Forty-five engines went silent today to say goodbye to our brother, Spike. He was a decorated veteran, tougher than anyone I knew, but it wasn’t combat that finally took him down. It was a broken heart.

Everyone knew Spike and his dog, Rover. They were legends in our small town. After his tours, Spike always said that old, shaggy dog was the only thing keeping the past from swallowing him whole.

They were one soul in two bodies. Then the new, wealthy family moved into the house on the hill next to him. They started with complaints about Rover’s barking.

Then came threatening letters about “property values.” We all told Spike to ignore the jerks. We had his back. But they were relentless, chipping away at the one piece of peace he had left.

He told me one night, his voice hollow, “If they take him, they take me.” I didn’t understand how literally he meant it. Last Tuesday, Rover disappeared from Spike’s fenced-in yard. Spike searched for three days, a ghost of himself.

Then the police found Rover on the side of the highway a few miles away. It wasn’t an accident. The vet’s report confirmed our worst fears, but there was no proof to link it back to the neighbors.

Without proof, Spike just… gave up. He was gone two days later. So that’s why there are two names on that sagging banner.

After we lowered Spike’s casket, our club president, Stone, walked to the edge of the grave. He looked straight at the big house on the hill, where the neighbors were peeking through their pristine curtains. Then, he slowly pulled a small digital audio recorder from his pocket.

Stone pressed play. The small speaker crackled to life, and a voice, slick with arrogance and privilege, filled the quiet cemetery. It was Arthur Harrington, the man from the house on the hill.

“The old fool finally got the message,” Harrington’s voice sneered. It sounded like he was on the phone, talking to someone he was trying to impress. “I told Eleanor I’d handle the ‘dog situation,’ and I did.

A little late-night trip, a sleepy mutt… it was easier than I thought.”

A collective gasp went through the crowd of bikers and townsfolk. Every eye turned from the grave to the big house on the hill. The curtains twitched and then were yanked shut.

The recording continued. “No, no, no mess here. We just encouraged him to take a long walk a few miles from home.