Colors, Part 2

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  Posted by Edgewalker54 May 4, 2012 - Filed in Personal Ride Stories - 1,029 views
  

   

  Colors

                                                                                               Posted: 8/15/2012
                                                                                                 by Jake Walker
  
  
  I was splitting lanes between 70 to 80 in a 50 mph zone, threading my bike through the ever-changing sea of cages. An unseen and unknown Idiot had run into another Idiot and now they are standing on the side of the freeway, waiting to be “Rescued”. None of this really registered as I threaded my way in between and around the little metal boxes that offered death at the whim of an Idiot. I was totally on auto-pilot because a club Brother had just gone down, hard.
  
  By the time I reached the meat ward, I was in a foul mood and ready to bitch-slap somebody. I went storming up to the Information Lady and introduced myself. I said “I’m Jack and I’ve come to see my brother. I want to know his condition, Now!... uh, please!”
  
  Now, ya gotta understand, I don’t deal with “Authority Figures” very well. Probably cause of all the times I got sent to jail for having fun, least ways I called it fun. A judge accused me of having a “Problem with Anger Issues and Fighting”.
  
  I kinda grinned, to put him at his ease and told him “Oh no your honor, it ain’t me. It’s these other guys. They just keep falling down!” I will have to say that my lawyer advised me before the sentencing hearing “Just say yessir and no sir, this judge is tough!” I laughed and said “Sure, so am I.” My smart-ass mouth cost me ten long months in the county slammer. So I try and not spout the first thing that comes to mind. Some folks just take me wrong.
  
  So Miss Information cooled off about 30 degrees and demanded “Some ID”. I pointed to the patch above the pocket of my cutoff. She squinted and read it out-loud. “Jackass?” We locked eyes and I said “Well, most folks just call me Jack.”
  
  She nodded and looked at her desk, for salvation perhaps? I dunno, so I slap my hand down on the counter, maybe a little harder than I should, and I said “I need to know which room Bulldog Spears is in and I am asking you nice. He’s my brother, he’s hurt and I’m here to help.”
  
  She did a complete turnaround (surprise) and had his room number almost immediately. As she read the output at her desk, her face clouded and she said “He’s under police custody. Do you know why?” I looked her straight in the eye and said “Protective custody, from the bastards that did this to him.” Those words made an obvious change to my face because Info-Girl backed up two steps.
  
  She whispered “I hope he’ll be OK, ya think?” I really looked at her for the first time and saw a small blonde hard-belly that was dressed WAY down. I leaned on the counter and said “Well, he’s a member of a motorcycle club and that makes him pretty damn tough. Did you know he’s been shot twice?” Her eyes rounded and she let out an “oooohhhh”. I was still leaning over the counter and I said “What room is he in, please?”
  
  She turned bright red and I immediately checked my zipper. She scribbled rapidly and handed me a folded piece of paper and whispered “The top number is for Bulldog... and the other one is mine.” I grinned my thanks at her and went into the bowels of the meat ward on a hunt to find my bro. Well hell, it felt like it dammit! I hate the fukin places. I seen my share, had my fill and then some. Gotta say though, all the angels and some of the devils, they did help me get better and get out. There was this sweet red head that was a nurse’s aide. She did give some good aid!
  
  So I wandered around that floor (everybody was so fukin helpful) and I could see his room from the nurses’ station because there were two of the city’s finest standing outside the room and they were taking an interest in me. Normally I would make it simple and leave, but I headed straight for them. When I got within fifteen feet, the female cop says sternly “Stay where you are!” and she pops the snap on her holster... not good.
  
  “I really don’t have time for this, I’m here and he’s my brother and if he dies... I have his Power of Attorney. I NEED to be here, follow me in if you want but I am going in, even if I have to wake up a Judge. It’s your call.” I was pretty proud of myself and the lie I built on the spot and they let me in to see Bulldog. He was in pretty sad shape. He had been beaten badly and shot through the neck.
  
  I was fighting for control and focused on his bandaged face. It made it worse and I wanted to kick something. I asked him “Who did it Bro?” and he groaned. He started coughing and the meters and crap hooked to him went bat shit. Freeking orderlies and nurses running around. Shit, I’ve heard worse coughing outta him on a morning after, ya know? Freekin lung oysters, jeez....
  
  He caught my eye and made the motion of a hook. I looked back at him and made the hook and he nodded before he fell back gasping for breath. From what I had seen, he would make it. He’d pay for it for the rest of his life. Every time he turned his head to do a shoulder check. Every time that old shovel bagger hit a pothole. He would never forget this beating nor the fact they tried to kill him.
  
  We were in deep. The big club had caught a member of a smaller club (us) alone, in a place he shouldn’t have been and he was not being real social with some of the patrons. So he started a bar fight, outnumbered by 30 or 40 but not all of them were engaged in the battle. Just stood by and let a good man get beat almost to death and then shot.
  
  When Bulldog fell, his bloody colors were lifted from his still body and he was thrown into the alley. A bartender with a heart called 911 for an alley pickup and it was the ambulance guys I have the most respect for. The Pirates were the one that I was aiming for. The Pirates MC were the ones responsible for taking a set of our colors. I had heard it was already hanging in the clubhouse.
  
  We were gonna have to do this really carefully if we didn’t want any of us to die. So Punk, me, Derelict and Beaner sat down and started hatching’ us a plan to get Bulldog's colors back and not start a turf war in the process. Now Bastard Dick was the Prez of the local Pirates chapter and he was a tough nut to crack. He only had two weaknesses. Racing Sportsters and betting on his racing. Not a quarter mile, oh no. He liked “The Gran Prix” racing. Ten city blocks square, in a clockwise rotation. No alleys, but the sidewalks were fair game. First one back to the starting line, wins.
  
  We had a patch holder that ran HD Flat Track for the pro’s and he said he could ride it if we could build it, so I got Pokey going on that one. He loved Sportys and knew their insides like a doctor. Next was how we could clear out the clubhouse so we can get our patch back? That’s gonna be a little harder and it required several beverages and many ideas thrown by the way. I’m burning inside about Bulldog and so I’m riffling through my pockets for the room number because I wanna call him.
  
  So I find it and I also find Miss Info’s phone number. Since we have done all we can for now, I call her number and it goes to her answering machine. So I sez “Hey Miss Information, this is Jackass. I’m just checking to see if it was your number. I’ll call ya back” and hung up. Remember, back in the Seventies, we didn’t have cell phones. I thought I was King Shit when I gotta pocket pager in the 80’s.
  
  So the next week went real slow. We went and saw Bulldog almost every day and he was making progress. Derelict and I drove past the Pirate's clubhouse 3 times in 3 different cars. I felt that I had a good idea about what the inside would be like. Then, I asked one of my dancer gal friends to go up and knock on the door and ask for Joe. I told her when they open the door, be kinda flirty and look into the house as much as she could. So I dropped her off and I parked a couple of blocks behind their clubhouse. I waited and as she turned the corner, I could see it didn’t go well. She ran the last few yards and I kinda got lost in the way her tee shirt looked when she ran.
  
  When she jumped in the car she hissed “Let’s get outta here now!” So I applied the accelerator and just as we were turning the corner, a gal and a biker ran around the corner. He had his pistol out and I was very glad we were moving away from him at a good clip. I looked the question at her and she burst out crying. Why do they do that?
  
  She snuggled into my side (damn she smelled good) and I kinda patted her on the back until she could talk again. When she came up for air she started talking so fast the words ran together “You tttold me ttthere would be a ggguy answering the dddoor so I heard somebody behind the door... and I thought it was a guy... so I took off my tee shirt and then the door opened and it was a dancer I used to work with and she started screaming at me and I put my shirt on and then she started hollering at somebody in the house to come and then I ran to the car and I’m soooo sorry I didn’t get to look in the house.” Then she broke down crying again. I hate it when they do that.
  
  Well, that plan went over like a turd on a wedding cake. After I dropped her off, I drove back to our clubhouse and my devious mind was working overtime. I was gonna have to handle it myself. Since I didn’t know any of the Pirates personally, I figured I could disguise myself as a... what? A carpet cleaner? Utility guy? Nope, they got ‘Official ID’ and the jig would be up if they phoned me in. What to do, what to do??
  
  A 15 watt light bulb came on in one of the seldom used back rooms of my brain and I said “Hey, bikers like beer, rock n roll and women! We’ll tell them there’s a party and they are all invited!” Sometimes I amaze even myself. When I ran it by the Prez, he scowled at me and said “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Who’s gonna pay for it all?”
  
  I grinned at him and replied “That’s the beauty of this plan. There won’t BE a party! They’ll all saddle up and ride out to somewhere and when they get there... There won’t be a party!” I repeated that part because even though he’s the Prez, he can be kinda slow.
  
  He rolled his eyes and groaned like I had stomped his toes. “Jackass, if OUR club was invited to a ‘Party’, would we all just jump on our bikes and run out to the address?” I was nodding and had a grin on my face. He slammed his hand down on the table so hard my beer flew off and landed right-side up on the floor.
  
  “NO WE WOULDN’T! Gawd, why am I surrounded by idiots?” He glared at me and continued, slowly, like I was brain damaged. “We would send a couple of bros to check it out, make sure it wasn’t an ambush. Besides, we don’t need to see inside their clubhouse.”

  “We don’t?”

  “No you idiot! We are friends with Bobber Jack.” He was still talking slow and when it was obvious that I didn’t follow his train of thought, he smacked the table again and away went my beer, again. This time it dumped on the couch. Where I usually sit, figures.

  “Bobber is an Ex-Pirate and he might be persuaded to talk about the inside layout of their clubhouse, if we give him what he always needs. An 8-ball of toot, a case of Bud and a blowjob.” He glared at me, daring me to argue.

  “Welllll, jeez Prez. I can get the first stuff but I ain’t...” He banged the table again and this time I jumped.

  “Hire a hooker ya dumb shit! Better yet, use one of our two house-mouse gals. Genie would probably do it. ” Now Genie was a little hang-around gal that we picked up off the street a coupla months ago and gave her a place to stay. Sweet lil ass, cute pert titties and she could suck-start a Sportster. She kept the clubhouse reasonably clean and didn’t get lippy when she was told to do something.

  Prez roared “GENIEEEE!” and she just popped up, almost at his elbow. That’s where she got her name, she was always popping up! Prez grabbed her up and set her on his lap and grinned at her. Now, I know that he was trying to reassure her but when Filthy Frank grinned at you, most folks could see their tombstone reflected in his eyes. Half of his teeth had been knocked out in fights and bike wrecks and the rest looked ready to fall out at pretty much anytime.

  He was one of the toughest meanest fighters I had ever seen and that’s saying something. I have been around bike clubs for 15 years and I have seen some tough sumbitches get their asses handed to ‘em by Filthy Frank. Genie got real quiet and her eyes got real round and she started to say something but Frank put his finger to her lips and said “Shhh. Now we got ourselves a situation here and you can help the Club by doing a little favor for a friend of ours.” She nodded and tried not to look too afraid of what the ‘Favor’ might entail.

  “I want you to go with Jack and he’ll tell ya what we need, OK?” He glared at me and said “You remember when you were a prospect for this club?” I swallowed hard and nodded my head, kinda like one of those lil dogs in the back window of old people’s cages. “If you fuk this up, you’ll know what it’s like allll over again. You got that?”

  I was still nodding my head when Genie and I walked out the front door. We climbed on my bagger and took off for Bobber Jack’s favorite bar. It was a little dingy hole-in-the-wall down on the waterfront called The Ace. We rolled by and I saw Bobber’s scoot tucked in against the curb right in front of the door. There were only a couple scoots out front and I didn’t see any Pirate colors, so I backed in and shut her down.

  
  We went in and ordered a pitcher of Bud and collected the three frosty mugs and headed for the back.  I saw Bobber sitting alone in the back and he was hunched over his table, nursing a half empty mug. His left eye was black, his upper lip had been split and all that told me that this might be tougher than I had hoped.

  I set the pitcher down and motioned to Genie to pour us a round. I cleared my throat and said “Hey Bobber, you look like hell! What the fuk did you run into?”

  He glared at me through his good eye and growled “Fuk you, Jackass.” He took the cold mug and drained it in three gulps and motioned for a refill. His good eye was lookin at Genie like a hungry dog eyeing a steak bone. “Genie, you still hanging out with this loser? Ya outta let me show ya what a real man is like.”

  She shot me a quick look, nodded then shook her head and buried her face in her mug. I looked at her until she caught my eye and I flicked my eyes to the bathroom. She caught my drift and said “I gotta pee.” and headed for the bathroom. Bobber watched her leather-clad ass all the way and when he looked back at me he whined “C’mon Jack, lemme have a little of that. We’re bros, right?”

  So I leaned back and put my boot up on the chair and took a long pull on my mug. I could still hear the Prez and the promise of losing a rocker from my patch if I fuked this up. “Well Bobber, she is one fine lil hard-belly and normally I only share with my club brothers.” I hesitated just until he started to say something and I said “Well, I could let ‘cha borrow her... but I need something in trade. I need to know the layout inside of the Pirate’s clubhouse.”

  Bobber leaned back in his seat, drained his mug and poured the last of the pitcher into it before he looked up at me. “Fuk you, Jackass. I might be an Ex from that club but if they found out that I told you anything, they would bury me in concrete and that would be that end of Bobber Jack. You gonna try and get Bulldog’s patch back?”

  I nodded and Genie had just come back from the pisser and I motioned for another pitcher. She nodded and disappeared, she sure was good to look at walking away and I could tell that Bobber was thinking about that fine ass sitting on him. I waited for her to turn the corner and I said real quiet-like “One hour with her, an 8-ball of ether-base and a case of Tall-Boy Buds. I just need to know where our colors would be, nothing else. Whadda ya say.... Bro?”

  I knew I had him and he knew that I knew. As Genie came bouncing back with the pitcher, I grinned at him and said “Deal?” He reached out his hand and we shook on it. Done deal, well almost. I still had to convince Genie to spend an hour with a beat up, stinking whore-monger biker that loved blow jobs. Piece of cake, right?

  Now Genie was a good sport and she wasn’t my ‘Ol Lady’, but she would do just about anything for me. See, I knew her weakness. Shoes; she loved the damn things and had so many that I had set up a wall in her room at the clubhouse to display them. I knew that she wanted a pair of high-heeled black lace-up leather boots, the kind that makes a man hard just watching her walk down the street in ‘em. woof...

  Annywho, Bobber was almost drooling in his beer and she could tell that something had happened while she was away. She looked at me and said “Jack, what’s going on?” I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring way and said “Genie, you know those Dominatrix boots you want so badly? With the heels that make yer butt look even cuter than it already is?” She just stared at me and then looked at Bobber’s face. He had a grin that can only be described as lecherous.

  Genie’s face went from sweet, to looking like somebody had just asked her to pick up a big pile of fresh dog shit with her bare hands. She shook her head, drained her mug and said “OK, here’s how it’s gonna be.” She pointed a finger at me “YOU are going to be there and when we’re done, we go buy the boots. Today.” She pointed her finger at Bobber and snapped “You WILL take a shower, before... this happens.” She still had a disgusted look and shuddered slightly whenever she glanced at Bobber.

  We needed another pitcher but when I motioned towards the bar, Genie just raised an eyebrow, so I went and got it. Women, cain’t live with ‘em, illegal to kill ‘em. Well, so far I was batting a 1000 and I just needed some blow. Now I don’t usually use that crap because it makes me crazier than a pissed off badger and I almost always pick a fight with somebody that I shouldn’t. Took me three months to recover from the last time and I swore I wouldn’t ever touch the stuff again.

  However, I do have the uncanny ability to spot someone in a room that DOES have some. Of course, they are usually a twitching slobbering mess, so it’s not that hard. As I bellied up to the bar, I could smell ether and when I looked down at the poor twitching fool on my right, he looked me in the eye for 1.2 nanoseconds. BINGO! He tried to get up but I gently restrained him by shoving him back onto his barstool.
  I smiled at the barkeep, a tough lookin old broad and I said “Another please.” She poured the pitcher, I slid a twenty across the bar and told her to keep it. She said “Yeah, well that’s fine Jackass, but you still owe me another six bucks from the other pitchers.” I slid another twenty across the wet bar and told her to keep it. That earned me a small grin and when she turned back, she said “Don’t hurt him, he’s a regular. He don’t tip as good as you but he comes in here more than you do.”

  I took hold of the twitchy skinny dude and as we were headed to the back of the bar, he flicked out a switchblade and stabbed me in the side. Well, he TRIED to stab me but either the knife was dull or my leather vest/riding jacket was tougher or a combo of both. I still had my arm around his shoulder and that’s when he just fainted! I didn’t let him go, I just bent down, picked up and pocketed the knife and dumped him in a chair.

  I splashed some beer on his face and he came around and started to panic when his memory rebooted. I leaned in and said very quietly “I found your coke.” He immediately checked for it and Bingo, I knew right where to look. I grinned menacingly and told him “I’m only gonna charge you an 8-ball for stabbing me... oh and your knife too.” His eyes went mean and cold until I showed him the butt of the 45 Colt I keep under my belt. I was leaning in close and I was still smiling and nodding like we were great friends and I needed to borrow his lawnmower.

  “Now we can do this easy and quiet or we can do it hard and noisy. Your call.” He took a big sigh and reached into the pocket where the toot was. “Now, bring that hand out real slow-like. That’s a good boy! All I want is one 8-ball and I’ll leave you in peace, if you don’t try to stab me again.”

  He slid a lumpy white packet towards me and I picked it up and smelled it. Strong ether smell, rocky lumpy feel to it... Yep. I had now accomplished all three of my missions at the same bar. I was feeling really good at the vision of my top rocker still in place until I turned the corner to the back of the bar. The cops were just walking Bobber away in handcuffs and the look on Genie’s face made me grin. She looked like she had just won the lottery but I was watching my source of information (and my top rocker) walk away.

  Bobber turned his head and said “Ain’t in the clubhouse. It’s at the war shack.” Damn, I gotta freebie after all! Now all I had to wrap my aching head around, was where and WHAT was “The War Shack”? Genie looked at me with her blue eyes flashing a clear warning.

  “The next time you try to ‘hook’ me up, could’ja make it with someone that doesn’t remind me of Charley Manson?” She gave me a shove and walked to the bar and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. Said it was to take the taste out of her mouth. I was gonna mention that they never kissed, but she looked at me again, and I swallowed that comment.

  What I needed to do was find out where the War Shack was and could we get Bulldog’s patch back. Well, after another pitcher of beer and three more shots of Jack (all hers) I was no closer to solving the mystery than when they led Bobber away. Genie was muttering under her breath and it didn’t make it any easier to think. “mumble..damn bikers anyway... mumble.. Jackass...” You can see what I mean, right?

  When I rolled in to the clubhouse parking, there were several bikes I didn’t recognize and they were all Sportsters. Since we were building a Sporty to kick the snot out of Bastard Dick, Pokey had called in the big guns that he knew. Now, Dick had a Sporty he called “HellBat” and it was a wicked piece of black machinery that he rode and I had never seen anybody that could ride like he could. I figured our rider would have to be damn good to beat him. If we lost, there goes my top rocker... NOPE! I headed for the garage, looking for reassurance. What I found did not inspire any confidence in our chances.

  We were gonna have to have something that breathed fire and ran like a scalded cat. That’s why Pokey was building our club’s racer. Sportys were all he worked on or rode and he lived and breathed the little cousin of the Big Twin. There were few that could match his skills in the “Balls-Out-Hang-On” department. There were four or five riders there that I didn’t know but Pokey was sitting on his favorite milk crate. It looked like he had taken apart four Sporty’s and a couple I didn’t know and then just casually scattered the parts around the garage.

  I said “Hey Pokey...” but before I could go on he ‘shushed’ me. Then he said... to the air I guess... “Now we got the crank shaved and balanced...” He was kinda thinking out loud and once in a while, one of the guys would say something like “Yeah, but ya gotta remember, we need it lightning thru the corners.” Pokey would nod, then get up and dig through the pile of parts, extricate a piece and insert or hang it on the frame that was sitting in the middle of the floor.

  I nodded to the group and left, but they didn’t notice. I figured anybody that worked on Sportsters had a screw loose anyway. I had just snaked a brew outta the fridge, when I heard the Prez call my name. “JACKASSSSSSS!” Oh this did not sound good. As I headed into the living room, I wondered where Genie had gotten off to.

  She was sitting in Frank’s lap and her blue eyes were really round and they matched her mouth, it was puckered into a small O. I walked up and flopped down beside them and took a long pull outta my beer, to give me time to think. It would have taken more than one beer, so I dropped it and belched.

  Frank had been watching me like a snake looks at a mouse and when I belched, he rolled his eyes at the roof, heaven, God... one of those I’m sure. “Genie tells me we have a problem.” He was still talking slowly, like I was the village idiot. “Luckily for you, jackass, we know the patch is in the War Shack. Do YOU know where that is jackass?” I could tell he wasn’t saying my name, rather what he thought of me at the time.

  “Well Prez,” I frowned in a way to inspire his confidence, leaned forward and continued “I was thinking it is probably down by the railroad...” I stopped talking. His face was becoming uglier by the second and he stood up and roared “GODDAMMIT! YOU HAVEN’T GOT A CLUE!” He dropped back into his chair and he clutched his head in both hands. Genie, who was now perched on the chair arm patted his shoulder and made cooing sounds. He took several deep breaths and tried again.

  “I’ve got it setup with Bastard Dick. The race is for a case of Cuervo and our patch. If we win; we get the tequila, our colors and he’ll give us this part of town. He wins; he keeps the tequila and the patch... and we leave town.” These last words were delivered in almost a whisper. A low whistle escaped my lips and I clapped my hand over my mouth. He didn’t notice, just stared out into space.

  “It would be good to have a handicap.” I offered, quietly lest he started shouting again.

  I spoke without thinking but he turned and looked at me. He frowned, then smiled and said “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all week Jack.” and he laughed a short nasty chuckle and headed into the garage.

  Genie and I looked at each other and shrugged.
  
  To Be Continued...

   

  It was race night and there was a sense of desperation that blanketed our club’s race team. We had so much riding on this one race, there was almost no banter or friendly insults flying between them. Pokey and his two team mates went about releasing the bike from its cradle in the trailer and revealing it to the onlookers. His team was hovering around it like a couple of priests over a dying man and their attention was focused on nothing else. This was the first time that any of us had seen it and I was seriously impressed with what Pokey had put together. It had the look of a slumbering beast, released at last to do what it had been conceived and birthed to do. Run flat out for 40 city blocks and beat Bastard Dick at his own game.

  There was a strange horn-thing that protruded from the right side and seemed to be tied into the exhaust and intake. After I looked for a couple of minutes I realized it was a turbo-charger! How the hell had they figured that one out? The cylinders looked somehow taller and fatter. The tires were the biggest and fattest I had ever seen and I wondered how they had stuffed them into the swingarm and under the fenders. That’s when I noticed the swing arm had been welded in place. As I looked at this beast they had created, I saw there were no brakes. No disc or drum, front or rear and then I saw that there was a small metal bottle peeking out from under the seat and had metal clad hoses to the carb. Nitrous oxide? Holy mother of speed, this thing was a nightmare straight from Pokey’s demented brain. So he named it Nightmare and painted it a deep purple that faded to black.

  We had been 15 minutes early for the midnight start time and the Pirates truck had just pulled up and backed in beside us. Pokey quickly tossed a tarp over the bike and then stood over his creation like a mother bear by her cub. Dick walked up to our crew and said “Where’s Faggot Frank? I wanna see if he’s gonna show his ugly face.” By the time he had finished his little speech, Frank was standing by his left shoulder.

  “Where are my colors?” He said, almost into Dick’s ear and his reaction made us all smile. He jumped about three feet to his right and pulled his pistol. Frank had his hog-leg 45 out and a grin on his face. All of us, on both sides had our pistols out and were looking uncertainly at our two presidents. Frank laughed a hard, cold laugh and slipped his pistol back into his waistband.

  “Didn’t think you would have the balls to show up. There’s more than one of us here tonight, bastard.” Then he turned his back on Dick and walked up to the Nightmare and with no fanfare, pulled the tarp from the Sportster and spun around and gave Dike a look that could peel paint.

  I gotta hand it to Dick; he never blinked when the bike was uncovered. He walked around it once and his eyes went nasty and cold. He looked at Frank and snarled “Pretty don’t win races! Let’s do this.”

  Frank walked slowly over to Dick and leaned down into his face and snapped “Show me my colors, bastard.”

  “Where’s the Cuervo Frank?” was his immediate answer. Frank looked at me and nodded. I stepped up to the trailer and pulled out what looked like an unopened case of tequila. That was my idea; I had bought enough of the little mini bottles of Cuervo to fill the case and then resealed the cardboard. Frank had given me one of his rare laughs and slapped my shoulder.

  Dick reached into the cab of his truck and brought out the bloody cut that was Bulldog’s. Before he could put it back into the cab, Frank had snatched the tequila, taken two long steps and then pulled the patch from Dick’s hand.

  “Pick one member and I’ll pick one. They’ll hold the bet until you’ve lost.” They stared at each other for the space of a few heart beats and Dick said “Animal, you’re up.” Frank nodded in my direction and I looked behind me, hoping it wasn’t me. He raised his eyebrows and I stepped forward to take my place next to Animal. He was about my height and outweighed me by two. We eyed each other with mutual distrust and loathing. Animal got his name from being a bit too forceful with his sex partners. The court called him a rapist, I just called him asshole.

  I looked at Frank and tipped my head at our case of booze. He snapped his fingers and said “Hey, where’s your case of tequila for US when YOU lose?”

  “I ain’t gonna lose asshole.” It was touch and go for a moment, we all had our hands on our pistols and Dick snarled wordlessly and pulled a case from the cab and slammed it to the ground so hard, I was sure he broke one.

  “Satisfied… faggot? C’mon, let’s cut the shit and race.” As he stormed off towards the back of the truck, everyone relaxed and they unloaded the Hellbat. Sinister is a good word for the way the bike looked, low and beefy. It still couldn’t compare to Nightmare and I started to feel a little better about this race. We had a few surprises laid out on the course, our bike was faster and we had a pro-tracker riding for us. What could go wrong?

  Dick slammed into the saddle and kicked his bike to life, rapping the pipes a couple of times until it settled into a fast idle that sounded like a metal demon clearing its throat. Our team had Pokey as mechanic, Slim was his backup and Tracker was our rider. No two people could have looked more different than Bastard Dick and Tracker. Dick wore no helmet, clear wrap around goggles, fingerless gloves and his chaps and leather jacket. Tracker had on his Bell Star full-face racing helmet and his orange and black full ballistic nylon racing suit that he ‘Liberated’ when he left the HD racing team. He hit the compression releases and stomped the bike to life. Its pipes echoed from the pavement, the buildings and seemed to fill the air with the sound of pure, unadulterated horse power. Dick looked back at Nightmare and grimaced at the noise that flowed from the pipes. Pokey leaned in a said something to Tracker and he nodded.

  Dick idled his bike out of the parking lot and to the ‘Starting line’ with Nightmare right behind him. They pulled up side by side to wait for the light to turn green. Did I mention that the race was taking place in the downtown of a neighboring city? 10 city blocks square, clockwise, can’t use the alleys but the sidewalks were fair territory and traffic lights were to be ignored. Pedestrians were almost unheard of at midnight, the cops pretty much left downtown alone because almost all businesses had alarms and right about now, there were going to be two abandoned structure fires. They were going to be busy and the race should take no more than 4 minutes from start until the bikes were back in the trailer, if all went right.

  Both bikes were snarling and the riders leaned forward as the other light turned yellow. Just before their light turned green, Dick let out his clutch and started forward while burning the rear tire. He had jumped the gun, just like we knew he would. When Tracker left the line, Dick was already 20’ ahead and moving away at a fast clip. Nightmare shot forward leaving a white cloud that mingled with exhaust and burnt rubber smell that drifted over us like a mantle. We could see that Tracker had caught up with Dick and had passed him. Dick was on the blacktop and Tracker was on the sidewalk. As he drifted into the first corner, the sound of his back tire shrieking could be heard from where we were.

  Our clubs had ‘spotters’ along the way, to make sure that neither of the riders shot the other. Basically, the only rule was you couldn’t shoot your opponent. If you could get close enough, you could bang into him or force him into the building or oncoming traffic. Once the riders had cleared the first corner, we could only hear them. I had a job that Frank and I talked about and I figured it was time to implement the ‘distraction’. I walked over to the truck and grabbed a paper sack, then went back to where the ‘loot’ was and set it down. Then I walked over to Dick’s truck, opened the door and started rummaging around in the back looking for the tire iron I knew was there.

  “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” By the time Animal had gotten to me, Frank should have had time to switch our colors for the fake one that was in the sack. Animal grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out. I swung the tire iron in a short vicious arc and connected right where his neck and shoulder met. He staggered back but didn’t fall and as I hit him in the same place again, I snarled “That’s for Bulldog, asshole!” He folded quicker than a broke gambler at a high stakes poker game. Slim and I dragged his dead weight over to the trailer and loaded him into the spot for the bike. I pulled the ramp up then loosened the hinge pins until they were barely holding it.

  The other two Crew members had pulled their pistols when I dropped Animal but Frank had them covered with his scatter gun. He grinned and told ‘em to put their guns in the bike trailer and he had them climb into the truck bed and lie down. We could hear the race and it was getting closer by the second. Frank looked at me and said “Ya think she’ll do it?”

  I grinned and said “Yep! She wants those boots.”

  Pokey and Slim had everything packed up and the cradle for the bike was in place. Now all we had to do was wait for the finish. Ten blocks away, a lone rider power drifted around the corner and headed for the finish line. As he straightened up, he pulled a short low wheelie that let us know it was Tracker. Two seconds later, Dick blew around the corner; he was on the sidewalk and gaining rapidly on our bike. There was a sudden movement from the shadows of a doorway and a naked woman stepped out, almost in front of Dick. He leaned hard left, barely missing a parking meter and jumped the curb with an almost fatal high speed wobble.

  That was the end of the race. Tracker downshifted fast and Nightmare zoomed into her cradle, with a sigh of exhaust and a long skid that ended with Tracker almost thrown into the front of the trailer. We had done it! But now was not the time for a celebration because we had a pissed off President coming at us at slightly less than the speed of sound and when he found out what we had done to his bros, there would be hell to pay. He saw that the trailer ramp was closed and slammed the gears down and slowed to a stop using the compression of the 11.5 to 1 pistons. Hellbat shuddered to a stop and the sudden silence was only broken by the sound of Bastard Dick’s voice.

  “What the **** is going on? Where are my guys? You son’s a bitches are gonna pay…” He kinda tapered off when he saw the shotgun in Frank’s hands. It wasn’t aimed directly at him but the business end was uncomfortably close to it.

   “We beat ya fair and square Bastard. I already got Bulldog’s colors in the truck… and the Jose’ too. I figure we have about 3 more minutes before the cops get here. Animal is in the trailer and yer other ‘boys’ are in the back of your truck. I’m leaving now and I suggest you do the same. We’ll be seeing ya!” Frank said. Then he laughed as he backed away and hopped in the truck. I was just behind the cab with my pistol out and it WAS pointed at Bastard, I wanted his ass so bad I was sorry he didn’t try anything.

  The sirens were fast approaching and as we pulled out, I could see Dick running around and yelling at his guys to hurry up dammit! As we turned the corner, I saw the ramp bottom come off in his hands. Justice! Now, normally I don’t like the cops to mess with anyone I know. I just figured that if he got caught, it was just one more payback for what they did to Bulldog. I heard later that they did get away clean but had to put Animal in the hospital for a broken collarbone. He was one of the bastards that almost beat my bro to death. It would be a long time before he could grab those apehangers and when he did, he would think of me. Still brings a grin when I remember it, all these long years later.

  We made it safely to the clubhouse, even if Frank was driving like a lunatic. We pulled into the yard and all the bros that had been scattered around the ‘race course’ gave us a royal entrance. The other bros came running out and we started in on the Jose’ right away! There was a wild time that night, with lots of bear hugs and handshakes. Tracker had to tell the tale of how he won against a desperate rider at least a dozen times, but he didn’t seem to mind. I buttonholed Genie and gave her a ‘pick me up and swing me around’ hug and told her how brave she was and how much it meant to all of us. She was the naked hard-belly that had stepped out of a darkened doorway into the path of an oncoming madman and saved the day. Dick was gaining on our bike when she made him slow just enough for us to win.

  We wandered off into my room and a little while later, as we were enjoying a smoke afterwards she rolled over and we said, in unison “We go get the boots tomorrow!”