans exits the double-doored church and pauses at the top landing. Speckles of some substance dot his chest and abs. He cards a hand through his black, movie-star-worthy hair.
“That’s Rot,” Dark explains, climbing out of his SUV to greet the biker.
They back-clap like men do as I hop out, slam my door shut, and round the hood.
Rot.
What a name.
I’ve heard of plenty of unique, off-the-wall ones, but I’ve never met a Rot.
Sneaking another look at the tall man, I file his road name away for later so I don’t forget. Not that I would.
“Welcome.” He raises a calloused hand in greeting, showing off his impressive bicep muscle and a flash of white teeth. I pause at the bottom step to read an old church bulletin wrapped in a prickly, overgrown bush.
Church of the Cursed is crudely carved across the worn wood, its letters painted red.
On the bulletin - a poem.
The walls hiss secrets. The shadows conceal.
We feed on fears you thought weren’t real.
A curse grips the air. Death waits in the dark.
Once you step inside, you shall never depart.
Reading it three times, I shiver at the cryptic message and look up to find Dark frowning. “Sola?” He sweeps his hand toward the church's open door, where darkness lurks over the threshold.
Another shiver travels to my toes.
Right.
I’m here as a gift. I have a part to play.
Rot smiles warmly as I steel my shoulders, blow out a breath, and ascend the stairs in my favorite purple crocs with colorful charms.
“I’ll grab your bag,” Dark calls as I stop beside the biker on the landing. He’s a full head taller than me and covered in blood. I’ve been around enough death to know what it looks like. There’s a smear across his pierced nipple.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Rot bows his head and flicks his gaze to the doorway as if waiting to see if I make the first step to cross the threshold.
Clasping my hands together, I say nothing as I inspect the carved bone handles on the church and the runes carved into the old wood. There’s an upside-down cross nailed at the top of the frame.
So they’re not a Christian club. Got it.
Dark sets my bags on the top step, and Rot collects them—one in each hand.
“You’re not coming in?” I ask my ride.
Hands stuffed in his front pockets, Dark shakes his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not welcome inside.”
“He’s not one of us,” Rot growls as if that somehow answers everything when all it gives me is more questions.
But… the poem… Once you step inside, you shall never depart.
“You can’t leave if you go in,” I guess.
Upper lip curling back like a savage, Rot juts his chin at Dark. “He dies.”
Oh.
How unfortunate.
Chuckling awkwardly, my ride grips his tattooed throat. “Kinda like my head still attached to my body.”
“Righttt,” I drawl, not at all freaked out. Nope. Not me.
“They’ll take good care of you, Sola,” Dark promises from the sidewalk, but he doesn’t look convinced when the jerk doesn’t meet my eye.
Not knowing how to respond besides asking questions he won’t give me answers to, I press my lips together and nod twice.
“We will,” Rot confirms, flashing me a wink.
With goosebumps sprouting all over my body and nerves eating away at my gut, I turn and march inside.
In for a penny.
In for a pound.
Fuck a horny duck…
What did I agree to?
Chapter two
Crossing into the sanctuary, my Crocs squeak across the center aisle in the quiet room. I wince at the sound as men sitting in the pews look up. Their penetrating gazes lock on me as Rot urges me to keep going.
Stained glass windows depicting angels lining one wall cast beams of colorful light across the space. A bone chandelier hangs overhead as I reach the middle of the room. From here, human skulls guide my way, hanging on the ends of aged pews, some with dried flowers poking through their eye sockets.
Keeping my head down, I clasp my hands in front of me and keep going.
Nerves gnaw my insides like a scared rat trying to get free.
Incense perfumes the air but does nothing to quell my unease.
A man clears his throat, but I keep moving.
“Five more steps,” Rot whispers from somewhere behind me.
Right. Five steps.
Counting them in my head, I take them slowly. The gray and black tiles underfoot flow to a single red tile, where I stop.
The man behind me hums his approval, and for some reason, that little sound warms me the tiniest bit as I school my features and glance up.
On a stage, a shirtless man carved with muscles and littered with scars sits on a black throne, watching me like a predator does its prey, with eyes so blue they’re almost white. A black mask out of a post-apocalyptic hellscape covers his nose and mouth. He cocks his bald head to the side, and his dark brows hike to the sky as if daring me to say something, to do something, to challenge him, to cause trouble.
But I won’t. That’s not why I’m here.
Feet together, I stand on my red tile and await his instructions.
This is the man I’m here to please.
I’m his gift.
Releasing September 10th 2025
By: Bink Cummings
Property of Necro
Chapter One
A faded Welcome to King’s Cursed sign greets us as we slowly cross the town limit. My escort snorts at the graffitied turn the fuck around scrawled across the bottom in bright red. From the passenger seat, I rub my sweaty palms on the top of my jeans.
I shouldn’t be nervous. This is what I agreed to.
Tell that to my gut when we pass King’s Cunts strip club—a small hole in the wall on the corner of what I assume is their downtown. An old neon sign hangs haphazardly on the aged brick. A printed Property of Kings of Anarchy sign is taped to the inside of the glass front door that’s in need of some soap, water, and elbow grease.
It’s midday, and there’s not a person in sight.
Not mowing their yard.
Not walking on the chipped sidewalk.
Not… anywhere.
It looks like a ghost town with a strip club that, for all I know, could be out of business.
“We’re almost there,” Dark, the reason I’m here, comments as he navigates down a street lined with older but well-kept, single-story houses. There's a church at the far end, past a sign that says no outlet. A fence straight out of a horror movie made of black iron and spikes surrounds the large plot of land. A gate made of the same material serves as a barricade to the single lane that leads to the ominous stone church on the hill. It’s open, resting in the grass on either side of the path as if they’re waiting for us.
I guess they are.
They know I’m coming.
I’m a gift.
Or so they think.
That’s how Dark explained it when he asked me to take this job for his club—the Sacred Sinners. Due to their business dealings with the Kings of Anarchy, this chapter in particular, they need a spy to keep an eye on things from the inside, and that’s what I do. I work for the club. Intel mostly. But this isn’t a normal job. I’m not infiltrating a sex trafficking ring, which I’ve done plenty of times before. I’m not communing with rich fucks who couldn’t remember a face if you paid them. I’m not spreading my legs for a mafia boss on his fiftieth birthday or, like my last job, working for a porn director that exploited women. Yes. As in past tense. That bastard is dead, six feet in the ground, rotting in Hell, thanks to me. Good riddance.
This is different than any of those jobs.
The Kings of Anarchy are friends with the Sacred Sinners, and I’m here to fuck their president.
Which generally sounds like a jolly good time. It’s not my first rodeo.
Except…
It kind of is…
Because Dark hasn’t briefed me about the club, what he needs me to find, or the men I’m dealing with.
Just as I haven’t told him, I have a poison in my backpack, courtesy of his ex-wife, just in case someone gets out of line. Death by tea, anyone?
“You ready for this?” He nods toward the church as we turn onto the lane and creep up the hill, giving the residence plenty of time to see we’re coming.
“As ready as I can be,” I reply after we park in front of the slate-gray building, rubbing my palms on my pants one last time.
A line of motorcycles looking like props from a Mad Max film are parked at the side of the lot. A shirtless man in ripped, worn-out jeans exits the double-doored church and pauses at the top landing. Speckles of some substance dot his chest and abs. He cards a hand through his black, movie-star-worthy hair.
“That’s Rot,” Dark explains, climbing out of his SUV to greet the biker.
They back-clap like men do as I hop out, slam my door shut, and round the hood.
Rot.
What a name.
I’ve heard of plenty of unique, off-the-wall ones, but I’ve never met a Rot.
Sneaking another look at the tall man, I file his road name away for later so I don’t forget. Not that I would.
“Welcome.” He raises a calloused hand in greeting, showing off his impressive bicep muscle and a flash of white teeth. I pause at the bottom step to read an old church bulletin wrapped in a prickly, overgrown bush.
Church of the Cursed is crudely carved across the worn wood, its letters painted red.
On the bulletin - a poem.
The walls hiss secrets. The shadows conceal.
We feed on fears you thought weren’t real.
A curse grips the air. Death waits in the dark.
Once you step inside, you shall never depart.
Reading it three times, I shiver at the cryptic message and look up to find Dark frowning. “Sola?” He sweeps his hand toward the church's open door, where darkness lurks over the threshold.
Another shiver travels to my toes.
Right.
I’m here as a gift. I have a part to play.
Rot smiles warmly as I steel my shoulders, blow out a breath, and ascend the stairs in my favorite purple crocs with colorful charms.
“I’ll grab your bag,” Dark calls as I stop beside the biker on the landing. He’s a full head taller than me and covered in blood. I’ve been around enough death to know what it looks like. There’s a smear across his pierced nipple.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Rot bows his head and flicks his gaze to the doorway as if waiting to see if I make the first step to cross the threshold.
Clasping my hands together, I say nothing as I inspect the carved bone handles on the church and the runes carved into the old wood. There’s an upside-down cross nailed at the top of the frame.
So they’re not a Christian club. Got it.
Dark sets my bags on the top step, and Rot collects them—one in each hand.
“You’re not coming in?” I ask my ride.
Hands stuffed in his front pockets, Dark shakes his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not welcome inside.”
“He’s not one of us,” Rot growls as if that somehow answers everything when all it gives me is more questions.
But… the poem… Once you step inside, you shall never depart.
“You can’t leave if you go in,” I guess.
Upper lip curling back like a savage, Rot juts his chin at Dark. “He dies.”
Oh.
How unfortunate.
Chuckling awkwardly, my ride grips his tattooed throat. “Kinda like my head still attached to my body.”
“Righttt,” I drawl, not at all freaked out. Nope. Not me.
“They’ll take good care of you, Sola,” Dark promises from the sidewalk, but he doesn’t look convinced when the jerk doesn’t meet my eye.
Not knowing how to respond besides asking questions he won’t give me answers to, I press my lips together and nod twice.
“We will,” Rot confirms, flashing me a wink.
With goosebumps sprouting all over my body and nerves eating away at my gut, I turn and march inside.
In for a penny.
In for a pound.
Fuck a horny duck…
What did I agree to?
Chapter two
Crossing into the sanctuary, my Crocs squeak across the center aisle in the quiet room. I wince at the sound as men sitting in the pews look up. Their penetrating gazes lock on me as Rot urges me to keep going.
Stained glass windows depicting angels lining one wall cast beams of colorful light across the space. A bone chandelier hangs overhead as I reach the middle of the room. From here, human skulls guide my way, hanging on the ends of aged pews, some with dried flowers poking through their eye sockets.
Keeping my head down, I clasp my hands in front of me and keep going.
Nerves gnaw my insides like a scared rat trying to get free.
Incense perfumes the air but does nothing to quell my unease.
A man clears his throat, but I keep moving.
“Five more steps,” Rot whispers from somewhere behind me.
Right. Five steps.
Counting them in my head, I take them slowly. The gray and black tiles underfoot flow to a single red tile, where I stop.
The man behind me hums his approval, and for some reason, that little sound warms me the tiniest bit as I school my features and glance up.
On a stage, a shirtless man carved with muscles and littered with scars sits on a black throne, watching me like a predator does its prey, with eyes so blue they’re almost white. A black mask out of a post-apocalyptic hellscape covers his nose and mouth. He cocks his bald head to the side, and his dark brows hike to the sky as if daring me to say something, to do something, to challenge him, to cause trouble.
But I won’t. That’s not why I’m here.
Feet together, I stand on my red tile and await his instructions.
This is the man I’m here to please.
I’m his gift.