Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 5: In a Dignified Manner
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 5: In a Dignified Manner - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Las Vegas, Nevada
March 31, 2005
Six o’clock, late afternoon in Las Vegas on March 31 meant the sun was still hanging in there for now. It was low over the western edge of the valley, flattened and orange, throwing long shadows across Paradise Road. The air was warm—low eighties—but the desert wind had come up, steady enough to push grit and debris along the asphalt and tug at loose clothing. The Strip was starting to wake up behind them, neon flickering on in layers, but Jake didn’t look at it.
He drove past without comment.
His black 2001 Lincoln Navigator carried a thin film of highway dust from the run down Highway 58 and over the state line. It pulled the rented three-rail trailer steady and straight, the three motorcycles riding upright behind it: Jake’s black 2002 Road King, Owen’s candy apple red 1989 Road King, and Laura’s black cherry pearl 2005 Softail Deluxe, whitewalls still shiny and new. Straps tight. No sway. Though the SLO chapter of the Rough Riders, who were helping out with the mission of getting Matt’s body home, had all ridden from SLO county, Jake and his motley crew had chosen to trailer the bikes to Vegas instead. There would be ample opportunity to put some significant miles on the bikes over the next two days.
Inside the cab, conversation was restrained.
Jake drove. Celia sat beside him, quiet, watching the light change across the windshield. Behind them, Laura and Nerdly rode in the second row. Tif and Owen and Sharon took the rear bench, Owen the middle between the two ladies and blushing whenever Mrs. Nerdly’s shoulder or leg touched his. No music. No radio. Just engine hum and wind.
The mission was going to be long but straightforward.
Retrieve Matt Tisdale from Valley Springs Funeral Home in Henderson, Nevada. Take him home to Heritage, California. Do it in a “dignified manner.”
That is what the law said. But no one had ever defined what dignified meant.
So Jake and the Rough Riders—a group that just happened to include a licensed funeral director in Reap—were uniquely equipped for the task. Jake had not been told Reap’s real name and didn’t really want to know it since such reveals tended to be disappointing. After all, what sounded cooler? Fuckin’ Reap the funeral director/patched biker, or Stanley Fisterbaum, or Mortimer Snead. And there was zero chance his real name was cooler than “Reap” even if it was “Hugh G. Johnson” or “John Thomas IX.”
Jake signaled and turned right, leaving the Strip traffic behind. Three blocks east, another right. The commercial glare softened into something quieter—wider streets, fewer pedestrians, business hotels instead of glittering pleasure palaces that smelled of cigarette smoke.
The Embassy Suites came into view ahead. Beige façade. Clean lines. No casino floor humming inside. Just a place for business travelers who liked free breakfast and two drinks in the evening but didn’t need (or want) a casino with all its smoke and noise and temptation downstairs.
Jake eased into the parking lot, scanning automatically.
Along the far row, customized Harley-Davidson motorcycles were already lined up. Engines off. Stands down. Leather and chrome catching the last of the sun. Twelve of them. Tomorrow at ten, they would all ride to Henderson and begin Matt’s journey back to his hometown for burial.
Tonight, they would check in.
Jake scanned the lot as he eased the Navigator forward, slow and deliberate. He bypassed the rows of sedans and SUVs near the entrance—too exposed, too close to foot traffic—and aimed for the far end where the spaces were marked for trucks and RVs. Long, pull-through spots with room to maneuver the trailer without backing up blind.
Jake had never had to transport something on a trailer before. As such, he did not know how to back one up. There had not been time to learn. If push came to shove, he would have one of the Riders do any necessary backing for him. Among the twelve of them and their old ladies, there had to be at least one who knew how to back a trailer. Most likely all of them did. The actual bikers anyway. He hoped he did not have to use this plan. No sense admitting he was lacking a basic man skill if he didn’t have to. He would try to always put the trailer in a situation where backing was not necessary. So far, he had done so.
He chose one of the pull through slots that was dead center, flanked by two security cameras mounted high on the building’s corner. One lens pointed straight down the aisle; the other swept the perimeter. Both red indicator lights blinked steadily. Good enough.
He pulled through, aligned the trailer so the bikes faced the hotel rather than the street, killed the engine, and set the parking brake. The cab went quiet except for the faint tick of metal cooling and the wind brushing the antennas.
No one spoke right away.
They piled out in the familiar order. Jake first, keys in hand, eyes still working the lot. Celia slid out behind him, stretching once. Laura and Nerdly followed, Laura slinging a black canvas bag over her shoulder while Nerdly fumbled with his own, looking mildly uncomfortable already. Sharon, Owen, and Tif brought up the rear, Tif zipping her hoodie against the dry wind.
Baggage was minimal—only their gear and what could strap to the bikes tomorrow. Each Harley had saddlebags and a sissy bar rack, enough for two people’s worth of clothes, toiletries, and a few essentials. Jake and Celia would double up on his Road King. Owen and Tif on Owen’s. Laura would take Nerdly on the back of her Softail—Nerdly, who had never once sat on a motorcycle in his life. He hadn’t wanted to come on the mission until Laura looked him dead in the eye and said, “You don’t have a hair on your ass if you won’t ride bitch for Matt.” No one in the Kingsley orbit could tolerate this accusation. He had tried to weasel out by claiming that Sharon would never let him ride on a motorcycle but Sharon—normally the most loyal of spouses—had royally cockblocked him on this one.
“As long as you wear full protective gear and a DOT approved full-face helmet, I see no reason why you cannot ride bitch with Teach,” had been her exact words.
Defeated, he had agreed after that. And he had brought enough gear that he could probably safely step in front of a speeding freight train and walk away after dusting himself off.
Neither Laura nor Owen actually held full motorcycle endorsements yet. Learner’s permits only. California law said no passengers, no freeways, no night riding. Tomorrow they’d break every single one of those rules in the same twelve-hour stretch. Jake figured the law was more suggestion than commandment when the circumstances were right. Matt would’ve agreed. Hell, Matt would’ve laughed and told them to pull the sticks out of their asses and stop being pussies about it.
Jake walked to the rear of the Navigator and turned his face into the wind. He unlocked the trailer gate and dropped the ramp with a metallic clatter, the springs catching and settling. The smell of rubber and road dust drifted up as he unhooked the ratchet straps one by one—rear wheel first, then front—letting the tension ease instead of snap. The bikes rocked gently in place once freed, balanced on their kickstands.
“I’ll take mine first,” he said.
He rolled the Road King back carefully, guiding it straight down the ramp under its own weight, front brake feathered, boots steady on either side. The rear tire touched asphalt with a soft thud. He walked it clear, swung a leg over, and thumbed the ignition just long enough to ease it out of the way before killing it again.
Owen followed with his red Road King, slower, jaw set in concentration. Jake stayed near the ramp but didn’t interfere. Owen managed the descent clean, brake squeaking faintly as he modulated it too cautiously, but he got it down without incident.
Laura went last. She didn’t ask for help. She just climbed up, centered the bars, and rolled the Softail down in a straight line, feet wide for balance. The whitewalls touched pavement and she let out a quiet breath.
They rode the bikes sixty feet across the lot—no gear put on at all, never getting out of first gear—and lined them up with the rest of the Harleys along the far row, chrome catching the last of the sun. Jake locked the forks. Owen did the same. Laura gave hers one last glance as if daring it to fall over on its own.
Jake closed the trailer ramp, latched it, and locked the hitch. He tossed the straps into the back of the Navigator. Bags came out next—minimal, compact, practical. They slung them over shoulders, shoes scuffing on warm asphalt, wind tugging at sleeves and hair, and headed toward the entrance.
For now, it was just check-in.
The automatic doors hissed open again and let the group step inside. The lobby was standard mid-tier hotel—beige marble-look tile underfoot, a low ceiling with recessed lighting, a couple of fake-leather wing chairs arranged around a glass coffee table stacked with outdated tourism magazines. A potted Ficus in the corner had seen better days. The air carried the faint tang of chlorine drifting in from the atrium pool, undercut by the warmer, richer smell of food wafting from the dining area down the short hallway to the right.
Half a dozen people were scattered in the lobby besides the staff. Business types, not in suits but dressed business casual—khakis, polo shirts, clean-shaven, hair groomed, briefcases or laptop bags at their feet. All of them looked like they put on a mean PowerPoint presentation. They sat or stood near the elevators, glancing up as the door opened, then freezing when they saw the long-haired man in the lead. Mild disapproval flickered across a couple of faces—tight lips, quick side-eyes, the silent judgment of travelers who’d rather not share space with long-haired freaks in denim and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt. Then one of them noticed Celia Valdez at Jake’s side—dark hair, unmistakable profile, the way she moved like she owned the room even when she was quiet. Even when she too was dressed in denim and a Harley shirt. Recognition hit like a delayed fuse. Heads turned.
The temperature of their appraisal shifted—still curious, still wary—but threaded now with reluctant fascination. Jake couldn’t hear a word of it, but he didn’t need to. He had walked into rooms like this for more than twenty years now. The double-take. The whisper. The recalibration. It was muscle memory. No one stood. No one approached. They observed and pretended not to.
Jake led the group straight to the front desk without slowing. The woman behind the counter was mid-twenties, Hispanic, attractive in a professional way—dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, hotel blazer crisp, name tag reading CARINA. She looked up as they approached, eyes widening a fraction when she recognized him, then flicking nervously to the rest of the group.
“Hi,” she said, voice a little higher than it needed to be. “Welcome to Embassy Suites. How can I help you?”
“I’m checking in,” Jake said, sliding Nerdly’s confirmation printout across the marble. “Under Glenn Sutter. And I’m paying for the additional fourteen rooms my party has booked.”
Carina glanced at the paper, then back up at him. She chewed her lower lip for half a second.
“You mean ... the biker people?” she asked, the words coming out softer than she probably intended.
Jake met her eyes, calm, no edge. “They’re not just biker people,” he said evenly. “They’re the escort for Matt Tisdale’s final journey home. All of this is coming out of his estate.”
Carina blinked. The information didn’t seem to register as anything more than trivia. She nodded once, mechanically, and started tapping at her keyboard.
Jake waited a beat. “Have they started any trouble?” he asked.
She hesitated, fingers pausing over the keys.
“They’ve been very polite so far,” she admitted. “But ... other guests are afraid to go to the complimentary cocktail service in the reception room. Your ... uh ... friends have kind of ... taken it over.”
Jake kept his tone neutral. “How did they take it over?”
Carina swallowed. “They just came in and sat down and ordered drinks.”
“And then...?”
“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all. They’re just ... sitting there. Drinking the free beer and mixed drinks. The women are drinking wine. Talking quietly. But the other guests won’t go in. They’re waiting in their rooms or in the atrium instead.” She looked at him like she was hoping for a solution.
Jake just shrugged. “They are guests in the hotel,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but ... would you ... have a talk with them?” she asked.
Jake studied her for a moment. “What exactly am I supposed to talk to them about?”
Carina shifted her weight slightly, clearly uncomfortable. “Maybe if they looked ... less biker like? Took off those vest thingies they’re wearing? It might ease the minds of the other guests.”
Jake nodded once. “That makes sense from your perspective.” His tone stayed calm, almost conversational. “But I am not about to ask a group of Rough Riders to take off their cuts in a public place that Matt Tisdale’s estate is paying good money for them to be in. Requests like that aren’t always taken kindly. Even if they consider me a brother.”
Carina’s eyes widened a fraction.
“At the moment they are just sitting in there having their complimentary cocktails like any other guest,” Jake went on. “If you think it’s necessary, you’re welcome to go in there and explain to them that they should remove those ‘vest thingies’ to look better for the other guests—although I strongly recommend you do not use that term in front of them.”
She swallowed.
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t,” Jake replied.
Carina nodded and returned to her keyboard, visibly relieved to retreat into something procedural. “And the primary room holders for the other two rooms?” she asked.
“Harry Riggs will be one,” Jake said.
She paused mid-keystroke. “Harry ... Riggs?” The name came out with faint distaste, as though she suspected she was being toyed with.
“That’s William Archer,” Jake explained. “Nerdly if you’re an Intemp fan. Hotel names are made by combining your middle name with the street you grew up on. I’m Glenn Sutter.” He said it matter-of-factly, no wink, no smirk. “William Harold Archer grew up on Riggs Avenue in Heritage.”
Carina looked at him for a second as if waiting for the punchline. When none came, her expression shifted from suspicion to reluctant acceptance.
“I see,” she said.
“And the third room is under Anne Forty-Seventh.”
“Forty-Seventh?” Carina asked, incredulous.
“Tif grew up on 47th Place in the Valley,” Jake said evenly. “She spells it out. She’s classy that way.”
“I ... I see,” Carina said slowly.
Carina slid the three key card envelopes across the marble with a small, relieved nod. Jake pocketed them without comment, gave her a neutral “thanks,” and turned. The six of them—Jake leading, Celia at his side, Laura and Nerdly behind, Owen and Tif bringing up the rear—headed for the elevators, duffels slung over shoulders, tennis shoes quiet on the tile.
The elevator dinged open almost immediately. They filed in, the mirrored walls reflecting six tired, road-weary people. No one spoke on the ride up. The doors opened on the top floor with a soft chime.
Jake, Laura, and Celia had the corner suite—two connecting rooms, a king bed in the main bedroom big enough for three without apology, and a sunken jacuzzi tub in the bathroom that could’ve doubled as a baptism pool if necessary. There had been a time when Celia would’ve pretended to be staying in Nerdly’s suite or Tif and Owen’s just to keep the staff from suspecting the triad arrangement. Those days were long gone. The Jake-is-Gay tabloid exposé by the Watcher rag, followed by the trio’s own matter-of-fact admission to the San Francisco Chronicle about what was really going on, had burned that bridge to ash. Even if a quarter of the human race still didn’t believe it—still thought it was all a clever PR stunt to counteract the closeted gay protected by his lesbian beards narrative—who gave a shit? They were free to be open about it now. No more hiding. No more decoy rooms.
Nerdly and Sharon had their own suite down the hall. Owen and Tif had theirs. Everyone split off long enough to drop bags—duffels thumped onto beds, zippers rasped open and shut, a quick splash of water in sinks to wash off the grime. Five minutes later they were back at the elevators, reassembling without a word.
The ride down was as silent as the ride up. Doors opened on the lobby level. They stepped out and turned right, following the hallway signs toward the reception area.
As Carina had said, the place was empty except for the Rough Riders and their old ladies.
Twelve patched members from the SLO chapter stood or sat in loose clusters around the bar setup and the pushed-together tables. Their cuts were on—black leather, three-piece patches, bottom rockers reading “SLO CHAPTER”—and no one had made any effort to hide them. The old ladies—twelve of them to match the twelve bikers—were scattered among them: some perched on stools, some leaning against the railing near the fountain, all of them nursing plastic cups of complimentary beer, wine, or whatever basic mixed drinks the hotel was pouring tonight. Quiet conversation drifted over the low hum of the fountain. A couple of the guys laughed once, short and low. No one was loud. No one was rowdy. They were just ... there. Occupying the space like they’d occupied every clubhouse, every bar, every stretch of road they’d ever claimed.
The rest of the reception area—small round tables, padded chairs, the long bar counter with its neat row of bottles—was deserted. No business travelers. No tourists. Just the Riders and their women, and the faint clink of ice in cups.
The six newcomers paused at the threshold. No one in the reception area had noticed them yet. Jake took in the familiar faces one by one.
Tater—chapter president, broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper beard, the same easy grin he’d worn since the first time Jake met him at the weed warehouse—sat at the center table like it was his throne. Asshat leaned against the bar nearby, arms crossed, looking bored but alert. Long Cock was two stools down, nursing a beer and talking low to Porno, who laughed once and slapped the bar. Reap—quiet, watchful, the licensed funeral director who’d already done more thinking about tomorrow than anyone else—sat a little apart, elbows on the table, eyes flicking toward the newcomers before anyone else noticed. Groper, Noxious, Flim-Flam, Worm Tongue, Booger, Goat Roper, and Dave rounded out the rest, all of them here for Matt. Jake knew every single one of them. Names, stories, scars, little quirks of personality (like Porno’s frequent soliloquies about being butt raped in prison until he became the butt-raper instead of the butt-rapee).
Of the old ladies, he’d only met one before: Bushwhacker. Tater’s official old lady. She’d ridden up with Tater the day the Rough Riders gifted Owen his Road King—delivered it personally, handed over the keys with a nod and a “Don’t fuck it up, kid.” She sat next to Tater now, turned sideways in her chair, talking over her shoulder to one of the other women. The back of her cut was plainly visible: black leather, clean lines, no top rocker, no center club patch—just the bottom rocker reading SLO CHAPTER and, in bold white letters above it, PROPERTY OF ROUGH RIDERS.
To an outsider, the phrasing was pure misogyny—ownership branded in leather. To the old ladies themselves, it was a mark of pride: I belong to this man, this club, this life. No apologies. Bushwhacker wore it like armor. All of the other old ladies had identical cuts, differing only in size and age.
Jake glanced sideways at Laura—the one most likely to bristle at the sight, to mutter something under her breath about patriarchal bullshit. But she didn’t even seem to notice. She just stood there, quiet, taking it in.
Tater’s head came up first. His eyes found Jake’s group at the threshold and lit up like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Look what the fuckin’ threesome just dragged in,” he said, voice carrying just enough to cut through the low hum of conversation.
He rose, chair scraping back, and headed their way. Bushwhacker came with him without hesitation—solid build, dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail under a bandana, property cut on full display.
Jake stepped forward to meet them. Tater extended a hand; they shook once, firm, then pulled into a quick bro hug—shoulders colliding, back slaps, the kind that said more than words ever could.
Tater moved down the line. He did the same with Owen—handshake, hug, a gruff “GM” as he clapped him on the back. Then Nerdly. The bro hug was awkward—Nerdly stiffened, arms half-up, half-down—but Tater didn’t seem to care. He just laughed once, low and good-natured, and let him go.
Tater turned back to the group.
“You all remember Bushwhacker?”
They did.
She didn’t hug the men—handshake for Jake, nod for Owen and Nerdly—but she stepped forward and pulled Tif into a quick, firm embrace, then Laura, then Celia. No fuss, no lingering. Just the kind of hug women who ride give when they’re glad to see someone.
The reception area stayed quiet behind them. No one else moved. They just watched.
Jake and the others broke formation naturally, fanning out through the reception area in a loose clockwise sweep. Handshakes came first—firm grips, eye contact, quick shoulder bumps. Leather thudded against denim. Back slaps landed solid but measured. No one overdid it. No one needed to.
Introductions to the old ladies followed in the same rhythm. Bushwhacker did most of the naming.
“This is Slurry.”
“Clapper.”
“Beta.”
“Meany.”
“Viper.”
“Muffy.”
“Suck Start.”
The names kept coming, each more aggressive or absurd than the last, delivered without irony. No real names offered. None expected. They were tough as nails, proud of their position in the world, proud of the men they rode with, proud of the cuts on their backs. Their handshakes were as firm as the men’s, their eye contact steady.
Jake knew immediately he wouldn’t remember a single one of their names.
Years of fucking groupies and deliberately keeping names out of long-term storage had trained that subroutine right out of him. Faces, sure. Vibes, absolutely. Names? Gone by morning.
Laura, on the other hand, was cataloging everyone. Her years teaching junior high—five classes per semester, thirty kids per class—had built a steel-trap memory for names. Three years from now she would greet Slurry like a cousin and ask Viper about her sister’s divorce even if she didn’t meet them a single time in those three years.
Eventually the circulation ended and the gravitational pull of the bar took over.
The bartender straightened when Jake approached. Tall. Thin. Handsome in a polished way—sharp cheekbones, carefully styled hair, crisp black shirt tucked neatly into slacks. His name tag read Malcolm.
“Mr. Kingsley,” he said, voice warm and just a touch breathless. “It’s an honor. I saw Intemperance on the Never Say Never Tour here in Vegas. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen.”
Jake smiled lightly. “Appreciate that.”
Twenty-four years in Hollywood had sharpened Jake’s instincts to near-scientific precision. Malcolm’s voice, the cadence, the posture, the way his attention hovered half a beat longer than necessary—Jake’s gaydar was about as sensitive and accurate as it was possible for a gaydar to be. Malcolm was hoping. Probably part of the quarter of the human race still clinging to the American Watcher narrative, not from carefully examining the available evidence, but because he wanted it to be true. Jake knew that if he suddenly decided on this trip to let a dude suck his dick, he wouldn’t need to look any further than Malcolm.
Alas for Malcolm, that urge had yet to materialize. Malcolm’s straight-dar seemed to inform him of this immediately. A little flare of disappointment flashed on his face and he turned to Celia with equal enthusiasm, though stripped of any sexual undertone.
“Ms. Valdez,” he said, eyes bright. “It’s incredible to meet you.”
Celia gave him a small, gracious smile. She’d been a prominent icon among gay men for years—right up there with Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand in certain circles—and she handled that energy with practiced ease.
Laura received a polite hello, warm but brief, before Malcolm’s attention drifted back toward Celia. He chatted with her about her upcoming album and asked if she was going to tour again. It had been years since she toured last. And she was so magnificent in concert. No, he had never actually seen her in concert—the ticket prices, you know—but he had heard it was transcendental.
Jake let him ramble for a bit before asking if they could possibly order some drinks.
“Oh ... right, of course,” Malcolm said. “What can I get you?”
“Gin and tonic,” Laura said.
“Same,” Celia added.
Jake pulled out his credit card, the one that would be paid off from Matt’s estate once it was settled. “What do you got for IPAs in this place?”
Jake had intended to keep it short so he could get enough rest and be fresh for the morning. A couple of drinks during the complimentary reception. Maybe three. Enough to take the edge off and call it good before the free service shut down at seven-thirty.
It did not work out that way.
When the complimentary tap ran dry, the Rough Riders and their old ladies rose almost in unison and migrated deeper into the hotel toward the actual bar—the one where nothing was free and no one pretended it was. The move was unhurried and orderly. The handful of business travelers perched on barstools and clustered around high-top tables did the math quickly. Leather. Patches. Numbers. Within minutes, tabs were closed, jackets were gathered, and conversations relocated elsewhere in the building. A few even left half full drinks behind.
Jake didn’t say a word about it.
He stepped up to the bar and opened a tab with the bartender working this scene—a broad-shouldered guy in his thirties with close-cropped hair and a sleeve of tasteful black ink disappearing beneath his rolled cuffs. Beside him worked a woman with dark red hair pulled into a tight bun, quick hands, and the kind of expression that suggested she’d seen worse on convention weekends. They both clocked the room, assessed it, and decided this was not going to be a problem.
“What’re we drinking?” the male bartender asked.
“The good stuff,” Jake said. “Matt would want that. Everything on my tab.”
That was enough explanation.
Round after round followed. Not rail whiskey. Not domestic draft. Bottles with weight to them. Beer you couldn’t see through. The bar manager appeared once, took in the scene, did the math, and vanished again looking satisfied. By nine-thirty it was obvious this was going to be one of his best nights of the quarter.
Jake bought freely. Every round went on his card. It would all be billed to Matt’s estate, and Jake felt no guilt about that whatsoever. Matt would have demanded it. Matt would have insisted they stop being cheap and order something worth drinking.
Laura and Celia drifted out around ten, warm from gin and tonics and conversation. Owen and Tif followed not long after, Owen clapping Jake once on the shoulder before heading for the elevators. Sharon held the line until ten-thirty, then announced that someone in this operation needed to remain cognitively intact in the morning and that someone was not going to be Bill.
Jake, Nerdly, the Riders, and their old ladies stayed until midnight.
Sometime around nine, a small bag of 25-milligram THC gummies made its way around the table like communion wafers. The Riders took them without ceremony. Jake declined. He had a run to make and had never played around with edibles before. And he remembered Matt’s tale of overindulging on hash brownies in Rotterdam.
Nerdly found his stage.
Leaning back in his chair, glass balanced in one hand, he began explaining general relativity as it related to GPS satellites—how time moved differently in orbit, how clocks on satellites ticked at a slightly different rate due to velocity and gravity, how engineers had to correct for those differences or your navigation would drift miles off course.
The THC peaking Riders were riveted.
“Hold up,” Booger said, staring at Nerdly with narrowed eyes. “You’re tellin’ me time is different up there?”
“Yes,” Nerdly replied calmly. “It passes measurably slower. Not by much. Nanoseconds. But slower all the same.”
Long Cock blinked slowly. “That’s some wicked shit right there, brother.”