I RODE MINE TO LOS SANTOS

[slimeball supreme]

CEBRA & SLIMEBALL SUPREME

 

1 - EATING DIRT FOR MONEY

 

2 - SOMEDAY, THE DREAM WILL COME TRUE

 

3 - THE FIRST OF MANY BLATANT INDISCRETIONS

 

4 - A FALLEN ANGEL CRASHED THROUGH THE ROOF

 

5 - MEN OF HONOR WITH HONOR TO SPARE

 

6 - OH, THE SWEET SMELL OF RESCUE

 

7 - THE MORE THE MERRIER, I SUPPOSE

 

8 - HOPE IN A HOPELESS TOWN OF HOPEFUL PEOPLE

 

9 - OFF THE RESERVATION

 

10 - I'M SURE THE FELLA MEANS WELL

 

11 - THE DEVIL'S INFLUENCE HOLDS POWER OVER ME

 

12 - DRIBBLING MILK & HONEY ON THE SAN ANDREAS TURNAROUND

 

13 - DOWN BAD WITH A PYRITE PRINCESS

 

14 - CALL THE EIGHTY AN ABOUT-FACE

 

15 - I SEE CLEARLY NOW, UNFORTUNATELY
 

16 - IT TASTES REAL GOOD, OLD FRIEND

Edited September 20, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

 

The wash was automatic but one-at-a-time. No wax. So majority were manual cleans, by hand, teeth-gritting sh*t. Right off the avenue onto the turnpike in fly-swatting weather while you’re wearing rubber gloves and an all-blue uniform and scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing.

 

He wasn’t right now.

 

There’s only so much work you can do with a parole violation and six or so years in the can. There’s only so much pity the man on the other side of the desk is going to give you. So you take what you get. Squeaky! Hands On Car Wash didn’t exist a couple years back, but it stood here and now, got ran by a guy named Hector who was some shade of brown but certainly not white. Was Hector even his real name? Old, thin graying man with some kind of accent who - and he didn’t like to think of it like that - took pity. Because there’s only so much work an ex-con can do.

 

And Hector saw Johnny, and Johnny saw Hector. And that’s what Johnny saw. And Hector saw the tattoos and the scars and the hole-with-no-piercing and that look on his face like he’d gone to the principal’s office. Johnny didn’t remember when that was; but he was here now.

 

And he took off his hat and beat at the air and sighed hard and went for a break.

 

Break meant a couple of bottles of water and some folding chairs out in the parking lot.

 

Jorge was around Johnny’s age, maybe younger, maybe way younger for all he knew but he had something resembling crows feet and one of those moles only old people got with the grey hair and this moustache like a couple straight lines on the upper lip, lips that were always parted like they were chewing something. Said he was from Costa Rica and came up a long time ago and had similar problems and similar answers to Johnny. Similar problems like possession beefs and similar solutions like getting work at a car wash in the ass end of the state across the river from the Lennox Island junkyard and maybe a mile away from the highway. And he knew he wasn’t gonna drive a Benefactor after washing a couple, and sh*t, Johnny knew that too, but he knew that there weren’t much else you could do.

 

In ‘04 or ‘05, Jorge got caught with a baggie of weed in his jeans - and you know, f*ck it, a good time is a good time - but he got busted in Donald Love’s Liberty City were the cops were okay with the occasional stop and the occasional frisk. So be it. You do a couple months and thank your lucky stars.

 

In ‘94, Johnny Klebitz killed someone by accident but got an okay sentence instead of a bad sentence because of the grace of character witnesses and the pledge he’d rehabilitate. Violating parole isn’t exactly rehabilitation, but really, if you’re asking for a year or two without a bike or spending those years in the joint, Johnny wouldn’t be going to work in a cage.

 

A metaphorical cage.

 

He was okay with a real one.

 

Alderney Department of Health says you can’t smoke indoors. So you twist the rules a little and smoke outside while the smog and the humidity beat at your lungs.

 

And Johnny laughed. “Would be better if there were somethin’ stronger, eh?”

 

And Jorge said “No doubt, man, no doubt.”

 

“You watch football?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No, we ever talk about sports or nothin’?”

 

“No.”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Nah, it’s the money for me.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, man. You think about that. You get it through your head, you know, you- how much are these guys gettin’ paid? A sh*t-ton, right?”

 

“Is isn’t what I- you know--”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Is the game. Tha’s all. I’on really care about that stuff, man.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“There’s that f*cked up part a’ me. I don’t know. I just can’t stand it.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And there was this twitch. Always this little twitch. And Johnny looked up. And looked down. And put the smoke back in the lips and huffed and said “I don’t know what I’m saying.” And he felt like he’d said it a million times. And maybe he had.

 

Jorge looked back at him and shrugged and said “So you see no games?”

 

“No. I don’t watch, I told you.”

 

“So… you know. What’s up?”

 

“I don’t know what I’m sayin’.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“F*ckin’ humidity.”

 

Chuckled, “Y’eh.”

 

“Yeah. f*ckin’ heat. You know.”

 

“Y’eh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Yeah.

 

Every second crawls by. It shouldn’t. But it does.

 

Facing the road. Craned his neck and bit his lip and looked at the-- “You got those tattoos.”

 

Blink. “Yeah,” Johnny said.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So?”

 

“That one. Skull one. Ear one, you see-” pointed, “you see? Yeah?”

 

“I got a few skull ones.”

 

“Ear one.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No, I no see no often, no?” Blew smoke again, “They got meanings?”

 

Johnny thought. “Often. Yeah, sure. Usually.”

 

“What’s the skull?”

 

“Nothin’.”

 

Inhaled, “That one with a one of the no meaning?” Exhaled. “Or no?”

 

“No, it’s got meaning. It does. I got it with a friend a’ mine, something like that, it don’t matter.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“See, I got the skull, you know. And he got the wolf. Yeah? And the skull- well, it don’t matter, but- you know. Yeah. It was me and this guy.”

 

“When you wer--”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t remember, I don’t know.”

 

“You don’ remember you get no tattoo with?”

 

“I don’t know. Something like that. No, I used to- tattoos is tattoos. You know. You get ‘em because you get ‘em. Like you got paper out and you gotta fill that paper. It’s like, you see something, you see this spot - you gotta fill it. I got this one on my chest, actually.”

 

“I see that one.”

 

“Yeah, but, you know. Hold on-” pulled down the undershirt and undid the polo buttons and let the air in. Sweat and ink. Looping.

 

“Yeah, I seen it, like some tribal sh*t.”

 

“I mean, kinda. We had this guy in the club who’d do some of it sometimes at his place, and it was like- like, uhh, club designs mostly. Like the eagle. That’s the club thing.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Conan. That was- yeah. Conan. But he’d actually just kind of f*ck around, you know, he’d draw this stuff and they were like some mad f*cking sh*t, brother, and it didn’t have no significance except it was a Conan Original. That on my chest is a Conan Original. He did these stars down the ears on that guy with the wolf tat and it always looked kinda… y’know. Botch job, that one. They weren’t all good. But they were Conan’s.”

 

“Was Conan good?”

 

“Is my chest tat good? This eagle good? I think they’re good.”

 

“You still know him?”

 

Johnny took a breath. “Not really,” forced that out. “Not anymore.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“You still friends?”

 

“Friends as anyone else, dude. Broker? I don’t know. Ain’t spoke a while.”

 

“He ain’t dead?”

 

“I hope.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“It’s, yeah- it’s funny you say that. That he died. Why you think he died?”

 

“Well--”

 

“They didn’t- they all didn’t die or nothin’, man. People get shot but they- you know, it ain’t like that.”

 

“Some of them were dead.”

 

“That happens. I don’t know. That happens. People die. Whaddya’ want? It weren’t about that. They didn’t all go. It wasn’t about that.”

 

“It doesn’t don’t not have to be, man.”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Anyone gets shot. What? That mean it about that? That mean it was all people did? Was die? Don’t think that, man, don’t get that- don’t think that.”

 

“Did you kill nobody?”

 

Fast - “No.”  Blinked, eyes met. “No.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I don’t know nobody that’s killed a soul. Get that straight. I knew people that killed people but they weren’t people and they sure as sh*t weren’t my brothers. The only people- no people died. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“We rode to ride. We rode because we had something. I don’t know. What the f*ck do you want?”

 

Jorge squinting now, “I don’t want nothing, man.”

 

“Then forget it.”

 

“Just askin’.”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I’m just curious.”

 

Johnny blinked. Stared out. “Everybody thinks this sh*t is about something when it ain’t. That’s all. It’s about the bikes. Everyone knew bikes. That’s what got us together, was riding. Was what we had. Never leave nobody behind sh*t. All the other sh*t was second and dumb kiddy game bullsh*t and it’s all some people wanted.”

 

You could tell Jorge wasn’t quite sure what he was saying. “I like bikes.”

 

“Bikes don’t let you down. A lot of things let you down. Bikes don’t.”

 

“Some’ like that.”

 

“We all knew the gear sh*t. We were all gearheads and we all knew how to work it. Conan could work a bike. Everyone could work a bike. I work mine still, I don’t wanna get rusty, but- you know, it’s about the metal. Y’know. ‘f*ck you’ to everything else and just--the f*ck?”

 

Pause. 

 

Jorge, “What?”

 

“What the f*ck?!” Stood up. “What the f*ck?!”

 

Eyes on the road, down the parking lot. Down past the cars and the worker-bees who looked up from the wash to see the commotion, looked left to Johnny and looked left to him stomp-stomp-stomping down shouting “What the f*ck is wrong with you?!”

 

Everyone looking at Johnny.

 

Johnny looking at the road.

 

Ashley was dressed down in denim and looked like sh*t. Sallow, baggy-eyed, weak in the knees like she couldn’t stand if her knees weren’t together. Scratching and walking but slowed as soon as Johnny saw her.

 

“John--”

 

“What the f*ck?!”

 

“John--”

 

“How’d you find me?! How the f*ck’d you find me?! What are you--”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“What the f*ck, Ash?”

 

“Johnny, babe--”

 

“You f*cking- Ashley! Ashley!”

 

He was close now. Arms-length.

 

Everyone staring.

 

Ashley reached out, palms out, smiling, smiling weak and smiling soft and doing kitten eyes and-- no. Johnny grabbed at her, grabbed her by the forearms and by the wrists and held them up and kept shouting, “How’d you f*cking find me?!”

 

“Babe--”

 

“How the f*ck did you f*cking find me, Ashley?!”

 

“Please, John--”

 

“You f*cking idiot! You f*cking idiot! What the f*ck did I tell you?!”

 

“John--”

 

“What did I?! Stay away from me! That’s what I said!”

 

“Babe--”

 

“Don’t babe me, don’t you f*cking babe me. You f*cking skank. You f*cking skank.”

 

Her eyes were wet. Her big eyes were wide and wet and the tears were going and Johnny didn’t f*cking care.

 

He clutched the arms tighter and threw her.

 

She fell. Toppled to knees and hands flat on the asphalt and Johnny was redfaced, “You dirty f*cking slut. The f*ck I tell you! The f*ck I f*cking tell you?!”

 

“Johnny, please…”

 

“Who told you?!”

 

“John--”

 

“Skank. You f*cking skank. You busted f*cking used f*cking sh*t.”

 

She was sobbing now. She was staining the blacktop.

 

People were staring.

 

Johnny snarled. “I’ll hit you.”

 

“No.”

 

“You wanna get it? You f*cking bitch?”

 

“John.”

 

“Do you?!”

 

Walked up. Marched up. Kicked the goddamn air and kicked again and got her flinching, got her cowering, scampering, pleading; “Johnny- Johnny--”

 

Some noise in the background. Shouting.

 

Johnny turned.

 

Hector arm waving. Hector screaming. Hector screaming something foreign or something so fast and so mashed up Johnny didn’t know what it was or how it mattered. Turned back. Turned back to wipe his face with his forearm and got closer.

 

Kicked again.

 

She jumped.

 

She backed off. Backed toward the pavement with pleading eyes and God, Johnny was thinking, f*cking God, what was he doing? What was he doing? His shouts interrupted, “Whore. Whore. You whore. Go back passin’ yourself around. Who you take me for? Who the f*ck you take me for?”

 

“John-boy--”

 

“You come back here-” felt something in his throat tighten, felt the words get higher in pitch and the sounds well deep, “-you just don’t f*cking come back here. Don’t you come see me again.” 

 

“Baby--”

 

“You ain’t that for me no more. You ain’t my baby no more. You’re nothing. You’re sh*t.”

 

“John--”

 

“Get!”

 

“Please--”

 

“WHAT I f*ckIN’ TELL YOU?! I TOLD YOU GET! I TOLD YOU GO! I TOLD YOU RUN BEFORE I REGRET IT, ASH- BEFORE I DO SOMETHING I REGRET. PLEASE--”

 

“Please--”

 

“Stay the f*ck a-f*cking-way from me, my f*cking--”

 

“--I just need--”

 

“You f*cking junkie. You go. YOU GO! YOU GO!”

 

She went.

 

She tumbled on the floor like the heel broke and fell on her ass and pushed off and warbled and left. Eye contact stayed.

 

She kept staring.

 

And then she wasn't.

 

Johnny stood stupid in the parking lot staring at nothing staring back. Eyes on him - civilian eyes, employee eyes, Jorge eyes. Hector eyes.

 

Hector said something about something that Johnny didn't hear when he turned around and stomped back to the break area. Pulled a smoke and pressed his fingers to his temple and didn’t even light it when he passed.

 

Put it in his lip and inhaled even though it weren't lit. Closed his eyes and let it go through. Closed his eyes and let nothing go through.

 

Heard shouting.

 

Filtered it out.

 

Ears rang.

 

Ash.

 

---

 

Dirty ‘Derney bar in Ferrie with the wood-slat walls and the Fraktur-looking neon sign reflecting onto wet-pavement street. The Red Pedal. Choppers parked outside.

 

Blue-white striped twin-cam Hexer crooked; parked up by the wall where the rain wouldn’t wet it.

 

Side by side - blue Western, purple Western.

 

Bar was a hard-hat kind of bar when it weren’t an asshole kind of bar, but it weren’t crowded most the time and even on a good night you could still navigate. Stale water-beer pilsner type sh*t on tap and the ‘tender went by Liz. He was not a woman.

 

Johnny scratched head-stubble and slid the hand down past the beard onto the t-shirt collar. Rubbed his neck. Let the drink sit in the dim-color light from the brand neons pasted onto the behind-the-counter brickwork. Benedict Light. Jakey’s Benchmark.

 

Wasn’t sure what he was drinking.

 

Terry still had the leather-cut vest, kept a whole bunch of them and used to buy a new one every so often so he had spares around. Guy could sew like a motherf*cker, used to joke he’d work at a tailor before he got steady pay watching the doors at a titty bar. Still wore the vest. Motherf*cker liked vests.

 

Still sewed.

 

Clayton left the cut back-when. Dropped the flags and called the mother-club and helped arrange some sh*t, whatever; you don’t let the brotherhood down even when the local charter goes. Politics. Clay always had a thing for politics when nobody else did, used to give Billy the run-around about the guys in Montresor or Lenapia or Couira or down in Florida but Billy used to always go “Who gives a goddamn motherf*ck?” Billy had some thing with his cousin and there were the meetings- ah, what does it matter. No point in remembering.

 

Crowdog took a pause from the story to chug half the glass and wheeze something fierce. Half a cough, half something deeper. Said he’d been going to see a doctor about some sh*t and was getting tests but kept it close to his chest.

 

Freed his hands, “-and you had to f*cking see it. Griff’d always say dink pussy was the best kind of pussy and she had the f*ckin’ knife to his f*ckin’ throat and I tell ya’ he weren’t f*cking cummin’ then.”

 

And Terry laughed and went “What then?”

 

“And all of us are like, we see it. These chicks are all on us and we see the blade go up to the chin and we just laugh, man. Because he hasn’t got his wallet on him and all his cash is in the rubber band ‘round the chick’s thigh--”

 

“So she’s just robbing--”

 

“We don’t know why the f*ck she went and did it! Coulda’ been a kink.”

 

“Nah.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Griff f*cking pissed himself and was just blubberin’ and jabberin’ and one the guys got up and she’s just whispering in dink at him. And my lord, I mean- we don’t know none that sh*t and then Barry just tackles the f*cking woman.”

 

Johnny kinda laughed. Terry got it so hard he spilt liquor on the table and jumped at it and tried catching the glass and was still laughing when it got on his jeans - “Goddd- f*ck--”

 

“Excellent, dude.”

 

“Man--”

 

“John, you got a- tissues or some sh*t or somethin’ or--”

 

“Dumbass.”

 

Liz came with a rag and a scowl.

 

Hours ticked.

 

Johnny thought.

 

Johnny thought.

 

Johnny rubbed his eye and asked “You guys seen Angus?”

 

Heads shook. No.

 

“I don’t get the goddamn cell phones when you call with them sometimes,” Clay went. “It’s f*ckin’--” moved out the way while Liz went to work on the bartop muttering, “His thing with the high schools and the outreaches and the speaking and whatever.”

 

“He still do that?”

 

“It’s money.”

 

Johnny kinda chuckled, “Could.”

 

“Could what?”

 

“Could do it, Clay.”

 

“Who? You?”

 

“Yeah. I don’t know. It ain’t skill-based work, dude. It’s just talking.”

 

“Public speaking, Johnny.”

 

“What?”

 

Terry chimed in, “They say- you got the list of things people fear and at the top of the list: it ain’t death or spiders or nothin’, it’s public speaking.”

 

“That ain’t true,” said John.

 

“Says you. You ain’t never public spoke before.”

 

“Yeah, I have. Gang sh*t. Meetings.”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“I held church with half the f*ckin’ brothers on the coast, dude. Lenny boys came in while Billy was out. Church every week. Billy weren’t even holdin’ church some weeks, I did. I mean--”

 

“That’s different. Ain’t preschooler motherf*ckers.”

 

“Might as well be!”

 

Chuckling.

 

Might as well be.

 

An awkward silence.

 

Had to say it.

 

Had to say it.

 

Started slow, “How’s Henry?”

 

Terry, “Cross coast.”

 

Blink, “Cross coast?”

 

“He got got and moved.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He didn’t--”

 

“Nah. Called me.”

 

Johnny mumbled, “Huh.”

 

“Called me from f*ckin’ Allenwood when he got out and was asking how Billy was and- heh… you know. Yeah.”

 

Yeah.

 

Hadn’t said it.

 

“I saw Ash,” Johnny said.

 

Penny dropped.

 

Clay smiled. “How’s she?”

 

“What?”

 

“How’d you- how’d you, y’know--”

 

“I don’t know--”

 

Terry, “She still… yeah?”

 

Johnny just looked.

 

“I ain’t seen her-” Clay kinda stopped himself, laughed, “Said she was at rehab, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said.

 

“She get through good ‘n that? How’s she?”

 

Johnny didn’t say nothing.

 

“Didn’t last, maybe,” Clay said.

 

“No,” Johnny went. “Didn’t stick.”

 

“That’s too bad. Spark, that girl.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“She tell you what happened?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Terry was scratching by the eye with worry-eyes. He felt what was coming. Clay kicked on, “Rehab- I mean, for me, for Billy. For anyone, that sh*t with the AA and that is all kinna’ f*cked up. With the godliness is cleanliness sh*t, too. They don’t show that in the movies none.”

 

Johnny, “What?”

 

“They’re in that religion sh*t. They keep talking about Jesus and the sh*t above and Heaven. And--”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“She say that?”

 

“Told her to f*ck off, Clay.”

 

Huh.

 

Deflated.

 

“Oh,” went Clay.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I told her I don’t want to see the skank none no more and I got antsy and I kicked at her and I told her to get. What’s there to say? I’m done.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah what, Clay?”

 

“Shame.”

 

“Shame?”

 

“Yeah, Johnny,” Clay said. “‘Sa shame.”

 

“They got her with coke at the rehab and she said it weren’t hers or nothin’ and she’s- you know, she’s bad f*ckin’ news. I’m done, man, I’m finished.”

 

Kinda just cold.

 

“And f*ckin’ Terry’s f*ckin’ quiet.”

 

“What I say, John?”

 

“Nothin’.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“C’mon, what?”

 

“Nothin’. You said nothin’. That’s the point.”

 

Terry just shrugged.

 

Silence stewed.

 

Whatever.

 

Didn’t say nothing.

 

Drank.

 

Stared at the neon.

 

---

 

TV babble.

 

Johnny sprawled on the corduroy sofa felt the springs under his back not listening. Half-eaten microwave popcorn bag on the floor and the lights off and the eyes up at the ceiling roof in the trailer. Fingers scraping on the carpet floor. Pacing up and pacing down.

 

Needed to shave.

 

Got up.

 

Needed to shave.

 

Sat on the sofa staring at the door and squinting and dug his fingers in between the seat pillows and felt the springs and the fabric and the crumbs piercing into fingertips and- ahh. Yep. Yurp.

 

Pulled the six-shooter .45 Stud out and dug ‘em into the waistband of his boxers and had the handle sticking out over the tank top. No reason for it other than the securities. No reason, other than the securities. Habits die hard. 

 

Got up and moved and dug a hand through the head stubble and marched on past the ironing board and the kitchen roach fridges and cupboards and speckled vinyl flooring and into bathroom. Bathroom tiles and bathroom grime and mirror.

 

Hair was coming out. Dirty blond below-buzzcut length and beard growing brown-strong. Looked into it. Saw death in it. Got the buzzer.

 

Shaved. Dug trenches in his scalp but kept staring to his eyes and right through ‘em. Clumps of it falling into the sink and down the bridge of his nose. Stopped. Head gone bald and the beard still there.

 

Got the shaving cream.

 

Stared into himself.

 

The f*cking tattoos.

 

Fox. Eagle. Curling carved snarls.

 

Smirked.

 

He weren’t getting buried in the family plot. No tattoos in a Jewish cemetery. They’d have Michael with the star-stick in Arlington, they’d have the parents somewhere nice. Johnny just hoped wherever he ended up after he went weren’t cold.

 

But the buzzer down. Kept staring at the reflection.

 

Put the gun on the sink.

 

Sat down on the toilet.

 

Pulled the underwear down with the shaving cream smeared across jaw and under nose and boxers around ankles and staring out at the darkness.

 

Stroked.

 

EATING DIRT FOR MONEY.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited June 11, 2020 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

 

Winnie’s house was a sty.

 

There was this rust stench that stewed through the place. Rot-wood walls and windows boarded up; particle board and plastics strewn on the front lawn by the street where the grass grew brown and jagged. Cut up by lawn mower, sure, but cut up inconsistent, cut up with patches and scars. Weeds grew and coiled around the staircase and found their way into sidewalk - into driveway turning dead from the wheels rolling over and crushing.

 

Winnie’s house was a sty.

 

Winnie Nest was letting the smoke fester into the air, let it seep, let it absorb. Let the oxygen burn and burst and bubble and the tobacco turn breathing to cough. 

 

Kept smoking. Moved the Redwood from his lips to his ear to his lips again and let the spanners clank and the metal clink. He was delicate. You’d think otherwise, you’d think the big bearded f*cker with the headband catching sweat with his back to the dirty floor was anything but sensible, anything but cautious. But that’s if you didn’t know Winnie.

 

Winnie loved that f*cking bike.

 

Winnie saw Johnny in the doorway.

 

Johnny the Kid was turning 30 this year and the crew’d decided they were going somewhere to savour it. Johnny was this big lanky motherf*cker with big arms, worked out, new-wet tattoos dotting the bare arms he was in with the tank-top, sleeves of his plaid-lumberjack rolled right up past the elbow. Skinhead Johnny Klebitz.

 

Skinhead Johnny watched.

 

Winnie smiled. “You like?”

 

“You got a talent for it.”

 

“I do. I try.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Thing is, cowboy - and some the guys, they don’t know this, thing is,” Winnie rolled hisself from underneath. “You ride to ride, maybe. Maybe. But the thing’s gotta last. Brian never got that. Brian’s chopper always f*cking drips. You keep that thing drippin’, and I mean, what the f*ck. Right?”

 

Johnny just kinda smirked. “Yeah.”

 

Winnie had fastened a cooler and some other sh*t to the back of the bike with tape and tarp and yadda-yadda. They’d all tried - the bikes were parked outside and leant on the garage wall, but the innards of Nest’s nest were for his baby. Souped up custom Western he’d had since Eighty-something with green-sheen and green-stripe. 

 

Winnie picked at his nose, not in; at. Scabbed up from some sh*t or another. “You wanna- I got some sh*t in the fridge. Chickens stripped. You mind--”

 

“No prob’,” said Johnny.

 

“Ease’.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Johnny turned for the house.

 

Brian and the new guy, Terry, were the only ones ‘sides from Winnie who bit at the idea. Terry was this young-buck kid from upstate, around 27, came up and down and up and down from Canada or Montresor or some place on account of his aunt and some sh*t in the armed forces. Whatever.

 

He’d camped out in the cramped kitchen by the table - sat with the chair turned back. Was talking to Brian. Brian laughed: talking sh*t, always talking sh*t, “Jew-man.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Hey, Winnie good?”

 

“Yeah. Bike’s his bike.”

 

“You gotta hear what f*ckin’ Terry was goin’ on about, man. Seriously. Terry--”

 

“Yup.” Shy-guy reclined into the wall with the blond mop-top running back down the scalp. “Yep.”

 

“Yep what?” John went. “What does yep mean?”

 

“Nah, he’s gone all quiet ‘cause--”

 

“I’ll f*ckin’ tell him,” kid went.

 

Brian just shrugged, “It’s funny.” Picked at his ear, “I mean--”

 

“It’s this joke.”

 

“Yeah,” said Brian.

 

“Then spit it out,” said Johnny.

 

“Nah, but--”

 

Brian cut in from Terry and just said “It’s a little racey. You’ll get it, man.”

 

“What? It about Jews?”

 

Terry edging, “Well--”

 

“Yeah,” said Brian. “Nah, we was talking about the box Winnie’s got and how we’re gonna- you know. On the road. Smoke up. Because Terry’s got the thing and if any f*cking pig pulls us over, I mean, that’s more than just ice for the icebox, Johnny.”

 

Johnny chuckled. Johnny looked at Terry. “So it’s a Jew joke?”

 

“Yeah,” said Terry.

 

“Lay it on me.”

 

“Well--”

 

“This ain’t Hebrew school, brother. Come on. Lay it on.” Pulled over a chair and said, “I heard them all before. Nah. I wanna hear what you got.”

 

“I ain’t heard it,” Brian said.

 

“Well, you know,” Terry said. “It’s just--”

 

“I don’t give a f*ck. Tell me, c’mon.” Sat, “I don’t care. I get enough a’ that sh*t from Brian on- like- you heard this motherf*cker--”

 

“C’mon,” Brian laughed.

 

Johnny put a fist up playful-like.

 

Yeah, right.

 

“So lay it on me.”

 

“Okay,” Terry said. “Okay--”

 

Brian, “All this f*cking build-up--”

 

“Listen. So - Jew walks on a bus, right? Jew’s like, let’s say he’s 38, 40; and he’s got this duffel bag, like this big f*cking thing under his arm. And the Jew, he goes up to the bus driver, and he says he wants the senior discount. Bus driver looks him up, looks him down, asks for ID, Jew refuses. And like, they’re f*cking arguing and going back and forth and, bus driver gets so f*cking mad he grabs the goddamn bag and throws it out the bus and the thing rolls down the hill. What does the Jew say?”

 

“What?” went Johnny.

 

Terry smiled a little, “He goes ‘the f*ck?! Just ‘cause I won’t pay full fare, you try kill my f*ckin’ son?!’”

 

Brian laughed.

 

Johnny kinda did, kinda looked confusatory, asked “So what do you mean? What’s the joke?”

 

“Like- he’s got his kid in the bag. Won’t pay for the kid’s ticket.”

 

“Yeah,” sniffed. “I ain’t heard it, but probably for good reason.”

 

Brian laughed harder.

 

Terry scoffed.

 

“It’s a good joke, Johnny.”

 

“Brian, it goes too f*ckin’ long. You lost me. Like- the simple sh*t is killer. Like, uh… why do Jews wear kippahs, right?”

 

“Why?” asked Terry.

 

“Half the hat, half the price. Like that.” Kinda chuckled, “It’s- it’s- I mean- it’s funny. I heard ‘em all before, man. I mean, the brothers give me this sh*t all the time- I’m sure--”

 

“So it’s too smart for you?” Brian said.

 

“Sure, f*ckhead, it’s too smart for me. Too cute. f*ckin’ duffel bag. What was that about the ice, though, what about it?”

 

“What you care?”

 

“We hit the road, I mean- what the f*ck are we doing for 90% of that sh*t? We’re f*cking just driving.”

 

“You’re gonna ride high?”

 

“I done it before, man.” Got up, “You really think there’ll be pig riders out in the middle of the desert? Or- or- or they’ll notice? It’s good.”

 

Brian rubbed his temple, “I mean, yeah.”

 

“I just wanna know where we’re puttin’ the stuff, man. You ain’t just gonna smoke up- what the f*ck you askin’ are we gonna ride high, anyway? You rode f*cking high before--”

 

Brian was laughing hard now, “I mean--”

 

“You just bust people’s balls for the f*ck of it, Brian?”

 

Brian still cackling, “It’s about how people justify themselves, Johnny.”

 

“Justify. Justify. You f*ckin’ hear this sh*t, Terry? We got Detective Jeremy out- out here,” kinda laughing himself, “-and we don’t do the breathalyzer right then we gotta stay in the motel room! Get the f*ck outta’ here.”

 

“Come on, John.”

 

“You’re gonna f*cking light up the moment we stop. And then when we get on the f*ckin’ bikes, Brian, you’re still gonna be f*ckin’ high.”

 

Grinning, “Maybe it’s short.”

 

“Do you think we’re gonna buy sh*t ice, Brian?”

 

“sh*t ice, sh*t ice, we’ll get ice on the road and you’ll haggle ‘cause the good ice is too expensive.” Laughed at his own joke, little snort, “I- is there a Jewish word for being a cheap f*ck? Being a Jew. That’s the word.”

 

“Astute, brother.”

 

“I’ll f*ckin’ astute you. I’ll f*ckin’-” knocked back a bottle on the table, “-astute. What you mean?”

 

“Clever.”

 

“Cl- uh, yeah, whatever. I got,” sniff, “I’m keeping the good sh*t on my- I mean, we do some commie sh*t and split the load but if a cop pulls me over--”

 

“They won’t,” said Johnny.

 

“Don’t discount it,” said Terry.

 

“Why?”

 

“Cops--”

 

“You know what,” Johnny cut, “You’re right. f*ckin’ cops’ll pull Brian over for sure.”

 

Brian laughed, “Screw you.”

 

“There weight limits for cycles on the west coast?”

 

“Bite me.”

 

“It’s fun talking with you f*cking clowns,” Johnny got up off chair and dusted himself off, “but I’m gettin’ winded already. We go on the road like this--”

 

“Pussy Johnny’s on his period.”

 

Johnny just looked bewildered.

 

Kinda lulled.

 

“What the f*ck did- where the f*ck did that come from?”

 

Brian tried thinking a moment.

 

Just put his hands up and chuckled. “Don’t know.”

 

Don’t know.

 

Johnny laughed it off and let it be.

 

Guys kept laughing and chatting and drinking and Johnny moved on through the mauve-and-green insides of the nest up to the kitchen. Everything sorta dusty, everything grimed up with weeks worth of trash bags piled by the backyard exit. Used cups and cans and little notes on the cupboards.

 

Guys kept on.

 

Johnny found the fridge. Industrial. Gunmetal. Pulled the thing open and got the ice chipping off - about six layers deep, a forest of frozen white.

 

Grimaced.

 

Brian said something that Johnny didn’t hear.

 

“Sure, man,” John said.

 

“That weren’t a question.”

 

“I didn’t hear.” Dug deep into the cold and found nothing ‘cept the ice going grayer and… yup.

 

Chicken strips.

 

Chicken strips packet so f*cking coated in ice the plastic colors where chipping.

 

Halfway stuck.

 

“Nice, John.”

 

“Winnie wanted me to get him some chicken strips for his f*ckin’ cooler.”

 

“How the hell he keepin’ the cooler on the bike anyhow?”

 

“Gaffe tape.”

 

“He’s f*ckin’ great with the bikes.”
 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “But what’d you say?” Yanked the strips out and dislodged a hunk of ice and had it fly out and reveal another plastic pack of frozen peas probably overfrozen.

 

Brian kinda smiled a little at it all, but Johnny couldn’t see. “I got some of the goodies on myself,” he said.

 

“So I’ll stay away from that.”

 

Laughed, “f*ck you.”

 

“No thanks.” Turned over and started headed garage-ways, “Terry?”

 

“I mean- y’know, it- I learnt a couple tricks because when you’re goin’ up and down the interstate, I mean, you got your stash. And state troopers get trigger happy. But that was with a cage. And it’d be junk and it’d be speed. I was ferrying the brown up for my brother, actually.”

 

Johnny, “Your brother deal?”

 

“No. No, he bought. I was picking up sh*t outta’ town and bringing it back while he was on house arrest.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“We had the farm so he had time to roam and dad put him up to sh*t but you know. I mean, I made it a habit. And I’d go down and pick up a package and then I’d go back up again.”

 

“Hick sh*t,” said Brian.

 

“My momma, Brian, was from Quebec. So you ain’t wrong.”

 

“Quebec’s Canada, right?”

 

“Yeah. And I got into bikes with some of the guys and you know, I couldn’t ride with a bag on my person because the super troopers’d stop you and ask to see the interior. And they got x-ray lazer beam sh*t so they can see the inside a’ them anyways.”

 

“No they can’t,” said Johnny.

 

“They got ‘em in airports now, too. They’re gonna have cameras that can tell a cop if you’re gonna commit a crime in a few years, they’re tapping all the f*cking phones- I mean, you stay careful, I don’t know.”

 

“But they can’t see inside the bag, Terry.”

 

“What, they don’t give a f*ck. Waco, Johnny.”

 

“Waco. What about your--”

 

“I’m just saying. They put the f*cking pyramids on the dollar bill with the eyes. I don’t f*cking know, they’re taunting us.”

 

“What about your brother?” Johnny said. “Where was you hiding it?”

 

“I mean, I kept it in the jeans or I- and I’m gonna be doin’ this on the ride, you keep ‘em in the seat. I got tapes and I stick the baggies on. If it gets any worse, Colin taught me this trick where--”

 

“Colin?”

 

“My brother. Colin taught me this thing where you pack the sh*t into the insides of other sh*t. So dad’d come up the steps to his room and he’d look for his stash, and my brother got his brown on everywhere. He started stashing in dad’s room for the f*ck of it.”

 

Other two laughed. “Crazy f*cker,” Johnny said.

 

“Determined. I say determined. I respected that. I don’t respect the issue - I get high, we all get high, but it ain’t an issue.”

 

“Hear that.”

 

“Yeah. Colin went the f*ck outta control with it. And he was gettin’ on that sh*t every day, every hour - you’d find him in the coop or in the field or in the attic or under the kitchen table or wherever and he was always f*cking… you know.”

 

“Well, it ain’t like that for us.”

 

“Yeah,” said Brian. “Yeah, it’s recreational.”

 

“I’m not saying that,” said Terry. “I’m just gettin’ giddy. I ain’t rode this far and f*ck if I’m registering my heaters. You know. Soon as you do that the soon as they track you everywhere you go. Satellite sh*t already does that with GPS sh*t so I mean, you know.”

 

Brian, “I ain’t been out the state--”

 

“You been to the city,” John went.

 

“That doesn’t count. I ain’t been out for a while. John, we went to Maryland that one time--”

 

“The f*cking water park, yeah.”

 

“Yeah. Good f*ckin’ time.”

 

“Yeah. And you had the f*ckin- yeah. Nah. Nah, Terry- I’ll, that’s for another time, but no- I wanted to say.”

 

Terry edged a little, “Yeah?”

 

“Your dad ever beat the f*ck out your brother?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

Chuckled, “Yeah, ‘cause… well, okay.”

 

“Okay, what?”

 

Johnny kinda smiled a little and walked back to the table and put the chicken strips on the counter to melt. Scratched his cheek, “I used to deal pot out my house.”

 

“This f*ckin’ story,” went Brian.

 

“Shut. Shut. I was dealin’ pot out my house when I was still livin’ up with my parents. And my brother, Mikey - he was off… I don’t know when this was. I think he was at military school. Some sh*t like that. Fort Leavenworth. Goddman Virginia-prick Army-man f*cking idiot.”

 

“Bootlicker.”

 

“Fascist,” Johnny went. “But whatever. You know. He’s havin’ fun, I hope.”

 

“Where’s he at?” Terry asked.

 

Johnny just shook his head. “Hm. Whatever. I was dealing pot from my house. And it was mostly school guys and dropouts and these f*ckin’ idiot white kids I used to see around temple or whatever. That kinda’ thing. And my dad- my dad is Abe, this big strong f*cking burly guy. He’s like- I mean, I work out, but he’s massive. Barrel chest, he’s got the f*ckin’ beard, and he never worked out. That was just him, dude. But he was the most devout guy you’d ever met in your life.”

 

“Jew-boy Johnny K.”

 

“And he’d smack the sh*t out of you. He was- he studied the Kabbalah and sh*t.”

 

“f*ck’s that?”

 

“Jewish bible,” Terry said.

 

“Not quite. It’s- it’s bullsh*t. That god phoney bullsh*t sh*t is just that, dude. Just bullsh*t. But I was gettin’ sloppy and he found where I was keepin’ some saran-wrapped sh*t, this BC packed dirt weed I was dealing. And he came up to my room with a belt.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“And he f*ckin’ whipped the sh*t out of me. And I ain’t never cried with him. You know? I ain’t never gotten myself to that. But he f*ckin’ hit and hit and hit and he threw me the f*ck outta’ the house. You remember that, Brian?”

 

“Yeah,” said Brian.

 

“And I came to your place and--”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good night.”

 

“Nah, Terry - his face was f*cked up. He was all kinds a’ f*cked up.”

 

Terry screwfaced, “I mean, sucks.”

 

“It happens,” Johnny went. “And I never took sh*t from him. I stopped sleeping at the ‘house and my mom’d get all f*cked up but it’s not like dad cared. f*ck he said? I don’t know, ‘two outta three ain’t bad’. ‘Cause it was me, Mikey, and my kid brother Dan who- I think he’s in Fierro right now or some sh*t on the west coast. f*ckin’ Seattle. But he comes to visit. You know, he’s fine.”

 

“Your brothers sound like f*ckin’ cockeaters,” Terry said.

 

“Mikey is. Danny sorta.”

 

“We gonna see Dan when we get to SA?”

 

“Nah, Brian, he’s- it’s like north and south. He’s a pussy, anyway. So whatever. He’s- I mean, we get to Del Perro for the meet and then it’ll have been, like, couple week journey or less or more. I don’t know. I don’t wanna.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Johnny shrugged. “Don’t know. Just don’t.”

 

“And,” Terry went, “if we hit San Fierro in Lost patches we’ll get swamped by half the deadbeats in the state.”

 

Johnny went back for the chicken, “Yeah, that too, sure.”

 

Picked it up.

 

Don’t know.

 

Winnie was grateful for the chicken. Patient motherf*cker he is.

 

---

 

Wind was ripping through Johnny’s clothes.

 

They were off to Del Perro.

 

Annual meet-up of biker guys who swamped the avenues and rode upways and downways. Tens of thousands. That kind of meetup. Where you got leathers near the pier sign takin’ pictures and honking horns and the beer and the t-shirts and the patches.

 

Johnny’d always wanted to go. Winnie went twice. Brian thought it’d be fun. Terry came too.

 

Billy would’ve come. Billy got sanctioned as the charter president and was still mopping up the legalese after what happened last year. Harper woulda’, but Harper was picking up slack for Terry while he was out of town. The Fitz had his parole officer whining saying he weren’t gonna let that fly, so he had to bow out.

 

So there were four.

 

The four were on I-78.

 

Wind was ripping through Johnny’s clothes. Through his jacket, through his cut. Wind was ripping and the air was restless and the open road beckoned and f*ck if he weren’t one to heed that call.

 

They were just outta Alderney, crossed the Delaware into Pennsylvania: unkempt grass and billboards and potholed highway and rurality. Trees by the dozen and fresh air, cow sh*t air or landfill air in between, but it sure as hell weren’t city air.

 

It weren’t rotting garbage bags and piss-stench. Eyes were clear. It was air.

 

They’d slowed up near Bethlehem.

 

Mini-mart gas station place. Terroil. Local convenience chain. 

 

Four riders pulled in.

 

Winnie led the pack because Winnie was Vice President. So Winnie had the eyes on the prize. Winnie got up and got off his big f*cking chopper rigged up with boxes and bags - so much sh*t you couldn’t understand how it stood on its own.

 

Choppers got gassed up and Winnie headed inside.

 

Johnny trailed Terry and Brian and followed the guys around to a bathroom outside the store; sick truckstore bathroom sh*t that smelled awful and felt awful. Brian pulled out the pipe. Pulled out the baggie from out the jacket sleeve.

 

Johnny felt dirty.

 

Johnny was dirty.

 

Johnny was dealing with the flies and the dim light. An ungodly amount of flies - flies attracted to the shine and the dirt on the mirrors and the stench from the stalls.

 

Flies landed. Johnny slapped. Flies landed. Johnny slapped. Stench burned the nostrils and fumed brown and Johnny looked at Brian pulling the pipe and went “I’m good.”

 

Terry went “Huh?”

 

Johnny went “Yeah.”

 

Brian went “A’ight.”

 

“A’ight?”

 

“Yeah, Johnny, yeah.”

 

“Smells like f*cking sh*t.”

 

“And that put you off?”

 

“Nah.”

 

Johnny left.

 

Door pushed open. Heard laughing.

 

Brushed it off.

 

What was outside?

 

Outside was Pennsylvania nothing. Mowed grass mowed in that way where the lines dig deep and change color like stripes. Green, light green, green, light green. Outside was passing cars and a strip mall and a wall of trees behind a billboard for Mollis and a big tall highway wall like a border.

 

Chain link fence. Cracked asphalt parking lot. Empty propane canisters. Alderney with more grass. Alderney with better smell.

 

Maybe not. Smelled like gas.

 

Started walking toward the bikes and had a thought and turned around and went into the mini-mart and heard the ding-dong door and searched for Winnie.

 

Found Winnie.

 

Passed by Mystaspot bottles and condiments and came to Winnie by the freezer section with a six pack under bear arm and the other stroking the beard of his dropping down basically to the chest and a smirk that came on.

 

Silence a moment.

 

Winnie, “You tweakin’?”

 

Johnny, “No.”

 

“That sh*t rots you.”

 

Johnny shrugged.

 

“We all party though, huh?”

 

Johnny smiled. “That's the point.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Partying. Road. This.”

 

Winnie looked over, “This?”

 

“Brothers, man.”

 

Nodded, “Good.” Closed the fridge door leaking cool air and nodded again, “That’s it.”

 

Six pack was yellow AM Beer sh*t. Backed off and let Johnny pick a second and saw Johnny pull a Normandy 40 ounce out and stop when Winnie gave him sneak-look.

 

“What?”

 

Winnie pointed with the free hand, “How you carryin’ that?”

 

“Can I put that sh*t in your cooler?”

 

Winnie shook his head.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Classifiato, dude.”

 

Johnny lifted brows and put the bottle back and pulled a bottle of rum out instead. Ragga Rum dark sh*t with the cork in the top and Winnie nodded for the inspired choice and moved on.

 

Johnny grabbed some gum and a couple Redwoods at the register.

 

Dork attendant scanned ‘em.

 

Big men in leathers and pins looked him over.

 

Minimum-wager looked up.

 

Saw ‘em looking.

 

Eyes darted back to the produce. Winnie just laughed. John smiled. Scared little f*cker kept scanning.

 

They paid their way.

 

Halfway out the store with the bags and Johnny was thinking about how he’d carry the sh*t when Winnie stopped him with a big outstretched meaty f*cking arm and a sideways smile. Winnie was a big f*cker: 6’3, wide, smiling pocked face marked with age.

 

“Party. Road. Brothers.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Winnie again, “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said.

 

Winnie chewed lip. “That ain’t right.”

 

Johnny blinked again. “Okay?”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I don’t know, Horse.” Thought a second more, “I don’t.”

 

“Road. Brothers. That’s right. You always got road and you always got brothers.”

 

“‘Kay, Horse.”

 

“But this ain’t about a party.”

 

Johnny kept looking. “Yeah.”

 

“Parties end, Johnny. Parties end.” Winnie lifted up his arm and bit the fingernail and kept looking and said again, “Parties end.”

 

Johnny nodded. Nodded slow.

 

“Good?”

 

“Good,” Johnny said.

 

“You gotta know when the party is over. And when it ends, it ends. If the party takes you, that’s it. You’re gone. But you don’t: you still got road, you still got brothers.”

 

Johnny nodded.

 

Winnie the Horse turned and led him out the store.

 

SOMEDAY, THE DREAM WILL COME TRUE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited July 29, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

 

Coffee and Pilsner got passed around.

 

Truck stop by the highway meshed in swamp-muck and cattail grass. Dark trees. Something septic about the mud and the big building down the road Johnny couldn't figure any purpose for. Semi-rigs passing and stopping and going frequent-like.

 

Coffee was truck-stop coffee. Black like the mud. Tongue-sour. Winnie drinking beer in the morning. Johnny not up for it.

 

Winnie went on talking, storytelling, legend-weaving: “Was we up near Boise and we was headed where-was. Just making a game out it. Weren't as serious back then.”

 

“Serious?” Terry asked.

 

“There's this business sh*t to everything now. When we’s went up Yankton for the thing there everything was kiosk-sh*t. Tourist sh*t. And this was in the Eighties, even. Eighties was rough and f*cking rugged and we still had that sh*t and now you go to a meet and it's 99% 99-percenter. What the f*ck, right?”

 

Winnie said ‘f*ck’ like ‘fug’. Brian chuckled, sipped brew, “Billy ain't with that sh*t, though.”

 

Winnie, “Ain't seen enough of Billy with the handles to know that.”

 

“I was here before he got his patch, man.” Brian sniffed, “I'm just saying.”

 

“I know the kid.”

 

“Kid?”

 

“Kid.”

 

“f*ck he a kid.”

 

“We’re all rotting, Brian.” Winnie all phlegmy, “Good times was old and y’all are kids the same. Billy’s 30’s. Tito picked up the mantle at forty-something. Half you the age a’ what we woulda’ done prospects for a while back.”

 

Brian sticking lips out. “Maybe.”

 

“Not maybe. Definitely. Frogskins Kurtz. Roman Lou. Tito. Billy. Of all the fellas who helmed the ship, who’s the one with the shortest beard and the ripest mind?”

 

“You speakin’ all poetic now,” Terry went.

 

“I’m speakin’ sense. Kid’s clever. Wild and clever. Tito too. Always liked Teets for that. When we was in Boise I remember it was the four’s of us. There was more and the fellas kicked and joined and dipped all-the-same but I knew ‘em the closest.”

 

Johnny asked, “Was this before or after you all went to San An?”

 

“Don’t matter. We zigged.”

 

“Horsie zigged and horsie zagged,” Brian sang.

 

“Little ways outta Boise on I-84. That’s all patchwork country. Wheatyworks and the like. Cropfields and corn circles or whatja’ got. This dive we stopped out with a couple brothers for some ruckin’ and that. These husked-out fellas all inside-like and the rattlesnake boots and sh*t like that, cowboy sh*t, f*ckin’ wild west sh*t. Little fellas. There’s something about that.”

 

“‘Bout what?” Johnny went.

 

“We ain’t halfway out the east-board, yeah. And it’s still all these familiarities. Y’know?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And there’s a point where it’s all the same but the sh*t’s all different. I mean, you know, all looks the f*ckin’ same out the f*ckin’ highway on the road with the wind’n all. But’ja slow a moment and it’s all yellow. Here it’s f*ckin’- uh… green. Murk. Never gets dry-hot, always humid.”

 

Johnny got it. Brian just went “So?”

 

Winnie changed the subject like it was nothing - “Bar had these roughskin motherf*ckers in blue-jeans cheaped out. We’re halfway black and deep colors and these hickf*ck motherf*ckers are all chewin’ cud and lookin’ funny and Kurtzy heads to the pool table on the immediate. Goes, f*ckin’ hollers ‘Y’all ain’t-the-f*ck readin’ types, right?!’. f*ckin’ echoes.”

 

Johnny chuckled. Could see Terry was barely following, “What did Frogskins read?”

 

“Nothin’,” Winnie went. “Training manuals and the pamphlets and when we’s was up in San Fierro-... nothin’, y’know. The Bible. They’re lookin’ at one of the guys we got with us, this little skinny f*cker we picked up Midwestern, he’s Mexican and he’s got skin that’s dark as f*ck.”

 

“You’re Puerto Rican, right Brian?”

 

Brian looked at Terry kinda skewed, “Does that matter, man?”

 

“Your moms, right?”

 

“Nah, it don’t matter.”

 

“Don’t matter,” Winnie said. “We called him Mex. They look at Mex funny and Frogskins goes ‘What, you ain’t f*ckin’ read before?’ Little short hick comes off the counter and asks where we’re from, Frogskins pulls the classic. ‘We ain’t from nowhere, brother. We’re the Lost.’ Slick as you-know. Hick don’t take that well and asks if us’n the spic can split. And Kurtz tells ‘em to apologize.”

 

Got the fellas laughing. Johnny said “What?!”

 

“I’m dead. Told him to say sorry.”

 

“C’mon.”

 

“Kurtzy was intellectualic like that. Hick says no. Kurtz chuckles, goes to say something, stops himself mid-sentence to f*ckin’ POW- right with a f*cking headbutt to the guy and stomps him the f*ck out with a f*cking stool.”

 

Reaction: mutually agreed, the hick got was coming. Voiced over laughter and drink-clicking.

 

Drink clicking petered out.

 

Winnie sighed.

 

“It’s good times. I’ll f*cking miss that f*cking cocksucker. I miss Tito. Miss Lou and Mick and the whole--”

 

“No.”

 

Winnie looked at Johnny.

 

Everyone looked back.

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

“We had--” Winnie got taken back, Vice President getting chided by his men. Men stopped and stared and repeated.

 

Repeated “No.”

 

“Mickey’s dead,” Johnny said. “Mickey we don’t talk about.”

 

Got a sniff.

 

Brian, “f*cking piece of sh*t.”

 

“We had good times,” Winnie said.

 

Johnny bore eyes into Winnie, “When he did what he did he set the memories alight. He f*ckin’ sh*t on ‘em. That’s it. He ain’t a brother to nobody.”

 

And that was that.

 

That was that.

 

 

---

 

 

Their pitstop in Harrisburg was an old friend of Winnie’s. Rank part of town: a couple blocks away from a baseball field and a couple few more from a cemetery. Kinda dour. Crumbling.

 

Bikes rumbled in the night when they passed the church. Headlights screaming out onto dark roads and the blinds closing past the little houses and the SUVs parked out. Church had flags bare and a veteran’s thing going.

 

Terry made a joke about it to Brian; one Johnny didn’t hear.

 

Winnie put a hand when they hit the spot. Pulled to the curb.

 

It was sketch.

 

Grass growing through the cracks in the cement by a unit townhouse with red brick and chipping paint. Across the street - vacant lot, demolished, Primo with only two wheels on the road and a couple fellas by a garage.

 

Winnie kicked the stand and got off and signaled. Shouted something over the bike-growls at another guy - big white fella in a stained wifebeater. Clean-shaven, paunchy, cracked yellow teeth Johnny got a look at reflecting the headlight.

 

Johnny got off to see Winnie the Horse hugging the guy. Extending a hand for Brian to shake, moving onto Johnny: “Hans Conzelmann,” Win said.

 

Johnny shook. “Pleasure.”

 

Hans had two leather fingerlesses on and nails stained black by car-blood.

 

Winnie joked, “Weather’s peach weather. Peach weather for the f*ckin’ peaches. Like Georgia. Cottonmouth-f*ckin’-you-know peaches, yeah?”

 

The Lost laughed along though it weren’t very funny and weren’t much a joke neither. Followed Hans. Hans laughed - Hans had a wet voice, phlegm-stained, choky. Weren’t talking much sense and got Johnny looking back while he followed the guy.

 

Winnie was unstrapping the cooler on his bike. “You remember Georgie, Hans?”

 

Hans chuckled, “Yessir.”

 

Garage was stripping some T-body sedan down to the skeleton. Another guy near the back in coveralls with a rat face and ginger hair and scrap-thin facial scruff plugging one nostril and blowing snot onto the floor. Gave a look but didn't speak.

 

Office that smelt like rotwood.

 

Empty bottle of whiskey and a Sing-Song Sally Salmon. Hans chirped, “You seen this?”

 

“Talking fish,” Johnny said. “Sure, dude.”

 

Three men stood in the shadow of the doorway as the big man walked up, pressed the big red button, and let the fish sing.

 

I want to know, won’t you tell me

I love to stay

 

Fish turned its head.

 

Take me to the river

Drop me in the water

 

Hans was beaming with crooked teeth. “My nephew got it.”

 

Just blank faces. Terry kinda chuckled. Brian leaning against wall, eye cocked.

 

Winnie came with the box.

 

Take me to the river

Put me in the water

 

Winnie laughed. “The trout thing.”

 

“Funny?” went Hans.

 

“Friend a’ mine got one wid’ the YMCA song, you know. Sure.”

 

“That’s nice.”

 

“I don’t got no office or nothin’.”

 

Hans nodded.

 

Winnie plonked the cooler on the desk.

 

Lifted lid.

 

Sifted.

 

Johnny came out the doorway to get a side view, view of mysterious box, untouchable box now touched: road sh*t, beer, chicken strips still frozen. Squinted, thought, realized when Winnie pulled the honeys out to show.

 

Two .45s. Knockoff Studs.

 

“Winnie.”

 

“What, John?”

 

John kinda blew out the nose - got a “Huh?” from Brian who peeked over but didn’t get a look on the immediate. Got it when Winnie placed the gat on the wood-top to show. Got Hans rubbing hands, picking the thing up, checking the works. “This clean?”

 

“You got that thing on, I came through, I know a fella--”

 

“Horse, what the f*ck?”

 

“Brian.”

 

“Said this weren’t no business trip, no business--”

 

“You see the f*cking title?”

 

“Winnie.”

 

“Don’t you f*ckin’ talk to VP like that, motherf*cker. Mister f*ckin’ Treasury.”

 

Staring off.

 

“Y’all good?” Hans went.

 

Johnny cut, “We needa’ talk outside.”

 

Winnie, “No--”

 

Brian, “I think we f*ckin’ do.”

 

Got Hans putting two hands up - “Okay.”

 

Winnie weren’t okay.

 

Winnie broke the quiet front and stormed out first scowling and muttering and clenching and unclenching his tattooed hands - knuckles going white, knuckles reading L.O.S.T. on the left and D.O.N.T. on the right. Breathing like an angry bull. Air weren’t cold but it was frosting out at the breathing and Winnie hit the pavement and half-shouted “What the f*ck is y’all f*ckin’ problem?”

 

Johnny got out and had the lamplight beaming off his dome. “You f*ckin’ dragged us off the route to goddamn Harrisburg for a f*cking gun deal?”

 

“What’s it matter?”

 

“And you ain’t told us, Horsie?”

 

“Yeah, I ain’t f*ckin’ told you.”

 

Brian now out, “Where’s the loyalty?”

 

Johnny, “You disclose club business. We do something, you tell us. This ain’t a business trip. We make a little f*cking extra money, sure--”

 

“Who is your goddamn superior?” Winnie was roaring.

 

Brian f*cked off, “Politics, man, god--”

 

“These are the rules,” Johnny said. “We keep it legit--”

 

“Legit can f*ck a donkey, John.”

 

John had his eyes drilling holes into Winnie. Brian was looking off, Terry the kid looking at. Terry piped up, “We gotta think about the taxes.”

 

Winnie, “The taxes?!”

 

“Tax the boss cuts, tax the club cuts--”

 

“You barely got your f*cking patch yet you little hillbilly motherf*cker!”

 

Terry stormed up, got Johnny pushing a palm to his chest, “Goddamn f*ck you say?!”

 

“Heard me.”

 

Johnny, “Win--”

 

“This ain’t club business,” Win went, “it’s my f*cking business. It’s a goddamn sideline. We’d be through town either way, highway runs through here; Hans used to live in Dukes before he relo-move-a-cated, you pansy little kike.”

 

John stopped.

 

Never seen Winnie so mad before, but stopped.

 

John looked him even closer.

 

“You don’t say that to me,” he said.

 

Winnie sucked cheek in.

 

“You don’t,” John repeated.

 

The old man cooled down. Face wasn’t red anymore, just normal Winnie-ass ruddy-red, not rage red. “I’m sorry,” he said.

 

“Damn sight,” John went.

 

Winnie breathed.

 

“You dragged us along to sell guns and you ain’t even told us you had them. We got pulled over, we’d been f*cked. Were you gonna spring it on us now? Or’d you think we wouldn’t figure out why we pulled up here?”

 

Winnie didn’t speak.

 

“You’re cutting us in,” Brian said.

 

“I know,” Winnie replied.

 

“You got anything else planned for the road?”

 

“No,” Winnie said. “Nothing planned.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Favor.”

 

“On this?” Johnny asked.

 

“On the way. I called. Whatever. Hell you care for?”

 

“‘Cause where’s the f*cking trust, man?”

 

Win stopped.

 

Sighed.

 

“Just didn’t,” he said.

 

“Just didn’t?”

 

“Just didn’t.”

 

Johnny breathed. “Okay. This a thing for- I mean- c’mon. C’mon.”

 

“We got some extra steps,” Win said. “Some fellas down the way, Allison Hill, block-boy types. Wanted the pieces. You can stick, but I gotta go.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just do.”

 

Terry just laughed.

 

Win looked at him. Glared.

 

“I’ll come,” Brian said.

 

John just said “Whatever.” That meant ‘me too’.

 

Club was making appearances.

 

 

---

 

 

The bikes stopped at an intersection of bypaths: Daisy Street, Ella Alley. Road barely wide enough for the five.

 

Five riders. Hans had his own chopper, big chopper with the big handlebars and the big exhaust pipe like open jaws. Wheels grinded gravel and broken pavement and rusted out cars lying ragged in these mossy lots. Some guys up a dirty dirt pathway with a pickup and a parasail and plastic chairs drinking something out a cooler in the night.

 

Winnie had his own back on his green Western.

 

Passed these townhouses. These rotting, ugly brownstones: some populated, the cleaner ones, some not-so with boards covering windows and doors and graffiti and broken off AC units lying on the porches.

 

Traphouses.

 

At the half-end of the street - the last house on the street before a giant pile of crushed rock and concrete and a crane reading HVY - were one of the more well-kept homes. There was a sports bike outside. Dinka Single T wrapped top-to-bottom in Atomic livery, yellow rims, blue-and-yellow everything else. A bike helmet hanging from the porch column.

 

There was a teddy bear on the first step. Black man on the porch in black Heat sandals and black jean shorts and a black tank top and tattoos up the arms. Looked at ‘em funny.

 

Johnny thought he was the buyer until he looked a little further up the street and saw a bunch of guys in baggy t-shirts hanging out near a stop sign. Couldn’t discern the skin, just the white clothes and the white ball caps and the smoke from cigarettes or joints or both.

 

Hans kicked the stand and got Winnie to sift through the box. Pointed to Terry - beckoned with two fingers.

 

Johnny and Brian stayed behind.

 

Overheard. “He ay-pologized,” Terry said. “Some sh*t.”

 

“You come along,” was the gruff response Hans gave.

 

Win rubbed sleep out his eyes and nodded a nod that said ‘stay’. Left the two in his stead. The man trudged on with his hands grasping paper bag, gat bag, not looking back.

 

Man in the black shorts stared.

 

Felt the air burn flesh.

 

Brian pulled Debonaires out his pocket and popped a cig-stick and fumbled for a lighter and scratched his chin and looked out to the fellas by the sign. Heard murmurs, heard talking, heard something they weren’t privy to.

 

Johnny clasped his hands on the belt buckle.

 

Kinda stumbled to the porch.

 

Looked up the man in black, looked down to the Dinka bike.

 

“Nice ride,” John said. Didn’t really think so.

 

Man on the porch had nothing to smoke. Just looked at the skinhead and looked at the bikes.

 

“You want one?” John went.

 

Porchman squinted under lamplight. “Mhm?”

 

“You want a smoke.”

 

Brian looked over through four-eyes with the ciggie balanced on the lip and brows in a scowl. Breathed out his nose like a bull.

 

Porchman said “No.” Porchman paused, “I don’t smoke.”

 

“I don’t ride imports,” John said.

 

Porchman looked.

 

“That girl hard with the maintenance? Heard you need to fix the f*ckers up all the time and they need these fuels and all that kinda sh*t I ain’t for. You ride American?”

 

Porchman, “What?”

 

“You rode a Western before?”

 

Porchman didn’t speak.

 

“Because, y’know, a crotch rocket leaf blower is one thing, you stick it out in the colors. But machines purr, you know.”

 

“It purrs.”

 

“Hey, man, it’s preferences.”

 

Porchman didn’t speak.

 

“It’s MeTV sh*t. I get it.”

 

“Get what?”

 

“It’s fast.”

 

“Bikes are fast,” said Porchman.

 

“Sure.”

 

Porchman squinted.

 

Johnny stared.

 

“You out here for drugs?” Porchman said.

 

“What?”

 

“You guys drug dealers?”

 

Johnny’s turn for silence.

 

“Those guys down the street- y’all out here for what reason? It ain’t window-bike-f*ckin’-shopping.”

 

“We’re in the neighborhood,” Johnny went.

 

“Why?”

 

John lost the warmth in the eyes. Weren’t looking friendly, just looking. “The bike give you trouble, man?”

 

Porchman didn’t reply.

 

Okay.

 

That was that.

 

Johnny turned his back and asked for a smoke.

 

Lit up after a sec and looked over the shoulder at the porch. Fella in the shorts had gone inside. Brought the teddy bear with him. Weren’t his business. Porchman’s business weren’t what Johnny was doing, and Johnny’s business weren’t what Porchman was doing.

 

Exhaled. “I give hot-plastic motherf*ckers the time of day,” John said.

 

“Jig neighborhood.”

 

“What, Brian?”

 

“We’re whitey in a bad neighborhood. They don’t trust that.”

 

“You think Billy gonna like the talk like that? Clay? Fitz was here--”

 

“Whateva’.” Brian pulled in the smoke, “f*ckin’ drag us ova--” wheezing. Coughed a little ‘cause he talked with the smoke in his throat, coughed more.

 

Johnny laughed, “Nice one.”

 

“You think that’s funny.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Winnie got me all f*cked up with this gun sh*t, man. Asshole.”

 

Johnny didn’t reply. Pursed his lips for the smoke-stick and pulled it out with two fingers around the tip: “Don’t call him an asshole.”

 

“Called you a kike.”

 

“You call me Jew-sh*t, Brian.”

 

“Yeah, bub,” Brian giggled. “I’m the only brother who can.”

 

Exhaled, “Winnie’s been-” Johnny stopped himself. Thought. Watched the deal: deal in conclusion with hands and daps and nothing-shouting with the words obscured. “Sentimental,” he finished.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The memories and the spec-a-f*cking-whatevers, Bry.”

 

“Yeah. You know. It’s a good ride. Long ride. You got the bikes, the brothers,” snorted, “Nostalgia. I don’t know, man. He’s old.”

 

Johnny nodded.

 

Who knew?

 

Winnie and Terry walked back to the bikes while big bad Hans stayed to chat. Winnie smiling; Winnie with a wad of cash replacing the bag. Terry behind with hands in leather jacket pockets.

 

Wordless until he got within smelling distance.

 

“We got spending money,” Win said.

 

“Okay,” John nodded.

 

“Now’s I make it up to ya’ for the whole thing here.”

 

Damn well better.

 

THE FIRST OF MANY BLATANT INDISCRETIONS.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

[LowTierDude]

It's nice but I find the presence of way too many filler sentences really distracting.

Edited June 23, 2020 by DownInTheHole

[slimeball supreme]

On 6/23/2020 at 8:31 PM, DownInTheHole said:

way too many filler sentences really distracting.

if you mean stuff johnny's mumbling in c1, you should. johnny after the events of tlad is a different man than he was at the start: he's broken, working a straight job for the first time in years, scrounging a living 'eating dirt for money'. the chapters post-2008 are about him rediscovering himself, if only for a moment, and right now he's driving through a dark tunnel with the headlights off

[Jimmy]

Another great piece from the makers of Red Triangle. I love the fact that someone decided to re-discover the Johnny era storyline with a concept writing. I feel like Rockstar sentenced him to unjust feat. It's really a shame tbh. It would nice to see how to he goes from a straight working job to a total meth-head by the time GTA V's storyline unfolds. Keep it coming guys.  

[Cebra]

  

 

Woke to the sound of the fan rattling again. 

 

Eyes opened all blurred. 

 

Blinked.

 

Blinked.

 

Johnny looked up at popcorn ceiling and popcorn ceiling looked back. Ceiling fan rattled, jangled, spun a bit too rough off its axis with the pull chain swinging wild. He’d tried to fix it, used the Philips head on the light fixture and tightened - done it at least a half dozen times.

 

F*cking thing always broke again a day later. Least it woke you up gentler than an alarm.

 

Stayed in bed a while, spread-eagled naked in the middle of two twin mattresses with the springs that squeaked when you planted your ass too firm sitting down. Sheets got thrown on the floor overnight. Kept happening. Last night he just left them there.

 

Eventually sat up. Checked the bedside clock alongside the beer cans and loose ciggies and a book never been touched with ash all over the cover, saw half past eight. Sleep schedule’d been f*cked for a while - didn’t know whether he went out at midnight or four hours past.

 

Got up.

 

Johnny trudged past plastic blind-covered windows with the pieces missing and picked up underwear on the way to the living room and put them on as he saw he’d left the old CRT on overnight and the f*ckin’ signal’d gone at one point and now the No Signal was burnt into the screen in the top left.

 

F*ckin’ A.

 

Trailer had the living room and kitchen in one, just separated by the linoleum. Sink was full of dishes, sink’d always been full of dishes, but John went for a coffee mug in the cupboard and didn’t find sh*t and said f*ck it and now became the time. Squeezed the soap bottle over pots and pans and plates caked with food-sh*t - hardened mustard and solid fries and now-sogged hotdog buns.

 

Miracle there weren’t no bugs pattering around.

 

Let the water run.

 

Had a feeling.

 

John pulled the cord for the blind above the sink. Lifted.

 

Ash.

 

Ash.

 

Window looked into the gravel driveway running alongside - usually empty ‘cept for the odd visit ‘cause the rental contract said you couldn’t park on the street at all. Too many visitors? Tough sh*t.

 

Was a Rhapsody with its rear still sticking out into the main drive.

 

Was a girl all too familiar with the black hair in the sun and the low-cut top sitting in a plastic chair on the grass.

 

Ash.

 

John turned the water off and put palms flat on the counter. She didn’t see him, couldn’t see him, was busy nibbling at fingernails and looking up at the sky. Nerves.

 

How long’d she been there?

 

John sighed. Went “Goddamn it.”

 

He breathed and moved faster than his heart wanted him to and went back to the bedroom and grabbed a T-shirt and jeans off a laundry pile didn’t know if it was clean or not. Probably not. Didn’t matter.

 

Went back to the living room - walked slow now, slow into the entrance next to the coat rack, took a breath.

 

Unlocked.

 

Opened and stayed in the doorway.

 

Didn’t take long before she noticed - rushed from the chair and took a couple steps ‘fore tempering it. “John.”

 

Let her come closer. Careful steps. Gentler now: “Whaddaya want, Ash?”

 

Stopped short. “What’s up, Johnny?”

 

Voice was gravel. John saw half a dozen smokes on the ground around the chair.

 

“Ashley…”

 

“Just let me in, will you? Just- I just wanna talk, John. Can we talk?”

 

Looked down the street - car slow-rolled, old lady across the street always tending her sh*t tended her sh*t. Tulips.

 

“We can talk, Ash.”

 

Spoke quick: “Inside?”

 

“If you want.”

 

Didn’t wait. John went back in, turned the TV off from behind on the way. She followed. Knew she’d follow.

 

She closed the door behind her. “John.”

 

He was standing behind the couch, hands on the back. Spoke with words more measured now, on the level. “How’d you find me, Ashley?”

 

Chewed nothing. “Asked Angus.”

 

Didn’t mean to laugh. “Angus? You still got his number?”

 

Chewed some more. “I mean, sugar, Angus don’t--”

 

Still gentle turned firm, “Ain’t got no right calling me that.”

 

“John, it’s just--”

 

“Angus. I know. Always liked you, Ash, didn’t matter how f*cked up things got.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. Things got pretty bad, huh?”

 

John swallowed. Wasn’t the right thing to say. Redirected, “You wanna drink or something?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Okay.

 

Went to the dishes.

 

“Angus is fine,” John said. Weren't a question.

 

“He’s got this thing--”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I’d a thought- I dunno.”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said.

 

“And things with you--”

 

Ground the faucet on. Got it spraying hard and then twisted tap to get the water trickling. Didn't reply.

 

Ash jittery. “And Terry. He's got this Broker… yeah. And you know what he does. With the chapter. And everything.”

 

“City’s dead,” John said.

 

“My mom’s dead,” Ashley said.

 

Took a second to sink in.

 

Johnny standing in the kitchenette with a newly-rinsed mug with the water beading down the sides.

 

“Huh?”

 

“My mom,” Ashley went, rubbed neck, “She, uh- she’s dead, Johnny. She died.”

 

John put the mug down.

 

Sighed. “When?”

 

“Two weeks- almost three. Ten days, I think. You wouldn’t guess but you lose count. It was, uh- they said it was an aneurysm. You know. Just like that.”

 

Picked the mug back up, flipped tap back on, let it fill slow-like with the cold building.

 

Built up.

 

Walked over to her.

 

Handed it over: “Just like that.”

 

She wrapped her fingers with the gnawed-down nails and the black polish chipped around the mug. “That’s what they said.”

 

“I’m sorry, Ash.”

 

“I know, Johnny boy.”

 

Somewhere a clock ticked.

 

Thought it was broken.

 

Ashley drank. Johnny sat and she followed suit, sat across on the rickety papasan next to the TV.

 

“Never really saw your parents, huh?”

 

She shrugged. “Not much- well. There was the one time. When they came down from upstate, you remember? And they wanted to take us into Algonquin--”

 

“Wanted me to drive the car. Yeah, I remember.”

 

“And you didn’t wanna.”

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

“But you did.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Sipped water.

Smiled.

 

What’s the play, Ash?

 

Didn’t say it. Let the smile die down and the silence ebb, cicada drone started outside through windows never kept the noise out too well.

 

Thirty seconds passed. More. 

 

She wasn’t looking anymore - looked into the mug, at the hardwood, her knee - but not at Johnny.

 

“I, uh,” he started and regretted, “-you know the story with my parents, Ashley. They wasn’t--  Donna was a sweet woman.”

 

“Yeah,” she went. “We never talked that much, y’know? Every couple of weeks. Always was like that - just that it was okay to go without talking too much. ‘Cause I knew she was there anyway.”

 

Was running out of things to say so John said it again: “I’m sorry, Ashley. I am.”

 

“I know, sugar.”

 

Let it slide.

 

She got up. Put the cup down on the coffee table.

 

Came around and sat down right beside. 

 

Girl reeked of cigarettes but nothing else. The worst times had it where she’d go days without a shower too far gone into that f*ckin’ hole ice bath teeth-clenched nails-into-palms mindset, too far into the binge to think let alone do.

 

Now girl just reeked of cigarettes.

 

“Whose car you got?”

 

Just came out.

 

“Huh?”

 

Repeated. “Cage out there in my driveway. You don’t drive.”

 

“I drive.”

 

“I drove.”

 

“It’s been a while,” she said.

 

“Maybe,” Johnny said.

 

“I been good. Really, I been good. I got work. For a while. I’m looking again. I got- I mean- way we all was--”

 

“A while?”

 

“A couple things. And I did odd stuff. You know. I’m okay. I was okay. I am okay. And it’s not great work because it ain’t, but- but I mean, what is? I, you know-...”

 

Trailed off because Johnny weren’t saying nothing. Just looking blankly at her. Hands on tabletop and eyes emptied.

 

Ashley smiled again. “John.”

 

John cold. “Lady.”

 

Smiled a little less.

 

John again, not stern: blunt, level, “So whose car is it?”

 

Ash nodded. “My friend Marianne.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I met her at the clinic, John.”

 

“She know it's gone?”

 

“She--” Ash stopped herself, closed her eyes, breathed a little harder, “Yes she knows. I asked.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Why you even ask that, baby?”

 

“Ain't the first time you borrowed nothin’, and you ain't one for asking permission.”

 

“Well, I asked.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“How’m I gettin’ out here without a car, anyway?”

 

“License still revoked?”

 

Didn't even flinch, “Sure.”

 

“So what the f*ck?” John went.

 

“You carry yours on you all the time? You wear a helmet? You worried for my safety.”

 

“It ain’t that. It’s stupid. Just stupid.”

 

Cooed, “I ain’t got you to drive me.”

 

“Been that way for a while, Ash. Good long while.”

 

“I miss it, Johnny. I miss it. Arms around you, tie my hair up, wind ripping through--”

 

“Don’t need you to paint me a picture.”

 

“You like it?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like the picture. You like the painting?”

 

Johnny screwface, confusatory: “Treat me like a f*cking idiot, Ash. You act a f*cking idiot, Ash.”

 

Still smiling.

 

The message never got through.

 

John shook head a little, thought. Spoke, “What you want?”

 

Ash did her smile. “You.”

 

“No.”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“How long’s it been?”

 

Ash didn’t speak.

 

Again, “How long I ain’t spoke to you?”

 

Ash looked. Looked warm. Let her eyes wet.

 

“Years. Okay? You- what you want with me? What you want?”

 

Okay.

 

Ashley locked eyes. Stopped the smiling. Didn’t stop the warmth - just the smiling.

 

“Terry and Clay are heading out,” she said.

 

John hesitated. “Where?”

 

“Illinois.”

 

John spaced out. “Yeah?”

 

“Hook up with the chapter in Couira. Maybe head out a little more. Delisle City, maybe. Colorado. I don’t know.”

 

Johnny was looking out but weren’t looking anywhere. “Mhm.”

 

“You going?”

 

“No,” John said. “I weren’t told.”

 

Ash all quiet, “Okay.”

 

“I call them,” John sighed. “They don’t call me.”

 

“Not how I remember it.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Don’t gotta hold back with me anymore, sugar, that’s all.”

 

“Ashley, what the f*ck are you talking about?”

 

Scratched her neck, was getting jumpy, “It’s just- I got family out there John, alright? I got some people out there. Good people.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Couira.”

 

“And?”

 

“And- and Johnny, I got nothing here no more, y’know? I just- it’s memories. Bad ones. And out there, it’s my mom’s cousin, my aunt- out west. It’s a fresh start, right?”

 

Mocking. “Fresh start?”

 

“Yeah, a fresh start. What I still got here, Johnny boy? I’m lost.”

 

“And you f*ckin’ come to me?”

 

Didn’t say it with the scorn he meant.

 

“Whaddya mean?”

 

“You come to me. What’s the f*ck to stop you from takin’ Marianne’s beater, Marianne’s cage out there right onto the interstate ‘til you can’t even look back? Go to Couira, go to Omaha you feel the fancy. But you don’t need me.”

 

She made eyes.

 

The eyes.

 

“Yeah I do, Johnny.”

 

“No. You don’t.”

 

“John…”

 

“And don’t John me, Ash. This is the same-f*ckin’-old, times get tough and you come on runnin’. You ain’t got the right to play me anymore. Not any ways.”

 

“I never played you. Don’t say that.”

 

“Played with my emotions, Ash. Played me for a fiddle. When I loved you. When I didn’t no more. Give me a f*ckin’ break, sweetheart.”

 

There it was.

 

Eyes lit up.

 

Johnny preempted, “Don’t say nothing funny.”

 

She didn’t say nothing funny. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss this, Johnny boy.”

 

“Don’t I- what?”

 

“Miss this. This is old times. You was always tough on words but it was just ‘cause you cared. I always knew that. You still care.”

 

Johnny stood - didn’t know where to go.

 

Just looked at her. “This is too f*cked up, Ashley.”

 

“What? Don’t say it ain’t so. We can go west, sweet, you and me and whoever. It don’t matter. You’re my ticket out, Johnny. Always were.” Stood up alongside. “Just say yes.”

 

Said “No.”

 

“It’s one last thing, Johnny. You and me and the road and nothing else. I just need to get out of here, I need-- we get out west, to Couira, then you don’t gotta worry about me no more, alright? One last party.”

 

“Don’t call it a f*ckin’ party.”

 

She was out of lines. “Just let me tag along, Johnny. And then I’m out of your hair forever, that’s what you want.”

 

“You don’t--”

 

John buzzed. Lightheaded - palms rubbed eyelids and five seconds passed or a minute and past his hands Ash picked up the coffee mug and brought it up and when he opened his eyes she was looking right back.

 

John went “f*ck it.”

 

“Huh?”

 

F*ck it.

 

“F*ck it, Ashley.”

 

“What’s that--”

 

“F*ck it, Ashley.”

 

She let it sit and watched his eyes for what it meant, mug still on offer.

 

He took it.

 

“A lotta’ f*cking ghosts, lady.”

 

Walked for the sink and dropped the mug and put his elbows on the counter and let something hit. Ash watched. Ash silent, let the gears in Johnny’s head turn, Ash with a hand clutching an arm and the dust particles in the light.

 

“I ain’t gonna call my boss,” John said.

 

“Your boss.”

 

“My boss.”

 

“Weird hearing you say that.”

 

“I had a boss my whole life. I ain’t had a boss pro’lly once. Weren’t a good month.”

 

“No,” Ash said. “No.”

 

“Might call him on the road,” went on. “I’m seeing what’s what.”

 

Could feel Ash smiling with his back turned.

 

“I gotta get my stuff,” John said.

 

Smiling more. “You got--”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Ash walked out the door.

 

Johnny didn’t watch her do it. Just listened.

 

Got off the counter.

 

Watched the trailer glide past like a treadmill on the way and had it all blur. Blur gray.

 

Knew what he was looking for.

 

Bedroom. Closet. Clothes. Toiletries. Toothbrush. Jacket.

 

Jacket.

 

Jacket.

 

Still had leathers.

 

Oh man, did he still have leathers.

 

Closet had two. Rocker and no rocker. Patch and no patch. Leather vest with no buttons and no names and no nothing he kept for the hell of it, ‘cause he liked it. Second jacket was memories.

 

Second jacket had the patch.

 

Lost MC. TLMC. I Rode Mine, Los Santos, 2004.

 

Turned it around.

 

The wings. T.L.M.C. Liberty. Vice President. Loyal.

 

Loyal.

 

Defunct.

 

Meant something.

 

Was a ghost he had to keep.

 

Had an armful of sh*t, not much sh*t, wouldn’t-last-a-day-sh*t, but all his cash was in his wallet and all that was here was sh*t. He’d pay upkeeps by mail. Something. Anything.

 

Goddamn it.

 

He was f*cking doing it.

 

Was Acter the original chapter? No. Maybe. f*ck it, it was the mother club after they moved it from the city or upstate or Pennsylvania. Seventies. Mother club - Acter club - died and moved Midwest. Mother club was in Illinois.

 

Pilgrimage.

 

Walked out onto the porch and saw Ash by the car with the key and saw her turn and saw her blink and saw the thoughts in her head say f*ck it.

 

Marianne could get the car herself. She’d find out where it was.

 

Johnny didn’t care.

 

Trailer driveway had his baby under wraps. Tarp. Toolbox and maintenance sh*t, f*cking worker-bee sh*t, only rode it when he had to or when he felt the urge and always ‘round rinky-dink suburb.

 

He was doing it.

 

Pulled the tarp off.

 

His baby.

 

The only one in the world. 2032cc twin cam, 6 speed, stripped down motherf*cking pillow chopper baby. Blue and white.

 

Home.

 

---

 

Johnny rode with his girl on his back for the first time in years.

 

The girl.

 

Not his girl.

 

Didn’t know what to think.

 

He took the scenic route.

 

Scenic route was through Westbound County, through Alderney City, through Liberty.

 

Seeing it all.

 

Sordid. Rotten. Gone. Dead.

 

Did the math in his head, and he did it ‘cause he had to. Did the math with the Broker chapter taking the horns and the AOD sh*theads in Lower Easton with their cutesy f*cking townhouse f*cking security-cam goddamn documentary hell-house.

 

Went through the tunnel.

 

The Booth Tunnel. Went through the Booth Tunnel and the hell-construction and The Aqueduct with the tourists gawking on the renovated train-line onto Union Drive West. West River. Golden Pier. Meatpacking and Westminster and wow, had he been here.

 

Wow, had he been here.

 

Felt like he would never be here again.

 

Felt it was good.

 

Felt if he had to ride through this goddamn city, this piss-stench goddamn maze and these f*cking concrete highways and f*ck-off parks and f*ck-off nothing again…

 

It weren’t good for him, this town.

 

Bad juju.

 

Something.

 

Felt the arms around his waist and felt it weren’t right. Felt it shouldn’t be. Felt like an echo from a distant past, felt like an anachronism. He didn’t know the word, but that’s what it was. A nothing.

 

She nuzzled her head on him down the highway. Wasn’t driving ragged, wasn’t riding hard.

 

Wind in her hair.

 

Wind against him.

 

Up Union Drive West.

 

Up past Purgatory, past the West Side, past Varsity Heights and Holland and the overpasses and the onramps and memories. The f*cking bar those Angels used to hang with near the Tom Hickey. The f*ckin’ Northwood projects with the jap-bike cronies. All those f*cking guys.

 

South Bohan, over the Northwood Heights Bridge. Looped around for the belt-route hugging the borough with eyes on the Swingers Stadium and the construction works and Charge Island and those f*cking projects with the rec center where he went a couple dozen times.

 

Over the bridge they was building into Bohan Industrial. Charge Island. The Xero place.

 

Ash said something but Johnny didn’t hear.

 

“Speak the f*ck up!” over the wind ripping.

 

Shouted this time, “Good, Johnny?”

 

“Yeah,” John went. “I’m good.”

 

They was nearly out of Little Bay into Northern Gardens. Northern Gardens where Clay’d dug a space, or his brother had, or something. Something Ashley said and he half-recalled from a couple rides but had never been to. Clay had his own pad over the West River he kept clean and empty when it weren’t neck-deep in pussy.

 

Something to think about. Guy was always edging like that.

 

Rode past the co-ops into low-rise housing; rode past the low-rises into the little houses. Unit-housing, brick housing, hedge bush housing, pebbled driveway housing. Rode off an avenue, onto another avenue, onto a road.

 

The road was newly paved and the pavement had weeds growing through the cracks.

 

Two bikes in a driveway of a two-family unit.

 

One was being tended to by a white fella kneeling down with a box opened and tools for fixing. Leather vest on; leather vest said Lost MC. White sleeveless. Wrap-around glasses ‘round the back of his head.

 

Johnny stopped the bike.

 

Up the steps to the front door were two plastic chairs: one occupied, table with a jug on it and two glasses. Occupied chair was a black guy in a knit cap and a green button up and this toothy f*cking grin John could make out from nearly halfway-across the street.

 

Ash got off first.

 

Johnny followed.

 

Terry by the bike turned and nodded.

 

“You f*ckers don’t tell me sh*t.”

 

“John,” said Terry.

 

“Two a’ you woulda’ went halfway to where - f*ckin’ Couira f*ckin’ City - leave me here for a bunch of sh*tty weekends.”

 

Clay got up - “Knew you’d come.”

 

“Who’s place is this?”

 

“Orville’s.”

 

Orville. Clay’s brother. “How’s the niece?”

 

“Inside,” fella went. Fella started walking down the steps, “Lemonade, sh*t like that.”

 

“Yeah. Good.”

 

“Saying goodbye. Giving the f*cker the last couple bucks I owe him. Tellin’ her I’ll call or she can visit or that kinda’ sh*t.”

 

Johnny just stood on the mouth of the driveway while the man walked toward, tutted under breath - “How the hell’d you think I was coming?”

 

“You got your ways,” Terry hollered from the way-back.

 

“Ain’t an answer.”

 

“We weren’t gonna leave ‘less we were 100% sure you weren’t coming.” Clay up close now. A couple days without shaving, a couple days without much of anything. “Been crashing here. I get my state pension. Give a couple here and there to the kid. Won’t go until I have to and won’t stop paying ‘til I can’t.”

 

“Ever-f*ckin’-charitable, Clay.”

 

The girl was hugging Terry. Talking something John couldn't hear. “‘Byeah,” went Clay.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Johnny the funny motherf*cker.”

 

Some silence a moment as the two near the garage chattered. John looked over. Felt Clay’s eyes on him. Was making a face like ‘yeah, I know.’

 

Clay said “She’s on for this, right?”

 

Johnny nodded.

 

“Thought you said she was a skank.”

 

“Somethin’ like that.”

 

“And you’re gonna be ass-to-c*nt for seven hundred miles.”

 

Johnny stuck tongue to tooth, “Somethin’ like that.”

 

Clay chuckled. “Could never stay away.”

 

“She couldn't. I can. She sticks.”

 

“You don't mind.”

 

“She got family in Couira, too. Aunt or a second cousin or that kinda’ sh*t.”

 

And Clay went and chuckled again, and Clay pat Johnny on the shoulder, and Clay said “And we got brothers.”

 

And Clay strode off to Ash and Terrence, and Clay said something, and Johnny weren’t listening. Stood there feeling stupid, stood there with hands on his hips and brow to the ground and f*ck.

 

He was leaving and he ain't even told the folks at the trailer park.

 

Screw it.

 

He’d taken everything of value with him.

 

Looked up to the balcony.

 

Twenty-something girl brought the lemonade jug inside. Snuck a glance. Niece. Glance lasted a second, two.

 

Ended.

 

Screen door shut.

 

Went back to the bike to wait before the quartet kicked dust.

 

A FALLEN ANGEL CRASHED THROUGH THE ROOF.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited May 19, 2023 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

 

They were technically on the outskirts of Carlisle. Stopped by a diner off Route 11 but it weren’t for eating: just plotting. This red-roof little place shilling peach cobbler with a big parking lot lying down next to a big, big field of browning grass at knee height.

 

Truck rolled by and honked at something. Maybe them. Maybe these four bikes with the stands down and these four bodies on top of ‘em sharing a scrunched up paper map.

 

“We go 81,” Win said. Tapped the big red-and-blue Interstate crest and followed the line with his finger down to Maryland, down to the border of the sheet. “My mind, we switch on I-40 into Nashville, make a day oudda’ it. Memphis on, Little Rock on, OKC on.”

 

“But we was headed up I-76. Then onto 70. We hit OKC either way to Sannie but--”

 

Johnny scoffed, “Sannie, Terrence?”

 

“What?”

 

“Who the f*ck calls San An ‘Sannie’?”

 

“I heard it.”

 

“Heard it where?”

 

“Movies, John.”

 

“Movies,” pfft. “You’re all movie-minded, friend.”

 

“The point is,” Terry went gruff; like he was pulling the words away, “we’re gonna miss the meet if we spend a cuppa’ f*ckin’ weeks in Memphis or whatever.”

 

“Hell of a thing though,” Brian said. “Imagine?”

 

“So why not?” Win folded map - they were near an offramp to 76 but wouldn’t be much effort rounding away to 81 - “I got business in--”

 

“Woah.” That was Johnny. “Business?”

 

“Business, yeah.”

 

“You--”

 

“It’s club business.”

 

“This ain’t a club run,” went John.

 

“Who’s the f*ckin’ superior officer?”

 

“You don’t break no f*ckin’ rules. We already have. Already done enough. We got enough cash.”

 

“Yeah?” went Winnie.

 

“Yeah,” went Johnny.

 

Stalemate.

 

Cold, hard stalemate.

 

“We hit 76,” said John.

 

“I said otherwise--”

 

“We take 76. Let’s do a f*ckin’ vote, Win.”

 

“A vote. I’m VP--”

 

John got off the bike, got dramatic: “All in favor, heed this, all in goddamn favor of takin’ the bikes to Memphis, disregard previous f*ckin’ plans, say aye.”

 

Winnie said aye.

 

Brian thought. Almost did. Didn’t.

 

No one else did.

 

Johnny got back on the bike. “We take I-76 onto I-70 through Columbus. As planned. No goddamn rock and roll excursions.”

 

Winnie was mute. Not even angry silence, just mind-blazing nothing. “Okay,” he said.

 

Was a quiet few minutes of nothing.

 

Winnie got off the bike because he forgot his smokes at the diner.

 

---

 

Brian wanted to tweak at the hotel. Terry too.

 

No time for relaxation. Just tina.

 

So they had a party with her that night.

 

You toke the pipe and you feel like a million bucks for a solid second. That second lasts half an hour. Just rush, just flight, just soaring as the blood courses through your veins and through your head and through everything.

 

Winnie didn’t smoke.

 

Johnny did. Johnny felt it. Johnny felt tina and tina felt Johnny and man, did it feel f*cking good.

 

Johnny argued about f*cking TV shows for four hours and then crashed and fell asleep.

 

That was it.

 

That was the high.

 

It f*cking rocked.

 

John woke up in the bed out the covers with his shirt off but his jeans on. Sprawled. Sweaty. Eyes caked. Felt the low. Felt this deep, ugly feeling in the eyes and the throat and the lungs and felt this love taken away.

 

Tina was good tonight. Last night.

 

Got up. Palms pressed against eyelids. Checked the room. Terry was on the other bed. Also sprawled. Mop top hair a f*cking mess. Clean shaven f*cking kid. Little boy was restless; restlessly moving and shifting like he were barely asleep.

 

Brian was in the corner cleaning the window. Fully clothed, thank god. Didn’t want to see that ugly f*cking back tattoo. Going hard on grime with a handkerchief he was wetting with spit and rubbing into the corners.

 

Johnny squinted to get the wet out his eyes. “You still high, Bri’?”

 

Brian didn’t respond.

 

“Brian.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You still high?”

 

“No.”

 

“You gonna- f*ck, you gonna smoke before we hit bricks and kick f*ckin’ dust?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Window’s dirty.”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “You do that.”

 

It was maybe a little before dawn. Lilac light through the windows. Johnny shifted, searched the floor for a shirt with his ass still on the bed barely cognizant. Found it. Black-on-brown tee. Buckled his belt.

 

Stood.

 

Stretched arms by bending down and getting palms parallel to knees and oof, f*ck. Felt the cartilage crack. Had his shirt tucked. Untucked. Weren’t intentional. Got a glimpse out the window.

 

Squinted.

 

Winnie.

 

Winnie was on the balcony with his arms crossed on the barrier just looking out. No smokes, no nothing. Just silently watching the parking lot and the gas station and the highway and the road and the trees. Legs kinda crossed with the bootstraps showing and the jeans whipping in the wind.

 

Johnny thought.

 

Dusted himself off and left.

 

Door number 6 open and shut and Johnny turned and saw Brian still scrubbing the f*cking window and spitting on the cloth and licking his fingers and rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and you had to admire the commitment.

 

Johnny cleared his throat.

 

Winnie didn’t reply.

 

Lilac light.

 

Johnny got a little closer, said “Alright, man.”

 

Winnie all quiet, “John.”

 

And John looked at Winnie. Tongued through the gaps in his teeth. Leaned down on the railing. Joined him in looking.

 

Lilac light.

 

“I remember when we was finally patching in Brian,” Winnie said. “Before your time.”

 

“Was he always a fat f*ckin’ piece of work?”

 

Chuckled, “Somethin’ like that. sh*t. It was one of those national runs with the whole club. You know that sh*t. Acter’s the mother because Tito’s the boss because old Lou was the boss because of Frogskins Kurtz. Politics. But you know. Everything happens Upstate or Midwest these days.”

 

“We gonna meet up with the other charters?”

 

Winnie thought. “Maybe.”

 

“What’s the route again?”

 

Sniffed, “We went down 81 we coulda’ gone to Tennessee. Kentuck’.”

 

“Yeah, well we didn’t, Horse.”

 

“We didn’t.”

 

“And that’s fine.”

 

Win snapped, “Clubs up the assf*ck around here. I don’t know. You wanna talk to the guys in Indianapolis, you’re my f*ckin’ guest, but they’re on this f*ckin’ thing I heard because of f*ckin’... they was runnin’ some wire room in Lima.”

 

“Lima?”

 

“Not in f*ckin’ Peru, John.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You know how this sh*t is with the regionals and the f*ckin’ management. I handle that sh*t. Billy’s s‘posed to. I’unno. Billy’s got sh*t on his plate. You f*ckin’-getcha’ with it. You know. And the Angels here.”

 

“It’s all a mess.”

 

“It ain’t. This ain’t club flags sh*t. Not these days. Ain’t the eighties. You saw Jim talking about the f*ckin’ what’s-it-f*ckin’-... f*ckin’ web pages. With the kid from upstate and Harper.”

 

Johnny thought a sec. “You mean Terry.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Disappointed “Brother--”

 

“What?” Winnie was confused, adjusted himself.

 

“I mean, it ain’t--”

 

Clicked in his head, Winnie nearly said ‘oh’. “He’s new. Gives me f*ckin’ rider dork vibes. Buts’a thought the same wid’ Sue. Rest him.”

 

“Aw, that kid.”

 

“Y’all f*ckin’ tweakin’ in there. Y’all girlfriends wid’ Tina. f*ckin’ put Sue to memory.”

 

“Dirty Sue didn’t smoke,” John laughed, hit his forearm with his fist a beat, “He you-know’d and drank like it weren’t nothin’. Liked his nothing highs.”

 

“I didn’t know the kid.”

 

“Sure,” John said. “But I did. It’s funny.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It’s funny because sh*t happens and it’s gone. Y’know? You do something f*cking stupid and you’re gone. And that’s it, man.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I ain’t spinning a yarn or nothin’ like that--”

 

“No,” Winnie soothed. “No. No.”

 

“And Sue did what Sue did and that kinda’ sh*t happened and then it didn’t. Like that, dude. Just there. And then bzzt. I’m as old as he is. f*cker should be here. f*cker would.”

 

“f*cker wouldn’t be tweakin’.”

 

“He’d be lickin’ the f*ckin’ windows with Brian and shouting at sh*tty Wrath games or some sh*t. He’d be doin’ something.”

 

“Yeah,” Winnie said.

 

Two stared.

 

Lilac light was dissipating. Becoming bluey. That light bright fluro blue where you start to see the outlines of the clouds. Johnny smelling gas fumes, gas fumes gas fumes gas fumes and looking out the road to see grass. Not even town. Zanesville was grass and trees and overgrowth and TRUCK ENTRANCE signs and the Burger Shot. 

 

And the gas fumes from the trucks.

 

The gas fumes from the two gas stations. From the Ron depot nearby and the Globe Oil a little further.

 

Maybe the gas fumes from the bikes. From the highway.

 

Sky was mauve.

 

“I hate to f*ckin’ smoke,” Winnie said.

 

“I know,” Johnny replied. “You said.”

 

“Smoke puts the mind up full steam, yeah? You go full steam then the tracks and the everything and the sky all meshes up together and it becomes this big f*ckin’ nothing. That’s what it is to me. Coffee, too,” laughed. “Coffee too.”

 

Johnny smiled and nodded but didn’t let nothing out.

 

“That old lady a’ yours in the city,” Horse went.

 

Johnny was quick now, “Yeah?”

 

Stopped. “Easy, ‘poke.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I had a thing like that,” Win exhaled like he was smoking. He weren’t smoking. “Long time ago. When it was all movie magic. When it was still Bobby Kurtz and me and the fellas and them. This funny f*ckin’ story. We was out San Fierro, way back. When the Angels weren’t the Angels really. You know.”

 

“Nah,” Johnny said. He didn’t.

 

“Weren’t no corporate then, I mean. Angels got a book about themselves they got pissed the f*ck off. But it was open roads and skies and hippy sh*t and breathing like a motherf*cker, yeah. And we was ridin’ around and there was this kid named Wheeler. Wheeler Sheffield. Oh man. And he was this scrawny little f*cker and he festooned hisself like he was a f*ckin’ hippy on a trip and acted all sweet on it. And we’d stopped in this place called Pleasance a time, a whole thing, and he tags along and tries to go prospect.”

 

“You guys have prospects and sh*t back then?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ha.”

 

“We rode that f*cker for everything he had and when we split we split and he’s probably still eatin’ f*ckin’ dust. But before then he tells us his poppy’s got this greenhouse with hydroponics. Or whatever it is. When you grow the sh*t inside. And we go holy f*ck. The place is in one of these little f*ckin’ towns on the brink of these hills in Venturas, Bone County.”

 

“You got weed?”

 

“We got weed. We got coca. We got this pretty f*ckin’ poppy seeds and coco f*ckin’ plants from these Fierro spics and Kurtzy had this other guy in Santos who stayed around and everything and- but yeah. I told you about the Santos thing, right?”

 

“Yeah. Gunthugs guys there. That guy Al Carter.”

 

“Yeah. Long story but it don’t f*ckin’ matter- I get on my chopper. I follow pipsqueak cross-country. To Robada. No stopping like we’s doin’ now or nothin’ but I still got the big f*ckin’ box strapped to the f*cking back of the bike and wind’s whippin’ and man. Y’get. I hit snow, that sh*t was f*ckin’ brainbugs for the f*ckin’ tyres and I tell him since when the f*ck it snows in f*ckin’ San An-f*ckin’-dreas? Ha. Yeah. And- but you know, we finally get there. It’s desert. Town he’s packed in is desert. The greenhouse is all green and everything out on the side is this f*ckin’ dirt and you couldn’t even see the city. His pops is like, seventies. Eighties. Probably his grandpop. Checked up. We put him in the closet and we didn’t even lock it and he didn’t even f*ckin’ come out, man.”

 

Wheezed. Winnie had a wheeze-laugh. Johnny laughed along too.

 

Mauve.

 

“Can’t grow coca in a greenhouse.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t know dick. We just f*ckin’ hung the f*ck out. I can’t grow sh*t. All the plants died. We got the dope and the poppy okay and the dope was easy because Wheeler was already on with that sh*t but we didn’t no have ideas on no what the f*ck we was doin’.”

 

“How long’d you crash?”

 

“We’d come and go but not even a year. We dipped a while after that. Don’t know what happened. I say we go to Venturas, huh, we f*ckin- nah. Nah, I’m kiddin’. But imagine I did.”

 

“Imagine you did, man. What time is it?”

 

Horsie squinted. “I’unf*ckin’know.”

 

Ha. “Think we should hit the road?”

 

“Nah. Chill a little.”

 

“Just thinkin’.”

 

“Ain’t all business, John.”

 

Johnny knew the irony in him saying that. Didn’t press. “It ain’t. Al Carter know we’re on the way up there?”

 

“I called from LC,” Win said. “Yeah. My eyes is on them f*ckin’ roads. You keep your eyes on them f*ckin’ roads, Klebitz.”

 

Winnie stopped. Looked at him and smiled and gave him these wet eyes and nodded.

 

Johnny nodded back.

 

“Roads got crickle crack and the bikes bump and you gotta keep your eyes on the bumps so they don’t throw ya’. All it is, brother.”

 

“All it is,” Johnny said.

 

“My brother.”

 

John nodded.

 

Rubbed his hands and headed back inside.

 

---

 

Indianapolis.

 

Johnny was pissing on a church wall in Indianapolis.

 

Church wall was opposite parking lots off of… Delaware Street and Allegheny something. Weren’t paying attention. Taken the bikes off the interstate into the city proper for some R&R.

 

Everyone was basing when they got to Indianapolis.

 

Sans Winnie, sure. Needed the point man, sober man. Meth kept your eyes on the road at all times. All the time. Turns everything sharp, makes everything hyper-there. Need the balance. Need the sober wet f*cking blanket.

 

Piss on his jeans.

 

God f*cking damn it.

 

“What, Johnny?”

 

He said it aloud.

 

“Pissed on my f*ckin’ jeans, man.”

 

“Hurry up.”

 

Brian on the bike with engine going and the exhaust pumping while Johnny’s did the same ‘cept driver. Brian getting antsy.

 

“Hurry up?”

 

“It’s piss, man. Just say it’s water.”

 

“Don’t be a f*cking idiot, big guy.”

 

“Y’right, y’right, y’right, just c’mon, let’s f*cking hit it, man. C’mon.”

 

Leaked out.

 

Zipper up.

 

John turned on an axis with a foot on the ground to face the bikes and jogged up and hopped on and revved.

 

And they rode.

 

Bikes out the lot. Paraded down Delaware. With the parking lot and the wannabe-skyline poking out the asphalt and the church. Big church with Latin engraving and these fruity pillars and a sign saying it was Methodist. Was a memory now. Bus stop, car caked in bird sh*t, outdoor garden: all memories.

 

Past a construction site and a faded brick-and-mortar advertisement. John over engines roaring and warbling, “He said we meet where?!”

 

Brian, “Huh?”

 

Louder, “He said, we meet f*ckin’ WHERE, Winnie said?”

 

“Oh! The uh… this f*ckin’ glass dome!”

 

“Where?”

 

“Glass dome! A f*cking steakhouse! Somewhere in f*cking Wholesale or some sh*t, I don’t f*cking know.” Passed a red light and turned the corner and John followed.

 

John went “Okay.”

 

“What?”

 

“Okay, I said!” This avenue called Massachusetts with all these parked cars and stores was behind them with a park up ahead. Park fountain and park trees and turning onto Pennsylvania past a courthouse and Brian pointed right past Ohio.

 

Slowed at a red.

 

Market Avenue intersection.

 

Brick-paved road for a moment heading down a couple blocks, also headed up - up to a big f*cking block-sized monument. Fountain was to the right, a right Brian took onto the circle surrounding the thing.

 

“Soldiers and Sailors,” Brian shouted.

 

“Okay.”

 

Headed right. Pulled in. This blue fire extinguisher.

 

Stopped.

 

John followed.

 

“f*ck we doin’?” John kicked the stand down and put a foot on the ground and turned the bike off while Brian looked up.

 

“We got time to kill,” Brian said.

 

“If you say so.”

 

“Well, you know, John. Horse can have his fun. We can too. We can stroll, we can chill, you know, f*ck it. Been a while.”

 

Droll, “At the big statue.”

 

“Yeah.” Brain shifted, “What? You a stickler, Johnny? You stickling, Johnny K, f*ckin- buying yamulkes, that kinda’ bullsh*t?”

 

“We gonna buy somethin’, now?”

 

“Yeah, Johnny, we can go buy something. Markets and sh*t.”

 

“We got a f*cking O.O.T. and a Bean Machine and a Maze Bank. Star Junction, this is not.”

 

“Walk with me a moment.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’ll show you somethin’. Come with me. Then we’ll see Win. Guy can wait. We got time to kill, man.”

 

Not like John needed much in the way of convincing.

 

He followed.

 

Strolled through the circle back the way they came. Looped around the circle past the Bean Machine and all these logos. Logos he ain’t seen before, local sh*t. Midwestern regionals. Eyes drifting from storefronts to the fountain to the bronze plaques with vets or founding fathers or whoever on ‘em. And then right back to the storefronts.

 

“I think you gotta admire it,” Brian said.

 

Scrunchface. “Admire what?”

 

“The sh*t up there, John, the fountain and the service.”

 

“The service.”

 

“Yeah,” Brian said. “The service.”

 

“Come on, Brian. You’re smarter than that.”

 

“You know what the f*ck I’m saying.”

 

“We’re killin’ people on highways, Brian. Civilians. That kinda’ sh*t.”

 

“And you’re sheddin’ tears for Saddam? He hates jews, you know that?”

 

“It ain’t about Assad--”

 

“And them Bath party ain’t nice either.”

 

“Don’t be f*cking dumb, man.”

 

“It ain’t even about the wars they’re fighting. It’s the fighters. You know. They ain’t choosing where they’re going or what they’re doing it for. I don’t give a f*ck about the war, Johnny, you just gotta appreciate the service.”

 

“You call up Michael, he tell you to spit this sh*t at me?”

 

“You got this bullsh*t with him- I- I- you gotta get over that sh*t. I got my own problems, I don’t air ‘em out.”

 

“Don’t f*ck me around, man.”

 

“What?”

 

“Terry asked you about the Latino thing--”

 

“Well sorry I don’t want to say that sh*t to Jim Newbie. Jimmy Prospect.”

 

“He’s patched.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“He’s a brother.”

 

“For how long, Johnny? Is he Sunday Service? I see him at church. This is the first time--”

 

“Give him a break, brother.”

 

“I tell him my life story for nothing, yeah. Sure. I tell him Cristobal and my momma and my poppa and f*cking everything and I go ape sh*t.”

 

And John chuckled. “f*ckin’ Crissy.”

 

“He’s fine.”

 

“I didn’t ask,” John said.

 

“But he is. Got the uh… the- he’s keepin’ with mama at the f*ckin’ ancestral home. The white picket on Howlett. East Liberty. He’s union now, it’s a whole thing.”

 

“And he’s still speakin’?”

 

“Sure,” Brian said. “He’s speakin’. He always liked bikes, he ain’t got no beef with me, the kid.”

 

“And this fountain got you rememberin’ him?”

 

“It got me remembering- sh*t, I read on this thing and it’s nice. It’s nice, ain’t it? Vets get sh*t. My pops did tours and the vet paychecks weren’t nothin’ for the hospital bills. They don’t give a f*ck.”

 

“Okay,” John said. No time for wisecracks.

 

Let the wind kind of envelop them.

 

They were at this local bank branch on the corner. Did a semi-circle. Looked back to the bikes and couldn’t see them. “I always wanted to serve,” Brian said. Stopped.

 

“You shouldn’t. I did, I grew out of it. You wanna be like my brother, play army men--.”

 

“Your brother weren’t a grunt. He’s f*ckin’ army brat. Little prep punk, Johnny. Little Jew little prep punk f*cking sh*t. You know. He gets a pat on the ass and fifty f*ckin’ promotions every day for sh*t because he went to Virgina.”

 

“Fort Leavenworth.”

 

“My pops grew up in ‘Derney and f*ckin’ died there. And that was that. And your brother’ll get a f*ckin’ grave in Virginia. He didn’t go there, but he won’t get buried in Acter.”

 

“They’re pigs all the same.”

 

“They’re not f*cking pigs, Johnny.”

 

“They are.”

 

“Your brother’s a pig. My pop ain’t.”

 

“Your pop’s a pretty pig.” Mostly joking, “His piglets got asthma and couldn’t follow suit.”

 

“f*ck you, Jew. Your brother kosher?”

 

“Yeah, you care. Fat f*ck.”

 

They didn’t mean it. The insults were peppered with laughs.

 

Shot the sh*t on Meridan all the same.

 

Were a moment of nothing before Brian pointed. Brian was smoking, flick-flicked the lighter then snap-snapped the fingers.

 

ATM. Guy was at it a goddamn while and pocketed a goddamn lot.

 

“You think?” John went.

 

“Look at the face,” Brian said. “That’s cash-out face.”

 

The guy, cash-out, was wearing duds. One of those assholes who wore suits with baseball caps - he was doing worse. Big white f*cking cowboy hat, big string, cutter creases on the top and a curved brim Doubled with these gaudy orange aviators.

 

Could spot the f*cker a mile off.

 

“Goddamn Texan banker motherf*cker. Hell’s he doing?”

 

“Check him.”

 

Guy turned the corner.

 

“Get it,” Brian said.

 

Formation.

 

Followed on the parallel street for a moment when he turned and tried to check exits. Eyes popped immediately - alleyway off Meridan right in front, across the street. Cowboy was gonna pass it.

 

The two crossed on the uptick. Guy slowed for his phone. My god, f*cking poetry. Perfect.

 

“Y’ello?” That was Cowboy.

 

The two bucked faster.

 

Brian pulled out a pair of brass knuckles out his leather jacket.

 

“Hey!” That was Brian. “Yo, Ten Gallon!”

 

Cowboy put his phone down a second.

 

Johnny grabbed him by the shoulder and got him by the arm. Brian got the other. Fella dropped his cell, little metallic gray Badger, got it bouncing mid-sentence. Cowboy was strongarmed, pushed into the alley.

 

Brian pushed him down.

 

“Wallet, cowboy.”

 

“Wha--”

 

Brian punched him in the face. “Wallet!”

 

“Fuc--”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Johnny kicked him in the gut.

 

Kicked.

 

Punched.

 

Kicked.

 

Johnny’s boot hit the guy in the tooth and Johnny felt the steel toe crunch something and he kicked again and again and in the throat and in the chest while Brian stomped on the legs and stomped and stomped and kicked in the face and punched.

 

Brian pulled his jacket off and emptied it and found a wallet - leather wallet - and got the loose bills inside drifting down like leaves off a tree.

 

Johnny swooped in for ‘em. Left the pennies and nickels that fell out and clunked on the ground and on the guy’s body. Kicked him again for posterity.

 

Brian took his hat. His f*cking cutter cowboy hat. Grinned like a little boy.

 

Stomped on his arm.

 

“Nice watch. Nice watch. Crowex? Nice watch, man.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Johnny went. Matched Brian’s boot with his own and put the heel down on the forearm and ripped the f*ckin’ thing off. Gold plated. Tick ticking. “You want the Rimmers?”

 

“They’re broke.” They were. Orange aviators were smashed up. “sh*t, shoulda’ took ‘em first.”

 

Johnny to Cowboy, “You shut your mouth, brother.”

 

“Yeah queer ass f*ckin’ ass, shut your goddamn mouth.”

 

Cowboy hadn’t said a word.

 

“You say sh*t about us,” John went. “You ain’t gonna be speakin’ no more.”

 

“Yeah, man, no f*ckin’ speakin’ ‘cause we’s gonna put you dead in the mouth and knock your teeth out you f*ckin’ stupid little baby ass bitch--” and Brian f*ckin’ punted him in the forehead again.

 

Two jogged out the alley.

 

Ran back to the bikes.

 

Good haul.

 

---

 

The steakhouse weren’t a long drive. Two riders parked their bikes outside the place - had a guitar logo, some tacky Midwestern place they’d never heard of. Chain kinda place, high fructose kinda place. Loaded potato skin jalapeño popper kinda place.

 

Winnie and Terry were having a conversation in a booth. Looked like fun. Wings on the table.

 

Two walked up.

 

Stopped.

 

“What the f*ck are you wearing, BJ?”

 

Brian was grinning ear to ear with his glasses and his new hat. Big cowboy hat, pullstring down to the collarbone. “You like, huh?”

 

“Take that sh*t off.”

 

“What, it’s my new hat.”

 

Terry, “Howdy, pard’!” Laughing. “We was talking about some--”

 

Winnie didn’t budge, “Take the dumbass hat off.”

 

“No, Win.”

 

“Where’d you get it?”

 

Johnny was edging on the periphery but came forward - “We was at that soldier’s memorial--”

 

“You know,” Brian smirked. “You do what you do.”

 

Any smiles Winnie woulda’ had dropped.

 

John, “We--”

 

“Are you two f*cking kidding me?!”

 

“We needed some dough,” BJ said. “Guy had a nice hat. Cowboy ass--”

 

“You wanna f*cking incriminate yourself?”

 

“Call it a trophy.”

 

“‘S’my f*ckin’ hat, Horse.”

 

“Your f*ckin’ boot is bloody.”

 

Johnny and Brian looked down at their feet.

 

Down at the shoes.

 

Their steel toes were dimpled with dried up red.

 

Huh.

 

“Cost of doing business,” BJ shrugged.

 

“You wash that sh*t as soon as you can. f*cking r*tard. F*cking idiot.”

 

BJ, “Stay f*ckin’ easy, chief. Just me and Johnny--”

 

“Me and Terry the Kid, we spend however much waiting for you two goddamn dolts and you storm in with stolen goods. My god, we gotta jet. Crud-f*ckin’ sh*t.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Get that sh*t cleaned and we’re headed onto St. Louie.”

 

Beat.

 

“C’mon,” Win repeated. Orders.

 

“Fine. Fine.”

 

And Brian stormed off to the bathrooms.

 

And Terry sighed. Kid got up. Dusted himself off.

 

Pointed back with a thumb to John and nodded and got everyone walking off.

 

Winnie the Horse put a hand on John’s shoulder - wasn’t gentle.

 

John stopped.

 

“Shoulda’ told me,” Win said.

 

“Y’got pissed at me for it,” John replied.

 

“How much you two haul?”

 

John stopped. Calculated in his head. “I don’t know.”

 

“How much in notes?”

 

“Few hundred. Guy was at an ATM.”

 

Winnie smiled a little. Pivoted around with a hand staying on Johnny’s shoulder, grip loosened. Looked up at the ceiling, up at the sky, like he was convening with God. “How’s about a taste for Horsie?”

 

John frowned.

 

Winnie gave him the look.

 

The look from the hotel. Wet. Those wet f*cking eyes.

 

Thought.

 

Johnny pulled the wallet out his jacket and thumbed through the notes.

 

MEN OF HONOR WITH HONOR TO SPARE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited January 21, 2024 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

  

 

Johnny had his phone running half-outta’ juice at the place where they’d stopped for a second or two of nothing sacred. Been travelling up the course of the Humboldt River for… a while. Were on State Route 17 up until the Pennsylvania border: didn’t step into the state because Terry had a favor for someone on Interstate 86.

 

That, sure. That and the fact Pennsylvania was so boring the first go around in 2004 that they wanted some upstate flavor. Weren’t headed to Terry’s farm - that was near State Route 20 around Montresor on Lake Ontario. He hadn’t spoken to his father in a while and didn’t want to speak again until he had something to show for it, he said.

 

Johnny said it was fair. Hadn’t spoken to his father since he got outta’ prison.

 

“Klebitz--”

 

“I am sorry, man. I am. And I know after the other day--”

 

“You have to come back.”

 

“It’ll be a week. Tops. I promise. I know Jorge covers the shift but--”

 

“You should have told me, man.”

 

Was treading pavement and tutting to himself and trying to think up excuses for Mr. Hector Car Wash about two states away. “I told you. I can’t.”

 

“Where are you, Klebitz?”

 

Chewed his lip. “Nantucket. And I’ll be back in a week.”

 

And Hector sighed, hard. Cursed some sh*t in a foreign language: Greek, Turkish, some sh*t like that. “Already?”

 

“‘S’urgent.”

 

“Jonathan--”

 

“I promise you. I’ll be back in a week, two, tops. My niece, man. I wish--”

 

“Fine.”

 

Gulped. “Fine?” John said.

 

“Fine,” Hector said. “A week.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Just a week. You no come back a week, you no come back. But you come back, yes?”

 

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

 

“Tell me next time. I say yeah. Not a bad guy, me. You not a bad guy.”

 

“Definitely, boss. Yeah.”

 

“Okay. Are you okay, Jonathan?”

 

Flinched a little when he said that. “Sure,” Klebitz said. “Yeah, I’m fine, dude.”

 

“You need to talk, you talk to me. Good luck with this thing, yes?”

 

“Yeah, man.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Hung up.

 

Okay.

 

He wasn’t sure why he lied.

 

Muhlenbergo’s downtown was this cramped little series of brick buildings and empty roads. Was out at this parking lot near this church and this parking garage and the river and concrete. Already felt a thousand ways away from Liberty City.

 

Headed back toward the bar.

 

In between the brick buildings a couple stories high was this squat black taco restaurant. Little outdoor eatery area the fellas had made themselves comfortable in the shadow of a massive mural - woman, flowers, glistening windows like stained glass. Weren’t much a bar, but it was a ‘taco bar’; a term that meant nothing but had the guys crossing fingers they served alcohol.

 

They did. Johnny weren’t hungry. Thirsty, yeah.

 

Crossed the road with hands in his pockets and minding the traffic. He’d crossed the road and lied about the call - didn’t remember who he said he was calling and he didn’t have nobody else to call - but you know, add another.

 

Fish tacos. This shared platter thing with nachos or some sh*t - salad, wings, something else. Johnny weren’t into that and the fact he weren’t hungry didn’t help. Clay and Terry were talking, some sh*t. Ashley mewed.

 

Ash got the salad.

 

“Yeah,” John said. Hefted that out before seating himself.

 

“Work, right?”

 

Maybe Johnny didn’t lie at all. “Yeah.”

 

“What’s his name, babe?”

 

“Whose name?”

 

“Your boss-man.”

 

“Hector,” Johnny said. “He’s from Cyprus.”

 

“Where’s that?”

 

“Greece.”

 

“That’s cool.”

 

Johnny sniffled. “Sure.”

 

“He nice, Johnny?”

 

Johnny thought. “I dunno. Kinda. Yeah. I mean, you give me a job, you’re either nice or plain f*ckin’ stupid. But I think that was pity.”

 

“Nah. Nothin’ to pity, John.”

 

“Don’t get me started.”

 

“What we talked about back in the day with everything,” Ash said. “This is nothing. What are they like?”

 

John stony. “Huh?”

 

“Who you work with. Marianne, she was always sweet. I think you need that. To get through this- all this sh*t that keeps happening. Friendly faces.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I never woulda’... rehab weren’t good for me, Johnny K.”

 

“Where’d you work? You wanna ask, I ask you, Ash.”

 

Ash let it simmer a moment. “Bakery.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was washing dishes. For a while. I wanted to wait tables because I used to but things caught up and I did that and I couldn't. And I met Marianne at the bakery after I stopped doing that and I kept that steady for a while but I lost it.”

 

“Why'd you get fired?”

 

“No, I lost it. I got pissed. Manager was a bitch.”

 

Almost amused, “Oh yeah?”

 

“Don't give me that. Yeah. Fat bitch. I always do something f*cking wrong with her and she keeps pushing my buttons and you think I don't lose it but I do.”

 

“I don't think that.”

 

“It ain't nothin’ sweet with her, babe. Or them. Or that. And college passed me by like it was nothing so I had a lot of things. But then I had you. And that's all I want.”

 

Scoffed. Didn't reply.

 

“It's true, John.”

 

“You- I don't even wanna get into that.”

 

“You moved on fine, though. I don't move on.”

 

“That's right.”

 

“I can't.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You can't neither. You don't say it but you can't.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Who'd you go with after Leila?”

 

“Don't talk about her.”

 

“I'm just saying, babe.”

 

“Please,” John was serious, “Don't talk about her.”

 

And Ash was quiet.

 

“Okay,” she said.

 

It weren't.

 

Leila had died a long time ago.

 

Birds went tweet.

 

Sparrows. Some sh*t. Little ones. Flew with the wind and the wings flapped over dancing trees.

 

Finger to the bridge of his nose.

 

“Marianne’s nice,” Ash said.

 

“I hope.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“My guy at the wash is Jorge. I dunno’. I don’t know anyone at the place, really. And we don’t talk about nothin’. It’s all nothin’. All vapid sh*t. Weather and football and that bullsh*t, you know. Stoolie sh*t. He’s a nice guy, though. Costa Rica or something. Grew up uptown.”

 

“In the Heights, babe?”

 

“Yeah, the Heights. Guys there are mostly all Puerto Ricans or Arab guys. This guy Mehmet who used to work at a cell phone kiosk or something. These Persian brothers, he used to work with. They play that Righteous Slaughter game a lot.”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

“Mehmet likes to use the knife in it,” John chuckled. “Does the little stab-stab at me. I don’t play f*ckin’ video games, sweet.” Realized what he said and stopped and stared. But didn’t correct himself.

 

Ash smiled. “Me neither.”

 

“And this kid Kyle. He works there too. You remember… sh*t. You remember Jason?”

 

“Ha. Yeah. Jason. Rest him.”

 

“Yeah. That idiot. You remember when he- there’s this funny thing I remember. His cousin. His cousin uh… Caleb, I think. Caleb was gonna sell this car to this junkyard but Jay said nah, nah - Jason took it off his hands for a couple hundred. But Caleb, he don’t get the pink slip. So Jason runs, like, sh*t - eight f*ckin’ stop lights one day, he’s high as sh*t, he racks up double the price of the thing and then sells the f*cker to the junkyard himself.” Laughed again.

 

Ash smiled. “Clever.”

 

“Clever dick he was, yeah. Got everything down to the club and got up on junk with the dumbass. Bitched about his cousin gettin’ up his ass about it like he didn’t expect he’d be pissed. Goddamn kidder. Kyle’s like that. Party guy. Stupid. Likes this sh*tty music.”

 

“What’s he like?”

 

“I don’t know, pop punk sh*t. Jason did too. Forget the bands. I never learned the dumbass bands, did I?”

 

“Marianne’s sweet.”

 

“You said, Ash.”

 

“She is.”

 

“Kyle’s a dropout with no damn prospects, Ash. Is that Marianne?”

 

“No.”

 

“‘Cause she's sweet, right?”

 

Didn’t seem to pick up on the mocking. “Yeah. Yeah. She's always been nice to me, hun. She weren't like us. She isn't like us, I mean. I hope I see her again.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Midwest is okay. I hope. I ain't been out the state much. You know that. I'm a white trash baby, sug’. We all are.”

 

“Clay’s black. And I'm hebe. But yeah. We are.”

 

“Except Clay. You're different. You don't- I mean… your dad was your dad.”

 

Pfft. “f*ck’s that mean? My dad is my dad? What you on?”

 

“He was an asshole.”

 

“And?”

 

“You grew up… I dunno’, sugar. I dunno’.”

 

All Johnny could think was what’s new.

 

Terry and Clay cackling over some sh*t he didn’t hear. Wasn’t paying attention.

 

Birds chirped.

 

Johnny looked back at the table.

 

---

 

Terry’s favor was in Erie.

 

“So it’s not on 86?”

 

“No,” Terry said. “It ain’t.”

 

And Johnny sighed. And Johnny said fine. They were headed there anyway. Had these maps - a whole slew of them, a route done up with marker while his legs were crossed. Erie into Ohio. Henderson. Keep going on I-90 past Toledo. Ride for however long they needed, stop for a drink. South Bend. Gary. Couira City.

 

Whatever happened in Couira, is what happened in Couira.

 

Campfire.

 

Bonfire.

 

They’d stopped on the 86 somewhere, somewhere where the Liberty green and little old upstate towns with stupid names all blurred together. Pulled up at a campsite. Johnny didn’t know you could look at maps on the phones, so he felt like a f*cking idiot - but Terry did. Terry got the smartphone, the iFruit, and pointed up at a place by a little lake off the expressway with no questions asked.

 

So no questions were asked.

 

They set up their bikes and Clay got bedroll from some goonie no-name with a trailer who bragged about the fishing. “Fish here is fantastic,” guy was saying. “You shoulda’ seen the catches, man. You shoulda’ seen them. My kid, my boy, he’s- you wanna see a picture? He’s around here somewhere but he’s catchin’ grubs with his sisters or something. Yeah, we’re from Henderson, actually--” and on and on and on and on.

 

Yeah, he said. I’ll loan you some blankets. The grass is this big ol’ mattress, he went. And the guy was this blond dude with freckles and concrete-face and he asked what club they were with.

 

And Johnny said “Huh?”

 

“You ain’t got the rockers on, is all. My brother, he was with the Angels. Bad dudes. Like, cool. So I know that kinda’ sh*t, myself. Not to brag. I mean, we didn’t grow up easy, it’s Henderson, but--”

 

And Johnny said no. Just us. We don’t ride in a posse or nothin’.

 

“Just goin’ nomad or whatever. Nah, I respect that, nephew, I respect that.”

 

The blankets were taken. Plaid.

 

They left for the bikes.

 

The bonfire.

 

Bonfire in a big pot-lookin’ thingy Johnny didn’t know the word for. Topped on four hunks of wood. Fire going ape sh*t up a couple feet with the embers crackling. Trees were black. Night was black.

 

Reminded him of ‘04. In the brush outside Albuquerque.

 

Johnny was cross-legged by a tree where the bikes were parked up. Ash nearby. Ash nudging closer every second and Johnny staying there and watching the fire and Clay and Terry on his parallel. Terry looking cockeyed at the mess of travel guides Johnny had scrawled on. Clay with a boot on a log.

 

Boot on a log. Boot on a log. “Denver, huh?” Johnny said.

 

Clay was zoned out - snapped back into it. Thought a second. “Yeah, Johnny, maybe. It’s what happens in Couira. With the charter.”

 

“You made connects?”

 

“I called people I done knew, John. You remember Willy?”

 

Johnny f*ckin’ chortled. “Yeah,” he said. “Willy Wetbacks.”

 

“He’s in Couira. Him and a couple the fellas who weren’t patched in. Some of the Broker cats. Monty, Leon, ol’ Bug Eye Tug.”

 

“They’re all up there?”

 

“That’s the mother,” Terry said. “Mother now. You know that. Birds migrate. It’s to their headquarters or whatever. Some the fellas are there, some’s Montresor. Sprinkle a bunch in with the other charters dotting. Florida. Knoxville. You list cities off the noggin’, K.”

 

“Gunthugs too, right?”

 

Terry pursed lips a little. “Hell was you doin’ with this goddamn map, John?”

 

“I asked a question, Terrence.”

 

“Sure,” guy went. “Who gives a f*ck? They’re the support club. I don’t care. Some these guys weren’t patched, most the fellas got lit up with Brian or skipped or whatever. I don’t even know all them f*ckers.”

 

“Who flipped?”

 

“Yeah. Y’know, I always dubya-’ondered, man.”

 

“What’s that, T?”

 

“I always-” stopped himself and laughed at it, “How the f*ck that fat fa**ot get all that on him?”

 

Clay, “Brian?”

 

“Yeah. Swear, s’like three quarters went. All their names. Who the f*ck knows all their names? Screwball. Hal. I don’t know.”

 

“Billy,” Clay went.

 

“Billy?”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Billy. They weren’t with Brian for Brian, they was with Brian for Billy. You used to f*ck with him, right John?”

 

And John said nothing.

 

“John?”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “We was close.”

 

And Terry nodded.

 

“I was with- you know with my service sh*t how it goes,” Clay said. “Kid was always stupid but kid was always lickin’ ass, you dig me?”

 

“Yup.” John was stoneface. “We was okay.”

 

Ashley was asleep.

 

John scooched over a little to her.

 

“Kid was patched a long time,” Clay went on. “Was always close with Bill, too. And Tito came up from Florida and that was a whole thing and the kid was always good for it. Ya’ sh*t talk him, but the kid was always good for it.”

 

John wanted to say something.

 

Didn’t.

 

Not what he wanted to, anyway.

 

“We killed Screwball, didn’t we?”

 

Clay and Terry traded glances.

 

“Yeah,” Terry said. “We did.”

 

And Johnny was tapping at the dirt. Drawing circles in it. “And Hal. We killed more brothers… f*ck, man.”

 

Clay, “What, John?”

 

“We did this for what?”

 

Nobody knew what to say.

 

“They were Sunday Riders,” Terry said. “You know the type. They’d- uh, they’d go work office work sh*t and they’d come and ride. None a’ them never fired no guns.”

 

Johnny stared. Didn’t make a difference. “They were brothers,” he said.

 

“They weren’t when they rode with Brian.”

 

“Brian was a brother.”

 

“No he weren’t, man.”

 

“Just put his heart with the wrong one, maybe, man.” Johnny scratched his forehead. “They weren’t greedy, were they?”

 

“Brian was.”

 

“Brian was an idiot. He weren’t greedy. Just stupid and whiny and prideful and a f*cking idiot.”

 

Clay, “And he got Fitz killed too.”

 

John stopped a moment.

 

Looked up.

 

“That weren’t Brian.”

 

Clay fumbled, “He put us on the path to that kind of thing. Billy got f*ckin’ weird. He got weird. He came back and he saw you with the airs and he hated that sh*t but he never explained it to nobody but himself and his habits and the needle and his little prick and the c*nt he pecked.” Clay was running breathless. Clay didn’t ever run breathless.

 

Terry’d put the maps down. “That guinea got Fitz, right?”

 

John had eyes deep in the ground. So deep they were seeing worms, they was seeing the center of the f*cking earth - drilling and drilling through the muck and the grime and the bedrock. “I think.”

 

“That senator--”

 

“Fascist little cockroach he was, dude.”

 

“I never got that sh*t,” Clay said.

 

“Some Billy sh*t.” John shrugged. “It was all Billy sh*t. BJ always balanced the books and then Bill came back and the books got burned, yeah? I don’t know. I’m such a dumbass, dude.”

 

“Johnny--”

 

Johnny was starting to get breathless. Started breathing too much, didn’t know what the f*ck: “What we did we did for nothing, Clayton.”

 

“We did it for the brothers.”
 

“We killed more brothers than we saved.”

 

“They was chickensh*t.”

 

“I thought they was too, dude, but they were f*ckin’ brothers.”

 

And Terry said “You high, man?”

 

And John said “Shut the f*ck up, Terrence.”

 

Terrence blinked.

 

Silence a moment as the embers crackled.

 

Terrence squinted.

 

Put the maps down.

 

Sighed.

 

“You okay, John?”

 

“No,” John said. “No I f*ckin’ ain’t. I’m halfway across the state for sh*t I gave the f*ck up and a girl I don’t love no more. Or I do. Or I don’t f*ckin’ know, man. I should be dead.”

 

“No.”

 

“I should! I shoulda’ died in that f*ckin’ prison with f*ckin’ Billy, man. I don’t care if I do. We got a bunch of Angels for that. We got a bunch of Angels and a bunch of Broker guys for that. And they’re in the f*cking prison, now. God. They went down. I shoulda’ gone down.”

 

Clay, “John, you’re talkin’ retarded.”

 

“No I f*ckin’ ain’t. I don’t know what I’m talkin’, dude. Those Angels shouldn’t a’ gone down, I shoulda’ gone the f*ck down.”

 

“They’re Angels. They’re f*ckin’ nazis, John.”

 

And John stopped.

 

“You’re right there. But it’s club sh*t. It ain’t--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up before you say somethin’ even more f*ckin’ dumb. Have a drink. Hold on- we got drinks? We bought some--”

 

Terry ducked over for the bikes and the saddlebags and his jean-knees in the dusty dirt and John rocking back onto the tree and his eyes at the sky and his mouth agape. Breathing hard.

 

What the hell was happening?

 

Dog barking in his ears and the crackling and the swirling and wind rushing and his hand rubbing his face and the chin stubble and the cheek stubble and the dirt and put his hands in his vest pockets and closed his eyes so hard he could feel the tears welling.

 

Was he crying?

 

He wasn’t crying.

 

No, he wasn’t crying.

 

He breathed shaky.

 

The words and the noise was swirling together and he hadn’t felt this bad since his f*cking dad. Johnny put his hand in the dirt and his fingers in deep and he shut his eyes again and grit his teeth and heard more voices and shouting and barking.

 

He opened his eyes.

 

There was a dog.

 

White dog. Muscular dog. Muscular little shorthair Mastiff with a pink collar.

 

Dug its teeth into Terry’s boot. Guy was shouting. Dog was chomping on and chomping off and barking and barking and biting.

 

Johnny scrambled up.

 

A second had gone by.

 

Dog went for Terry’s arm.

 

Johnny shouted “Hey!”

 

Dog didn’t budge.

 

Two seconds.

 

Goddamn it.

 

Johnny kicked the dog in the undercarriage.

 

Dog whined.

 

Let go of the forearm.

 

Terry yelped and grabbed his arm and moaned and shut his eyes and pushed his forehead up against it. Grit his teeth. Groaning, “Too e-f*ckin’, aughh- GOD, damn--”

 

Ash had woken up. Clay went over with hustle and tried to get a look at the arm and the arm got yanked and Terry went f*ckin’ moaning, “Pit bull f*ckin’- oh my god--”

 

Dog ran away.

 

Johnny stood.

 

Ember crackled.

 

“Johnny? Johnny babe, what--”

 

“What the f*ck, man?!” Weren’t any of the four - foreign voice to ‘em. Big guy in an olive button-up with the white buttons on the oversize and this clacking and clacking and Johnny was so hyperfocused on the buttons he wasn’t even looking at his face.

 

Noises winding together.

 

“--you kicked my f*cking dog--”

 

“--biting my--”

 

“--she didn’t know what she was doing--”

 

“--Johnny, Johnny--”

 

“--John. John?”

 

John.

 

John blinked.

 

Olive shirt had his arms up wide. “What the actual- are you freaking idiots even--”

 

“Your dog bit my f*ckin’ friend.” John’s voice came out his throat like he’d never spoke. Cleared his throat a little.

 

Guy was still going off, “She’s just sensitive to f*cking noise--”

 

Terry, “How’s the f*ck I’m supposed to know that?”

 

Clay, “You need a leash--”

 

“You just need to be more f*cking diligent--”

 

And John blinked, “What the f*ck are you talking about, dude?”

 

“Moron. Listen.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself.”

 

And dog man got closer, “Listen--”

 

Clay, “Get the hell back, man.”

 

“You gotta--”

 

“We ain’t gotta do sh*t,” Terry was going. “We ain’t gotta--”

 

John, “Chill out--”

 

And dog man stepped closer, “You three goddamn… like, what the hell are you even--”

 

And Terry came over and he’d pulled his shirt up and he was showing him these jagged lines in his arm and he was saying “Look, look, look--”

 

And. And and and and. And Johnny hit his head and said “Shut the f*ck up!”

 

Silence.

 

Silence. Could feel eyes in the darkness looking.

 

Dog man pointed: “If she is hurt, my dog--”

 

“She f*ckin’ started it.” John stepped on, got in his space, “You don’t come to me with that. Could be kids here. Keep your dog on a goddamn leash. Ain’t there f*ckin’ park regulations, or goddamn camp rules or--”

 

“I got kids,” dog man said.

 

“You’d know, then.”

 

“Look, man, if your buddy is hurt--”

 

“Goddamn it, brother, just f*ck off.”

 

“You biker--”

 

“Just f*ck off, man.”

 

And the guy said “Freaking f*ck this.”

 

And he stormed off.

 

Faded into the darkness.

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Did that even actually happen?

 

Looked at Terry. Guy had the bottle to his cut and Clay was to his right looking through the saddlebag and Terry was tooth-gritting even though the bottle was lukewarm. Let out air, Johnny did. Breathed shaky. Goddamn it.

 

Backed up.

 

Bumped into Ash.

 

“Oh!”

 

“--ah--”

 

“I’m--”

 

“--It’s okay John--”

 

“--my bad, f*ckin’...”

 

Blinked. Picked at his eye, dug the fingers in. Sighed again.

 

“Babe,” Ash said. “You okay?”

 

And Johnny nodded and blinked and blinked and nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I’m fine.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Went to help Terry with his arm.

 

OH, THE SWEET SMELL OF RESCUE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

[slimeball supreme]

 

Brian’s bike broke on Banker Street in Effingham, Illinois.

 

Another pit stop in Terre Haute. Crossed the Wabash and flew the state line into Lost Property - the Lost MC state of motherf*cking Illinois - when Brian’s bike started puttering. And clanking. And greasy groaning unhealthy sh*t, enough for it to drown out the engines and Winnie to call an emergency stop.

 

And yeah. Brian’s Western was f*cked up.

 

And Brian, with the cowboy hat around his neck dingle-dangling in the wind, with a set of tools laid out on the blacktop, had no idea what he was f*cking doing. Which, to be fair, was expected.

 

“You’re doing it wrong.”

 

“Shut up, John.”

 

“I told you what the problem is--”

 

“Shut up, John.”

 

“How old is the battery?”

 

“Did I f*cking ask for you to f*cking help me, man?”

 

“No, but you’re having troubles. I’m just asking, how old’s the--”

 

“Lay off me.”

 

So Johnny laid off BJ.

 

Winnie was on a pay phone across the street. Said he’d call for mechanics if need be. Or a tow, or some kinda sh*t like that that got the poor sap BJ some new grease for the chopper. Been at the phone for a while. Twirling the chain for the receiver around his finger and yap-yap-yapping.

 

Had probably called Billy or another brother or some other bozo he used to know for a what-for. Winnie was like that.

 

Johnny paced the well-trod pavement of the podunk midwestern town while Brian kept making these pained little whimpers like the thing was making him anxious. Goddamn baby.

 

“What you say, John?”

 

Had he said that aloud? “No, nothin’.”

 

“I ain’t a baby.”

 

Course he f*ckin’ had. “I ain’t say that.”

 

“If you didn’t say it, man, you’re thinking it.”

 

“Now I’m thinking you’re a f*cking baby the way you act like.”

 

“I act like what?”

 

“BJ, you act like a f*ckin’ baby when you get all pissy about the--”

 

“You just called me one, man. Am I a baby or am I not a baby, you said.”

 

“I’m calling you a baby now.”

 

“Yeah, f*ck you, Johnno.”

 

“Oh!”

 

“Yeah, I said it.”

 

“Just ‘cause you ain’t a good workman don’t mean you gotta blame every other tool out here tryna’ help you, Brian. And Terry’s off waddling at that goddamn tire shop or the mechanic--”

 

“I ain’t mention the hick.”

 

“And there it is, again.”

 

“I’m good with my f*cking bike.”

 

And Johnny scoffed, “Oh, is that right?”

 

“Yeah, man, that’s right, man. I wouldn’t be Lost if I didn’t was so good at this kind of thing.”

 

“You didn’t was?”

 

“You f*ckin’ high-and-mighty--”

 

“Talk like a big boy, Brian, not a f*cking child.”

 

Brian rolled out from the bike.

 

Knocked a bunch of sh*t out the way, nearly tipped the thing, nearly got Winnie peeking over from the phone. But no. The old fella kept yapping. BJ stood up shaky.

 

Pointed a finger at Johnny’s chest.

 

“You always thought you was smarter than me, huh, Jew boy?”

 

“I ain’t smarter than nobody, dude.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Was gonna say even I ain’t that good with bikes. I mean, if Clay were in the country, f*ck, he coulda’ tagged along and fixed--”

 

“Always with these f*ckin’- you- I don’t even know with you, Johnny.”

 

“What? What?”

 

“Sure, that’s what we were saying. We weren’t even talkin’ ‘bout Crowdog.”

 

“You said you was Lost, Clay’s Lost. I mean--”

 

“You make me out to be the lunatic. Nuh-uh, heebo. Nuh-uh.”

 

“Who helped you fix up the bike, BJ?”

 

“Don’t matter.”

 

“We all did.”

 

“Don’t matter.”

 

“But--”

 

“You don’t got to crawl up my ass you jew c*nt f*ck.”

 

Johnny knew he didn’t mean it. “You gotta be so whiny about nothing, man--”

 

“You called me a baby!”

 

“I did not.”

 

“You’re a baby, John, and a sucker, John. You’re a sucker.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re a stoolie, too!”

 

“How’m I a stoolie, Brian?”

 

“You’re a stoolie. You are, you’re a stoolie! You are, you know that!”

 

“What?”

 

“With the money, John.”

 

“What with the money? Stop repeating my name like that.”

 

“John John-John-John, c*nt. f*ck you. Stoolie. With the money. I got this hat,” flipped the thing onto his buzzed dome and gave a toothless, smarmy little smile to show for it. The gleaming white cowboy hat that didn’t mean sh*t. “And you sucked off Winnie at the Outta’ Towners, c*nt.”

 

“I sucked- what?!”

 

“You gave some of the cash we took off that schmuck to Winnie.”

 

Beat.

 

Johnny blinked. “And?!”

 

“And you’re a stoolie. And you didn’t have to give him the money but you did. You didn’t even have to tell him.”

 

“Where’s your loyalty, Brian?”

 

“Screw you.”

 

“Like we had to tell him with you and your f*cking idiot cowboy hat. Where’s your loyalty, you moron?”

 

“You don’t question my loyalty, Johnny.”

 

“You stay loyal to your commanding officer, Brian, you little dipsh*t wanna-be-army f*ck. You hooah-asswipe, you wouldn’t know the first thing about loyalty, the first thing about brotherhood--”

 

“You little rat kike!”

 

“Woah--” That was another voice.

 

“Brian, I’m gonna kill you--”

 

“You try me, you try me--”

 

Shoved him.

 

Pushed.

 

BJ swung.

 

Terry grabbed him. Terry said woah. Terry said “Woah!” once-a-f*cking-gain and swiped him aside and slapped Brian across the face and got Brian going O-face. Eyes wide, mouth agape, the ‘pap’ nearly threw him back.

 

Brian jumped at Johnny again. Terry caught him and said “Ennnnnough!!”

 

Glaring.

 

“E-f*ckin’-nough, brothers, e-goddamn-nough!”

 

Johnny glaring. BJ breathing like a bull. Brian half-swallowed and blinked and fumed.

 

“Alright,” Johnny said.

 

“Hash it the f*ck out, brothers,” Terry went. “Get some ree-specto, get some f*ckin’ peace. Hash it out.”

 

Johnny nodded.

 

Brian sighed.

 

“It’s cool brother, we cool?” Johnny repeated, “We cool?”

 

“Alright,” Brian said.

 

Terry, “You cool, BJ?”

 

“I am, man, I am, I’m just f*cked up with the f*ckin’ hog and that, man, you know that, man.”

 

“It’s cool,” said John.

 

Terry smiled. Thumbed at the corner of his lip and side-stepped a little and just walked off.

 

Johnny looked over his shoulder. Right behind him.

 

Winnie was still on the payphone. Guy was still talking.

 

Was still yapping.

 

Huh.

 

---

 

St. Louis was a city. A big city - not too big, but big. Hardly ‘Derney City.

 

Definitely no Liberty.

 

Couldn’t shake that thought. Couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been here before; like St. Louis was Indianapolis was Effingham was Terre Haute was f*cking Harrisburg. Like he’d seen the same brickwork buildings and the same chipping paint and the same attempts at revitalizing old downtowns with sh*tty new tourist traps.

 

The same knee-high grass and the same smell of cow sh*t on the way. Was hardly worth even acknowledging. Didn’t want to go home because home was its own can of worms, its own kind of nonsense and noise.

 

Just bored.

 

Just bored.

 

Winnie said he had relatives in Delisle. But he said he didn’t want to see ‘em. And he asked Terry, you got relatives out here? And he said no. Half his family was French-Canadian, the other half were Upstate Liberty born-and-bred. Johnny said he thought Clay had a brother that ended up around Delisle City, but Delisle City’s in Missouri and it ain’t in Delisle state.

 

Johnny said he wanted to buy some smokes and asked a fella where a bodega was - and the fella asked “what’s a bodega?” And Terry said “a convenience store, fella, a convenience store.”

 

And for that, Terry got to tag along. Didn’t want to waste the bikes on an errand run.

 

“You know this kinda sh*t?” Two were strolling out the bar the four had parked asses at and headed down the boulevard. Dead of the night. “Don’t get this sh*t.”

 

“What sh*t?” Terry went.

 

“You’re from Upstate.”

 

“I was born Acter, but yeah. Yeah, I grew upstate. And it was going back and forth with my pa and them and- and the work. Ma wanted to do some sh*t so she hitched a ride to LC all the time and-...” trailed off. “You mean--”

 

“I mean I got my own kind of vernacular, right?”

 

“A what?”

 

“Like, how I speak. Alderney’s in my blood.”

 

“Oh, right. Yeah. The dialectics.”

 

“I forget. I mean, that people don’t know what I’m talking about sometimes because I ain’t left the city too much. And with you, you must switch up all the time, huh?”

 

“I speak how I speak.”

 

“Yeah. Fair enough, man.”

 

Johnny wasn’t exactly sure if the conversation was lame or if Terry was a lame conversationalist. Walked lockstep all the same.

 

Weren’t exactly sure where in St. Louis they’d stopped off. Near a big park called Tower Grove; the guy who didn’t know what a bodega was said there was a mom-and-pop market in South Grand on Gustine, south of the aforementioned park. Johnny made a mental note, which he was pretty good at, and off the duo went. He said ‘just cut across’, and so they were gonna. The bikes’d stay at the tavern on Magnolia Avenue clean and they knew, with BJ and Winnie, they were gonna stay clean.

 

The park had a drive running clean through the middle marked by pearly white gates. Found it fitting. Headed through wordless and kept that trend up until Terry stopped himself.

 

A statue.

 

“I need to piss,” he said.

 

“Thanks for letting me know, dude.”

 

“Well, what, I f*cking stop you’ll wanna know.”

 

“You gonna piss on the statue?”

 

“God no, brother. I’on know the f*ck she did. Could be a saint. And I’m gonna piss on a saint?”

 

“You could.”

 

“No. I won’t. And who knows what kinda eyes they got on this place. No. I’ll find some spot.”

 

Well, alrighty then.

 

Didn’t respond. Just kept walking; curved path cutting into the park that looked like it was gonna head off to the street. Picnic tables and rib-bone trees. Dullness.

 

Got to thinking.

 

About circumstance.

 

And, y’know. That kinda sh*t.

 

And, uh… 

 

Hm.

 

Johnny needed to piss too.

 

Pretty good kinda park where there ain’t no f*ckin’ bathroom signs, but motherf*cker if that weren’t the case. The same kind of wide pathway fit for a car width and god f*cking damn it, just thin goddamn trees and gravel crunch.

 

And Johnny looked behind hisself.

 

And saw Terry headed off.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Where you goin’?”

 

“Well, you was all pissy ‘bout when I said I needed--”

 

“You gonna piss?”

 

“Yeah, big man, I am.”

 

Wooden pavilion with the same kind of picnic tables hooded by ornate paint and yellow roofing. Easy enough to see in the darkness, wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. “I needa’ piss.”

 

“And you didn’t say?”

 

“Terry, don’t make this f*ckin’ weird.”

 

Pfft, “Okay.” Kept walking on, “Okay.”

 

Johnny followed.

 

There weren’t no walls to piss on. Columns painted red all funny-like, trash cans. Picnic tables weren’t nailed down, so sh*t, maybe they went and moved them out when it was less piss-rainy. Fine enough. And Terry circled it on the half, stopped when he also made that same connection. And then just muttered “Screw it.”

 

So he unzipped, and Terry pissed on the column.

 

And kinda uneasy, Johnny followed.

 

Unzipped.

 

Pissed.

 

Dull quiet as the stream hit.

 

“Nice weapon, man.”

 

Johnny nearly jumped. “What?”

 

“It ain’t bad, I’m sayin’. Thing’s cut, too.”

 

“Quit lookin’ at my f*cking dick!”

 

And Terry just laughed and zipped himself back up.

 

“Goddamn queer,” John was laughing.

 

“We movin’?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, funnyman, just give me a second.”

 

“Yo, my f*ckin’- uh… my brother, he used to pull that sh*t on me all the time.”

 

John finished, “Weird.”

 

“Yeah. Whatever. He was. I don’t know.”

 

“He older than you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“See, I’m the f*ckin’ middle kid.” Got the walking on, “I got the both a’ my experiences on me. You remember--”

 

“With the army man and the other one. Danny and uh… what was it?”

 

“Michael.”

 

“Yeah. And you’re Jewish.”

 

“See, I said this before,” Johnny went. “I ain’t practicing. I grew out a’ that sh*t after my Bar Mitzvah. And as soon as I stopped bein’ interested in that godliness sh*t I got my ass strung out by my parents. I think they wanted me to get into it.”

 

“For real?”

 

“Yeah. Like, wanted me to study. Rabbinical school or whatever the word is, I ain’t paid no attention. I was always hanging out with some the guys and we were all into hogs and, I guess I weren’t never that into belief.”

 

“You think there’s something out there?”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“I do. I ain’t into it neither, though. I just think there is. If there is a motherf*cker out there I doubt he wants me to go to church. It was, uh… my mom was a catholic and my pa was a protestant. Right?”

 

And Johnny chuckled, “Recipe for success.”

 

“Oh, man, I don’t know how they got in with each others. Because we’d have Thanksgiving and both sides would just f*cking bicker. A lotta them didn’t come because of all the border sh*t you’d have to do since they was mostly in Quebec but the ones that did- I mean, we lived in a farm upstate. And the most a’ them did, just they spoke French. But they picked us apart.”

 

“They, what? Picked you apart, they gave you sh*t for nothin’?”

 

“Yeah, John, gave me sh*t for nothin’. Or us, I mean. It was- you set the table up like sh*t, this holiday’s ridiculous, yadda yadda. My pa was a real sum’bitch so he’d just lose his temper instantly. ‘I’m the host, this my damn house, you give me-’” trailed off. “He never swore.”

 

“Mine neither, man. See, my parents never swore. I swore all the time and they’d whap me over the head, but I ain’t. But they’d pick me apart, yeah?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“My mom used to say I’d never be nobody. And, f*ck, I probably ain’t. I’m happy. But they never visited when I did a couple years in the pen.”

 

“For?”

 

“Manslaughter,” Johnny said.

 

“You too?”

 

“Goddamn. You got done for that?”

 

“I got off for self defense,” Terry said. “But yeah. ‘Bout a year before I got in with the brothers, come to think. This junkie bastard, he came up to this friend of mine I used to know - he’s doing a bid right now - but he came up to me and him, and he asked us for change. And we thought he was homeless. So, I’m a f*cking idiot, I get my wallet out. I start counting the bills. And the guy gets impatient and swipes it.”

 

“Oh!”

 

“Yeah. I snatch it back but then he tries grabbing it again: my friend shoves him, he socks him in the face and then comes at me. So, yeah. I, uh, I shot him.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You shot him?”

 

“Stomach’d. Yeah. Gut shot. And they picked me up for the unregistered firearm and manslaughter. And I did my time for the firearm but they ruled the case was basically a robbery. It didn’t help I ran away and got caught on the CCTV of this liquor place we’d walked outta’.”

 

“Lucky bitch.”

 

“Well, I ain’t lucky. Never lucky to get robbed, Johnny.”

 

“Sure,” he replied. “Yeah, I mean, sure. But… my case it was a bar thing. It was ‘94 and I was a kid and I got real pissed off at this fella. And I sucker punched him. I was drunk off my ass, and you know. The guy f*cking died.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“I don’t even remember why. But I got a bunch of the people in the bar grabbing me and then the state troopers were there quick after. I had my parents give this bullsh*t on the stand and everything, a lotta’ people crying and saying I was a good kid, and a lotta’ people crying and saying he was. And so I did a couple years and got told I couldn’t ride my bike or hang around f*ckers I liked a lot.”

 

“Bad luck, man.”

 

“Yeah. I ain’t lucky. And I weren’t lucky neither ‘cause my P.O. was a ratf*cking c*nt. And he busted me for some dirt weed and the association and I got out pretty quick. I don’t regret it though, I got my patch, it was kosher.”

 

“Your parents cry for you?”

 

“Ha,” Johnny said. “Hell no. My dad told me it was what he expected, actually. ‘Cause they visited me in custody and they just gave me a good assf*ckin’ with the guilt sh*t. My mom would always go, the way you’re headed you’re gonna be driving a trash cart, or uh… that kinda’ sh*t. A clerk, or driving buses, or washing cars, or eating f*ckin’ dirt for a f*ckin’ living, right?”

 

“My dad didn’t do that for me. But no, he gave me sh*t, yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was gonna work the farm ‘til I moved to the city, yeah. Colin did for a while.”

 

“But yeah. They had this sh*t laid out for me and I didn’t take it. So after the parole violation they just… y’know.”

 

“What?”

 

“Well, they ain’t spoke to me since. And after ‘94 it was rare.”

 

Terry was solemn. “I’m sorry.”

 

“I don’t care. My dad used to hit me and the sh*t my mom said was just as bad so f*ck if I care. They can die. And Mikey can get his ass shot fighting some kids in t-shirts for nothing, and my kid brother can do whatever he’s doing. So they can pretend I ain’t exist all they want. Crocodile tears.”

 

“But it’s still f*cked up.”

 

“Yeah, sure. But they’re f*cked up people.”

 

“Maybe, man.”

 

“I don’t know. I ain’t got pity for them because they ain’t for me. I’ve tried giving them money but my dad thinks it’s all from selling dope and he’d push me around and tell me to f*ck off. Last time I spoke to them was a… goddamn while.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Johnny said.

 

And Terry sighed. “Yeah. I loved Colin a lot. He was a real f*ckup. But- you know. He was blood. And family and sh*t, and how it’s runnin’ thick and all of that. And he was a funny guy and he’d read books and he’d tell me all the sh*t he’d read.”

 

“That’s cool.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I used to hang out with Mikey, because he was friends with Billy Grey actually.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And we’d get up to sh*t all the time, me and him. Some stories. He got me into bikes, it was all his thing. But then he chopped his dick off and he once got in a fight with Billy and it got physical.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“But, no, keep saying- with Colin, what he read--”

 

“Oh, oh, yeah. I don’t know. He read a lot of these old books and these stories and this political sh*t. And we’d hang out. And he’d shoot up and I’d hang with him, or it’d be after I got him his dope from town or whatever. But he was nice. My dad disowned him.”

 

It clicked for Johnny, “Ah, I see.”

 

“Yeah. Because he was a f*ckup and he’d stolen my pa’s money and he’d done some real f*cked up sh*t. My dad said he raped a chick, actually.”

 

“Holy sh*t.”

 

“He didn’t. That was a lie. But he said he’d done a rape and he was into this Oklahoma City, f*ckin’ 1488 kinda’ sh*t.”

 

“Like, he was a nazi?”

 

“He weren’t. I still talked to him on and off after and he was never into that. And Colin would never rape a woman.”

 

“How you know?”

 

Terry kinda breathed a little harder. “He was gay.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Yeah. And f*ck, maybe he did or maybe he didn’t. And Colin never told me so he might not even be full-gay. But he had this guy that used to come around and they definitely f*cked. I don’t think he did that. My dad also said Colin was buying explosives and he was running with gangsters. And I know he ain’t, because I’m the one doing that.”

 

Johnny laughed. “You’re right there.”

 

“Yeah. I don’t know. I think he got kicked out because of that, yeah? Maybe my dad caught him. But he wasn’t allowed back after that. Last I heard he was in Ohio or some sh*t--”

 

“We coulda’ said hi--”

 

“No,” Terry said. “Nah. I wouldn’t, anyway. Don’t tell the guys I told you, right? It’s private.”

 

“I won’t,” Johnny said.

 

“You promise?”

 

“Yeah. One hundred, dude, I solemnly swear.”

 

They walked on.

 

THE MORE THE MERRIER, I SUPPOSE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

[Cebra]

 

It wasn’t such a sh*tty neighborhood.

 

Arrived in Erie and got Terry looking for a phone book - looked here, looked there, stopped on a corner store and asking if they had one under the counter. Owner did, but the owner went and said to use it, you had to be a paying customer.

 

Forked over a couple bucks for beer. Ash bought some Canadian regional soda, called Perango, knock-off orange-flavor sh*t; kicked dust for however long sprawling through town looking for the correct number-street combo.

 

Door opened.

 

“Bjorn, brother Bjorn--”

 

“Terrence! Goddamn--”

 

Bjorn was this big f*cking guy: tall, strong barrel-chested youngish dude maybe early-30’s. Brown hair and this woodsman beard with these melon-pectorals under a Crevis compression shirt. Went in for a hug and a lot of “how ya’ been”.

 

“Bjorn, hey, this is Johnny.”

 

“Johnny, alright.” Shook hands. Grip like a f*cking vise. “You been lookin’ after my boy, John?”

 

Johnny let out a “Sure, yeah.” He wasn’t sure.

 

“Bjorn I know from Montresor,” Terry said. “And Johnny- I’ve been shackin’ up with some friends from the crew I rolled with. You know, the brothers?”

 

“Went hairy, I heard.”

 

“Yeah, Bjorn, hairy. We got some other- this guy Clay. Was gonna come but- nah. Maybe some other time, you know.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. The hell, you stand on my porch, yinz wanna catch a cold? C’mon, c’mon.”

 

He lived in a fine part of town. Suburban. Erie was a grid of houses on houses; and Bjorn was closer to the Presque Isle Bay than he was away from it. A few blocks from a yacht club, in fact, but the neighborhood weren’t ritzy. Normal. Just fine. House was shades of beige, new-ish, with a leather sofa and artworks, this woman watching the TV who didn’t get up but did say hi enthusiastic.

 

“Heyy! Terry, hey!”

 

“Long time, Penny.”

 

She was a nice-looking girl with raccoon-rings around the eyes and short-cropped hair dyed red. No makeup. Rake-thin. Rocked back and forth a little like she had to do it to get on her feet, all chirpy doing it, “I missed you, Terry, we did.”

 

They followed Bjorn into the kitchen. Kitchen had a big circle-table in the center pocked with cut-scars, topped with drunk-out coffee mugs and circle rings on coasters. Bjorn started fixing something, got another mug out a mugged-out cupboard, said “I’ll make--”

 

Terry said “Nah.”

 

“No, man, I insist, man.”

 

Johnny sat down.

 

Heard the woman, Penny, come out from the living saying “And the friend?” Looked at Johnny still smiling.

 

Terry said “That’s Jonathan. I go way back with Bjorn, Johnny, we buds like nothin’ back in Montresor. Penny too.” And Penny came over for a hug and stuck a leg up and pushed off. “Johnny’s from Alderney.”

 

“Yeah?” Penny went.

 

“Yeah,” Johnny muttered. “Yeah.”

 

“Never been to the city,” Penny smiled. “Liberty, I mean. Is it nice?”

 

“Yes and no.”

 

Bjorn laughed, “Yes and no, ha.”

 

“I’m gonna head back, maybe. Or maybe not. I’m comin’ on with Terry and my girl, they’re going to Couira--”

 

And Terry cooed, “Your girl?”

 

“Not my girl.” Quickly, “She was but we’re friends. She was, yeah, but it ain’t no more like that.”

 

“That’s cool,” Bjorn went. “Yeah. You like cocoa?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Penny sat down.

 

Terry sat down.

 

Bjorn got more mugs. He said “What brings you?”

 

Johnny stopped.

 

Terry said “Just checking in. And hey, you know, I mean- I called you but I wanted to see how you was and that sorta’ thing. And we ain’t seen--”

 

“We’re okay.”

 

“That’s good,” went Terry. “And- uh, yeah. And Penny. Trudy.”

 

“Trudy’s--”

 

Penny said “Mom’s fine. Or she’s keeping fine.”

 

“Trudy’s a sweet woman.”

 

Johnny looked at Bjorn. Guy had his back turned, was turning on this retro-looking machine, getting sh*t together, lining cups on the counter.

 

“She’s a sweet woman.”

 

Johnny arched his neck. “Don’t think I ever seen a dedicated hot cocoa maker.”

 

“Yeah,” Bjorn said. “Was a gift from Trudy, in fact. Yinz out in Alderney, you call it hot cocoa or hot chocolate?”

 

Verbiage didn’t register.

 

Penny went “I don’t think those is the same thing, hon.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

Johnny didn’t know either.

 

Bjorn shook some packets - cocoa powder, some sh*t - kept on with his back turned.

 

Terry took at Penny. “So your mom--” trailed off and let her fill the void.

 

“Yeah. She’s trucking, you know? Been almost a year now, chemo, the radiation. Still her old self, though.”

 

Smile was warm. Johnny watched her.

 

“Good,” Terry said. “That’s good. Best you can hope for, right?”

 

Cocoa maker was going off meanwhile, steam going swoosh and the trickle cup-by-cup.

 

“Jonathan,” Bjorn went, “You want a cocoa or a coffee?”

 

“Johnny. And whatever’s easier’s fine by me, man.”

 

So he kept going.

 

They made small talk. Roundtable talk over a table that’d seen a lot of those, no doubt, and was only a bit worse for wear. Terry and Penny made the most of it and Johnny couldn’t stop looking at her in a way he hoped she wouldn’t catch and so Johnny started rubbing his finger over this deep groove in the wood over and over again until Bjorn brought the goddamn drinks.

 

He sat.

 

Terry held his tight, lifted it high. “Cheers.”

 

Bjorn laughed, this deep belly f*cking thing. “Never thought we’d make it to a reunion without getting blasted on tina or f*cking booze, huh?”

 

Penny went “Babe.”

 

“I mean, that’s the truth, ain’t it?” Terry said through the grin. “Made yourselves a good nest of domes-tee-icity here, didn’t you? I’m happy for ya.”

 

“Nest a’ f*cking domesticity. Amen to that, Terrence.”

 

They clinked - Terry to Bjorn to Johnny to Penny, eyes meeting. John noticed she did have this eyeshadow on after all, just a smidge - smoke under the eyes. Just made them look more sunken.

 

Sipped. John hadn’t had a hot f*cking whatever in years.

 

Bjorn sighed big. Said something got queued up in the drinkmaking, “Trudy’s got a surgery coming up, matter of fact. We’d been talking about it a while, y’know, and they said- they was sayin’ to us, ‘it can wait, we gotta see what the radio-whatever and the chemo can do for her first’. But I guess we’re past that. She’s doing alright, she is. But you know.”

 

Penny shifted. 

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I been working nights-- been doing these odd jobs, making furniture with reclaimed wood, this landscaping sh*t in the gated community a few neighborhoods up. Smug f*cking sons of bitches. But it’s good money. Yinz see the truck outside?”

 

Terry said “Nah.”

 

Looked at Penny, “Did I park it in the garage?” Redirected attention, “Don’t matter. Just got the thing a livery is all. You was never big on trucks anyhow, was you Terrence?”

 

“A cage is a cage even if it’s got a lifted kit and a crew cab, brother.”

 

“Ain’t that the truth. I miss that f*ckin’ sh*t, Terrence, I can tell you that. The hogs. Wind whippin’- back then my hair was longer, give ya that- but the fields, out in the country. When we’d head up Niagara, you remember that?”

 

“Sure do.”

 

“Nothin’ like it, right? That smell in the fields and counting barns and when we’d find the cows lying down--”

 

Johnny sipped his cocoa. “Sure that sh*t ain’t overrated any?”

 

Got the side eye from Terry.

 

Bjorn chuckled. “‘Derney boy, huh?”

 

Terry’s eye lingered. “We got a homesick puppy on our hands, John?”

 

For a second he was serious - backed off. “Nah. Nothing like that, Terrence.”

 

A moment’s silence. John looked across the room, at the patio door and the fake plants and the artwork on the wall - canvas, no frame, the generic mass collection. Something abstract, these vaguely flower-looking things. Then again, what the f*ck did he know - an art connaisseur he was not.

 

Penny spoke up in that little lamb voice. “About my mom, though, Terr - we got her into this good place. At first we couldn’t visit even ‘cause she had this infection but they took care of it real quick. She’s a little dull on the left side now, there was this-- a transient iso- isa--”

 

“TIAs,” Bjorn butted in. “Ministrokes. And this place cost a pretty f*ckin’ penny, let me tell you. And we got that surgery coming up. You thought Liberty was bad--”

 

Tension. Johnny could feel it. Terry too - made him spit out a swift “Ya’ need some help with it?”

 

Penny perked. “Whaddya mean?”

 

“I mean some help. Monetary-like.” Went for laughs, “Make me feel better about leaving you guys behind all these years. Conscience bucks, I think they call it.”

 

Penny gave Bjorn a look.

 

Johnny really didn’t feel like he f*cking belonged here.

 

Bjorn said “No,” then said “No” again. “And I ain’t so sure it wasn’t the other way around.”

 

“What was?”

 

“Leaving us behind, you said. In Montresor. That ain’t how I remember it.”

 

“Water under the bridge,” Terry shrugged.

 

“No, I mean-- if you were still pissed I’d understand. And I know we talked, we sorted sh*t out at step eight nine and f*ckin’ twelve, but you know. I was still chuffed to see your face today.”

 

Penny echoed, “Me too.”

 

Terry shrugged again, finished his drink off and looked down. “sh*t just gets the handle on ya’ sometimes. f*ckin’ poison, right?” Up at Bjorn. “How long you been clean, is it?”

 

“Three years and some change, me. They say you never lose track but I just stopped f*ckin’ counting. Better for it. Penny’s two year token was last month.”

 

Johnny shifted.

 

Terry didn’t. “I’m f*ckin’ glad for you, brother. The both of you. Always knew you’d pull through together.”

 

Johnny said “I’m gonna get some air”.

 

Stood up and left the mumblings behind him.

 

Made it to the porch and wondered if that sounded harsh. Didn’t much care. He’d picked up a pack of Redwoods just off the 17 out of Muhlenburgo and hadn’t touched ‘em yet - didn’t smoke much anymore, or at least not without someone else’s company, and now seemed a good a time as any.

 

Lit up with the lighter he’d shoved into the pack beside the foil.

 

Porch wasn’t very f*cking sturdy, but that figured. Boot tap-tapped on a loose board. New board, but loose nonetheless. The neighborhood figured for new development lite - still the bane of suburbia but not quite graduated to the f*cking freeway-adjacent tract mansions they’d skirted on the state outskirts. 

 

Johnny leaned on the rail. Counted five PMP 600s in driveways up and down the street. Laughed.

 

Made it until the cig was a stub just about a centimeter from burning fingertips when the commotion came out the door behind him.

 

“--so we was sayin’ f*ck it, right? Wish you got to see it then, f*cking priceless.”

 

Trio came out going straight for the hogs streetside. Terry stopped short, talked quiet: “The f*ck, Johnny? You sick or something?”

 

“My f*cking stomach, man, I dunno.”

 

Grabbed his shoulder rough in the manly-man sorta way. “At least come listen to ‘em sing the virtues of your bike.”

 

Paused. “Sure.”

 

They were at the street. No sidewalks. John hesitated a second before flicking the butt onto the lawn but did it anyway.

 

Walked up to Bjorn going “Your baby ain’t changed a goddamn lick, has she?”

 

“Not on my watch,” Terry said. “Got some bespoke fork legs and the fasteners in ‘08 but uh-- didn’t ride for a while afterward. And you ask me, she don’t exactly need it neither.”

 

Penny was admiring, ogling. “Always said the color on it was sweet. Midnight blue, right Terry? That can’t be OEM.”

 

“Yeah, something like that. Coat hasn’t needed upkeep or anything.”

 

Bjorn turned to John’s. “That’s a kickass f*cking ride all the same, Jonathan. LCC...” Circled it, asked “We only ever rode Western. You ever thought’a getting some shock springs installed?”

 

Johnny shook his head. “Nah. I rode LCCs with those, sure, but no Hexers. Felt they f*cked with the center of gravity all the same.”

 

“I get you. Man, it’s really the goddamn rake that sells this motherf*cker, isn’t it?”

 

Finally got some mileage out of the stop. “Too f*ckin’ right, man. Never regretted it.”

 

Penny was still fixed on Terry’s baby.

 

You could see the gears turning behind the eyes.

 

“You mind?”

 

Eyes were on the seat.

Terry didn’t hesitate. Laughed. “‘Course not. Go ahead.”

 

She sat, got comfortable, wrapped palms around the handlebars. Was f*cking grinning.

 

“Babe, can you get my shoes?”

 

Terry butted in, told her the thing probably didn’t need a kickstart.

 

“Yeah, but I wanna.”

 

Bjorn went to get the shoes.

 

“Eager f*ckin’ beaver, huh?” Terry joked.

 

“You bet, I drive a Blista.”

 

Bjorn came back with the shoes, put them on the ground for her. Grey and pink sneakers, laced all wrong. She put ‘em on, let Bjorn give the three-two-one.

 

And kicked the motherf*cker into gear. 

 

Screamed deep-throated thrill. Bjorn laughed, Johnny noticed these lines ‘round the eyes that made him look a decade older when he smiled.

 

It waned a sec. “Babe, the HOA ordinances might be on my ass for the f*ckin’ noise.”

 

She looked at him. “Who cares?”

 

Johnny never knew the old girl but felt her coming through all the same.

 

Had to yell a bit over the engine. “Terry,” she asked. “Me and Bjorn take it for a spin around the neighborhood. Whaddya say?”

 

Terry looked at Bjorn first, then Johnny, then back to her after the blank f*cking faces. “I guess. I guess. What’s the harm, huh?”

 

There was probably some, Johnny guessed. Let himself smile at the earnestness all the same.

 

Bjorn said some sh*t and ran back to lock the door.

 

John reeked of cigarette, Terrence of cocoa. Former had his hand on Terry’s shoulder now: “Guess it’s time to ride ass-to-cock with a brother again, isn’t that right, Terrence?”

 

Laughed too, despite himself. “Don’t you ever get sick of makin’ the same f*cking joke?”

 

John mounted, let Terry take his time arranging himself behind. Sissy bar was long gone; brother’d have to hold on tight.

 

Remembered: that was Billy’s joke.

 

Cleared his throat, watched the show in front of him as Bjorn tried just as hard - worse for it, probably - to secure himself around his girl. 

 

Looked funny.

 

They both looked funny.

 

Terrence figured out the proper ass-to-cock ratio, locked fingers into the lip around the tank for grip.

 

Johnny started her up and yelled “Ready when you are!”

 

They went. 

 

First few hundred meters was the most nerve-wracking with Penny at the helm - girl was a few years removed from knowing what she was doing. Johnny trailed slow, f*cking slow, the pace she set. Sturdied up around the first turn. Could see Bjorn telling her things that couldn’t be heard over the engines rumbling.

 

Terry asked “So, whaddya think?”

 

“Of?”

 

“My friends, Jonathan. My old compadres.”

 

“They’re fine fettle, Terrence. I never doubted your ability to f*ckin’ cul-ti-vate a circle of warm and gracious intelligensia.”

 

“Warm and what?”

 

“I don’t f*cking know, man. They seem nice!”

 

“They are nice. They’re good people.”

 

“Sure. What’s the f*cking favor we got Clay and Ash sitting around for, though?”

 

Terry didn’t reply.

 

“Dude?”

 

Just didn’t say.

 

“Terrence, huh?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What we doin’? What’s the favor?”

 

“What?”

 

“Because, what they said. They ain’t know why you were here, huh? So what’s happenin’?”
 

“You know,” said Terry.

 

Expected him to say more.

 

“What do I know?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

Johnny thought it over a second. But he left it. The man said all he was gonna. For Johnny, it was nothing. He understood.

 

They’d looped around the neighborhood around twice when Penny lost traction and slipped.

 

Terry shouted “God f*cking motherf*cking--”

 

Penny was rounding a corner and laughing and saying something when it just slipped. Near a convergence a couple streets off a big avenue: a Save-a-Cent, an empty lot overrun with grass and this big floppy tree in the center, a red-roof takeout place. The pavement was cracked, or there were creepers, or something. But it was like the thing had gone onto an ice sheet.

 

Johnny screeched to a halt.

 

“You alright?!” Terry half-jumped off and sprinted. Bike was on its side on the driveway corner heading into the Save-a-Cent parking lot; on top of ‘em. Was easy enough for them to slip out and Bjorn was huffing and puffing and Penny was sitting up with her head in her hands.

 

“I’m sorry about the bike, my f*cking god, I’m so f*cking sorry--”

 

“Screw the bike,” Terry was going, getting up, “You good? You okay?”

 

An audience had half started to form. Someone with a shopping cart near their SUV had abandoned it to come a little closer, one of the clerks in the Save-a-Cent in the yellow polo and jeans had rushed out. “Y’alright?” One or two people across the street with a toddler, walking past the empty lot, they stopped.

 

Johnny stood at the periphery.

 

“You ain’t rode one these things in a while, hun’?”

 

“You good?” the clerk was going. “You hurt?”

 

“Naw,” said Bjorn. “Just a little- yeah, we’re fine.” Rolled up the pant legs with a mighty-fine road-scratch but nothing major.

 

And Penny was going “I’m so sorry about the bike, Terry, really--”

 

“It’s fine--”

 

“--I really don’t know what to say--”

 

“--Nothing, don’t say nothing.”

 

Johnny stood there with his face all screwed up. Checked out the bike - thing was scuffed up to hell, midnight blue running down the asphalt.

 

Went over to help.

 

---

 

The TV was blazing blue into the darkened living room. Sofa was comfy. sh*t.

 

Had called Ash a few times to make sure. Clay and her were, you know. Keeping busy.

 

Terry was in the kitchen.

 

CNT nonsense.

 

Penny had her legs up and one them big plastic bandages - a couple - slapped up and down the arm and leg. And she was watching, maybe only half, and Bjorn was coming back and going forth on the repeat to talk to Terry and kiss with his girl.

 

Bjorn was on the sofa with the two, now. Hugging on Penny. Smiling. Guy’d rolled the sleeve up on his compression shirt and they were laughing now, sheepish laughing, ‘cause the woman at the car with the shopping cart told ‘em y’all shoulda’ been wearing your helmets.

 

They had to get going soon.

 

They really did.

 

But they lingered.

 

Johnny looked over.

 

They weren’t talking no more. They were watching. And Penny had her neck into his, and broad f*cking Bjorn might as well have had his eyes closed. Rubbed at his eye with the free hand, the free arm, the bandaged arm. Said all quiet, “How long you known Terrence?”

 

Johnny looked over. “I’unno. Since, uh… Two-thousand-something.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, when he went prospect for our thing.”

 

“Your club?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Cool.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Johnny got up. “‘Scuse.” Walked past the two and saw Penny near-sleeping and slipped into the kitchen.

 

Terry had his fingers interlocked and his hands on the table.

 

“Oh,” said Johnny.

 

“Hey?”

 

“We, uh-” John whispered, “we headed out, man?”

 

“Yeah. Soon.”

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

“Just need to, uh. Get the whole thing sorted,” Terry went. “With this.”

 

“Yeah,” said John.

 

“Yeah.”

 

John sat down. “The bike good?”
 

“I don’t give a f*ck.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I do, I’ll get it fixed. But it’s fine. You know-” stopped himself, looked into the living room and the light going blue. “You know they ain’t the most easy on?”

 

“How you mean?”

 

“You know. I mean-... I’m happy for them.”

 

“Yeah. They’re old friends.”

 

“Yeah,” mumbled Terry. “Exactly.”

 

There was a quiet until Bjorn came in.

 

Bjorn was tall. Bjorn was muscled. Big f*cking guy. And you knew it already, but you knew it when you were sitting down and the guy was towering up and yawning with these stretched out arms. Pulled the sleeve down, “She’s asleep.”

 

“Alright,” said Terry.

 

Bjorn stood in the corner of the room. Leg up. “Yinz good?”

 

“Yeah,” said Terry.

 

“I’m real f*cking sorry about the bike, Terrence.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And I’m real f*cking happy you stopped over.”

 

“Happy to.”

 

“And- headed to Couira, right? That’s what you’re doing. And you and the other two.”

 

“She was gonna meet us here,” Johnny said. “She was filling prescriptions or something. You know. And we was gonna head off to Henderson but you know. Guess we stayed.” Laughed it off. 

 

Bjorn looked over, slow, and Bjorn nodded. And he said “I wanna make it up to you.”

 

Terry stopped.

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

“I mean- I don’t want to put no pressure on you two- or, uh, four. Four. Since you’re gonna be all off and running and that sorta’ thing. Right?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“So, you got some arrangements in town picked out?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well. You want, you can stay here. But I was thinking. Right? I don’t wanna go burden you. Since yinz on your way and you’re doing your thing and that kinda’ sh*t. But I had this idea.”

 

And John said “What? What you saying?”

 

Bjorn bit his lip. Looked back a little. “I know a spot we can knock over.”

 

“How you mean?”

 

“This spot. This place, mechanics. I know it.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah. And they’re f*ckers, anyway. But we head down there. We walk, because they’re in walking’s pace and sh*t. They’re this brick painted over thing with the windows, we get the parts. No cost. They probably got some sh*t in their register or a safe or that sorta’ thing, too.”

 

Johnny looked behind hisself.

 

Terry was biting his nails.

 

“Like what we used to do,” Bjorn said. “We can piss in their mailbox, some sh*t. You remember that?”

 

“Yeah,” said Terry.

 

Chuckled, “Yeah. And I mean, it’s been a long f*cking time since we done something like this. And it’s nothing. I ain’t done no ruckus in a long f*cking while, and you know, you’re here. Right?” Paused. “You got your friends?”

 

“Yeah,” went John. “They’re coming here.”

 

“Alright. Okay. You let them in they come over, yeah? I don’t know. How long I’m gonna be up. Because I got work. But… I mean, you’ll be around tomorrow. Might get up when they come over. See what’s up. And then we get the bike fixed in the garage--”

 

“Okay,” said Terry.

 

“Great. Great. Get up, man, come on. It’s so f*cking good f*cking seeing you, man--”

 

And Terry got up. Was holding a smile down. Bjorn had his big barrel arms outstretched and this wide f*cking grin and this wingspan like nothing else. This loud-ass f*cking hug when Bjorn swooped in and pat the fella on the back like he was bang-bang knocking a door.

 

Let go.

 

Gripped his arms.

 

“So f*cking good.”

 

And Terry nodded.

 

Nodded.

 

Bjorn walked.

 

Terry stood.

 

Waited.

 

Waited long.

 

Waited forever-long.

 

Waited until he heard Bjorn stomping up the stairs and until he knew. Knew he was gone.

 

Looked back to Johnny and just said “Call Ash.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Terry fished into his jacket. Pulled out the wad, this fat f*cking roll of bills. Thumbed through it and kept going as he kept heading to the counter and kept thumb-thumb-thumbing.

 

Johnny didn’t speak.

 

Was thumbing. Put the bills down. “Did you tell Ash?”

 

“Tell Ash what?”

 

“Tell Ash to come here?”

 

Johnny said “No.” He was gonna after bullsh*tting Bjorn.

 

And Terry nodded, “Okay. We’re going. Okay?” Gave up thumbing and just wapped the whole f*cking wad onto the counter. Was getting almost frantic. “Tell her, uh, don’t tell her sh*t, okay? Don’t tell her nothing, man.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“I solemnly swear,” Johnny nodded.

 

Terry was just quiet. “We’re leaving.”

 

Johnny didn’t push.

 

Because Johnny knew what that meant.

 

They left through the garage. Bikes were parked in there. No hesitation. Terry’s scuffed up dirty-hog and Johnny hitting the button to get the door open. Johnny looking at Terry. Seeing Terry scowl. Seeing him stutter.

 

“We goin’?”

 

“Yup.” Terry didn’t give eye contact.

 

“Hell of a time, right?”

 

Chuckled through it, through whatever he was doing. “And hee-ow, Johnny.” Gulped, “And hee-ow.”

 

They rode out. And the crickets went, and the lights flickered, and they never said goodbye. They rode out.

 

HOPE IN A HOPELESS TOWN OF HOPEFUL PEOPLE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

NOTE: Glossary now contains bio information on The Lost and the AOD.

Edited September 23, 2020 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

 

They’d stopped there, reluctantly, after Toledo and skipping through Henderson (a barrage of parking lots and broken buildings) to buy smokes and get gas. That sort of thing. Made a day out of just getting to Couira as fast as they could after Terry and John were mum on exactly what the favor in Erie entailed. John was still mum. John had got his map back out and bought another one and coordinated with Terry’s phone - plan was simple.

 

Get back on Interstate 90 and just f*cking drive.

 

It had been a few days. And hopefully, hopefully, he’d be back in Alderney before the week was over. Hopefully that little man Hector would take pity.

 

Montpelier was a montage of small town decay that started and ended on Main Street. It started with a Vapid dealership and chain banks and a Bolt Burger - and then kept going into suburbia, past a fairground, past bad credit. Past foreclosed businesses and foreclosed homes.

 

They’d rumbled bikes into a gas station-convenience store; a dinky old E Grade spot. Filled up the bikes and parked them out and lingered. They’d lingered for a while, hung out, and weren’t sure why.

 

Peeped the maps.

 

They’d probably get to Couira by the end of the day. Would be back in ‘Derney in maybe a week. And kept looking over to Ashley talking to Terry about something-or-other, about cigarettes, and hearing words he’d never said play out in his head.

 

Saying goodbye.

 

Saying goodbye.

 

She was talking cigarettes. She was talking about Ochoa and Love and how she was hoping she could smoke indoors in Couira and Terry laughed and agreed.

 

And Johnny got short of breath and knew she wasn’t looking. Knew he was staring. And knew it hurt. Something hurt.

 

Why couldn't he?

 

Why didn’t he say it in f*cking Hawnes?

 

And he clenched the bridge of his nose and grunted and tried to blink it off. Motherf*cker. My god, motherf*cker.

 

She was coming.

 

She didn’t used to smoke, Johnny realized.

 

She said “Hey.”

 

“Ash.”

 

“You like it out here?” she asked.

 

Johnny said “Where?”

 

“Where. Out here, Johnny, outta town. I ain’t asked that. Ohio, sweet.”

 

“Ohio.”

 

“I don’t know. How many times you been out, Johnny? I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know.”

 

Ash was trying to smile but kept hitting that wall. It was cock-eyed, limp on the corners. “Out the city.”

 

“Enough,” said Johnny.
 

“Open road. You know. Do you like it?”

 

Johnny didn’t answer.

 

“I always liked it, Johnny.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I missed it.”

 

“Did we ever do it, Ash?”

 

“We did.”

 

“In the city. But that ain’t nothin’, right?”

 

“It is.”

 

“On the Skyway, the turnpike. Nippin’ through traffic. The city. Headed wherever we went, wherever we went. That road weren’t open, maybe, but it was road. And that was enough for me.”

 

Ash nodded. “Sure.”

 

“I don’t know if I like it out here, Ash. Don’t really know if I like it outside… everything.”

 

“The city?”

 

Johnny shrugged, “Maybe I’ll like Couira.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I went out on this big trip a while ago. You remember that? You didn’t come, but you remember?”

 

Ash said “But it weren’t personal--”

 

“But just- Ash. It was what it was. You see a dinky little town in Liberty and you’ve seen it in Ohio, and Delisle, and Robada, and everywhere. The city’s the city. It’s a rotten f*cking piece of sh*t f*cking city, but it’s what it is. And that’s all. Real grim now, too.”

 

You didn’t have to ask to know it was the recession. The foreclosures. Ash said “It’s tough.”

 

“Tough for people gettin’ their heads ripped off so a bank can sh*t down their neck, yeah.” Johnny let that statement speak and the breeze complement.

 

Ash had her tongue under her lip. “It’s tough for everyone.”

 

“Tough for you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not at the bakery?”

 

“I mean… sh*t. Sure, Johnny, yeah. It’s tough everywhere.”

 

“It ever get tough at work for you?”

 

“It ever get tough at work for you, Johnny boy?”

 

John blinked. “Sure.”

 

“You got a job. That’s better than most.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“With a record. And tattoos. And all that sh*t. I applied for a bunch and they kicked me on my ass, Johnny, because I didn’t have a degree. You don’t have a GED. You’re doing fine.”

 

“I wanna keep doing fine.”

 

“Marianne was looking too, when we met. And it was all bullsh*t and everything. Because they don’t want nobody with a liability, sweet. They want people clean. Clean like a f*cking, like they come out the laundry or something they’re so clean. This impossibility. And then you walk into the office and you dress up--”

 

In agreement, “Yeah.”

 

“--and it’s all bullsh*t, Johnny.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Because nobody is that person that walks in all cleaned up. I mean, we all sh*t, right? Every place has got a toilet.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“But you gotta pretend you don’t for the interview, is what I’m saying. You gotta pretend you’re some f*cking nothing, like you ain’t made mistakes or you ain’t done things you gotta do. Like you’re a movie person, John, like a doll. They stare at you.”

 

“They do.”

 

“They do that to you?”

 

“They did,” Johnny said. “They always do.”

 

“It’s bullsh*t.”

 

“Brothers never did. Brothers never did.”

 

Ash nodded. Sighed.

 

Breeze went.

 

Johnny was grinding his teeth.

 

He had to say it.

 

“Baby, you got any smokes--”

 

“Where’d you meet Marianne?” Johnny said that angrier than he meant it.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Where’d you meet her?”

 

“I dunno, I--”

 

“You don’t know where you met her?”

 

“No.”

 

“Because I find it unlikely, Ash, you wouldn’t know where you met Marianne. Did you meet her at the bakery like you said, or at the clinic like you said?”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“Because I’m hearing now, Ash, that you and her were looking for work. And I just- I mean--”

 

“I mean, everyone--”

 

“Don’t ‘everyone’ me, Ashley. Don’t. Where’d you meet her? Was it rehab? Doctor’s office, is that what you meant by clinic, or was it at a f*cking bakery? You meet her at f*ckin’ Rusty Browns, that f*cking Italian bakery in Berchem, some sh*t like that?”

 

“I’m just screwy.”

 

“You’re goddamn right you’re screwy. And her car. Does she know where her car is?”

 

“JOHNNY.” She’d raised her voice at him. She didn’t do that often, maybe when she was coming down but never when she was sober sober, and it hit like a bullet to the f*cking shoulder.

 

Johnny blinked.

 

“Please,” she said.

 

“Did you lie to me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t make it worse, Ash.”

 

“Johnny.”

 

“Ashley.”

 

She gulped it down. “Not really.”

 

Johnny sighed.

 

“I met her at rehab. What was she doing - coke, special K, I don’t know. I mean I got kicked out with her, we shared sh*t, I met her there. And we got the job at the bakery together. So that too.”

 

“And she know about the car?”

 

“Yes. I don’t know. Yeah. Sorta.”

 

“Sorta?”

 

“Sorta, yeah, I said it was for a doctor’s appointment.”

 

Another bullet. “Ashley.” Almost like a whine. This f*cking pang of disappointment.

 

“We was rooming together--”

 

“Ashley.”

 

“She’d understand.”

 

“She’d understand if you said it. You f*cked her over.”

 

“I didn’t steal her car or nothing, she can call the cops--”

 

“And then what?!”

 

“And then get it back.”

 

“Has she called you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Has she?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why lie?”

 

“I didn’t pick it up or nothing, Johnny.”

 

“You need to call her.”

 

“Not until I get to--”

 

“You need to call her, Ashley. You can’t f*ck her over.”

 

“I ain’t. She probably already has it.”

 

“You need to call her.”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“Can’t believe I got sidled up--”

 

“It ain’t like that.”

 

“What’s it like, Ash?”

 

“I need help. I do. I need your help. What do you want from me, baby? I ain’t got nobody. Nobody except you is all I got, and Terry and Clay maybe but that’s old nothings, Johnny, that’s nothing. I just needed to get to you because- I mean, Johnny. You know how I feel. You know how I am, Johnny.”

 

“I know you f*ck me over. I really thought you’d f*ckin’ changed. Just f*ck me over.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah. I’m in f*cking Ohio for- do you even got an aunt? You only got us, but you’re coming for your aunt? The f*ck is this.”

 

“Baby! Don’t.”

 

“You’re the f*ckin’ boy who cried wolf, I ain’t got no idea if you’re jerkin’ me off or not. Is it real?”

 

“I’m not lying.”

 

“You lied about the car.”

 

She looked like she was gonna cry, “Johnny boy.”

 

“I swear you just--” Johnny’s eyes drifted. Was looking elsewhere. Wasn’t sure what he was doing with his hands no more until he realized they were pressed against the gas station wall. Woke up when he saw some civilian taking pictures.

 

Some bozo yokel prick pulled out his camera phone trying to get their choppers in frame.

 

No.

 

“Hey!”

 

Yokel jumped.

 

Johnny went “What the f*ck are you doing?”

 

“They’re- they’re nice Westerns--”

 

“No askin’ for permission? f*ck off.”

 

“I ain’t want no trouble.”

 

Johnny was stomping up closer, “f*ck off, I ain’t got the time.”

 

“Can I--”

 

“f*ck off, bum. Get the f*ck away.”

 

“Alright, alright.”

 

“You ask, you wanna take a f*cking picture. Like we’re f*ckin’ zoo f*ckin’ animals or some sh*t, like it’s like that. f*ck off with you.”

 

“I’m goin’!”

 

“Walk on.”

 

Yokel drifted slow-like. Still unsure. But he scattered, waddled off shook-up by the men in black leather. The man in black leather. Weren't Clay or Terry who joined him. Just Johnny.

 

Johnny turned.

 

Judging eyes.

 

Rubbed at his head. His hurting f*cking head. His too-kind f*cking boss. Ashley.

 

Stormed up to Ashley.

 

Put up a finger. Wanted to say something.

 

But just stared into her eyes and relented and groaned. Like a balloon got stepped on. So f*cking deflated. f*cking Ashley. Looked back to Terry and saw him cock-eyed confused-like, Clay in the store trying to look like he didn’t see. John muttered. “Why you gotta do this to me, baby?”

 

Ashley said “I’m sorry.”

 

“Why you gotta f*ck me up so bad?”

 

John sat down. Ash said it again, “I’m sorry, Johnny boy.”

 

Had his head in his hands now. Muttering. “I keep letting this f*cking happen, don’t I.”

 

“You know I care, baby, I do. I’m sorry, baby.” She was down with him too. Embracing. Arms around him, holding him, head nestled on his shoulder.

 

Johnny muttered. Weren't even saying anything anymore.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

 

“I know,” Johnny replied. “It’s okay.”

 

---

 

They were in Gary, Indiana within four hours.

 

The day was winding down. Murky water smacking the banks of Lake Michigan. Not long now. Johnny’d make it home before the week ended.

 

He hoped.

 

Off I-90 was a sea of disused, rusting industrial. Reminded Johnny of Acter, except with Acter there was a little more oomph to it seeing as it was a stone’s throw away from Port Tudor. And Gary was hell. Gary was rotting suburbia in that same kind of way Montpelier was on this massive scale, on this 80,000 people and faltering scale. These steel mills on the lake turning the embankment brown as the effluent discharge cut through more brown. Brown parking lots and brown grass and brown coffee joints where there weren’t no sidewalk.

 

There was an abandoned grocery on the block by the Bolt Burger that you could tell hadn’t been occupied for a while. A couple years. Fire damage on brickwork and a dozen stories painted over faint names: LUNA-ESTRADA YANKEE MART. Drive-thru coffee tasting like hot and nothing else and it seemed like the sky itself was turning brown on everything else. Across the street were them sad f*cking suburb where there weren’t no sidewalk, and deep behind the bikes was row after row after row of more parking lot. And that was Gary.

 

Someone had spray-painted a message on the ground, obscured by skidmarks. ‘See How Longg It Takes.’ And all you could do, looking at that, was wonder what they were waiting for.

 

It weren’t repairs. It weren’t cleaning. Unless it was, in which case weren't coming anytime soon.

 

Map.

 

The Lost MC South Side Couira chapter; the mother charter, crème de la f*cking crème, wasn’t on the South Side of South Couira, because that was when you were headed to Ladeboard or Cranberry. That was the ghetto. That was gangbangers. Peace Nation, Love Nation, Spanish Lords and Thug Apostles and all that sh*t. Brothers didn’t play that crowd. The South Side clubhouse was in Lands Proper on a corner nestled within an industrial corridor, turned it into a compound and caked it up in black paint so the locals kept their eyes away. Lands Proper was calm: mostly Mexican, dense, colorful. That was the power center, and that’s where they were headed.

 

Ashley’s person - whether it was that aunt or cousin or paramour or f*cking ghost - was somewhere on the North Side. Or so said Ashley. Said she needed to check the phonebook and the address book and get her bearings. And she was all sheepish with two hands around the paper cup bringing it to her lips and flinching.

 

And like that, they were riding down the avenue. And like that, they were out of Gary.

 

And like that, the Alderney charter was in Couira City, Illinois.

 

Superfunds and electrical totems towering tall down the interstate as the bikes crossed Wolf Lake. Disused industrial railway becoming used industrial railway with shipping containers stuck in limbo where the trains weren’t moving. Crossing the Indiana-Illinois border was crossing into roadside nothing where the Cluckin’ Bell and Burger Shot signs glittered. Overgrown green looking brown and the choppers hammer-hammering on the skyway.

 

And the skyway passed into South Side proper. Where the skyway concrete grew crackedy, grew beat and battered under car wheel. Where the overgrowth grew over and over and twisted vines, as the houses blurred. Ghetto. Bikes left the skyway and passed onto the expressway slicing a concrete wound through the street where you could make out rooftops and churches and landmarks but just saw cement and graffiti.

 

Brown was now gray. Just out ahead, as the motors whirred, the Couira City skyline peeked out the nothing into blue. Tallest building in America, Brawls Tower, and they were renaming the f*cking thing too. Because Couira weren’t no Liberty City, it was a dogsh*t second-guess at it that aspired to be more. And in amongst The Coil - downtown - the drawbridges and the coffee chains, were a million more unnamed skyscrapers pointing straight into the sky. The brothers kept going straight, passed Chinatown, turned west across the canal.

 

Through Olomouc, through The City Spleen. Into Lands Proper.

 

A building on the corner painted all-black, head to toe. A huge mural on a gate graffiti’d up; a bald eagle with its wings spread, through a deep purple outline.

 

 

The brothers were home.

 

They revved their bikes on the street. Through the plume of smoke, men left the clubhouse. And they came with open arms.

 

“Holy f*ck, my brother my brother!”

 

Johnny got off the bike and hugged Woody Rings. Woody Rings, chapter president. “Good seeing you, man, this long.”

 

“I thought you dropped your flags, Jonathan.”

 

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

 

“Goddamn, it is good to see you boys. My god. Clayton, how the hell is it--”

 

And on it went.

 

Ashley strayed. Stayed on the bike, watched from afar, slowly got off as it all unfolded. And then Woody came for her, and they hugged, and they laughed. Woody Rings was a big f*ck in the muscular way - had the Lost MC leather cut over a black t-shirt and arm musculature so dense you’d think he was always flexing. Big beard and a receding hairline and a backwards baseball cap with the Lost eagle printed on the front. Back, on his forehead, read ALMIGHTY FORGIVES - LOST DON’T. Tattoos lining the forearms and dancing with the veins saying the same sort of thing.

 

And Clayton and Terry were exchanging with the Vice President, Goober - Geoff Keogh - South Side Irish motherf*cker with a bald head and a chin beard. Black and blue button-up under a black leather jacket with wings lining up the sleeves: red, purple, white, brown. The man f*cked.

 

Who else?

 

The procession brought the bikes past the gate into club parking. Lines of choppers and a bunch of brothers leaning by and exchanging greetings. “How’s it feel to cross the Rubicon, my brother?” That sort of thing. The Alderney chapter was always insular - always fashioned itself like they were the only chapter despite the world around them turning. And no member of the Lost thought themselves a member of a national club, because national meant worldwide. The Lost didn’t have affiliate charters in f*cking Amsterdam and Dusseldorf, they were All-American.

 

Johnny recognized Willy f*cking Wetbacks.

 

“Willy! Holy sh*t!”

 

Willy got his patch. Willy De Luna with the beard and the bandana and the calloused hands, and he came in for the hug and said “It’s so good to f*cking see you, brother.”

 

“You lost weight, man.”

 

“Screw you.”

 

“No, you’re looking good.”

 

“And you lost it too, f*ckface, you lost the mustache. What happened to the mustache?” Willy had his arm around Johnny’s shoulder and Willy was right - Johnny’d traded in the handlebars for a scruffy beard grown out after a work-shave.

 

Johnny just chuckled and said “I don’t know. I even grew my hair out a while--”

 

“I gotta see pictures. I really cannot f*cking see you without the cueball. It’s good f*cking seeing you change your f*cking outfit for once too, man, Christ.”

 

“Bite me.” Johnny laughed it off.

 

And they were in the clubhouse now - one story, flat, broad. Club had the garage on the other side of the lot while they kept the bar and the fellas all here. Bathroom door ajar, bar unstocked, memory-lane portraits lining the top wall and mostly consisting of guys from the Couira charter. A few guys from other parts of the midwest, a picture of a dude Johnny recognized as Amos from the Montresor charter.

 

Jim Fitzgerald’s smiling face. Arm around Jackie, no club duds. Only picture Johnny could find of him to send to the boys in Couira. And he frowned, and the mood dimmed, but he went on.

 

Bug Eye Tug was with Monty. Monty Whitehead, despite being a stubby little ginger. Bug Eye Tug, with the f*cked up big bubble-bug eye, who had ‘Schmitty’ on his cut.

 

Schmitty?

 

Schmitty?

 

Clay went “Motherf*cker, did you really get ‘em to call you f*ckin’ Schmitty out here?”

 

Tug said “Screw you.”

 

Terry came over and said “Are you kidding me?” Laughed like he’d never laughed before. “Johnny, you gotta see this sh*t!”

 

And Goober said “What? What’s wrong with Schmitty?”

 

“Did he tell you guys we all called him Schmitty? Nobody ever called him Schmitty.”

 

Tug said “Screw you,” louder this time.

 

“You wanted to be f*cking called Schmitty, Tug,” Johnny went. “Schmitty. Come on. Your name is f*cking Octavian.”

 

Goober said “Well we know that, obviously.”

 

“Bug Eye f*cking Tug, my god. You f*ckin’ dope.”

 

And Clay said “What happened to Leon? Leonard Beil, you know him? Heard he was in Illinois, too.”

 

From the bar came Woody, and Woody said “He’s with the North Side chapter, actually.”

 

“Well, f*ck me runnin’.”

 

“We can call him up later, have him come over. Brothers’d be f*ckin’ pleased. We have this thing later on to do with these f*cking wops, these assholes from Vario--”

 

Goober said “Greggi actually--”

 

“Bah bah bah bah. Whatever. They ain’t brothers. This is brother-time and they ain’t brothers.”

 

And it was a joy.

 

And it was shots by the bar and trading stories all afternoon. It was learning about the city, and it was learning about the chapter, and it was learning how fun it was to wash f*ckin’ cars for a f*ckin’ living in Alderney. And it sure as sh*t weren’t no f*ckin’ fun, Johnny said. And Johnny said sh*t, he used to do all kinds of mad f*cked up sh*t. He lived in movies. His life was a f*cking movie, until it wasn’t.

 

And Ash was with him, and Ash was cooing, and Ash was saying “You’re my Biff Rock, babe, you’re my Bruce Spade,” and Johnny was saying “Shut up with that.” Because he wasn’t nobody like that.

 

The South Side chapter had these three brothers - Kyle, Keith and Kevin Baskerville - all from Appalachia someplace with this little hillbilly twang and they were just a bundle of f*ckin’ stories. They called them The Hounds. Like this baseball game between the two town teams they didn’t attend, but they stopped their bikes out by the field’s parking lot and just popped a bunch of the f*ckin’ out-of-towner tyres there, because you could tell by the bumper stickers they weren’t Couira Jimmies fans. They were uptown Couira Cruisers f*ckin’ assholes, North Side Polack motherf*ckers too far away from Dobie Field. Woody had to tell Johnny and so-on that that was all just sports, and they were actually buddy-buddy with the North Side charter even if they supported one baseball team over another. Sh*t, Woody was Polish. So it weren’t even about that.

 

Johnny asked if they had a Gunthugs Chapter here, which he knew the answer to. Yes, but they were so far down in the burbs it was hardly Couira City. Typical for any support club or recruitment club or whatever - mostly wannabes and hobbyists who hadn't graduated to the big leagues. And Woody asked Johnny, “How’s Angus doing?”

 

Which got Johnny laughing, and Johnny said “He gives outreach speeches to high schoolers now. Good racket.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“About gang life. And the chair helps, he says, because it scares the f*ck outta the tykes.”

 

“That’s some pussy sh*t,” Woody snarled.

 

“Nah, he’s still got love for the brothers. Just not Billy.”

 

And Woody growled even harder, “Neither do I.”

 

When the conversation had got to Billy Grey it was gettin’ dusky. And Clay was still going strong, and some of the other brothers too, because they were tweaking on tina. And Terry was going nuts and he and Crowdog and Goober had all hit the road on the bikes to see what was what.

 

Johnny didn’t smoke meth, and hadn’t for a good long while. And he could tell Ash wanted to, or maybe he just felt like she did. But she didn’t say nothing.

 

And she fell asleep on one of the club sofas while Willy Wetbacks was reading a magazine.

 

Woody said “This whole thing is f*cked up.”

 

“What in particular, dude?” Johnny asked.

 

“The charter. The mother club. The old mother. You know.”

 

Johnny did, “Sure.”

 

“Billy Grey weren’t no biker, dude. Billy Grey was a serial killer.”

 

Which hurt Johnny bad. But he didn’t say anything about it. “I don’t know what he was.”

 

“A jagoff, Idon’tf*ckingknow, a f*ckin- it hurts bad what you brothers gone through is all.”

 

“And everyone’s scattered,” Johnny said. “Don’t know nobody from the city aside from the Broker guys, and they’re- I mean, there’s all those indictments. It’s what it is.”

 

“Ain’t what it should be, Klebitz.”

 

“Maybe not.”

 

“When you’re burying more brothers than you’re badging, then it is exactly what it shouldn’t be. And Liberty’s all f*cked up nowadays. In Couira we’re always beefing, right? It’s always with the Sons.” The Sons were Mother of Mercy, this biker club from the Yanktons, wore denim, squabbled with the midwestern brothers. Johnny’d only met some at a meet once. “In Carcer City down to Ohio we’ve been scrapping with those hick f*cks. But that’s here, and we’re still here. And what’s Liberty now?”

 

“Liberty’s Liberty, dude,” Johnny said.

 

“Liberty’s hell. Those guys from Lenapia or Virginia or whatever, you know, the uh--”

 

“The Roundheads.” Another club. Appalachian, tough as hell. Face tattoo motherf*ckers.

 

“Always hated that f*cking name,” Woody spat. “And they’re carving up Bohan, and AOD’s carving up Bohan in between book deals and cute little TV series, and half the clubs in town got their necks in nooses over AFT charges, FIB charges, over DA ass-raping. It’s all kinds of f*cked up, Klebitz.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me.”

 

“I don’t. You know. But you been- no offense, but what happened?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You dropped flags.”

 

“I did,” Johnny sighed. “And I didn’t take no pleasure in it neither.”

 

“But you did. Which is, and I mean no offense again my brother, but that is pussy sh*t.”

 

And if Johnny didn’t agree, he woulda’ fought it. But he did. “Maybe it is, I don’t know. I still paid my dues. I paid ‘em to Jackie, I did what I did. I got shame in it, but I had to cut ties.”

 

“You let the party stop,” Woody sang. “You let it stop. And everyone else had to hold it up while you was out pissing on the grass.”

 

“It ain’t a party.”

 

“This whole thing, Johnny, this whole thing is a party-and-a-motherf*ckin’-half. I get jagoffs everywhere tryna’ ride me. I got wops here, I got spics there, I got the PD tryna’ book us with papers. You had that thing with those pygmy wops, right? That guy, uh… what-was-it--”

 

“Ray.”

 

“Ray. We got our own sh*t here. Goober’s running this thing with these wop guys from Vario, all the same, you remember? This guy Paul Greggi, this guy Mal Mezzojuso who’s a World War II veteran, and he makes pipe bombs still. His idiot son Cliff, he throws ‘em through jewelry store windows. It’s all a racket. But we hold on, you know?”

 

“That’s okay.”

 

“We keep on partying.”

 

“It all feels like some goddamn deja vu kinda’ sh*t,” Johnny muttered. “This mob sh*t. This drug dealing sh*t. This sh*t ain’t brotherhood, just more distractions.”

 

“Everyone’s tryin’ to earn their keep.” Woody swallowed, “There’s pigs crawling up our asses with these wops, but what’s new? You just gotta party. We just don’t kill motherf*ckers as a party, we ain’t Billy Grey. We kill motherf*ckers if we gotta, and we kill ‘em to keep the party going.”

 

“That weren’t my philosophy.”

 

“What was your fee-low-so-fy, John-John?”

 

And Johnny looked up and his face scrunched up and he looked down to Ash. Ash was sleeping. Willy was flipping through the magazine. Club smelled like smoke and stale liquor and wet wood. “My thoughts was that this brotherhood was a brotherhood. And the good times were good times, but it was all about keeping sustainable. Keeping our brotherhood alive.”

 

“And what happened?”

 

“What happened was Billy, dude. What? I do it? I kill the club?”

 

“A lot of chatter about everything is all,” Woody said. Masked intentions, “People said you were snitchin’ out.”

 

Johnny glared. And his eyes said ‘don’t even say that’.

 

Woody gulped it down and went “But that ain’t what I’m implying. Just that folk felt certain feelings, right?”

 

“Maybe,” Johnny sighed.

 

“And Willy told me about what happened with them, uh, what you was doing with Ray. The briefcase.”

 

And those were two words Johnny hadn’t heard in a while. “What did he say about it?”

 

“Said that’s how Fitzy went down.”

 

Johnny looked.

 

“Fitzy,” Woody said, “and Brian, and everything else. And the chapter. And how it felt like the world was ending down in LC.”

 

“They call that solipsism,” Johnny said. “Thinking our little family was the center of the world, the only brothers on Earth. All I tried to be was the opposite of that.”

 

“You f*cked over your business partners,” Woody said. And Woody gulped down his shot, and slammed the little glass down onto the counter. “And that made you f*ck over your brothers.”

 

Johnny wanted to kill Woody right there and then.

 

But Johnny knew Woody was right.

 

“I’m atoning,” Johnny said. “I’m doing my best. I f*cked up, but I tried.”

 

“That’s all we can do, brother. All we can do,” he was pouring another little sliver of whiskey into the shot, “is keep this party alive. Try our best.”

 

Johnny said “Party stopped for a lot of brothers.”

 

Woody had reached over with the bottle and was pouring a shot, “Yeah?”

 

“Brothers and sisters. My girl Leila. And all she did was party, and then she overdosed on the party. And a lot of brothers die from a gunshot but it’s hard when you find ‘em on the mattress and they ain’t breathing, and there ain’t no gun neither. Just tina and nothing.”

 

And Woody still had his hand on the bottle. “My niece, too.”

 

Johnny said “It’s how it is.”

 

Woody had his shot up for a toast. And Johnny nodded. “To the Lost,” Woody said.

 

And the shots clinked, and Johnny said “They sure as sh*t ain’t forgotten.”

 

OFF THE RESERVATION.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

NOTE: Glossary now contains bio information on Mother of Mercy MC and the Roundheads.

Edited December 30, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

 

“I’m bein’ serious, though.”

 

“I know you’re being f*cking serious, Brian,” John was going. “That’s the-f*ck what worries me.”

 

And the boys laughed, and Brian had his fork and was doing circles in the air with the pancake. And he said “But you ain’t never wondered?”

 

Terry, “I mean, I guess.”

 

“I ain’t never cared,” Johnny said. “Who gives a sh*t?”

 

“But does piss really f*cking water plants?!”

 

“It’s an expression, BJ.”

 

“I know it is, man, I know it is, but there’s gotta be some f*cking cream in that crop. Some factual basis.”

 

“It’s sterile,” Terry said. “Piss.”

 

“Piss is sterile?”

 

“Yeah, Brian.”

 

“That’s a… that’s medical, right?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Means it’s clean,” Johnny said.

 

“What?”

 

“Like, a hospital is sterile so there ain’t germs or nothing.”

 

“So what? So you can drink it?”

 

Terry nearly choked. Was near-scream laughing.

 

Johnny said “You f*cking idiot, you don’t drink f*cking piss.”

 

“But it’s clean, you said.”

 

“Hand soap is f*cking clean, you drinking f*cking hand soap?”

 

“I ain’t tried it.”

 

“Don’t f*cking try it--”

 

Terry, “So you gonna start?”

 

Brian, “What’s it taste like?”

 

Johnny, “You f*cking moron.”

 

“Don’t call me a moron--”

 

“It’s hand soap! It’s soap, Brian.”

 

“Jelly’s jelly.”

 

“What the f*ck does that even mean? Jelly’s jelly, what does that mean?”

 

Brian through chewing, “It means it’s jelly. And soap is soap. You know?”

 

“No.”

 

Terry laughed.

 

“And quit you f*cking laughing,” went Brian. Playful. “This is serious. We’re bein’ scientists.”

 

Johnny, “Yeah, sure we are. Idiot. What’s the science?”

 

“Science of taste, man, science of that. And people make meth outta’ chemicals and people still smoke it. So that’s what that is. You put that in your f*cking pipe and smoke it. And meth is a mineral, too. We eat minerals. I’m sure there’s edible soaps.”

 

“Come on, Brian.”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“This is moronic even by your low f*ckin’ standards.”

 

Terry, “Are you gonna drink piss?”

 

Brian said “No. Course not. It’s for a point.” But then he thought a second and said “How much?”

 

“How much for what?”

 

“You wanna see it so bad, how much you willin’ta put on the table? I’ll drink my piss for a fifty.”

 

Johnny, “Jesus f*cking Christ.”

 

And Terry was rifling through his jacket goin’ “Man, I def’ got a twenty. I got- is this gonna eat into what we’re payin’?”

 

Slammed the table, “Goddamn f*ck payin’, huh?”

 

Eyes on him.

 

They’d been making one hell of a f*cking ruckus here.

 

Winnie was taking a sh*t and had been for a good long while. Wasn’t worth thinking on. Taken a few wrong turns and a few right ones on the interstate before ending up here - Lake of the Ozarks. Diner was a family joint dressed up in retro-casual and had a view of the parking lot and the riverside cabins and some people with jet-skis and the like riding the water. Tourist season. The place was called BuccanEatie’s but whatever pirate theme there was gonna be here was half assed aside from the fish dish sh*t on the menu.

 

And the patrons were all looking at them cock-eyed. They were the noisiest f*ckers in there.

 

“You shouldn’t say that,” Johnny went.

 

“Lay off.”

 

“Huh? Lay off what? What’s the problem?”

 

“You’re bullying me, man. Lay off.”

 

“Bullying?! Bullying. What, I’m sorry, you wanna call the principal.”

 

“You really gonna start sh*t?”

 

“I’m kidding, man. Don’t take it so seriously.”

 

“I’m joking about the soap and the piss, too. I ain’t actually gonna drink my own piss. Especially now, that’d be f*ckin’ weird, we’re in the goddamn diner--”

 

“I was joking! C’mon.”

 

“Yeah, but you won’t stop.”

 

“We call each other names all the time, dude, don’t be a wimp about it.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. f*ck off. “

 

“I’m not gonna apologize, Brian.”

 

“I don’t need no frickin’ apologies or nothin’, man, just shut up.”

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“Lay off, Johnny.”

 

Terry said “He was just kidding--”

 

And Brian snapped “You seriously gonna side with him?”

 

“It was a joke, man.”

 

“I don’t even know your goddamn name, man. Who are you?”

 

Terry cringed, “C’mon, don’t make a scene.”

 

Mocking, “Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, buh buh buh. Bite me. Buh buh.”

 

Johnny went “You’re lookin’ like a pussy when you say this kind of stuff. We’re in public. Pick yourself up.”

 

“He got patched in yesterday. I remember when this hick was out there scraping sh*t off my tyres or he was getting the brothers pizza and now he’s here acting high-and-mighty.”

 

“He ain’t--”

 

Terry said “Aw, man up, Brian” firm.

 

Brian said “Go eat Johnny’s jew cock you f*cking fa**ot” and pushed the flapjacks off the table.

 

Plate broke.

 

“Woah!”

 

“I’m a man. I’m a man and you’re a little boy, Terry. f*ckin’ Terry Berry.”

 

“What?”

 

“Whiny little Terry asshole.”

 

Johnny said “What the f*ck is Terry Berry?”

 

“All you people do is mock me. I’m so sick of it. All you people do is give me sh*t, and we’re brothers. So much for--”

 

“Brian, shut the f*ck up--”

 

“You shut up! You shut up! You shut up!”

 

“Sir--”

 

“Everyone is such a little baby around me. Are you gonna cry?”

 

“Sir--”

 

And Brian whipped around and said “Hell you want, skanky?”

 

‘Skanky’ was the little waitress in red looking deeply f*cking anxious while a wall of families and people were watching the display from the sidelines. And the woman flinched and she stumbled and she put her hands up careful-like and said “You’re scaring the customers.”

 

Terry piped up with “How the hell’s this motherf*cker scaring any--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up! Shut the f*ck up!” How bad was Brian tweaking?

 

Waitress said “We’d really like it if you left the premises.”

 

“I’d really like it if you sucked my f*ckin’ dick, get all the little kiddies and f*ckin’ women out here to suck me off too--”

 

Johnny stood up, “We’re goin’.”

 

“We ain’t. You’re all embarrassing me, you ain’t. You ain’t.”

 

“I don’t wanna call the police--”

 

Brian interrupted the waitress, “I told you suck my schlong, bitch.”

 

Was still seated when Terry said “You like women?”

 

Brian grabbed his plate and threw it at Terry.

 

Terry ducked.

 

Plate careened into the chin of some tourist-woman and she screamed, clutched it, saw blood. Husband stood up, “You motherf*cker--”

 

Brian threw a punch.

 

The fist swang wide like it had a million targets - Terry, husband, woman - hit none of them. Johnny grabbed him by the gut and hurled him backward and Brian was kicking at the air a moment before they hit the ground. Terry found the whole thing funny at first and f*ck if this weren’t a farce, but his eyes were on the woman.

 

He was going “My apologies, brother, he went outta f*ckin’ control” while stifling laughter and the husband was screaming his head off and holding his woman and some of the patrons were already streaming out the doors. Johnny couldn’t see none of this. He had high-near 260 pounds of dumbf*ck friend on top of him squealing like a pig.

 

The waitress had gone to call the police.

 

Winnie said “That’s enough.”

 

And it clicked, all of a sudden, that Winnie was out of the can. And Johnny weren’t sure how long and he let go of Brian and Brian scrambled off still kicking going “Youreallywannastartsomef*ckinsh*t--”

 

Had to repeat himself, “Enough, what the f*ck?”

 

Johnny was gasping.

 

Husband was going “He threw a plate at my f*cking--”

 

“I was trying to hit--”

 

Winnie went “You shouldn’t a hit nobody, you f*ckin’--”

 

And Johnny was up getting a breather down on the floor looking up at the husband, this guy overcompensating for the fact he was maybe 5’8 and an Asian dude with a toddler in a booster seat who, and Johnny’d tuned it out but now could hear, was f*cking wailing.

 

Wailing like Brian. Johnny pulled himself up and Brian was pointing at him and then pointing at the guy and then pointing at everything and saw Winnie had gone off to talk to the waitress. Waitress was crying.

 

“I’m sorry, honey, ain’t nothin’--”

 

Johnny glared.

 

Brian’s eyes were fizzling like they were on fire and he took a step forward and said “What the f*ck you do this for?”

 

Spat “Did what?”

 

“Make fun of me? Why you make fun of me?”

 

“You f*cking moron.”

 

“Make fun of the kid. Why make fun of me?”

 

And Terry didn’t even bother to reply because he was still trying to hold the guy back and kept catching glances at the woman, who seemed a lot better off and had withdrawn to the booth, and the kid. The crying kid. The crying kid. And he went up to the woman with his arm across the guy and said “I’m sorry, lady, I am.”

 

Johnny rubbed the spit out his moustache and just said “Pathetic.”

 

Brian went “What?!”

 

“Pathetic.”

 

“Screw you.”

 

Just scoffed. “Pathetic. Tweaker f*ck.”

 

Stormed out for the choppers sneaking a look behind at the waitress crying. Winnie looked awkward, hands in his pockets with the woman’s back turned to him, just head in her hands. Winnie looked to Johnny with dead eyes - wondered why. Brian just fumed. Didn’t reply.

 

Was Brian high? Didn’t matter. He’d get high later and he got high yesterday. They all did.

 

Weren’t nothing.

 

---

 

It was kind of obvious at that point they couldn’t stay. They were gonna book a place in Osage Beach: motel, maybe a little house by the river, stay some days. They left within the hour. Rode less than half that before stopping - a Western dealership off US-54. Winnie went in and stole a bunch of pens and left. Pretended like he was gonna think it over and laughed it off like it was a funny little prank.

 

Nobody was laughing. Weren’t much to laugh on. Felt bitter riding down Missouri Route 5, into Lebanon, onto I-44. And they rode for as long as they could.

 

Where were they?

 

Springfield. No, they weren’t. Springfield melded into everything else except the buildings got taller - midwestern greenery and smells Johnny had gotten used to. No more awe. No more admiration.

 

Or had they ever gotten into Springfield at all?

 

They’d smoked before. Or maybe after. Time was the road and the road stretched forever.

 

They were in Mount Vernon, Missouri. They’d gone off the highway. Had they been driving a day? Couldn’t have been. Why’d they stopped? Why’d they keep stopping?

 

It was a blink and Johnny was feeling the f*cking comedown. And he blinked and realized he hadn’t slept in a day, maybe. He was in a plastic chair in a recreation area. Unoccupied except for them. And he looked out the window, and it was… morning? Maybe 7 in the morning. Maybe earlier, maybe later. Dead eyed. On this obscene come down.

 

Terry and Bryan were saying something. TV in the top corner of the room blazing blue in a dark room while the dark-dawn burned his eyes from a wide window right ahead of him. A column with a fire extinguisher, generic artworks of flowers bought wholesale.

 

Johnny was sprawled.

 

Another chair was empty.

 

And then it wasn’t.

 

Winnie scratched at his neck under the beard and had this face on. Bemused, watching him. Croaked out “You good, Johnny?”

 

Johnny blinked. Let the gears turn a second before he replied, “No. I’m f*cked up.”

 

“f*cked up?”

 

Looked at him. “Yeah.”

 

“You f*cked up on what?”

 

“What?” Chuckled out awkward.

 

“What you f*cked up on, Johnny?”

 

Scoffed, “You know what I’m f*cked up on.”

 

Didn’t budge. “What’s that?”

 

“Stop asking dumb questions, man.”

 

“It’s tina, right?”

 

Rolled his eyes, “Yeah, Winnie, it’s f*cking tina.”

 

“You f*cked up on tina?”

 

“You’re being f*cking weird, man.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Stop being f*cking weird, man, yeah, it’s tina. What is this, what? You wanna lecture me?”

 

“Just making sure,” Winnie tutted. “Just making sure.”

 

“Give me some f*cking speech, dude. Do it. And there ain’t no addiction I got neither so you can shove that sh*t if you throw it at me.”

 

“You could get addicted.”

 

“No. And I only do- I’m only doing it now, because we gotta ride for a long time and I gotta keep focused on it. But yeah, I’m f*cking coming down. That’s enough for it--”

 

“You think you’re invincible, John?”

 

“No. I think I’m a f*cking idiot. But… no. I’m built differently. So I don’t get addicted. Others, yeah. But that’s just how meth is. Some people- I’m one of them, but some people can smoke crystal every other while and it ain’t even a thing. And other people take it once and they’re hooked. But that ain’t me.”

 

Got stares back.

 

“You’re gonna give me sh*t for Ash now, aren’t you? Or Leila?”

 

Horse stuck his tongue into the bottom of his lip and felt his hand on the inside of his rocker. “No.”

 

“I ain’t their boss.”

 

“I didn’t start no thing for you to get all hopped the f*ck on, soldier, so you chill the f*ck out--”

 

“You give people sh*t for nothing,” Johnny spat. “Or you lecture ‘em.”

 

“I only want what’s best.”

 

John licked his lips, “Maybe.”

 

“Definitely.”

 

“I love you like a brother, Horse, you know that, man. And you know I don’t mean it I just got a f*cking headache. And we- I mean--”

 

“It’s okay.” Winnie the Horse mellowed out and looked back to Terry and Bryan, who’d gravitated to the pool table by the TV, looked back to Johnny with red eyes. “Us brothers ride for stuff, we get all pissed at stuff, but that’s just brotherhood.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just trying to be a good brother to you. And for all the stuff we get up to, too.”

 

“You act like my f*cking pops sometimes, Winnie--”

 

“Ha, yeah. But the stuff we get up to is- I mean, it’s what it is. For the brotherhood.”

 

Johnny blinked. “Yeah.”

 

“And you too. What you get up to, and you and me, and you and Billy. You and Billy, huh? You two.”

 

“I need a coffee, I think.”

 

“You remember,” Winnie started, “when Billy was with Joe Jon that once? When you and him were working out all the time.”

 

Laughed. “Yeah,” Johnny went. “Both of us stickin’ f*ckin’ needles in each others asses, ha. Fell off that sh*t- my Puerto Rican cellie, he had this whole thing we’d do. And I brought that sh*t to Billy out the joint when I was on parole and man. Man, was that a thing, dude.”

 

“Yeah, but with Joe Jon.”

 

“That nazi f*ck, yeah, that nazi f*ck.”

 

“His nephew,” Winnie said. “I mean, those guys were tweaking like f*ck all the time, too.”

 

Brow furrowed. “Is that it, Horse?”

 

Winnie asked “What?”

 

“What are you f*cking getting at? I’m no f*cking Joe Johnson.”

 

“I ain’t saying you are--”

 

“But me and him both- the brothers smoke meth and he does too? Is what you’re getting at?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then what is this sh*t, Winnie?”

 

“Just remembering. That’s all. You ain’t like that scrawny f*ck, anyway. Just with his nephew, that kid Copeland--”

 

“What are you f*cking talking about, man?”

 

“Billy was strung out when he f*cked that kid up, too.”

 

“Oh my god, what the f*ck are you getting at, Horse?”

 

“Just reminiscing. How Billy Grey, he was strung out. On heroin.”

 

“It weren’t heroin, he was drunk. Blow, maybe. Heroin don’t make you wanna f*ckin’ put nobody in a coma.”

 

“Or how you and him were selling heroin. Selling heroin while he was out on bail, too, huh?” Winnie adjusted in his seat, kept his hands in his cut pockets, “Wish I had those balls, still. Billy’s going on stand, and he’s saying this whole thing is just a fraternity, and he goes home and then that fella go done sell smack and that with you and BJ--”

 

“Why are you being so f*cking weird?”

 

“I used to do crazy sh*t like that, too, is all. Ain’t admonishilating or nothing, Johnny.”

 

“This sh*t is still a brotherhood. We do it for the brotherhood.”

 

“But Billy does it for fun, don’t he?”

 

“I don’t f*cking know. What do you care?”

 

“Just saying it takes a lot of balls to lie on the stand.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

What?

 

Horse said it again, “Didn’t he?”

 

“Yeah, sure, but who gives a f*ck?”

 

“That’s perjuration is all, ain’t it? That he did?”

 

“Who gives a f*ck?”

 

“Forget it. I don’t know. Just thinking. About drugs. You got the heroin from the spic, uh, somethingnameforgetthef*ckingname uh… what was her name, Johnny?”

 

Sighed. “I don’t wanna talk business now, dude.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I’m too f*cked up, I think. I’m gettin’ sh*tty with you.”

 

“But Billy ain’t business is all. Because with Roman Lou or Tito it was business and business only. But Billy, he ain’t into it for business, is he?”

 

Johnny blinked. “What?”

 

Horse was fidgety. “I remember when Billy’d just got into this thing. When he got patched in. And Billy was always, I mean you know Billy. He don’t like it when people get pushy, when people disagree, when none of that. I always admired that. How he was headstrong. You’ve got that history with him too, huh, how he recommended you for the patch, huh? It weren’t a god complex to you when he was growing up, were it?”

 

“Billy don’t have a god complex, dude.”

 

“But when people call him out.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Angus. Like Angus.”

 

There was no blinking. Johnny stared. “You’re crossing a mighty tight line right now, Horse.”

 

“He’s our Prez. And I respect him, Johnny, I do. I passed on the job for him because he’s got spunk. But I’m just saying. The kid don’t like thoughts to the contrary of his--”

 

“Billy ain’t no kid.” John looked over to Terry and Brian, who’d stopped their game to stare at the TV. “If you’re trying to say Billy’s bad news I ain’t buyin’ it.”

 

“He gets close to Ash, too.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself.” Snapped back to Winnie like it was nothing.

 

Winnie flinched. Put on a voice, “Maybe I’m just tired…”

 

Johnny didn’t break eye contact.

 

“…but that ain’t no excuse to disrespect a superior.”

 

Which eased Johnny off. Realized he was tensing up, “I’m sorry, brother.”

 

“We’re all good here, brother. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. But the kid does what he wants is all I’m saying. He says f*ck the law, and he lies to the law. He says f*ck the code, and he f*cks with the code with-” he stopped. Maybe realized what he was getting at. “Billy is a murderer, ain’t he?”

 

That was a tough question to answer. “I don’t think so.”

 

“He shoots--”

 

Terry shouted “Yo, brothers!”

 

Winnie snapped “Shut up, we’re talking.” Went back into it, “He’s got that stash under his basement. That investigators could find. And none of them guns are registered--”

 

“You wanna check this sh*t out!” Brian was going.

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

And Horse said “Listen to me. He hates Deadbeats.”

 

“Don’t we all,” Johnny said through the side of his mouth. “Hell you two want?”

 

“They shot Michael Townley!”

 

Like it was automatic, the conversation with Horse ended. Johnny got up, wandered on over with Horse behind him beckoning going “Hold on,” but why the hell you wanna listen to that?

 

Johnny asked “What happened?”

 

“You gotta see this sh*t--”

 

Brian was talking over Terry, “It’s like f*cking- like The Redeemer, man, it’s f*cking crazy.”

 

“Shot like, ten cops.”

 

Johnny whistled, “Goddamn.”

 

“Never thought they’d get the f*cking bastard.”

 

“Ten cops?”

 

“A lotta’ cops. What is it they’re saying--”

 

Brian went “A cash depot, where they move out Bobcat trucks. North Yankton. Boosted, euh, 200 grand. Some sh*t like that. Two hours ago. You believe that?”

 

“Anarchy. I switched the stations, like, three times and nobody’s got the story straight. Like they’re all dead or two are or they got two of ‘em or whatthef*ck.”

 

“All f*cked up, Johnny.”

 

John had his eyes on the screen. Some reporter-type with thick eyebrows in a parka while snow was sweeping the background. “End of an era, dude.”

 

“You think it was, uh, you think they really just got ‘em on a botched robbery? They’re doing these shots on one of the stations,” Brian went for the remote, “and the helicopter’s sweeping and there’s like five squad cars, and all the f*cking pigs are lying on the ground. You don’t get that many unless you get prepared first. I don’t know.”

 

Just whispering, “You think a guy like that just slips through the cracks forever.” Johnny leaned on the pool table, “f*ck me, man.”

 

Brian was f*cking with the remote. Couldn’t find the station, swearing to himself, “Crapf*cksh*tf*ck--”

 

Terry said “It was at a farm, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Brian said. “They got their car f*cked up on a tree and kicked dust there.”

 

“Coulda’ been a Waco thing where they boxed him in.”

 

Johnny, “Enough a’ that sh*t.”

 

“Just saying. Some c*nt the pigs got was just lying in the middle of the road by a cruiser crashed into a tree--”

 

Brian had memorized it, “His name was Merrick Ahle and he was the getaway and they’re saying they mighta’ shot him. The robbers, I mean, like the driver switched on ‘em and Townley had to take him out in the f*cking car.”

 

“Haha. Movie sh*t. Scene in Rum Runner exactly f*cking like that.”

 

Johnny concurred, “Richard’s Majestic, dude, damn right.”

 

“Think I need to get spun, man, think tina’s calling me.”

 

“I’m coming down hard, man.”

 

“They’re gonna have this on TV all f*cking night. Had this f*cking pig on who coordinated it or- how do you coordinate it? I don’t know. Did they stumble on it--”

 

Brian just oinking, “All kinds’a scattered bullsh*t, man, you got something to smoke, you got something to smoke?”

 

Johnny, “Is it good to smoke on the come down, does that boost it up?”

 

“I don’t know, man.”

 

Terry said “Never done me wrong.”

 

Johnny rubbed at the corner of his lips.

 

Eyes drifted on while the TV sang.

 

Winnie the Horse still sitting in the chair. Arms crossed. Legs spread. Staring at the wall. Eyes trained, near-red face. Unblinking. Didn’t break. Didn’t move.

 

Whatever.

 

Tina was singing, too.

 

I'M SURE THE FELLA MEANS WELL.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited December 30, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

 

They were in Fort Quantrill, Delisle.

 

Fort Quantrill was on the Delisle-Oklahoma border - they’d turned this way instead of heading right down the Interstate because it cut right in the center of Historic Route 68. Which Johnny said they’d get the chance to visit elsewhere. And then he got overruled by BJ, and then Winnie, and then Terry. So they turned off into Fort Quantrill.

 

The Route 68 visitor’s center in Fort Quantrill was a gas station and glorified t-shirt vendor. A wire-frame bull that was covered in 68 signage. A tuned out Hotknife in black the proprietor owned but said they hadn’t driven the thing or filled the tank since the 1980’s. So it was essentially a glorified statue. Closer look: all kinds of gunk in the grille and a big f*cking iron cross painted on the back. 50’s license plate. Delisle - the Grain State.

 

Winnie bought three t-shirts and some pins and some other sh*t and stuffed them into his cooler. Brian got a complement for the cowboy hat. Brian said thank you, then pulled it up, then asked if they wanted a picture.

 

They said no.

 

They got drinks.

 

A bar and grill on the south-east part of town with a bunch of vintage gas signage - Globe Oil, Terroil, Xoomer, those shield logos and all-caps sans serif - and Westerns parked out the front in a neat old row. Naturally, that piqued interest. So they parked up with them.

 

Rustic. A baby crying in the corner and then a woman openly breastfeeding with opened root beer bottles, husband saying some sh*t to two elderlies at the same table mighta’ been grandparents. A pool table with a guy in a black Benedict Light t-shirt chalking the stick complaining to a guy in a camo hunting hoodie about the weather and the goddamn baby. Flickering beer neons and more gas station doohickeys, a red sled suspended on the ceiling above the jukebox and a soda dispenser they had going free of charge.

 

Row of fellas in biker cuts. Some didn’t have club rockers. And Johnny chuckled, and Winnie nearly spat on the floor, because that meant they were ninety-nine percenters. Winnie went over and made introduction without a second thought.

 

Saddled themselves up on the edge and pulled some more chairs and ordered onion rings. Terry f*cked off to play pool.

 

“You guys on your way to Rode Mine?”

 

Johnny nodded, “Correctomundo.”

 

“Whole pack of us are. Fun as f*ck, ain’t it? I met some of these fellas up in- well, I’m from Minnesota.” Speaker was named Knut, and he didn’t roll with a club. Ponytail and a scar running down his right eyebrow and no, he said, he didn’t get it in a fight. He worked construction in St. Paul and it was a workplace thing when he was in his early twenties.

 

Knut, and it wasn’t Newt though it was pronounced that way, came with a fella who did roll with a club - old stubby guy named Rip with an American flag patched over half his cut and the name Grim’s Gallows MC which was, you guessed it, a 99%er crew of Western hobbyists out of Minneapolis. Rip was a forklift supervisor.

 

Winnie said “Bikes is my f*cking life, man. Bikes is been my f*cking life for f*cking years on it, years on years on it. I worked mechanicisms for a coup’ years but it’s been- I ain’t got the time for it.”

 

They knew what The Lost meant. Rip just said “Mechanics?”
 

“Yeah, I said that.”

 

Drank from his mug and said “Hm. Yeah.”

 

BJ said “But that sh*t is for suckers.”

 

Knut went “Yeah?”

 

“No offense to you guys--”

 

“None taken.”

 

“--but I mean, when it comes to this sh*t, I mean I just ain’t had the time for working stiff sh*t myself. When I got out the service anyway, I mean--”

 

Rip said “You were a vet?”

 

Brain said “It’s a family thing.”

 

Johnny flinched. And nearly just said out loud, ‘You lying motherf*cker,’ but instead just let it go. Said himself, “Yeah, whole thing with us. Lot of people served where we came from.”

 

Knut went “Same. My brother, he’s doing a tour.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I get emails. I mean, I salute the motherf*cker, I do. Because without him- people like him I mean, I mean this whole country’d go to sh*t. Al Qaeda sh*t, Saddam sh*t, that kinda’ sh*t.”

 

Johnny weren’t enthusiastic and said “Yeah. I ain’t seen my brother in a long time neither. He went to Leavenworth--”

 

“Your brother’s in prison?”

 

“No- no. No, no. Military school, I mean. He went to Fort Leavenworth.”

 

“Oh.” Knut tried walking that back, looked worried, “No offense--”

 

“He was in them high school marching band outfits,” Johnny laughed, “with the white caps and the goofy lapels and they had the rifles with the knives on ‘em and sh*t. The, uh--”

 

Rip, “A bayonet?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“He’s in the Marines, ain’t he?” That was Brian, and no. Michael was not a Marine. “My family, we all was in the Army.”

 

“My brother too,” Knut said.

 

Winnie coughed like he was going to say something. He didn’t. Just produced a lull, had everyone scratching their necks.

 

Muttered.

 

“And our guy over there,” Brian said, pointing at Terry. “He was in the Army, too. Divorced his c*nt wife actually over it, man, and I mean I don’t blame him, man, because bitches are that.”

 

99ers blinked. Rip said “They’re what?”

 

“Bitches are bitches is all I’m saying, man,” made a noise you could only describe as a chortle. “I’d never get married. My old lady, I mean, me and her- you don’t want to wrangle that down, man.”

 

Slowly, Knut just said “Okay.”

 

Rip cleared his throat, “Yeah. I feel the same with my wife sometimes too, I guess. She- uh, you know. I mean, we all got disagreements.”

 

Johnny said “Same.”

 

“He’s between ladies right now,” Winnie teased.

 

“It’s complicated.” Came outta Johnny red-faced, awkward.

 

“Hey,” Knut went, “no f*ckin’ shame in it. I’m single--”

 

“Bow chicka-wow-wow!” Brian stole an onion ring and walked off to the soda dispenser. Laughed the whole way.

 

Knut didn’t. “But, uh. Yeah. Forgot what I was gonna say. Oh, right-” took another sip, “I mean, my bike’s my old lady, in a way. Requires maintenance, persistence--”

 

“But Brian don’t look after his bike,” Winnie looked over, “don’t he! Don’t you, you fat f*ck!”

 

Brian didn’t hear.

 

“I’m just happy to get her out on the open road,” Knut said. “Yeah. I mean, you ride around town or you ride to work and it ain’t the same. The city is the city, ain’t it?”

 

“I feel you,” Johnny said.

 

“It ain’t an adventure. And I told Rip, I said this Rode Mine sh*t, I mean it’s a million posses. You guys, I mean, you don’t- uh, I mean Rode Mine is sanctioned by the Motorcyclist Association. You guys ain’t, but we respect that.”

 

Winnie cleared his throat again, but didn’t say sh*t.

 

“It’s good to share in the passion for this common thing we got,” Johnny said. “Regardless of boot-lickin’ or otherwise.”

 

Rip skipped past the insinuation and asked “Where you guys out from?”

 

“‘Derney,” Winnie said.

 

Got a whistle back from Rip. Knut said “Long way, huh?”

 

And Johnny chuckled and said “On our best f*ckin’ behavior. Hey, we get to Los Santos - you wanna link up? Ride up that f*ckin’ whole posse, 1%er us and 99%er you fellas, we hit whatever the street’s called--”

 

Knut said “All the bikes go down Bay City Avenue.”

 

“Yeah! Yeah. We see you guys, we’ll holler. You and your whole outfit, you Minneapolis motherf*ckers.”

 

Rip and Knut traded glances and just said “If you want, yeah.”

 

“We’re representing the Alderney Chapter,” Winnie said. He said it proudly, like it meant anything to the other guys.

 

It didn’t.

 

Repeated himself, “The four of us, The Lost originals from Alderney, we’re representing them. The mother. And some of the other clubs’ll be down there too, the Gunthugs--”

 

Knut said “Who?”

 

“The Gunthugs are our support club. Official support club, our official support club of the Lost MC,” he was tripping over his words, “our- our, uh, our official suppo- support club, our official support club. Of the Lost. Support. Out- our, uh--”

 

“This guy Al Carter,” Johnny said. “He’s from Carcer City. But he went down and set up this thing, we’re gonna roll with him, dude. What we’re saying, is if you guys - your Minneapolis thing - you wanna ride by us, see some real one-percenter sh*t. See some real 1% biker sh*t. You can!”

 

Traded glances again. “Uh--”

 

“If you want.”

 

“Yeah,” Rip said. “I mean we got our own thing going on. And plans and sh*t. But, hey, we see you again, we’ll definitely, uh, consider it.”

 

Knut said “Yeah.”

 

“Love you motherf*ckers!” That was Brian, who came out buzzed, and whispered into Johnny’s ear “you wanna get spun?”

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

“You wanna get, uh, you know.”

 

“BJ, I’m talking.”

 

Rip, “Is BJ, like, a blowjob? Getting your dick sucked?”

 

Brian boasted “Yeah, ‘cause it’s my initials too. But also because chicks wet my dick like it’s a f*ckin’ popsicle, man you guys are killers - f*ckin’ give me some.”

 

Knut laughed “Yeah.”

 

“Give me some.” Extended a hand and pulled Knuts arm up and lined up a high-five for himself. And whacked it hard as he could and the cut got swept up a little. Saw the holster underneath, and saw the two pistols, and then Brian said “Oops- you guys is up for second amendment? Right?”

 

Rip blinked.

 

“Johnny, show ‘em your gun.”

 

“Brian--”

 

“We sold something, actually, up in Pennsylvania on the way. To some coons, this wicked piece--”

 

“Brian, woah!”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t say that sh*t.”

 

“I mean, they were. Do you want me to--”

 

“About the f*cking- dude.”

 

“These guys are cool.” Turned to the ninety-niners, “You guys are aces, right?”

 

They were about as uncomfortable as you could possibly get. Rip said “Uh. Yeah.”

 

“Hell yeah.”

 

“I’m all for the second amendment, yeah,” coughed it off. “I got a rifle at home. A Shrewsbury. A ZAG-Meier compact pistol--”

 

Winnie was grinning like hell, “Ribbed for her pleasure, huh?”

 

“I guess.”

 

Knut said “I mean, I- uh, yeah. I’m for second amendment rights too. And freedom, and that sorta’ thing. The constitution.”

 

“Right to be as a f*ckin’ American,” Rip roared.

 

Winnie laughed, “We’ll drink to that. We’ll drink to that, won’t we Johnny?”

 

“Sure,” Johnny said. “To bein’ American.”

 

Brian shouted “To bein’ f*ckin’ American, man!”

 

Drinks clinked, and they clinked to being American.

 

---

 

They were in Tulsa.

 

BJ got spun. Johnny wasn’t feeling it, so he passed. Was later in the night when they were riding through what was, Johnny thought, the most pathetic excuse for a ‘downtown’ he’d ever seen.

 

Tulsa was a patchwork of grid-suburb going miles and miles and miles. And eventually, near the banks of a river so rust-brown it was almost burgundy, was a skyline of four or five buildings and a bunch of multi-storey parking lots. It smelled like sh*t, it looked like sh*t, it was a city of sh*t.

 

They were staying the night in Tulsa. They hadn’t even rode that much today, but the midday diversion at Fort Quantrill and the two-hours into Oklahoma took it out of them. Winnie and Terry were at another motel in amongst the suburb, which Johnny and Brian were itching to leave.

 

Johnny was kind of annoyed, but decided f*ck it. BJ was a fun guy for a drink with.

 

They were in amongst downtown - the pathetic downtown - when Brian saw a row of bikes parked up near a bar at the ground level of some building. And he grinned so wide you could see it beaming from the back of his head and the gleaming white cowboy hat whipping in the wind, and he signaled to stop.

 

“Let’s do it again!”

 

Johnny frowned and said “Do what?”

 

“Them stooges was fun, I mean.”

 

“You mean the Grinning Gallows or whoever?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. They were gun as f*ck, man, they were great.”

 

Squinted by the roadside. No traffic. “I guess.”

 

“No, let’s get our drinks on, see what the f*ck these guys is.”

 

“You’re a regular social scientist, ain’t you, Brian?” Bar looked like sh*t aside from the choppers. “You wanna experiment, look at the zoo animals.”

 

“Barn animals.” Brian rip-snorted, “Sheep and f*ckin’ cows. Moo. Moo. C’mon Johnny, moo.”

 

Laughed cause it was weird and said “Alrighty then, cowboy.”

 

“Moo with me Johnny!”

 

Johnny didn’t.

 

It was an Irish bar, maybe. Because there was a four leaf clover neon on the window and the sign, which said O’Pubby’s Pub, which was a moron name but what can you do. Or maybe it was a biker bar, ‘cause they had the gasoline signage like back in Delisle and the aforementioned row of bikes making it stand out. Could hear the rock music from probably a block away now the engines weren’t growling.

 

Upon entry, it was a schizophrenic mash of both. They were playing Mötley Crüe and had a bunch of tacky Blarney’s brand sh*t near the dart board. Which could’ve been indicative of some kind of theme, or maybe they just served a lot of Stout. Who can say?

 

Like the row of bikes outside, there were a row of biker cuts here too. Like back in Delisle.

 

They were not ninety-niners.

 

They were Angels of Death cuts.

 

They were big fellas who looked real angry - hoodies and red-plaids under leathers - bottom rockers read FULTON, KENTUCKY. One was positioned facing the bar, had on a shirt that read simple:

 

 

Johnny let out an audible goddamn “Oh.”

 

Brian was not dissuaded.

 

Angel by the bar, with the shirt, his eyes went wide like f*ck and he tapped his friend on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Friend had curly hair and looked on over showing Patriot tattooed above his right eyebrow. Scowled.

 

“We should go,” Johnny whispered.

 

“Bridge the divide,” Brian said. “Bridge the f*ckin’ divide. f*ck this rival sh*t, yo Angels!”

 

Didn’t get a reply.

 

“Barman, a drink, baby.”

 

Barman was an older fella in his Fifties who looked kinda perplexed by the show and just said “What you want?”

 

And Brian got up to the bar, put his hand on an Angel’s shoulder, and said “What are you guys drinking, huh?”

 

Angel stopped.

 

Looked at the hand.

 

Looked at Brian.

 

Said “Whatever.”

 

Brian grinned and said “Whatever, man. Get me whatever. Get me stout, man get me Blarney’s, man. Johnny! Come over. You guys is Angels?”

 

Angel blinked. “Okay.” Bald guy, ginger eyebrows. Looking at Brian like he was sin itself.

 

“You know, I was- uh… where are you, uh, you fellas from, huh? Man, we’re from--”

 

One of the Angels shouted “Who gives a f*ck, Loser?”

 

“Cowboy Loser.”

 

Got laughs from the Angels. Bald Angel laughed too, but his eyes didn’t light up. Weren’t real.

 

Johnny said “Maybe we should just--”

 

Looked to the door.

 

Fat Angel had moved from one of the booths and stood near it. Didn’t block it, but stood up right next to it like a bouncer.

 

Ah, f*ck.

 

“We’re just trying to be friendly,” Brian said. “Bridge this divide, f*ck this divide. Don’t even know the f*ck why we fight, huh? Johnny, weren’t it- weren’t it Albert Lawson f*cking on Roman Lou’s mom?”

 

One of the Angels said “Who?”

 

“Who the f*ck?”

 

Johnny said “I don’t know.”

 

Brian cool-like went “Maybe that’s just a regional thing. You guys are from, uh,” leaned over the bar to peek at the cuts, “Kentucky! Huh, man. Kentucky.”

 

Angel with the shirt said “This whole thing’s been going since the Sixties.” Meant the beef, “Ain’t no f*ckin’ why this matters. Ideological.”

 

Friend of his said “Nacho--”

 

“‘Cause you Loser f*cks are n*gger-lovers, huh?”

 

Johnny was gripping the bar as tight as he could. Looking at the door guy, who was looking at Johnny. Eyes met. Door guy grinned.

 

Barman hadn’t made the drink yet.

 

“Kentucky,” Brian was desperately trying to change the subject, “I only know Kentucky ‘cause of Cluckin’ Bell, haha. But- uh, we’re from Liberty. Alderney, actually. We’re on the way to Rode Mine. You guys--”

 

Bald Angel stood up, and walked on to the door.

 

Chuckled, “Thanks, man.” Brian took the seat.

 

Another Deadbeat now sitting next to him. Undercut, scowl. “Didn’t invite you.”

 

“Just trying to be friendly. In Liberty we got, I mean we got pizza and sh*t, you guys got fried chicken. Right?”

 

“If you get any closer to me,” undercut said, “you’re gonna f*ckin’ regret it.”

 

“I get you’re a deadbeat--”

 

Nacho said “You guys patch blacks, right?”

 

Johnny said “What of it, deadbeat?”

 

Angels were standing up. “You don’t say that sh*t,” one guy said. Voices were all merging together. Undercut glared up at Brian’s face.

 

“Called us Losers!” Johnny said. “Just trying to be friendly.”

 

Brian said “Yeah.”

 

Undercut glared.

 

Then looked down at Brian’s vest, and then underneath.

 

At the holster.

 

Undercut reached into his jacket.

 

Brian punched him in the f*cking face.

 

Johnny tried grabbing him but Brian punched again, “You deadbeat f*ckin’ freaks--” and then Johnny got grabbed by the neck into a chokehold and thrown onto the ground. Undercut deadbeat tried reaching into his jacket again and Brian stomped on his arm and then got grabbed by another Angel that jumped the bar to jump him. Revolver that undercut was reaching for span across the floor under one table and Johnny went looking for his piece and got hits from all ends from the deadbeats ganging on him.

 

“Loser fa**ots--”

 

“Nobody calls me--” Brian sticking his fingers into someone’s eye, “--a f*ckin’ fag--” and then getting his head slammed into the bar and knocking over some of the stools. 

 

Fat Angel pulling a club out his jacket.

 

Johnny broke free. Fell forward.

 

Angel grabbed him by the collar and stomped on his back.

 

“Coon-loving f*cking--”

 

Brian’s glasses lying f*cked-like somewhere on the floor. Fat Angel going to town on him.

 

Music stopped. Jukebox hadn’t got its quarter.

 

Johnny bit a motherf*cker on the hand who tried reaching for his face and grabbing him by the teeth, the eyes, the mouth. Deadbeat screamed and fell into one of the booth seats and accidentally kicked one of his buddies, gave Johnny time to get up and grab a bottle from the bar and lunge at the deadbeat named Nacho. Smashed the bottle over his head, didn’t break, smashed it again, broke and slit his f*cking eye.

 

Brian’s glasses weren’t broken. Saw Brian wildly swinging arms nearly blind and then saw Brian grab another deadbeat by the head and ram into two others. How many were there? Brian’s cowboy hat whipping as he went side-by-side, left and right. How many f*cking deadbeats?

 

Wasn’t sure. Fat Angel came gunning for him with the club, and hit Johnny in the throat, and Johnny keeled over but kicked him in the arm and made the dumbf*ck trip over his own buddy.

 

Grabbed the club, was loose.

 

Went for the Angel.

 

Smashed him in the face.

 

Smashed him in the face.

 

His teeth were rotten, blackened, thin. Maybe knocked half loose. Was choking on his own teeth when Johnny hit again, hit again, broke his dumbf*ck Kentuck nose--

 

Door opened.

 

Gunshot.

 

Gunshot.

 

Johnny let the biker go and stopped a moment.

 

A cop.

 

Black cop. Black uniform, cop hat. Took a bullet to the chest and a bullet to the f*cking head. Was slumped in the doorway, eyes rolled up to his brain.

 

Penny dropped.

 

Holy f*ck.

 

The bikers stopped the fight and f*cking stampeded.

 

There was a second cop coming through the doorway maybe Latino, saw more than a dozen motherf*ckers racing right at him. Angels didn’t give a f*ck about seeing if the cop was alright, just trampled on him as he was breathing and Brian did too. Johnny stepped on his hand, he thought, he didn’t give a f*ck. Cop number two was pushed to the ground and one of the Angels, Bald Angel, he grabbed the cop by the body and tossed him over the hood and went on to him. Not to the bikes, to the pig.

 

Johnny and Brian scrambled past and got to their bikes across the street and saw the Fulton Angels all revving their bikes and screaming, “The f*ck are you doing, Warren?!”

 

Warren was Baldy, and Baldy rammed the cop’s head into the wheel. One of the Angels pulled their gat and aimed it at the cop.

 

Then at Brian.

 

They started their bikes.

 

Gun fired.

 

.45 shot three times and they missed and hit the air behind them but the bikes screamed on and Brian’s cowboy hat was whipping in the wind. And his mouth was agape, like f*ckin’ wide. Looked behind and saw the Angels were going the opposite way and saw one of them ride up to Warren and pull him and let go and get him running for his Western.

 

Cop sat there.

 

Got up.

 

And then he was a blip.

 

Brian led.

 

---

 

Motel. It was 3 AM.

 

Bikes had just been rumbling out on road and they hadn’t traded words. Engines clacking. Motel was out by the route into town and they’d taken one of the rooms on the second floor, same as they always did ‘cause they liked a balcony.

 

Westerns screeched into the parking lot and braked so hard they nearly lost traction and planted into the concrete. Brian’s bike tipped, handle smashed into the ground while he hopped off and just started sprinting for his room. Johnny joined him.

 

Johnny shouting “BJ, BJ!”

 

Cowboy hat whipping. Running up the stairs still making sure to run his hand across the bannister.

 

“Brian!”

 

BJ was pounding on their door. Bang bang bang bang bang bang bangbangbangbangbang was going f*cking apesh*t and you could see the sweat dripping and his eyes all red like he’d gone a week without sleeping in an hour. Curtain by the window parted, then shut, and then could hear the lock clicking. Brian adjusting his hat onto his head and then back around the neck and Johnny airing out his shirt--

 

Door opened. Terry. “What?”

 

BJ just blurted “We need to book the f*ck outta f*ckin’ Tulsa.”

 

“What?”

 

Stormed past him and started hooting, “Winnie? Horsie, Horse? Horse?”

 

Horse was sleeping, this lump without a blanket in the bed by the cooler he’d taken off the back of his bike. “What?”

 

Brian was searching the room, “Where’s my ice?”

 

Terry said “I got it, uh--”

 

Johnny, “You’re gonna smoke crystal now?! You’re still high, you’re gonna smoke up now?”

 

“We need to get the f*ck out, Johnny!”

 

Winnie was up, “What the f*ck, brothers?”

 

Which got Johnny to spin over to him and just say “Somethin’ f*cked up just happened, dude, we need to f*cking leave.”

 

“Leave what? Leave town?”

 

BJ sputtering “Where’s my f*cking Tina?!”

 

Terry, “I don’t f*cking know!”

 

“We went to this bar,” Johnny said. “And the bar was full of deadbeats, man.”

 

Winnie said “Deadbeats?”

 

“Yeah, f*cking Angels from f*cking Kentucky.”

 

“...Okay?”

 

BJ yelling now “Where’s my f*cking Tina you hick motherf*cker?!”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, BJ, it’s three in the f*cking morning--”

 

“I shot someone,” Brian said.

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Winnie said “Who?!”

 

Johnny said “That was you?!”

 

“I shot- a fight broke out, man these Angels--”

 

“You f*cking shot him?”

 

“I still got the gun,” BJ said.

 

“DROP THE GUN! Why did you keep the f*cking gun?!”

 

“It’s my gun, man--”

 

“You cowboy f*cking moron, Brian, drop the f*cking gun!”

 

“It’s my gun--”

 

“They’ll trace the f*cking rounds--”

 

Winnie cutting through the jungle, “Who did you shoot? Who did you shoot?”

 

And Brian freaking, “I shot a cop.”

 

Blink.

 

Johnny going “No no no no no no--”

 

“He dead?” Winnie asked.

 

Brian said “Yes.”

 

“You know.”

 

“I shot him in the f*cking head.”

 

Johnny was seated and felt his heart going so fast his eyes were gonna pop, clutching his chest, covering his eyes, “Brian, oh my god--”

 

“We need to go!”

 

Horse said “Keep the gun.”

 

Screaming now, “No! No! No!” Johnny was up again, “Brian, toss the gat and let’s f*cking get the f*ck out of--”

 

“We need to- keep the gun- I need to--”

 

BJ, “Terrence you hick fa**ot, where is my f*cking crystal?!”

 

Terry pointing “Go f*ck yourself--”

 

“You know who I am?! Prospect f*ck, you know who I am?!”

 

And Terry fronted like he was gonna throw a punch but he didn’t, he f*cked off, went back to the bathroom and started making noises and rustling sh*t. Maybe still looking for the goddamn crystal.

 

Johnny muttering, “Tweaking little moron, addict f*cking moron Brian f*cking idiot I oughta’--”

 

Winnie was outta bed now, “Johnny, brother--”

 

Brian went for Horse’s untethered cooler by his bedside.

 

Winnie grabbed his outstretched hand and slapped him raw in the f*cking face. And BJ nearly fell to the ground, but he sure as sh*t didn’t swing back, and Horse grabbed him by the chin and pulled him up eye-level and said “You done f*cked up like a f*cking retard you fat spic piece of sh*t.”

 

“I’m sorry, Horse.”

 

“And you don’t touch my f*cking sh*t! No goddamn tina in there, you heard me?”

 

“Okay, Horse, okay!”

 

Let go.

 

Brian scampered to the other corner of the room.

 

Johnny blabbering, “We can’t follow the goddamn route. We need- goddamn, just start, uh… we need to get the f*ck outta town--”

 

Horse firmlike went “All of you, shut the f*ck up.”

 

And everyone did.

 

“Brian, give me your goddamn gun.”

 

Johnny went out about to say keeping the thing was a bad idea, that they should just toss it on the road, throw it in a river. But Winnie’s eyes were saying ‘no goddamn interruptions’. So he didn’t.

 

Brian reached into his vest. Pulled the pistols out his holster. Handed ‘em over by the barrel to Horse.

 

Horse took one by the handle and shoved it into his belt. Threw the other on the bed. “I ain’t trusting you with an iron. You’re lucky I ain’t- goddamn it. You retard.”

 

“He went at me.”

 

Johnny sly, “And he went into this f*ckin’ Angel bar--”

 

“You snitch f*ck--”

 

“Everyone, shut your f*cking pies,” Winnie was saying, saying loud, saying a whisper below a shout. “Get your sh*t, we’re f*cking going.”

 

And Johnny said “You should toss the cowboy hat, too, BJ, you look f*ckin’ queer and the cops saw--”

 

“Jonathan.” Winnie was staring in his eyes. “Shut the f*ck up.”

 

Terry coughing in the bathroom.

 

BJ, “You tweaking, Terry?”

 

“Go f*ck yourself, Brian,” wheezing, “Sure as hell am.”

 

Winnie ran a hand through the hair he had left and his sallow eyes looked red like he was gonna just cry outta frustration. “Get your sh*t, brothers. Just get your goddamn sh*t.”

 

“If Terry’s smoking I better--”

 

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP-” and Winnie grabbed his icebox with one arm and shoved Brian out the way and swung the door open and left.

 

Johnny grabbed his sh*t.

 

And there weren’t no more dwelling.

 

They were booking the f*ck outta Tulsa.

 

And no.

 

Brian didn’t toss the hat.

 

THE DEVIL'S INFLUENCE HOLDS POWER OVER ME.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

[Cebra]

 

Terry offered Johnny a hit, and Johnny said no, because Johnny’d decided on the way out of Tulsa he was never smoking meth again.

 

“Can’t break up with tina, John.”

 

“I ain’t a f*cking addict.”

 

“You wanna keep riding f*ckin’ tired?”

 

“It f*cks with your mind, Terrence. I seen it.”

 

“Suit yourself. Hey, you come crawling back I won’t judge you none, but f*ck it, suit yourself.”

 

And Johnny suited just fine.

 

They’d stopped the bikes for gas and they started shortly after.

 

They’d left Tulsa in a hurry and said f*ck it to the old route, because the cops might’ve picked up the Angels at that rate and figured they were headed to Rode Mine. And maybe they would’ve snitched, because deadbeats are deadbeats and don’t know loyalty or brotherhood or sh*t, or maybe the piggies would’ve put two and two together. Figured they would head west.

 

So Horse said f*ck it, and Horse said they go south. Was blinking down 75 through a million little towns and blips through the Muscogee Nation. Crossed the Canadian River into Choctaw on the Indian Nation Turnpike only stopping for gas and coffee with the gas and almost no f*cking conversation.

 

Except Terry bugging Johnny on tina.

 

“You sure?”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

And Winnie was nodding over black and spitting on the ground and said “Johnny’s made up, Johnny’s made up.”

 

“It’s a long ride.”

 

“Better to have his eye on the ball,” Horse was saying.

 

“You--”

 

“He made his decision.”
 

“I did,” Johnny said. “I did.”

 

They were in Paris, Texas. Winnie’d pulled the maps out of his cooler and been talking to Johnny over the others, doing lines with smudged up greasy fingers. “Would’ve been onto Amarillo by now.” And they got back on the bikes and hit State Highway 24, and crossed onto Interstate 30 and found themselves in f*cking Dallas. And there’d been no conversation, no nothing, and Winnie was muttering by some dank f*cking nowhere in the middle of the great beyond that was the Lone Star that they’d be lucky if they hit Los Santos in time at this f*cking rate because they kept f*cking stopping for no f*cking goddamn reason back in the Midwest.

 

Winnie threw his map on the ground and it went with the wind and he ran off his bike to get it and it got stuck on a tree and Brian was laughing at him. And Horse said “Shut the f*ck up you fat fa**ot” and then went up to BJ’s bike and kicked the wheel and hurt his goddamn foot.

 

And they hadn’t changed clothes in a week.

 

They were in Fort Worth, and then they weren’t. And Johnny remembered literally nothing about that entire metro area. Didn’t remember the buildings, didn’t remember the country, just remembered sweating his f*cking head off on a perpetual comedown like he hadn’t slept in a month.

 

Brothers kept riding.

 

And Johnny was quitting cold turkey.

 

Except he weren’t, because he weren’t a f*cking addict. Only addiction he ever had was brotherhood and bull steroid.

 

They’d been on the road for hours. They’d stopped in Putnam, and Johnny wasn’t sure how long they’d been on the road prior. Only knew the smell of baking grass, of dry heat and humidity in passing tongues while wind was whipping in his head with exhaust fumes. It was dry out here. It was dry green, not beige-desert green like he’d been expecting, but it was dead green.

 

And they’d stopped in Putnam. And Johnny’d replaced crystal with coffee and was downing trucker black. A post office and a liquor store and a church off I-20 and Johnny was having trouble making the distance in his head.

 

Billy Grey put a cigarette out in the ashtray in 1995 and steepled his hands with the visitation phone laying receiver-down on the table. Johnny still had his up to his ear looking at him. Billy had this intensity that was conveyed without his eyes, like he was always staring sans contact. Like he was always unblinking even when he was. And Johnny thought he saw past that bullsh*t, usually, but he wasn’t this time. He was captivated in a performance he wasn’t even sure Billy was performing.

 

Billy picked up the phone.

 

“I don’t got to say what I gotta say, do I?”

 

Johnny whistled out a “What’s that?” Johnny hadn’t shaved his head in weeks and the dirty-blond stubble on his head was becoming more than stubble, the beard was becoming a beard. Had the beanie on and his feet tight-up in those god awful prison slippers, those f*cking Prisoner Pump Ups that came in black without laces and without real soles.

 

“That you’re patched,” Billy said, like it was something he shouldn’t have had to. “That we’re family. That we’re riding for you and have you in our goddamn hearts and our goddamn minds every f*cking day, that I’m toasting for you and your dead f*cking brother every goddamn second.”

 

“Dead’s a strong word.”

 

“Every blink,” Billy preached, “is a f*cking toast.” He’d ignored that.

 

“You know I know that, Billy.”

 

“Then why’ve I gotta say it? Why do I sense doubt?”

 

Johnny blinked, which might’ve been a toast. “I just don’t know--”

 

“Don’t know what? Is that ignorance unintentional, or is it f*cking doubt?”

 

“He got hurt real bad.”

 

“And who was he?”

 

“I don’t care,” Johnny said.

 

“You shouldn’t. Because brothers don’t kowtow, Johnny. They put that in the Bible and the Torah and the f*cking Quran, they put it in. Who we are, what we are, we make sure every f*ckin’ half-hearted thank you or are we cool is a middle f*cking finger. Either they’re too stupid to get it or they know and respect it. Or they eat f*cking baby food until they aren’t eating anymore.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“We push life like it’s gonna climax and we’re not spurting for months. We keep controlled. You gotten yourself f*cked, gone maytag?”

 

“I ain’t,” Johnny laughed.

 

“‘Cause you know what Harper’d say if he found out you’d been taking sh*t for the brothers in the wrong sorta’ way, you little jew f*ck.”

 

Still laughing, “I ain’t done nothing the brothers ain’t doing outside.”

 

Pointed, “Keep it that way. Make sure whatever hack gotta escort you back gets the what-f*cking-for, you got that?”

 

“I got it.”

 

“What I used to tell my nephew. And since you’re my kid f*cking brother, Johnny, since you’re my baby blood, I’m gonna tell you.” He was staring now.

 

Let it simmer.

 

“Brothers don’t get picked apart by no condors,” Billy said. “You become a brother, you never gotta watch the sky and sure as sh*t don’t gotta look behind your back. You got me?”

 

“You told that to your nephew?”

 

“Don’t get cute. And I patched you the f*ck in. So you ain’t a maytag as long as you stick-the-f*ck by. You get me?”

 

“I do,” Johnny said. “I do.”

 

They were in Sweetwater. It was late. It was night-time dark-time late, it was blackout late so late you was on the highway and couldn’t see the road ahead of you and were wondering how the truckers fared. Horse did a hand signal and signaled right off the interstate into the town proper, into the patchwork suburb in the shadow of rest-stop hotels.

 

Bikes stopped.

 

“We need to settle the f*ck down.”

 

“Settle the f*ck down why?” Brian was shouting.

 

“Turn the f*cking bike off!”

 

Brian said “Why?!”

 

“Turn the f*cking bike off or I’ll rip your goddamn throat--”

 

Brian turned the bike off. He was itching, scratching, he was still high.

 

“I’m gonna die if we don’t sleep,” Winnie said.

 

Terry said “Why not just--”

 

Winnie said “No.”

 

That was it.

 

Johnny asked “We taking beds?”

 

“No.”

 

“Don’t think pigs’d--”

 

“No.”

 

That was it.

 

Looped through the nowhere town in the middle of the night while the headlamps were flickering past dime-store bungalows. Turned onto a road back onto I-20 and Johnny was riding in tandem, and he was feeling like death. And he blinked, and saw Winnie was still eyes-up crazy.

 

Signalled.

 

Johnny nearly missed it.

 

There was an Ammu-Nation off the road by two truckstops. Hunting supplies, camping.

 

Bikes pulled up.

 

Terry was smoking up but keeping it under wraps when they hit the brakes, and Brian was glaring. The two hadn’t been talking. Talk had been bickering, had been spitting on each other’s boots, been digs. Sly comments and one-liners and Horse going “Give it a f*cking rest.”

 

Exhale. Brian was still glaring.

 

Johnny opened the door and Winnie followed. Place was sizable, place had the gunrack and inflatable hunting rifles and Chitarras and a section of the store devoted to hunting gear - to hunting clothes, hunting glasses, hunting materials, because it was of course Ammu-Nation Hunting Supplies & Sporting Goods Co. 

 

Winnie was thumbing through a wad of money.

 

Where did Winnie get the wad of money?

 

Sleeping bags. Grabbed three. Grabbed a dozen boxes of ammunition for guns Johnny didn’t check and bought waters and bought ready-made MREs. Compression bags and bought a hoodie and a pair of hunting boots he handed to Johnny that weren’t his size. Bog roll, bug spray, ratchet straps, bog roll, nylon rope.

 

“You got toothpaste?”

 

Was at the counter and the friendly 50-something at the counter said “I’m, uh- I’m sorry--”

 

“You got toothpaste?”

 

“No, I- we don’t sell no toothpaste or nuttin’ ov’hea, sir. Eh, y’all fixin’ for toothpaste you go to, uh- you go to the grocery store, but this is--”

 

“Then f*ck it. f*ck it.”

 

“You alright?”

 

“That’s everything. F*ck it.”

 

“I’m gon’ have to ask you to tone down the language--”

 

“That’s everything.”

 

And they paid and the guy didn’t even do an ID check, because Horse was a felon and sure as sh*t weren’t getting those bullets the legal way.

 

But he got them.

 

Horse had only packed a cooler onto his Western tied up precariously and nobody else had done sh*t to their bikes otherwise. And Horse came out with f*cking sleeping bags.

 

“We camping?” Brian was squawking, “Are we camping, man?”

 

Winnie said “Yes.”

 

Brian shut the f*ck up.

 

Tossed the sh*t onto the ground and started shoving the sh*t not meant for tying into his cooler. Moved sh*t around, picked something up Johnny didn’t discern and then mashed it back in and grabbed the wad of money out his vest and then grabbed a wad about the size of Johnny’s forearm out and shoved the wad in with the rest and flicked through counting and stop.

 

Where the f*ck did he get that?

 

Johnny didn’t ask.

 

The gun he sold. Maybe brought his stash.

 

Johnny gave him the boots.

 

Winnie said thanks and shoved it in with the cooler and gave Johnny the woodland-camo hoodie he snagged and said “You’re welcome.”

 

Blinked.

 

Johnny and Brian rode with the sleeping bags. They left one in the lot.

 

They turned at the fork near Roscoe onto US Highway 84. Blinking windfarm out a million years away from them as the bikes rode down a straight line past farmland. Past crops, past greens, past darkness on an empty road.

 

They stopped.

 

A car rode by.

 

They stopped.

 

In the midst of the farmland and the private property was a single grocery store. A grocery store built into some kind of house or farmstead or something that looked ramshackle like it was collapsing. Painted white, rust red Sadler under tarp in the driveway, these wispy trees. And it stank like sh*t out here, stank like manure and GMO. But they found an oasis.

 

On the wrong side of the road, there was a collapsing one-room building. Wood, mainly. No graffiti, because nobody came up here. Roar of the wind turbines another decade from them. Rolled their bikes into the shade, behind the shed. Was it a shed? Was it a home? Was it for supplies, what the f*ck was it? It was a place to stop.

 

Horse went in and sprayed the interior with the bug spray like it was an automatic, searching for spiders because Horse f*cking hated spiders. And Johnny walked his bike behind the thing, and the place stunk of poison.

 

And then Johnny laid down and slept on the dirt.

 

---

 

He woke up midday.

 

He hadn’t moved.

 

He pushed himself off the ground. His face hurt, his face was swelling, his face was red from the f*cking grime and he was covered in filth-soot. Brian was asleep, still.

 

Johnny sat up.

 

They were still in the ruin.

 

Terry was jacking off. Johnny could hear it. Terry wasn’t in the cabin, but he could hear him heaving out the side exerting himself and all Johnny could think was Terry was going to f*cking town behind some bushes. Was he still high?

 

He wasn’t going to check.

 

He stood up.

 

Turned around.

 

And a forest of white trees were spinning a thousand years away.

 

Johnny felt at peace.

 

Didn’t feel at peace because of where he was. Where he was was rot, was crumbling nothing. Was in the midst of overgrowth and the smell of sh*t and this occasional rush from a car heading past them that sent a shiver down Johnny’s back even though he wasn’t on alert. Was the smell of pesticide of various forms. Was a million little grains down his pants, down his shirt, in his nose, in his mouth.

 

He’d slept for the first time in days, though, and that was the peace.

 

The bikes were leaning up against the rotwood. They were safe. Facing away from the road at this angle that turned the world invisible. And Horse was with them. Horse was sitting on his bike with the plastic water bottle out and he was crunching the thing with his fist, and then releasing, and then crunching. And he looked up to Johnny when he was turning the corner and his eyes jumped and he dropped the bottle.

 

Johnny went to pick it up.

 

Horse kinda growled “Hell’s your malfunction?”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Didn’t touch the bottle. Just stared at the ground.

 

Looked up. “What?”

 

Horse pulled his hands out his vest and chewed his lip and squinted. “I’m f*cked up.”

 

Johnny chuckled. “Ain’t we all?”

 

“I ain’t slept in…” rubbed his eyes with his palms. “How many days?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t know what day it is.”

 

Johnny just laughed and repeated, “I don’t know.”

 

“Goddamn trip. You think… sh*t. What you think?”

 

Johnny crouched down on the soles of his boots and sucked in his cheek. He didn’t know. “About what?”

 

“About all this,” Winnie said.

 

Johnny blinked. “I think Brian’s a f*cking idiot.”

 

Laughed, “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

“Starting to regret getting that f*cking tattoo with him and letting him cry like a bitch when the whole time he was crying ‘cause he was a bitch. Not like a bitch, because he is one. But he’s my brother.”

 

“Is it over?”

 

Johnny stared. “I hope not. With crystal, I f*cking hope so, but with Brian I hope not.”

 

Winnie was doing this face - something like a smile except it wasn’t. Leaned in. “Is that positive?”

 

“There was a time,” Johnny said. “There really was. When it was me, and it was Brian, and it was Bill. You know that? It was us.”

 

“I know,” Horse said, because he did.

 

“When it was… with my folks. BJ was… you know. You know that f*cked up cousin? Or your uncle, or I don’t know. I had a lot of uncles.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He was a brother and a cousin and a lotta things. But he’s always been how he’s been. I don’t know. I got Fitz at least, he’s always done right by me. But you know. Dude... man. I don’t know.”

 

Winnie leaned in closer.

 

Johnny was sitting now. Sitting on the dust.

 

“What happened at the bar?” Winnie asked.

 

Johnny looked up. “I don’t know.”

 

“The bar in Tulsa.”

 

Blinked. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“What was it called? The bar? That you went to?”

 

And Johnny shook it off, “Some- uh, some Irish, uh… O’Something’s something. I don’t know. It don’t matter.”

 

“And it was Angels there? Angels of Death guys?”

 

Johnny thought. “Yeah.”

 

“From where? You said, uh… was it Fremont?”

 

“Fulton.”

 

“So you, and Brian. You went down to an Irish bar, when we were in Tulsa.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

“I’m just making sure. And Brian saw those deadbeats, the Angels. And he went apesh*t? He started a fight?”

 

“No,” Johnny was squinting. Wasn’t looking at Horse, “That ain’t it, dude. It was- you remember those guys in Delisle? Those one-percenters, and Brian went talking to them about the g--”

 

“Hohobobo, hold on. Hold on. And Brian tried talking to the Angels. And he started it?”

 

Johnny blinked. “No.”

 

“Angels started it? And then Brian shot the cop?”

 

Johnny didn’t answer.

 

“You and Brian were at the bar and Brian shot that cop?”

 

Didn’t answer.

 

“And where’d Brian shoot the cop? Old Brian Jeremy and Johnny Klebitz. Where’d he shoot the cop?”

 

Johnny stood up. “I don’t know. This sh*t, I mean… you know.”

 

“I just wanna make sure,” Winnie said.

 

“I know you do.”

 

“Because we’re brothers, right?”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Wasn’t sure where he was looking but maybe it was Brian. Or maybe it was the turbines.

 

Johnny thought really hard about what he was gonna say.

 

Looked Winnie right in the eyes. And Winnie looked back, and it weren’t understandable whatever he was feeling.

 

“I don’t know,” Johnny K said.

 

Gave him the water bottle.

 

And it died on the vine there, because Johnny K wandered off without another word. And he went back to the bushes and made sure Terry was finished with his business, and all he heard behind him was Winnie crushing that bottle ‘til the cap popped clean off. 

 

DRIBBLING MILK & HONEY ON THE SAN ANDREAS TURNAROUND.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited January 16, 2021 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

 

Was she a cousin, or was she an aunt?

 

Johnny was lying on a sofa in the South Side clubhouse while Ash was combing through the phonebook with her cell phone laid on the bartop to check for references. And Johnny was in the days-old clothes, in the sweatshirt under the work jacket in the worn-out jeans, and it felt like a million years ago when he used to sleep in the supply closet. Taken off the jacket, taken off the hoodie: just in his dusty boots and his sleeveless undershirt and the same dumb f*cking head he was always living in.

 

Was she a cousin, or was she an aunt?

 

Ash came over and sat down right next to Johnny and kissed him on the forehead and came right up close. And Johnny wasn’t sure to push her off, or what, or what the f*ck. But he didn’t.

 

She whispered, “I found her, baby.”

 

John, half asleep, “Yeah?”

 

“I found her. Found Linnie’s number, found her address.”

 

Her name was Linnie. “Should’ve known from the start, man.”

 

“I think so too. And I’m gonna tell her that.”

 

“We riding out?”

 

“Yeah, sugar, yeah,” she said. “Just give me a moment.” And she got right up close and kissed him again.

 

And Johnny didn’t stop her.

 

Ash’s cousin, or Ash’s aunt. Ash’s family - Linnie lived in Dobieville, near the Cruisers’ stadium. One-seven-one-something on West Metcalf Street, which Ash pointed out vaguely on a map as being near an elementary school on an avenue cross-section where streetside restaurants started bleeding into residential two-floors. Or what Ash said: “She lives in a house.” So that’s sort of what Johnny assumed. Could’ve lived in a f*cking shed for all he knew.

 

That’s what she was cooing, what she was whispering in his ear. While he was staring up at Jimmy Fitz and only half-thinking. And he looked away at the door, and the patch, and one of the other Couira brothers he didn’t know was watching them from the bar. Perched on a stool.

 

Looked at him. Patch said Jimmysinz.

 

He smirked.

 

He left.

 

Didn’t take much longer ‘til Johnny found his beanie and they headed out.

 

Clay and Terry had gone with Willy Wetbacks and Monty out riding. Didn’t know where but they didn’t say nothing. Had been hearing Goober and Woody Rings back at the office near the bar talking with the club Secretary and club Treasurer - a lot of repetition, a lot of ‘guinea’s and a lot of ‘jagoff’s and a lot of ‘cashmonies’, last from a voice he didn’t recognize. Headed out the door into the parking lot and saw two of the Hounds, those nameless Baskerville brothers, sharing some Benedicts and laughing about some bullsh*t. All three was auburn haired and of the two one had one f*cked up hairline; flicked his cigarette at the ground and shouted “Howya’ doin’, jewboy?!”

 

Ash replied “We’re good, Kev, just headed out.”

 

Kevin. Fair enough. Kevin said “Stay safe.”

 

Johnny’s Hexer parked right next to Woody’s Wayfarer bobber with the custom Lost seat and the leather tassels. Gave it a look before kicking it into gear.

 

Hitting the blacktop.

 

Couira, Illinois. Was running his tongue around the roof of his mouth while the girl had her arms around him and Johnny didn’t know how to feel. Knew Couira was Couira, wasn’t quite Liberty but was quite Couira - was riding up a straight line on Occident Avenue. Decided to not turn on the corners, not take the highway, just feel the wind riding in a straight line for as long as possible. Just a ten mile stretch of motherf*cking road.

 

Was old, and was new. It weren’t the first time he’d rode with Ashley, just him and her and the wind.

 

But it was the first time in a long time. Not since Liberty a week ago, and not since Liberty in Fall 2008.

 

And now it was Spring 2009. Now it was April. Hadn’t even been a f*cking year. And now she was on his back again like a bad f*cking habit.

 

Or maybe it weren’t so bad.

 

The thing about Couira was these highways. These highways that dug deep between the suburb where the cars stocked up - which Johnny didn’t want to touch - which all looked like scars digging deep through the city. Always a way of seeing the skyline and the Coil and the rest from anywhere since it was road-on-road of just road and no building, like a trench for nothing more and nothing less. Passed over it in Com-Comp on the West Side and couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

A city of scars.

 

Couira City, the city of scars.

 

Under an underpass near the train junction. Through Nashdim Town, through Totem Park. And another scar that was the Quigley Expressway and the northern branch of the Couira River.

 

And they were in the North Side.

 

And they were road-trawling.

 

She hadn’t said a word in maybe half an hour.

 

Johnny said “Hey.”

 

She didn’t reply.

 

“Hey, Ash!”

 

“Yeah, baby?”

 

“You good, sugar?”

 

“Just enjoying it.”

 

“What road was it? That she was on?”

 

“West Metcalf. 1420 West Metcalf.”

 

Fourteen-twenty.

 

Rode.

 

“Four twenty,” Johnny said aloud.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Funny. ‘Cause it’s 420, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Pot number, yeah.”

 

Ash faked a laugh and just cooed “Yeah.”

 

Was like riding through Berchem up here. Was apartments and brown-bricks and niceties and people looking over their shoulder at the hog riding down the avenue. Blue baseball caps and banner-store restaurants and neon lights turned off while the Blista lights blinked, paper bag entranceway sorta sh*t. Sorta faux-working class sort of sh*t driving by the park on the parkway turning onto West Metcalf.

 

West Metcalf.

 

“What’s her name? The aunt?”

 

Ash didn’t reply.

 

Maybe it was just the noise.

 

Was sorting through the houses while the bike was going half-fast, counting down, counting down.

 

1412.

 

1416.

 

1420.

 

Bike stopped.

 

Was grumbling. Slowed the thing into a nearby parking space between economy-classes. Looked over at 1420 and the entrance ramp - it weren’t stairs, it were a ramp - at the bric-à-brac collage facade of a dozen different masonry brown-reds. Quirky little thing, that house. Was probably a unit, thin and pushed in between two other houses looking more orthodox in limestone yellows, a little alleyway separating their little dip from an apartment block. Johnny was staring, and staring long, and watching Ash get off and cross the street and do half a twirl to mew “You coming or not, baby?”

 

Johnny stopped the bike and got his walk down the asphalt.

 

There was a black gate, and she’d left it ajar. She was up the ramp at the door scratching her back jittery-like.

 

Johnny stepped up.

 

She wasn’t knocking.

 

She looked to him.

 

Johnny said “Are you gonna knock? Are we gonna stand out here, or what’s going on--”

 

“Gimme a minute, huh.” And she looked at the door, and she braced her hand, and she knocked.

 

She knocked.

 

She was rapping and she wouldn’t stop knocking and tap-tap rapping on the door and it was jitter fast like she couldn’t stop--

 

The door opened.

 

Johnny looked down, because she was in a wheelchair. She was dark haired with clear skin, middle-aged in maybe her fifties, rake thin and chunky-faced. Blanket over her lap in a sweater and that hair done back. Just staring.

 

Was a good few seconds.

 

She said “Hello?”

 

Johnny said “Uh--”

 

But Ash jumped in, “You don’t recognize me?” Ash had done away with the bandana, had her hair cut neck short now in a plaid shirt underneath a denim jacket, holed out stockings, denim skirt. The same meth scars caked over with foundation, those same sad eyes.

 

The woman blinked.

 

She didn’t recognize her.

 

“Linnie, you don’t see me? Linnie?” Like an echo.

 

The woman in the wheelchair’s eyebrows were going up now, “I don’t--”

 

“Ashley. Ashley. From Alderney. Donna’s girl?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I was going to Condict U in Guernsey, you remember? And dad was so proud, ‘cause he’d never gone to college, first to ever… you remember, Linnie? You remember? I was--”

 

She didn’t know what to say, obviously. And she was blinking and trying to think and she let out something akin to a “Huh.”

 

Ash stepped forward, “You don’t recognize me?”

 

“I--”

 

“You were at her wedding. Linnie.”

 

“It’s Linda.” She squinted, “You mean... Heath’s wedding? Upstate, in Umbria?”

 

“Yeah. I mean- I mean Heath, my--”

 

And Johnny grabbed Ashley by the shoulder and said “I’m sorry, it’s- uh, Ashley said you knew, uh… you’re her aunt?” He really put emphasis on that last word.

 

And Linnie blinked. And looked at Ash, and then at John, and said “I’m sorry, who are you?”

 

And Johnny wasn’t quite sure what to say. Which is where Ash jumped in and said “Johnny K is my boyfriend.”

 

“Well--”

 

“You brought your…” Linnie trailed off. “I’m sorry, but I’m not your-... I mean… I’m not your… aunt.” She really put emphasis on that last word.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ash said. “But yeah.”

 

Johnny blinked. “What? Ash, who is this?”

 

“Really she’s my second cousin- can we come in? Can we come in, Linnie?”

 

“Linda,” she moved on quick from that, “I mean, sure- I mean, what- what is--”

 

“Donna died,” Ashley said. “Donna died.”

 

Stop.

 

She’d just dropped that like it was nothing.

 

The woman, Linnie, her mouth was just lying half open. And she said “I’m sorry… I mean. I’m sorry.”

 

“Can we come in?”

 

“Sure, I mean… I’m really sorry, I mean, yeah. You can come in.”

 

And she wheeled herself aside.

 

Ashley barreled in.

 

Johnny stopped.

 

What?

 

Johnny stared.

 

Linnie was still in the doorway, said “Well?”

 

And Johnny blinked, and snapped out of it, and said “My bad.” And stepped himself inside Linnie’s house.

 

She’d done up the walls in candy paint: deep viridian on one wall mashing hard on fuschia painted right angles. Hallway at the entrance lead three ways with the waxwood chocolate-brown trailing off to a glass window letting sunshine in, the leftway a flight of stairs and the right a sitting area. Fireplace, brickwork, more art. Coffee table, pottery on the mantle of the fireplace above a big blue painting. Was naturally where Ash found herself, already down on a lime green sofa.

 

Woman had eccentric taste.

 

Woman had a manual wheelchair. Pulled herself around and right into the room with Johnny right behind her, just frowning. Didn’t look like she was processing it all well. Who could blame her, different question. Ash just seemed impatient.

 

“Donna’s dead?”

 

“Can’t believe you didn’t recognize me.” Ashley was lost in herself.

 

“You were a flower girl, weren’t you? I didn’t know Heath that well, let alone Donna. I’m sorry.”

 

“And you’re doing okay.”

 

Woman frowned again, “What? Yeah, I don’t know. What happened, how’d it happen?”

 

Ash was putting her knees together. “Y’know.”

 

“I don’t,” Linnie said. “I don’t even know you, I don’t know.”

 

“She had an aneurysm,” Ash said. Johnny was safe in the knowledge that part weren’t a lie at least, “I don’t know.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear, honey, I really am.” Linnie scooted her chair closer, right up to the girl, put her hand on her knee, “I really am.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“I didn’t know Donna that well, but she seemed nice. And after what happened to Heath, I mean, I’m sure things weren’t easy.”

 

“They weren’t.” That came out of Ashley almost indignant.

 

Johnny was just in the corner. Like a spectre. Audience to this sh*t, just watching. Squinting. Remembered, didn’t she say this woman was her mom’s cousin?

 

Things had switched. Always seemed to with Ash.

 

It’d been silent for too long. Just hand on her knee.

 

Linnie looked at John. John with his arms crossed all moody-like.

 

“Johnny Cakes, is that it?”

 

Which got a chuckle back. “That some kinda joke?”

 

“No, I thought that was your name.”

 

“Johnny Kay. Klebitz.”

 

“Ah.” Did a little movement with her lip, “So what’s going on here?”

 

Ash cut in, “He’s been helping me get over here.”

 

“So you’ve been living with him?”

 

Johnny frowned. “Look, lady, I--”

 

“Johnny ain’t got much a place to say,” Ash said. Said it warbly and awkward, “We just came here because we ain’t got a lot to ourselves.”

 

Linnie was side-eyeing. “With your boyfriend?”

 

“She ain’t my old lady,” Johnny snapped.

 

“I’m just trying to put this together. Because I don’t understand.”

 

“What’s there to understand?” That was Ash, Ash with her head barely out her hands.

 

“Why you’re here,” Linnie said. “You need things for the funeral? Or is this- I don’t really know what this is.”

 

“Look,” Johnny cleared his throat. “She’s-... we’re, um…”

 

“What?”

 

“I need a place to stay,” Ash said. “For a while?”

 

Linnie blinked. “You aren’t staying with John?”

 

“No,” John said.

 

Pause. “So why me?”

 

“Ashley said,” Johnny paused a moment, looked over at her. She didn’t look back. “She said that you were her aunt, and that she- Ash is, I mean… it’s all screwed up, is what it is. She’s a recovering addict--”

 

“Johnny!”

 

“It’s true, Ash!”

 

Creases in Linnie’s face were just getting deeper. “Then I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

 

“Listen, Linnie. Ash ain’t doing so good--”

 

“It’s Linda.”

 

“Okay. The girl needs help. The girl- I mean she’s been in a halfway house. I can’t look after her, I got my own thing, I can’t keep my eye on her. And she needs family, which is something she ain’t got a lot of right now.”

 

“What is ‘your own thing’, Jonathan?”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“I really don’t know what to say.”

 

Ashley spat, “You could say we’re family!”

 

Linnie blinked.

 

Ashley looked like she was still processing that she said that. “Yeah! You could!”

 

“I met you once,” Linnie said. “A few times, maybe. At Heath’s funeral. I’m sorry.”

 

“Y- you- you met me! I love you!”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yeah! I told Johnny, I love you like a family. I love you like a family does- like family does, I said that, didn’t I baby?”

 

“You did,” Johnny said.

 

“I did! And I told Johnny that- I told him I’m gonna give you a piece of my mind, Linnie, I did.”

 

Linnie’s mouth hanging slack. “Why?”

 

“Because we’re family. Because you and me are related, we’re related and we’re family, and I should know you Linnie I should--”

 

“I knew your father. I hardly knew your father, and I hardly know you.”

 

“What does that mean?!”

 

And Linnie was putting her hands up her forehead and brushing fringe out the way, “I- I don’t know, Ashley, I don’t know--”

 

“You got the same last name as me, Linnie.”

 

“Ashley, please--”

 

“I just need somebody, Linnie. I just need somebody, Linnie, I just need money I just need someone I just need--”

 

“Is this about money? Is that was this is?”

 

And Johnny broke then and there.

 

And Johnny stormed out the corner.

 

And Johnny got right up in the woman in the wheelchair’s face, and he said “Are you joking?”

 

Linnie said “I don’t know what this is!”

 

“Who are you?! Who the f*ck are you?!”

 

“You stop--”

 

“This woman needs help!” The veins in his neck popping out, “This woman needs your f*cking help, this woman needs you! What the f*ck are you doing?!”

 

“I do not know you--”

 

“Look at her!” Pleading, “Look at her, please!”

 

“You could be looking for a handout or to take money from--”

 

“Go f*ck yourself you high-and-mighty dog sh*t, you f*cking dog sh*t.”

 

“Please get away from me--”

 

“You are everything I joined up to spite, you f*cking cow. It’s just money with you, it’s just f*cking money--”

 

“Joined? Joined who?”

 

“This woman needs HELP! Are you going to just drop her like nothing?!”

 

“I DO NOT KNOW THIS WOMAN, JOHN--”

 

“SHE IS FAMILY AND YOU GOT NO RIGHT TO CALL ME JOHN--”

 

“What do I call you? What do I call you?”

 

“Nothing! I’m supposed to be in f*cking Alderney, who the f*ck are you? What do you even do?!”

 

“I don’t- I don’t--”

 

Ash all soft, “I ain’t looking for a handout just support--”

 

“JUST SUPPORT!” John was yelling, “Just f*cking help! Just help, and what the f*ck are you doing, you cow!”

 

Linnie leaned over, whisper-shouted, “I will call the police!”
 

“You will call sh*t!” Slammed his fist on the coffee table, “Goddamn sh*t! This woman is your family! This woman is your family, your blood no matter how many times you ain’t met her--”

 

“She is hardly a goddamn blood relative, and I am sick and tired of this--”

 

“I am sick and f*cking tired of you. I am sick and tired of this sh*t. This woman loves you--”

 

Ashley chirping, “I do, baby, I do--”

 

“--and you can’t even give her a shot. You don’t even got the stomach to give her a shot. You don’t even think about it, you just start saying you can’t.”

 

“I never said that!”

 

“You were gonna, don’t you f*cking lie!”

 

“I said I didn’t know her! I said this could be a scam--”

 

“Your prissy little smug bullsh*t won’t get you nowhere.”

 

Linnie snapped, “You can’t even get my name right.”

 

And Johnny said “You are a heartless shrill bitch.”

 

“You get out of my house. The both of you.”

 

Johnny stared.

 

Johnny stared.

 

Repeated, “You get the hell out of my house before I call the police.”

 

Johnny raised an index finger.

 

His hand shook.

 

“You don’t get it,” Johnny said.

 

“Get out.”

 

“You just do not get it.”

 

“Get out of my house.”

 

“She has lost her f*cking mother. She has lost her mother.”

 

“Get out, please. Please.”

 

“If she don’t got someone to keep her on the wagon, she is gonna fall off, don’t you get that?!”

 

“Please get out!”

 

“Goddamn bitch!”

 

“I am going to call the police--”

 

Johnny swiped the mantle.

 

The pots broke.

 

Dust flew.

 

It was ashes.

 

Johnny didn’t care.

 

Johnny swiped the mantle again, knocked another pot off the mantle, didn’t get dust but got shattered clay, and Johnny screamed “You f*cking c*nt! You miserable c*nt!”

 

And the woman tried to wheel herself out but she was stuck, stuck between a loveseat and the sofa and Ashley edging away from her with her eyes wide, arms up, eyes darting. Johnny ripped the painting, grabbed at the blue with his hands and tore the thing out by the handful, by the clump, hands full of painting.

 

“I don’t care how you got- how whatever the f*ck happened to you- you rich f*cking pig!”

 

She was staring.

 

Johnny dropped the clump.

 

“You don’t f*cking get,” he said, “you don’t care, she got problems.” There was soot on his jean legs.

 

She was staring.

 

“Can’t even spare a room. Can’t even give her a shot. She’s been sober for- you are such a pig c*nt, dude. You are such a c*nt.”

 

Could see the red in her eyes.

 

Tears.

 

She was crying.

 

“You don’t care about her, because you are evil,” Johnny said. “This woman is gonna drown. I love her too much for you to be a f*cking c*nt, for you to just leave her. Since you can’t even give her a shot. ‘Cause you’re a stuck-up, evil bitch.”

 

She was limp.

 

She was just crying. Her arms through the rests of her chair, dangling, her head just loose with the tears streaming down her face.

 

Despair.

 

Johnny backed away.

 

Ash was already in the arch joining the living space to the entry hallway.

 

And Linnie straightened her neck.

 

Looked like she could barely breathe.

 

But she just wailed, and it sounded like a dog getting shot.

 

Ashley grabbed John by the arm, and tugged him out the door. Slammed it shut.

 

Johnny held her hand as she pulled him along down the steps, Johnny walking backward, Johnny with his eyes trained on the door. And Johnny let go.

 

Johnny turned to Ash.

 

Ashley grabbed him by the arm.

 

And they kissed.

 

Johnny embraced. He got close, he wrapped his arms around that woman and he kissed her. And Johnny couldn’t tell if she was crying, but there was a sob, she took a break, she kept her eyes locked shut and she kissed again.

 

And they kept kissing.

 

Moved. Walked a little down the street, broke the kiss to hold hands, to run.

 

Ran into the alleyway. The alleyway breaking the house from the apartment block.

 

Johnny tore off his jacket.

 

They collapsed by the dumpster.

 

Ashley tore off his beanie.

 

He worked off her skirt.

 

And they f*cked then and there.

 

---

 

Johnny hadn’t seen Clay and Terry all day.

 

The Couira chapter had church that evening. Had gotten most of the guys together: the Baskervilles, the LC transplants, Goober, everyone. And Clay and Terry had wandered in with Willy Wetbacks, and they stayed at the corner of the room.

 

Jimmysinz was the Secretary, as it turned out. He’d been talking with the Treasurer, Albie Elbows, who was a certified wop and Goober’s man to the Italians in Vario and on Olio Avenue. They’d had a vote on some sh*t Johnny wasn’t paying attention to, brought him up to wish him well.

 

Ashley was sleeping on the sofa away from the meeting room.

 

Jimmysinz wasn’t for letting the wops into the clubhouse, most everyone else was game. Had said that if a surveillance team tracked Greggi over they’d already be over their heads, then they’d have a credible tie, then they’d get served papers, and he’d cop sh*t because he was technically the landlord. And the old f*ck, Mezzojusso? His kid was his kid, and who knows-- enough. That was it. They’d voted, and they’d let the wops into their home as much the wops would let them into theirs in Vario.

 

Church had been adjourned. The Baskervilles had brought these two Puerto Rican girls to the club to celebrate the LC reunion.

 

And then it was a few hours later, and it was dark out, and Ash was still sleeping. And Keith, the youngest Baskerville, had slapped one of the women, so they’d left pissed off-like when the brothers backed him up.

 

Just quiet drinking now.

 

And Johnny hadn’t said a word to Clay or Terry.

 

They were with Willy Wetbacks, had made a little corner seating after stealing some stools.

 

“Johnny,” Goober said. “Get your Jew ass up here.”

 

Johnny got off the stool, looked at the amassed brothers all looking at him. “Yeah, dude?”

 

“You was saying some killer sh*t, Johnny, you was?”

 

All coy, “Was I?”

 

“You was, you f*cking devil.”

 

“I ain’t a speaker.”

 

“He says he ain’t a speaker! You believe that sh*t?”

 

“Billy was a speaker. Me, I never had the charisma.”

 

“Screw that. You said something really beautiful, I want you to f*cking say it to the rest of us. A ‘f*ck you’, that’s- c’mon.”

 

Johnny was a little tipsy.

 

Ash was asleep.

 

Johnny said f*ck it. “You brothers wanna hear?”

 

Clay shouted out “Give ‘em hell, you f*ck.”

 

“Alright.” Johnny took Goober’s beer, took a swig, placed it on the bar. “Alright. You guys hear what they did in Alderney?”

 

“We ain’t heard sh*t,” Jimmysinz said.

 

“You ain’t. They turned the old clubhouse in Acter into a f*cking police parking lot. You believe that? Right next to the old bar where the f*cking Gunthugs and hangarounds shot sh*t. They still do!”

 

Terry said “Thank god.”

 

“Yessir. But right next to it is a f*cking police goddamn parking lot. They’ll never pick up the bar, but goddamn will we never pick up them pig cars. They can go f*ck ‘emselves. Donut bastards, dude. Donut eating bastards.”

 

Kevin said “f*ck ‘em.”

 

“But I was thinking,” Johnny said. “America is a land of f*cking police, ain’t it? Ain’t it FIB, IAA, DOA, AFT, PIG, ain’t it?”

 

Goober put his arm around Johnny, “This might sound pinko as f*ck--”

 

“It might!” Johnny said. “I ain't a patriot, but I love America. Despite all that! I love Americans. I love American machines. ‘Cause once upon a time, America built sh*t. And what they built was road and f*ckin’ engines. And Americans were free, and angry, and they took no bullsh*t, brothers.”

 

“Told y’all,” Goober said.

 

Johnny went on, “That was the dream, yeah? 150 years ago, and that sh*t never came true, but the dream was 50 goddamn acres, a rifle, and freedom. And now you don’t get 50 square feet and the man tries f*ckin’ you for the little you got.”

 

Whispering, “And you say you ain’t a speaker--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up. What I’m saying, brothers… what I’m saying. What the f*ck am I saying?”

 

“f*ck the man,” Wetbacks said.

 

“Yep. Man can f*ck themself. Hundred fifty years ago we made the man stick the gun up their ass. That’s the dream. We ride for that dream, brothers. We ride for freedom, sh*t like that. The Lost is freedom.”

 

“Yessir!” Didn’t know who said that.

 

“We ride, brothers, for Americans, but not America. That’s what the flag is to me. Can I get an amen?”

 

“Amen,” unison.

 

“Can I get a f*cking amen?”

 

“Amen!”

 

“That’s goddamn right. We ride for Americans, but not America. For the road and not the man. Can I get that goddamn amen?”

 

“Amen!!”

 

“A-f*cking-men.” Gave the beer back to Goober, “Go f*ck yourself you Irish jerkoff.”

 

Woody hadn’t said a word, but Woody clapped. Put up a fist.

 

Hoots and hollers, but just Woody clapping.

 

Goober grinned, and Goober said “Music to my f*cking ears.”

 

Ashley was asleep.

 

Johnny bee-lined for them. For Terry, for Clay, for Willy.

 

Terry said “Rock the f*ck on, dude. We got a chair?”

 

They did. They pulled the folding chair out and Clay chuckled, Clay put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder, and said “Motherf*cker.”

 

“Yep,” Johnny sighed.

 

“And you say you can’t speak.”

 

“Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. Speaking never got me nowhere.”

 

“It’s deep, you think about it.”

 

“You been avoiding me?” Johnny asked.

 

They stopped talking.

 

Penny dropped.

 

Johnny repeated, “Have you?”

 

They didn’t reply. Just frowned.

 

“You guys been out, doing f*ck all-what, riding out like I ain’t here. Knew you brothers didn’t tell me you were doing nothing--”

 

“Are you out?” Terry said.

 

Johnny didn’t reply.

 

“Because, Johnny, we been- I mean, are you out?”

 

Sighed. “What does that even mean?”

 

“It means have you cut your ties, are you off on your own, are you gonna head back to Alderney. It means are you done, is it over? End of chapter?”

 

“I don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing. You’re all headed to Denver.”

 

“No,” Clay said. “We aren’t.”

 

Beat.

 

“What?”

 

“Not anymore,” Terry went. “I mean, maybe. I don’t f*cking know.”

 

Clay laughing, “I just wanted Denver ‘cause you can smoke pot there, was all I wanted.”

 

Johnny hadn’t sat down yet.

 

Johnny sat down. “So what the f*ck is going on? You and Terry and Willy Wetbacks. You guys running out on me.”

 

“We ain’t running out on you, Johnny.”

 

“So what is this?”

 

“It- we’re- look, the thing is, are you through?”

 

“I told you, I don’t know.”

 

“Then we don’t know what to say. We’re through. Not with the club, but uh, through with what we been up to. What we been doing. I don’t know.”

 

And Johnny’s brows were just lowering, lowering, lowering. Like he was almost shutting them. Blinked, “What the f*ck are you talking about, dude?”

 

Willy said “I think we know- I think I know where it might be, Johnny.”

 

Beat.

 

“Where what might be?”

 

“I need money,” Clay said, “like a slut needs a f*ck, I said that.”

 

“Where what might be?”

 

“The case,” Willy said.

 

“The what? What case?”

 

“The case.”

 

“What is this cryptic f*cking bullsh*t, man? Playing me for a f*cking riddle.”

 

Terry broke: “The money. The case, the cash, the f*cking money, the f*cking diamond loot.”

 

“Di- what?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“No you f*ckin’... what?”

 

Terry’s back was straight, “We know where it might f*cking be. And we thought it was here, but it wasn’t. That’s f*ckin- why. That’s why if you want an explanation.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Silence.

 

“No,” he said.

 

“It’s true.”

 

“There’s no f*cking way.”

 

“I said that. And you’re gonna say you checked the stash off Exeter, and yeah. We did too. It’s not there because it’s not there.”

 

Blinked. Blinked. “Get the f*ck outta here.”

 

Clay said “He’s being serious, man.”

 

“So what the f*ck? How the f*ck did it get here?”

 

“We hadn’t asked Willy yet.”

 

Johnny squinted. Eyes shifted. His stare said ‘explain’.

 

Willy cleared his throat. “Mhm.”

 

“How the f*ck did you know?”

 

“I don’t know,” Willy fidgeting. “I- I- look. Look. Jim told, maybe three people where he was keeping that sh*t. And I was one. He told me, he told Spike, he told Doggy.”

 

Johnny scowling, “Goddamn f*cking Doggy?! That nobody ride-along punk Dogg got told?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, he told Carl. You remember, when his old lady got--”

 

“I don’t give a f*ck, dude! Why the f*ck didn’t he tell me?”

 

“He told me because- I don’t know. He was at the club and I was giving him sh*t and he told me he’d told them. And then he told me. And Spike got pasted on a train track--”

 

“Go f*ck yourself,” stood up with a rage in his hands, “You don’t f*ckin’ talk like that.”

 

“I’m sorry, but it’s true! And Carl the Dogg, he got the f*cking case. I don’t even know, I thought it was Spike who died with him. I didn’t know. And then I looked it up and it was Jimmy Fitz and it was a guy with hair. And you remember, Carl was bald.”

 

“This f*ckin’...”

 

“And what? So--”

 

“Where was it?”

 

“He threw it by the river. By the old bar, by where you and Billy did what you did to them deadbeats. It was down by the rocks, and I went down there, and I saw there was this big rock been moved over and I knew that’s where it was.”

 

Beat.

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah, Johnny.”

 

Face in his hands a moment, “Where is it now?”

 

“We thought it was here.”

 

“We did,” Terry said.

 

“And you came here,” Johnny snapped, “because of a buried treasure? Because of a buried f*cking treasure?”

 

“...Yeah.”
 

“Go f*ck yourself.”

 

“You didn’t ask, we didn’t say--”

 

“Go f*ck yourself, dude.”

 

Clay said “Settle down, kid.”

 

“Kid? Go f*ck- what the f- come on! Come on!”

 

“You were cutting your ties. So we didn’t ask.”

 

“So where is it now?” Johnny got back in the seat, “You bastards, where the hell’s it gone?”

 

Willy said “Cheyenne.”

 

“Cheyenne?”

 

“Cheyenne, maybe somewhere off I-80 in Nebraska. Maybe Grand Junction. Maybe South Yankton, all I know. We got a boy coming in--”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because Dogg is with another club now. He’s with the Matadors.”

 

Beat.

 

Johnny’s head in his hands again.

 

“Sorry,” Willy went.

 

“f*ck you.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You lied to me, man.”

 

“Yeah,” said Clay.

 

Johnny breathing out his mouth. “Wh-... hm… okay. So what?”

 

“What what?” Terry asked. “We told you. That’s it, dude. There’s two, three million in a briefcase. And it must be one heavy goddamn briefcase.”

 

“Didn’t even tell his wife.”

 

Got so uncomfortable.

 

Like Johnny couldn’t breathe.

 

“I wanted to… I told Jackie… I don’t…”

 

“We can get her her due,” Terry said. “And I- I wanted out of the city for a while anyway. I made…”

 

“I’m not seeing my younger brother again,” Clay said. “I’m not seeing my niece again. I mean, they’re good folk. But they ain’t for- they ain’t me, you understand? I just want… the cash. The ride. And smoke until I f*cking die, you know what I’m saying? That cash, that’s my retirement. And Terry, he ain’t got nothing else, and he’ll tell you that.”

 

John looked to Terry.

 

Terry just nodded.

 

And John was thinking. “I ain’t got much in ‘Derney anyway. I got a trailer. I got some clothes I forgot about, in Hawnes. I got my bike here, that’s all I give a f*ck about.”

 

Terry said “Is it?”

 

Johnny didn’t reply.

 

“I cared,” Terry said, “about a fair bit of… you know.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“In Erie. With them. I ain’t seeing them again, and I’m fine with that. You. You. No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. You know what I remember?”

 

“Tell me.” Venom in Johnny’s voice.

 

“I remember when you first broke off with Ashley. And you said you were done with women. I remember that, because you caught that girl doing what she always does. And you said she was unfaithful, she was a liar. That you’d cut her free from your head, Johnny.”

 

“It wasn’t like that.”

 

“And it happened again. And again. And again. And--”

 

“I ain’t- it- don’t condescend to me.”

 

“Conda-what?” Terry nearly laughed.

 

“Conda-f*ckyou, conda-what. Don’t talk down to me.”

 

“I love Ash,” Clay said. “You know that, I know that. But she ain’t good for you.”

 

Johnny sighed.

 

“You know that,” Terry said. “She’s who she is. And I told you, she ain’t got nothing but love for you, Johnny, but she can’t help herself. That’s just her. I don’t mind the chick, but that’s how she’s always been. And she’s here now, so I’m taking it like she didn’t get a warm reception from her aunt.”

 

“Cousin.”

 

“She lied, John.”

 

“She- Terry, man. I… I can’t leave her alone, man. I can’t do that to her. I can’t let that bitch out of my sight, because every time I do she f*cks up, every time she f*cks up with someone, gets herself in the sh*t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Not yeah, I can’t do that to her. I can’t let that happen, man. I can’t see her get f*cked up like that, man. It’s too much for me. I love that chick to death. I let Leila out of my sight--”

 

“Stop.”

 

“No, listen. I let Leila out my sight and you know what happened. I just gotta keep her in my line of vision. Otherwise she gets all f*cked up.” Whispering now, “I love her man, I really do, I love her but I can’t…”

 

“You stay with her, Johnny, she lives and you die.”

 

“No.”

 

“Then are you dropping your flags, John, or are you headed west with us? Because me and Clay, we’re sticking together. Willy’s good here. You wanna f*cking roll it? That’s your call.”

 

“I could send that money to Jackie,” Johnny said. “I can’t- I don’t know. I don’t know. We grew up together. Me and Ash, I knew her since… I can’t do that to her. And she ain’t using right now, either.”

 

“Right now.”

 

“Terry--”

 

“John. You’re my brother. And I will stick by you, and I will let you come the f*ck on with us. If that’s your call. Ash is coming with us, too. She knows the guy we’re gonna talk to I think, real peckerwood f*ck. But you coming? That’s your call, John.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Terry didn’t.

 

“I wanna stop,” Johnny said.

 

“But you can’t,” Terry replied.

 

Johnny blinked.

 

---

 

“Yeah, hello? Angus Martin, who’s this?”

 

Just a word. “Hey.”

 

Enough to get recognized. “Oh, sh*t. Yo, what’s up, Jonathan?”

 

“Long time no see.”

 

“Yeah. Long time no speak, man. What’s up?”

 

“They’re what they are. How’s things with you, dude?”

 

Angus chuckled. “I can’t complain.”

 

“You still flashing kids at the school, that sort of jerkoff bullsh*t?”

 

“Oh, Johnny. That and a bit. And you’d think they wouldn’t let a bastard like me out within 50 yards of a school, ‘cause I’m a danger to society. But yet, brother.”

 

“But yet.”

 

“And how’s, uh… god, what are you even doing right now?”

 

“Right now?”

 

“I talked to Terry. He said last time--that was a week ago, a few--he said you were washing cages down in Bailiwick County off Lennox Island. For this Mexican guy.”

 

“Greek, actually.”

 

“Yeah? How’s that?”

 

“Oh, man.”

 

“Haha.” It was sincere.

 

Johnny laughing too, “Oh man. I’m licking people’s piss for minimum wage, brother.”

 

A beat. “I met this good kid. And he reminded me a lot of you, little Jewish f*ck. Same sort of thing you was, this little bastard with asshole parents, pissed off about nothin’. And he asked me what he should be when he grows up. You don’t know any of this sh*t, right? This is f*cking- I don’t even know, Johnny. Kids asking me that. That was with my niece last time, and that was before what happened.”

 

“What’d you say?”

 

“I said… f*ck, what did I say? I said, haha, I said ‘don’t go cop ‘cause that sh*t ain’t kosher’. And this teacher was in earshot and she gave me this big dicking about responsibility.”

 

“Man.”

 

“Yeah. You heard what happened to Terry?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Terry and Clay. And you-know-who.” Paused. “f*ck it, I wish ‘em well.”

 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I’m with ‘em.”

 

Nothing but the buzz from the phone receiver.

 

Nothing.

 

Monotone, “Oh.”

 

“There he is.”

 

“How’s the road, Johnny.” Phrased like a statement.

 

“It’s dead houses. Dead business. Dying people. This whole financial gangf*ck. Hard to look at it and not feel like a jerkoff. With that Congressman, that whole thing.”

 

“Enjoying nature. The air.”

 

“No,” Johnny said.

 

“And the flags? They still down?”

 

Johnny paused. “I ain’t sure yet.”

 

Angus sniffed.

 

“That’s why I called you.”

 

“Called me for what, Johnny?”

 

“I need advice.”

 

Angus sighed.

 

“Always knew you were, uh, you could talk with me. Always knew you had a good head. And advice and being the smart guy, I mean- you do that for a living now, right, dude?”

 

“I tell ‘em not to be stupid,” Angus said.

 

“Sure. I’m in Couira City right now.”

 

“You want me to tell you not to be stupid, Johnny?”

 

“Yeah, Angus.”

 

“So I’ll tell ya’ straight. Go home.”

 

Johnny held the bridge of his nose. “It ain’t that simple.”

 

“No. It is.”

 

“It ain’t.”

 

“You lost it all, Jonathan.” He weren’t mincing between the static. “In ‘08. sh*t. We talked it all the way through what happened with Billy, with Ashley--”

 

“Ain’t that si--”

 

“I can tell you what you wanna hear or I can tell you not to be stupid, Johnny. But I can’t do both.”

 

A chuckle. “Them public speaking courses get you a sharper tongue, Angus?”

 

“Har-har. You want advice or you wanna riff?”

 

“Advice.”

 

“Then listen to me. I can’t tell ya’ what to do, Johnny, but I can tell ya’ what not to do. And I’m telling you now and forever - pack it up and go home.”

 

“I said it’s not that simple. ‘Cause- well, honestly, man, it’s a lot of things. It’s a lotta’ f*cking things. It’s the brothers and it’s Ash. It’s- she- she don’t got nobody else out here. And you know me. You know me. Can’t just leave her like that. Never could.”

 

Another sigh, double long. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“So?”

 

“So you’re gonna talk yourself into a hole, you keep it up like this. sh*t. You already are, you’re reliving the past. We’re brothers in spirit but not in brotherhood, Johnny, and when you talk about Terry and Clay like we’re still in Acter--”

 

“They’re still my brothers, dude. Now and forever.”

 

“I’m glad you called, Johnny. But you want my advice, you don’t even f*cking think about it. You go home. East, not west. You’re already in Couira. You don’t get outta this whole, otherwise.”

 

A bit of venom, “Those PSAs get to your head after all?”

 

“I’m serious. I remember talking to you, I think it wasn’t too long after- you know, after Jim. Or maybe it was, I don’t f*cking know. But I told you you’re a good man, too good for this sh*t. You still are. Don’t even f*cking think about it, man, you go down this road and there ain’t no getting out. One too many parties, one too many times.”

 

“It ain’t a party.”

 

“I dunno what it is, Jonathan, and I ain’t sure you do neither. Johnny and the ice queen chasing buried treasure. Terry and Clay are gonna do what they’re gon’ do. You know what I think, Johnny?”

 

“No.”

 

“I done a lot of thinking. And I figured a long time ago that the chapter had some kind of hex on it, the way things got f*cked up the way they did. That goddamn money. But for better or worse, we got out alive. As civilians. I might be stuck in this goddamn chair forever but it’s a new lease all the same.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. And you got one too. Go home, Johnny.”

 

Silence.

 

Johnny froze.

 

Banged his head on the wall.

 

“I can hear that.”

 

Picked it back up. “You’re right.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I know. You’re right, I f*cking know it.”

 

“You rode out there, you can ride back. Your girl ain’t done you any favors in a long time, has she?”

 

Johnny wasn’t sure if he meant Ash or his bike.

 

Angus continued, “Go back to Alderney. Hell, call me when you get there. You don’t gotta lick piss to get by. I dunno, I’ll see if I can set something up. Meet for a beer or something at least, I owe you that.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Gave him a moment. “So your mind’s made up?”

 

“I called you, didn’t I?”

 

“You did. And I guess that means somethin’. Go east, Johnny.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” His voice was somewhere else. “I’ll give you a call whenever. I will. So long, Angus. And thanks for the memories.”

 

“Good luck, Jonathan.”

 

Hung up.

 

Interlocked his fingers over his head.

 

Walked outside and met with the boys in the parking lot with Ash still on his bike, sun bearing down, green signs pointing to the Des Moines exit two clicks down the road and the skyline beaming back.

 

And engines revved, and Johnny Klebitz kept heading west.

 

DOWN BAD WITH A PYRITE PRINCESS.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

NOTE: Glossary now contains bio information on the Matadors MC.

Edited May 19, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[slimeball supreme]

 

If you were going up I-80, it was to the left. If you were looking at a map, it was south. It was this boxed in industrial spot amongst the Omaha suburb as the Eighty looped down into a spaghetti junction: all these nameless buildings and blue collar businesses, all this concrete in that hellhole sort of way you found in Everycity, USA. It was in Tudor, it was in South Acter, it was in every township in f*cking Alderney, it was in every city he’d ever been in. Crossed this creek, the Big Papillion on a bridge on F Street and maneuvered around where Clay said he was meeting their guy.

 

These strip mall joint parking lots by these row-store sh*tholes - print shops and paint places and a GoPostal depot. Down the street these waving American flags and a Bollokan dealership with better asphalt than the highway, glittering Burger Shot signage dotting up down the two-story grays.

 

They’d hitched their bikes near an internet cafe sandwiched next to a road trip styled diner with the Nebraska license plate. And between that and the cafe were maybe four shuttered businesses. Nevermind actually, there was a Cash-4-Gold place that was still open but had one of the windows boarded up since someone threw a brick through the place. A little ways up the street was this meth-head looking sign-twirler in cargo shorts and sandals and no goddamn shirt showing off ribcage and twirling tribal tattoos.

 

Ashley nestled her head on Johnny’s shoulder and shut her eyes and daydreamed.

 

Neither Clay nor Terry had spilt on what the guy’s f*cking name was.

 

Johnny put a boot up on the door and rubbed at his eye.

 

Pulled his beanie off.

 

“What are we looking for, Clayton?”

 

Clay was smoking - “What?”

 

“At least what’s the guy driving, right?”

 

Terry stretched his arms and said “Vapid.”

 

“Vapid what?”

 

“Truck.”

 

“A pick-up or a van or what? Is he in a f*cking semi?”

 

“He just texted me he was driving a cage.”

 

“He said cage?”

 

“I said cage. He said truck.”

 

Johnny chewed nothing and said “Alright, dude. Some kind of trailer queen or something.”

 

It wasn’t that they were hiding who he was. Just that Johnny didn’t ask, and didn’t really care.

 

Ashley got closer.

 

Terry said “Oh!”

 

Ash opened her eyes.

 

A gray Sadler with an enclosed cab was looping around the parking lot in this sort of blind desperation, like a duckling looking for its mother, this idiot sh*t where it was dipping in and out of lots and back in again. Truck had stumbled on their lot. And the blue decals came into light - weren’t decals but company livery - XpedE8 SHIPPING and a bunch of fine print in front of a big blue stripe from the rear wheel to the roof.

 

It slowed near the bikes.

 

Clay waved.

 

This was the Vapid.

 

Ashley cried “Lars! Hey!”

 

And out the door stepped Lars. And Lars rubbed at his thick earlobes with the holes cut in and said “I was looking all the f*ck over for you people, huh, you coulda’--”

 

“Lars, baby, hey!”

 

“Ash, honey. Hello.”

 

Lars left the door ajar, and took a few steps, and hugged Ash like a bear. She put a leg up. Held a moment and released and Lars cleared his throat and went on going “Seriously, you could’ve said where you were exactly gonna be.”

 

“I thought we would stand out, brother,” Terry was going.

 

“Stand- stand the f*ck out? That don’t mean sh*t?”

 

Johnny said “Did you think we’d be looking for a f*cking sedan across the street?”

 

“It’s just- it’s just I mean it’s--”

 

“I say,” Terry was going, “meet on F Street. I’d text Johnny, hey, meet on Frankfort. And he wouldn’t ask me what f*cking place to meet at, he’d just go to Frankfort.”

 

“Well sorry I don’t have you- like, man, who the f*ck is Johnny?”

 

Johnny scoffed.

 

“What? Was I supposed to meet on Frankfort? Where the hell is Frankfort?”

 

“I’m Johnny,” Johnny said.

 

And Lars blinked.

 

And Lars said “Ah, okay.” And the veneer dropped, broke into a smile and held out a hand and said “How the f*ck are you going, man?”

 

Johnny shook. “I’m fine.” Looked at Ash, “You know her?”

 

“He’s my cousin,” Ashley said.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah sorta,” Lars just moved on, “and I’m with, uh, you know, with uh, yeah.”

 

Lars was a big guy: paunchy, thinning bleached blond hair and a brown-black goatee, wobbly little eyes. Tight black t-shirt on denim shorts and work boots with tattoos lining up thick legs. This weird posture where he’d push his chest out but still fumbled with scratching and checking himself out like he was constantly itching. Sports shades clipped around the shirt collar, on it went.

 

“Johnny was the big guy in LC,” Terry said. “Motherf*ckin’ tee-rooper.”

 

“I know that,” Lars said. “Shoulda’ said- shoulda’ said Johnny Kay instead of just Johnny, because me, I was wondering which Johnny you meant, and that- and I mean, that was that- you know?”

 

Lars was a big motherf*cker with this flighty, peaky little voice. San Andreas accent made everything unserious. Johnny said “Okay.”

 

“And Lars,” Terry said, “he’s with the Gunthugs in San Andreas. In Paleto Bay, I think, right?”

 

“Majestic County chapter,” guy was beaming. “I got my cut in the truck I can show you, right?”

 

Johnny squinted.

 

“You want me to show it, right?”

 

Johnny still squinting. “What do you know about… what do you know about Nebraska, man?”

 

“Oh, sh*t, I mean- I’m- I’m from Paleto, in Majestic County, but half my family, they’re corn huskers, man, I got family here. I mean I’m basically half Winnebago, basically, that ain’t even a lie.” It was pretty clearly a lie. “I spent a lotta’ time up near, uh, near Columbus, I spent time up there, because my aunt, she was- yeah. She was, yeah.”

 

“You grew up in Ohio?”

 

“No, in- no, in- Columbus, Ohio. No, no- Columbus, Nebraska. Nebraska.”

 

“Columbus in Nebraska?”

 

“No, in Ohio.” He forced out some yellow-tooth grin: “Nah, I’m just kidding. Columbus, Nebraska. That’s where- that’s where I’m from, in Nebraska. I said.”

 

Clay took a drag from his wet cigarette.

 

Beat.

 

“But really I know everything you need to know, y’know.” Lars’ face flickered, stifled his grin, threw it back out wider. “And I got the stuff you wanted, Terry.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, it’s in the truck.”

 

“What’s with the f*cking cage, man?” Johnny frowned.

 

And Lars broke a little and said “You wanna f*cking ride from Robada halfway across the country on a Western? I ain’t a f*cking retard.”

 

“Yeah, well we done it.”

 

“Oh. Well you ain’t a retard.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And- and, I was at a print shop for a moment when you called me the other day, Terry, about the thing you wanted. And I got the picture. You want that still, right?”

 

“I still do.”

 

“Okay,” ducked back into his truck, rifled, “Check this motherf*cker the f*cking f*ck out, yeah?”

 

He came out.

 

Fingers clutching a picture.

 

 

Carl the Dogg.

 

Johnny squinted.

 

Oh.

 

He remembered that f*cking idiot.

 

Clay asked “Where the hell’d you get this, man?”

 

“Nice picture,” Johnny said.

 

“Only one I could f*cking- only one I could find, cuz’. Only one. And- and it’s sh*t, I f*cking know, but I couldn’t get it nowhere.”

 

Johnny echoed, “Where did you get this?”

 

“The Lost MC website,” Lars said.

 

Oh.

 

Clay popped his cheek. “Ah.”

 

Johnny looked around. Couldn’t find Ash a moment until he saw her seated down on the back of the truck, looking out at the traffic, completely out of it. Chewed his lip. “So this is Carl… uh, yeah. Carl.”

 

Lars, “Carl what?”

 

“Forgot his f*cking name.”

 

“I found some stuff Eyefinding it about Carlton Maddox. And he’s in the news- I mean the local news, around here, he’s been in it once the other month because he got in this thing with some- uh, yeah, some stuff.”

 

“Who’s he ride with now?”

 

“Matadors. Didn’t Terry tell you?” Looked to Terry, “You tell him?”

 

“I was just making sure,” Johnny sighed. “He’s got the f*cking tattoo and everything, I don’t get it.”

 

“He’s from… his brother, I think, was with the Delisle City chapter of the Matadors. Got word it was that and some stuff about him rocking with some dudes in the pen and, uh, some money. Which I- I think, you guys was interested in.”

 

Terry said “Sure.”

 

“So, yeah. I know everything going down along the Eighty, man, from here to Eucarista. And the Matadors are all over. This is a Deadbeat state, so they- I mean, the AOD have their club in Omaha down uh… I think we actually ain’t far from it, they’re in Highland Park I think, or by the Missouri. But here it’s… what it is.”

 

“So that article--”

 

“The article- the article was about a thing he did in uh… Scottsbluff? I think. But it said him was from being from Wyoming or something I think. But Terry said Cheyenne and- and frankly I think they ain’t gonna be in Cheyenne.”

 

“Why the f*ck not?”

 

“The- uh, I mean- the big chapter, the one he’s apart of, they’re in Gillette. If you wanna ride up there, be my f*cking guest, but I’m not going to Gillette because if we do then we’re probably gonna go to Billings since that’s where all the guys are.”

 

Johnny said “This f*cking politics sh*t.”

 

And Clay said “It’s all politics. What you brothers never f*cking got, was that all of this sh*t is gonna be politics and stay f*cking politics. MCs is politics. You think otherwise and you got sh*t for brains.”

 

“He’s uh- yeah. Yeah,” Lars said, “Yeah. I mean, you wanna know what to know then you know. The Matadors and the AOD, they got meth kitchens and stash houses and sh*t all over the 80, loop around the mid-country. In the Yanktons it becomes AOD and Mother of Mercy with their thing, and they’re allied, but the Matadors beef. That- that, and the White Acolytes.”

 

“The nazis?”

 

“Yeah, f*ck it. The White Acolytes - the Axe - I mean, they got sh*t all over the country. There’s the Sig Sons, but they’re all in SoSan, I know some fellas in Los Santos who are Dead Heads--”

 

“I don’t give a f*ck about fascists, man,” Johnny said.

 

“I know. I’m just saying a lot of the AOD, they’re either Acolytes or they’re with, uh, the Acolytes of Texas, or… funny how a lot of nazis is San Andrean, but uh, yeah. Holy Dead Heads, too.”

 

“I don’t know them.”

 

“Oh, well you know.”

 

Beat.

 

“Know what?”

 

“What- I don’t f*cking know, the Dead Heads are from Red County and East Beach--”

 

“This is all San Andreas sh*t, you moron.”

 

“Look. Mother of Mercy, they roll with the AOD. AOD, they roll with the nazis. Matadors, they roll with whoever. They’re Texan, they roll with the Acolytes of Texas. They’re all f*cking nazis, and so was Carl.”

 

Johnny blinked. “f*ck off.”

 

“Or, I don’t know, his brother was with the Axe.”

 

“There are no fascists in the f*cking Lost, man.”

 

Shrugged. “I seen Gunthugs with Confederate flags.”

 

Johnny blinked again. “What?!”

 

“Eve- even back in Liberty, the one time I went. Some of the Lost and some of the Gunthugs, they had their Dixies on--”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, no they f*cking didn’t.”

 

And Clay said “I mean, yeah we did.”

 

“I don’t remember this sh*t.”

 

“It wasn’t racist--”

 

“Clay.”

 

“Well--”

 

“You of all goddamn people should know that sh*t is racist, dude.”

 

“It’s… the way the brothers saw it, they was either shocking folks or they was wearing it as, f*ckin’, rebellion.”

 

“Wear f*cking Gadsdens,” Johnny said. “That’s what I always said, you wanna put up a flag, put up a f*cking Gadsden.”

 

Lars was standing there like he had no idea what he was doing and of course the bozo had to chip in with “Who’s Gadsen?”

 

“Shut up, Lars.” Moved on, “And we lost potential brothers for that, and I ain’t miss those sons of bitches, but--”

 

Lars said “Who is he?”

 

“Shut the f*ck-... gah, what the f…” Johnny sighed. Deflated. “So what’s the score?”

 

“The what?”

 

“The play. How are we finding Dogg?”

 

“Oh. Well, sh*t. I don’t know. You follow the money.”

 

Repeated skeptical-like, “You follow the f*cking money?”

 

“You f- yeah. I mean, Carl is a low rent guy, he’s just got the patch and, uh, and nothing more. So what you do is you ask around. These guys around here: Montana, the Yanktons, Wyoming, Utah, whatever… everyone knows each other. So I’m sure if we find the right stash we can just, like, ask, dude.”

 

“We knock on the door, we say hi?”

 

“No,” Lars said. “We probably kill them.”

 

Terry chuckled.

 

Johnny didn’t, “‘Cause you’re such a f*ckin’ killer.”

 

“I am,” Lars went.

 

“You’re f*cking kidding me--”

 

“I even, ha, I brought some other sh*t too. You wanna, uh, I got it-” back to his truck, “Hold on--”

 

“We having a WingIt presentation now, man?”

 

Terry laughed again, “I wanna see what he has, screw it.”

 

Lars turned again. Grinning.

 

Another poster.

 

 

Johnny stepped forward.

 

Stepped forward.

 

Lars said “Mad, right?”

 

“You got this from where?” Johnny asked.

 

“They had these up in a few places in town. And I went down to Blaine County, they was talking about me there, too. You know why? Because I’m a f*cking maniac. I ripped this right off a light pole right near the cop station in Paleto, motherf*cker.”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Terry said “Neat.” Wasn’t sure if he meant it.

 

“You know why?” Lars grinned. “Because I’m a f*cking Gunthug. I’m an outlaw. In Esprit Incarnate, in Majestic County, in Los Santos, in Blaine. You say Gunthugs and every spick and retard pisses they pants. Even the AOD in Pasa Palomino, sh*t and fart theyselves.”

 

“Chill out, dude,” Johnny said.

 

“I ain’t just brains,” Lars snapped. “I’m f*cking brawn and balls.”

 

“For grand larceny?”

 

“I used to be a piano mover so I got muscles like f*ck--”

 

“Grand larceny ain’t killing,” Johnny said. “And neither is tweaking.”

 

“Okay, well, you know, that ain’t what I been got the poster for, okay, so you know. Tweaking ain’t what I’m wanted for, but f*ck if I ain’t wanted.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Says on the poster.”

 

Johnny repeated, “What did you do?”

 

“You know.”

 

“How the hell would I know?”

 

“Was just some robbing.”

 

“Robbing what?”

 

Terry said “Johnny--”

 

“Is he legit, Terry?”

 

“Stole some meds,” Lars said.

 

“Just that?”

 

“And some other stuff sure, I don’t know, yeah, what’s your problem, what’s your problem?”

 

“Leave him alone, Johnny.” That was Ashley.

 

Ashley stood up.

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

“Lars is family, sugar, Lars is family.”

 

“Family I ain’t never met but you all seem so familiar--”

 

“He’s a cousin,” Ashley said. “And a brother.”

 

“He ain’t a real brother. A nephew, more like. A nothing. And-and a cousin? Of who, of Linda?”

 

Ashley corrected “Linney.”

 

Lars said “What?” Looked at Ashley, “Are we?”

 

“Yeah,” she said.

 

“Oh,” Lars said, and he laughed, and he said “Yeah.”

 

Johnny said nothing.

 

Johnny said nothing.

 

Johnny twitched.

 

Clay looked at Johnny, and Clay’s eyes kinda bugged, and he said loud as hell “Hey Ashley why don’t you come along--” and shepherded her a little ways away with Terry right behind while she was asking “What what what--” fruitless.

 

John and Lars.

 

Lars said “What?”

 

“Let’s talk.”

 

“What?”

 

Johnny put an arm around Lars, “Let’s talk.”

 

Lars frowned. “Okay.”

 

Were stepping off toward the road, “A killer?” Johnny asked again, “That so?”

 

And Lars chuckled and said “I dip my bullets in cyanide, brother.”

 

Johnny pinched his top lip. “How much meth?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“How much meth?”

 

“How much I smoke or how much I sell?”

 

Stopped walking. “Wrong answer.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Johnny glared. Glare like a drill, “She’s clean, okay?”

 

“Huh. Yeah?”

 

Johnny was grabbing Lars’ shoulder now. “Yeah,” hard-edged.

 

“Hey--”

 

“How much?”

 

“Hey--”

 

“In that truck of yours, you got any?”

 

“Okay--”

 

“I’m gonna tell you something. Okay?” Didn’t wait for an answer, “I’m telling you straight. She does any sh*t, I’m gonna tear your goddamn throat out. That clear? I’m gonna rip your goddamn throat out. Clap your fat hick ass, leave you lying in a ditch.”

 

Lars blinked. “Oh.”

 

“You got that, you f*cking idiot?”

 

“You don’t talk to me that way.”

 

“I’m the goddamn mother President, you stupid f*ck, I talk to you how I please.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“What you say?”

 

“Woody Rings is that and you ain’t president of nothin’ no more, okay?” Sounded unsure of himself. “So--”

 

“Is that a road you wanna go down?”

 

Lars blinked.

 

And thought.

 

And said “No.”

 

Johnny nodded. “Keep it the f*ck that way, dude.”

 

Let go.

 

Walked off.

 

---

 

Rode on.

 

Lincoln was the same kind of town as Omaha: dusty, gray, empty. Was in between green-yellow plains past the Platte River while the gray road snaked on in a straight line for a million years. The trademarked wasteland in between the rolling hills and the farmland and the choked-out evil smoke stacks and parking lots. The road was dead ahead until a sharp turn past the airport.

 

And then it was about 125 or so miles of nothing.

 

Nothing.

 

Was this country they’d have gone through ages back. Real bright grass, too, big eighteen-wheelers and Johnny checking behind to see their escort, the f*cking XpedE8 truck and Lars with the dorky sunglasses cud-chewing behind the windshield.

 

And he’d never told Ashley about his last trip cross-country, never really. Always curled up and prettied up like it was flowers in your hair nonsense, like it was open road and open feelings, and he’d told Clay that and Clay laughed in his face and said the only thing beat the air was wet c*nt and the pipe.

 

They were gonna stop in Kearney.

 

They’d said hello to the Platte River back in Lincoln, which was all Johnny remembered of the place. And they’d met up with her again when the river wound back past Grand Island.

 

“The Wyoming chapter of the Angels, actually,” Lars said. “They came down here last year, actually.”

 

“Yeah?” Was Terry.

 

Johnny said “Lars, where that from?”

 

Lars said “They was picking up the plastic bags along the route and the cans and sh*t, actually. And the CCC affiliate station sent down some people and I remember it was this whole thing because Rotgut--”

 

Terry said “Rotgut?”

 

“Who we’re seeing.”

 

Johnny said “Are you parents German?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Your name is Lars. Is that because your parents were German?”

 

And Lars squinted, said “Lars is a Swedish name.”

 

“Were your parents Swedish?”

 

It was too dark for sunglasses, but Lars had them on. And Lars took them off, wiped ‘em down with his shirt, put ‘em back on, and said “What?”

 

“What?”

 

Lars said “Huh?”

 

Johnny scoffed.

 

Lars said “Okay,” and took the gas pump out the truck.

 

It was 4 PM.

 

And they rode past The Archway.

 

Sun beamed off these red-gold windows - or maybe it was painted but it shined like glass - from about a couple miles off on the horizon. Sky was going darker but the light had this glint off the shapes, off the metal, off the signage. These two big eagles, or maybe horses with f*cking wings, on either side of this thing with chain-link metal uniting them. Grass had died up here, puddle had formed between the road. But this. Wood like oak-log and when they passed under it yes, the thing was painted corrugated metal or some sh*t like that.

 

Ash was squealing, said they needed to see this. Said they needed to see this.

 

And Lars said the thing closed at 5.

 

So they looped around and went back the way they came, back to the exit they’d blazed past, and they went to the Great Platte River Road Archway.

 

At the front door. On the gray brick wall, on a black sign. Before the entry.

 

 

“The President came here,” Lars said.

 

“Yeah?” Ashley.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Which? Billy Grey?”

 

“No. The real one. Before Oduya.”

 

“Lawton?”

 

“No, Boykin.”

 

“Boykin.” Sang that, “Boykinnn.”

 

Ashley was holding his hand.

 

She whispered.

 

He laughed.

 

He whispered.

 

She laughed.

 

She let go, came to Johnny at the front of the empty line waiting to book a dumb f*cking tour.

 

“Said I should dye my hair,” Ashley said.

 

Johnny fake-smiled, said “That funny?”

 

“What I been to you, sugar? Never blonde.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

It was still grating on Johnny that Lars had said ‘the real one’.

 

They were the last ones in for the day.

 

Went up an escalator with these shining green neons dotting - projector hawking some voice in olde speak over these soft tones and the ranging mountains. The Scottsbluff rocks and the red hills, little mannequins posed on the sides of the escalator under faux-dirt. Indians and pioneers shaking hands.

 

Murals. Murals of the Oregon Trail and the caravans heading up past the quirky hillsides and the green-grass plains like little specks, horseback dots and endless weeds.

 

Ash was laughing.

 

Ash was holding Lars’ hand.

 

Was by these statues. Somewhere along that big arch up the topway, posed mannequins around a marked grave. Little girl in a dress and a fella in suspenders holding his hat to his chest.

 

A million places like this.

 

Ash was laughing.

 

Lars was laughing.

 

Empty hall. Polished floor painted red broken up by monuments, by a carriage being pushed by two ladies with dirty faces, barrels falling out, horses going.

 

Johnny said “He ain’t the real president.”

 

They were gawking at this dumb statue. Ash had tried climbing up one of the rocks a little ways back but she relented on account of the big security camera up in the corner bearing down. ‘The Mormon Handcart Expeditions’, some nonsense. Words carved into fake plastic.

 

Lars took a swig out this Sprunk bottle, said to Clay “These are cowboys?”

 

Terry said “No.” Clay didn’t reply.

 

Johnny repeated, “Lars. He ain’t the real president.”

 

Lars said “What?”

 

“He ain’t.”

 

“The cowboys?”

 

“No. The president.”

 

“What you goin’ on sayin’?”

 

“You said Woody ain’t the real president.”

 

“What?”

 

“Woody is the real president. Ain’t Lawton or Oduya or nobody. We’re the real people.”

 

“The f*ck you on about?”

 

Ash said “Baby, that don’t matter.”

 

“He said it,” Johnny went.

 

“I don’t remember that.”

 

“Yeah,” said Lars. “I’ont remember that. I’d--”

 

“You gotta be less doofy, sugar, you gotta lighten up, you gotta smile. You gotta smile.”

 

Lars said “You gotta be positive about your outlook.”

 

“On what?” Johnny said.

 

“You gotta not be a f*ckin’, uh, a bottle half-full dude. Not a nothing-empty dude. You know?”

 

“What?”

 

Clay said “Ash--”

 

Ash laughed.

 

Ash laughed.

 

“Oh, baby.”

 

Ash hugged Johnny.

 

Ash hugged Lars.

 

“Ain’t gotta be a loser gotta be a winner. Gotta celebrate, gotta party, gotta live like you ain’t gonna no more.”

 

They were still walking. Had been a minute, Lars had brought it up again.

 

Ash said “I gotta go to the little girl’s.” Left.

 

Johnny brushed her on the shoulder as she walked off, turned back and said “Don’t call me a loser.”

 

“I ain’t,” Lars said.

 

“Good.”

 

“I’m just saying you gotta not think like a non-thinker. Or like, I don’t know--”

 

“You a deep thinker, Lars?”

 

“I’m a deep thinker. Think long and hard on everything, right? You gotta stay philosophical. Think long and hard about what I’m ordering from Burger Shot, guy. I’m the thinking type of maniac.”

 

“You’re a…” Stopped. “Okay.”

 

“Okay, what?”

 

Felt like Johnny was pulling teeth. His own. “I don’t know.”

 

“I’m older’n all you combined. I rode bikes was you kids was, uh, was when your moms was riding your pops. Right? I got my own obligations. I got a lifetime of tight ass and--”

 

“Stop.”

 

“Tight ass and tight cunts and I make--”

 

“I get it.”

 

“Okay. But you know, I’m a brother for life. That’s the whole thing. Lost forever. Gunthugs forever. Same thing. But that’s me.”

 

Johnny stopped.

 

Pioneer lady hooded up right behind him. Eagle staring down from above. Teepee where an Indian and a horseback carriageman were hugging, Indians helping the pioneers fix their wagon.

 

Johnny stopped.

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

Lars muttered something like a ‘huh’.

 

Johnny, “What the f*ck did you say?”

 

“I, er- huh?”

 

Terry stopped.

 

Clay stopped.

 

Johnny felt like he couldn’t breathe.

 

Lars said “You alright?”

 

Johnny said “Who the f*ck are you?”

 

“What?”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“Know what?”

 

Johnny was frozen.

 

Like he knew.

 

Like he knew.

 

Like he knew.

 

He turned.

 

He started walking.

 

Jogged.

 

Ran.

 

Ran on polished floors his mind racing past recorded soundbytes, past the rocks past the mannequins, ran past the cameras nearly bumping into the wall, his leg hurting like hell running like there was gunfire. Pain up the leg, that f*cking limp, that f*cking agony, down a small flight of stairs down to the bathrooms.

 

Thought a moment. Shoulder checked the women’s room. Like he knew.

 

Stalls.

 

Scanned the stalls.

 

Scanned for legs.

 

Legs.

 

Banged on the door.

 

“What he done!”

 

Banged on the door.

 

No answer.

 

Banged on the door, “Ashley! Ash, Ash! Ash, you better- Ash!”

 

No answer.

 

“Ashley.”

 

Soft. “Sugar.”

 

Eye twitched.

 

Rammed. Shoulder rammed the door.

 

Shoulder rammed the door.

 

Shoulder rammed the door.

 

Hinges broke.

 

Johnny slapped Ashley in the face and pulled her up by the collar.

 

Pipe hit the floor.

 

“Baby, wait--”

 

“I let you out a minute! A minute!”

 

“Sugar, please--”

 

“You f*cking slut, oughta’ kill you right here, you f*cking idiot--”

 

“Baby--”

 

“I should wring your goddamn neck! That f*cking sleaze, man, that f*cking sleaze--”

 

“What?!”

 

“He ruined you. Your f*cking cousin--”

 

“No!”

 

“No?! No?! You’re clean! You’re clean!”

 

“I ain’t been clean, baby, I ain’t- I ain’t been clean--”

 

“Nothin’. Nothin’! Nothin’! I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him!”

 

“Baby--”

 

“Him, his whole f*ckin’ family--”

 

“I ain’t been clean since Erie, baby.”

 

She said that real calm. Through all that smoke, all that fire, she said that calm.

 

Johnny stopped.

 

Johnny was frozen.

 

“Since Erie,” she said.

 

Johnny shook his head. “Lars--”

 

“Weren’t Lars, baby. Don’t bring my cousin in, Johnny, don’t bring him in--”

 

“He ain’t your cousin.”

 

“I ain’t been clean since Erie, sugar. And that’s okay. It helps you live.”

 

“Lars weren’t in f*ckin’ Erie.”

 

“Clay gave me the crystal, baby, while you were with them friends of Terrence. Not Lars. Lars didn’t do nothin’, I ain’t got a taste off Lars.”

 

“Clay?”

 

“Yeah, baby.”

 

Johnny stopped.

 

Back against the stall.

 

Slumped.

 

Right to the ground.

 

“I’m bad, baby, I know it.”

 

“Not again.”

 

“Baby.”

 

“Not again.”

 

“He didn’t even know, baby.”

 

“Sweetheart.” Johnny’s voice broke. “You and f*cking Tina.”

 

Head in his hands.

 

Couldn’t think.

 

Ash was saying something.

 

Didn’t hear.

 

“It’s okay,” she said.

 

“I’m a f*cking idiot.”

 

“I love you, baby, I love you. It’s okay.”

 

Put her hand on his shoulder. Got off the seat, got right down to his level, head on his shoulder. Johnny said “f*ck.”

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“I love you, Ash.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry, Ash. I’m sorry, baby.”
 

“It’s okay, Johnny.”

 

“I messed up so bad, I messed up so bad with you. I f*cked up so bad with you, baby.”

 

“Johnny. Baby. Baby, baby. Shh. Baby.”

 

“I messed up.”

 

“I know. I know, sugar, I know.”

 

“I shoulda’-... I should’ve f*cking…”

 

“Shh.”

 

She hugged him.

 

Head on his shoulder.

 

He wiped his face. Grabbed for the lighter behind him, under the stall.

 

She got the pipe.

 

He took it.

 

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said.

 

CALL THE EIGHTY AN ABOUT-FACE.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited March 22, 2023 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

 

They needed money.

 

In amongst the dead sprawl of Carlsbad, New Mexico: little but brown, overgrown grass peeking out the asphalt and the sad little bungalows, the red dirt underfoot. Past the Junque Osmond bank on the corner where they’d imported new grass - green grass - the soil was scarred, dusty, orange, dead. Down Main Street there were empty lots, scrap heaps, pick-ups.

 

They needed money. Horse and Brian had gone and split over Rio Pecos and got the word to each other they’d meet on at whichever Taco Bomb they could find on the highway. The plan was to head north, not south, since they’d been riding on US Route 62 since maybe Seminole back in Texas. If they kept going down 62, they’d be in El Paso, which would be more distraction for which they did not f*cking need, and if they missed Rode Mine then Winnie would rip Johnny’s bald little f*cking head off his shoulders and f*ck him with his own spine. Was what he said, anyway.

 

Terry and Johnny slowed their bikes.

 

They stopped.

 

Johnny signaled.

 

A block away from the Parole Office on Main, was a bail bond place on Main.

 

What cage was parked outside?

 

Motherf*cker with a goddamn Benefactor.

 

Driveway had a Bravado Bison quad cab in canary-yellow that looked good enough. But no, that thing weren’t nothing compared to the Benny Schafter in black pearl with that f*cking blue New Car Smell air freshener. Lotta colors.

 

Johnny got off the bike.

 

Terry just said “Which?”

 

Johnny had never robbed a bail bondsman before, and they were f*cking crooks. But he didn’t know how that sh*t worked. So he said “You got a jimmy, brother?”

 

And Terry didn’t, so he said “No.”

 

John sniffed. “Gimme your cut.”

 

Terry Thorpe the Upstate Hick was in a blue-white plaid button-up under his vest, under his rocker. Hocked a mean f*cking loogie on the ground and balled up his leathers and let Johnny catch ‘em, grabbed the Hawk & Little piece from the front of his belt and held the top of the barrel.

 

Johnny caught the cut, held it, decided he’d get in the old fashioned way. Got a wrench from out where he was keeping his bike sh*t already, held it in the other hand, said “I go over there, you hit the door.”

 

“Okay,” Terry was already walking, concealing the gun with both his hands. “Gotcha’, brother.”

 

“There’s nothing in here,” Johnny was shouting now, “I come over and help you out, okay!”

 

“Okay, okay--”

 

“That a camera?!”

 

“What? Oh, f*ck!”

 

“That’s a f*cking camera--”

 

Camera above the door and Terry smashed it, smashed it, smashed it, smashed it. “Go, go!”

 

Meant go.

 

Johnny was a few steps away from the Benny. Jogged over.

 

Got the wrench out.

 

Hit the window.

 

Car alarm was blaring like f*ck and Johnny heard Terry screaming, “Open the f*cking door, open it--” and Johnny hit again. One handed, dropped Terry’s cut onto the ground, smashed it a third f*cking time and the glass only cracked and didn’t break. Old fashioned meant old fashioned now - Johnny backed up, looked behind himself, kicked in the window.

 

“Open the door you stupid bitch- open it! Open it!”

 

Glass shattered.

 

Wind picked up the vest.

 

Nearly sent it over the f*cking river Pecos, but Johnny grabbed it, put his arm through the sleeve, looked back and saw Terry barge through the f*cking door with his gun out with the screaming getting muffled. Grit his f*cking teeth and wrapped the vest around his hand and reached in for the door handle and whammed that thing ajar.

 

Muffled screaming. Something about a safe, Terry’s voice.

 

Johnny smacked the dash.

 

Tissues.

 

Tissues.

 

f*cking hankerchief, f*cking cloth, mini-tool kit.

 

Started smashing the f*cking radio with his goddamn wrench. Smashing the LEDs and the air-con and busting out plastic and wood-panel, smashing it. Realized halfway through nothing was gonna f*cking be in the thing, dropped his wrench and looked in the cup holders.

 

Zilch, sh*t.

 

Pulled open the center console.

 

Palm-sized Bible, duloxetine box, Noch 17 pistol. Pocketed the meds, stuffed the gun in his jacket.

 

Heard glass break in the building.

 

Clawed at the car seats, searched under the car seat passenger-side. Zilch, sh*t.

 

Stopped.

 

Cup holders.

 

Pulled the plastic framing out - loose.

 

Green.

 

Green.

 

Money coming out and Johnny peeled the bills and nearly dropped a few between the seats - rapid counting a couple hundreds worth and doing the numbers in his head. All Benjamins in a Benefactor: 100, 200, 300, 400, 500, motherf*cker, 700--

 

Gunshot.

 

Sh*t.
 

Sh*t.

 

Johnny stopped counting and stuffed the thing in his jeans pocket.

 

Pulled out the gun.

 

Ran for the door.

 

And saw Terry running out. Money. Security tape.

 

Terry grinning ear-to-f*cking-ear saying “BUD, WE GOT THAT SH*T!!”

 

Johnny with the vest around his f*cking arm like a bracelet running for the bike, on it, going GO GO GO and shouting that sh*t, “GO GO GO GO--”

 

Sped.

 

Off.

 

---

 

Tossed the tapes on the fire.

 

Watched the film burn.

 

Seven thousand, five hundred and thirteen dollars.

 

Plus four hundred more Brian got off a guy in the Taco Bomb parking lot.

 

Not bad at all.

 

Not bad at all.

 

Johnny was mewing to himself, “Not bad at all.” Humming along while the tape crackled, while the fire crackled, while the smoke drifted off into the sky. Among the brush, in the cold, in the dark.

 

Winnie had tossed most of the hunting sh*t in Texas, when it became clear he wouldn’t be able to lug it across three state lines without it becoming a hassle. It was a cooler strapped with f*cking duct-tape or some sh*t, it wasn’t gonna carry any-and-everything. He’d been wearing one of the sleeping bags - Terry had forgotten his back near Sweetwater and they weren’t gonna go down to get it. So that just meant he was the only one sleeping pretty. So be it. Except the ratchet straps, the rope, the bug spray, the ammo for guns Horse didn’t have? It was all gone. Had traded in MREs for a Chimichingado Chiquito and a Diet Sprunk.

 

Johnny was still wearing his woodland-camo hoodie underneath his leather jacket.

 

Where were they?

 

Outside Lordsburg, near the Arizona border.

 

Johnny spat onto the dirt.

 

In the brush outside town were homes sub-trailer park. Houses made out of corrugated metal and plywood, rusted cars and razor wire. On a road that was only named Pasture, like the road only named Myung back in Alderney City, was more razor wire and a big empty lot. Empty lot of gravel and scrap piles and a few trashed heaps that might’ve been homes at some point. They rode the bikes past the fencing into the dust, heaped the wood into a pile, Horse got kerosene out his cooler that he hadn’t told a soul he had. Terry went looking for copper wire and was still looking as far as Johnny knew.

 

Seen the locals. Nice people, talkative. Asked around and pat a golden retriever named Biscuit, owner named Babs said they were free to set up, as far as she knew. That there was a neighbor, his name was Lysander, he’d give them a tent if they wanted.

 

And they went to the guy’s house and the guy weren’t home.

 

So they went back to Babs and she offered them chocolate-spread sandwiches.

 

Brian didn’t opt for ‘em, since he was lactose intolerant.

 

Horse asked “What the f*ck is that?”

 

And BJ said, “I can’t have dairy.”

 

“Is there dairy in chocolate?”

 

“They got milk in the f*cking name, Winnie,” Johnny said.

 

“I didn’t ask you, I asked BJ. BJ, they got dairy in chocolate?”

 

“As far as I know, man,” Brian said.

 

And she offered peanut butter or “something”, and Brian just declined, since the man wasn’t hungry. She called him Calamity Jane, on account of his dumb f*cking hat.

 

He was stood.

 

The fire crackled.

 

He’d laughed it off at the time.

 

Cast a shadow in the fire in the dead of the night. Horse warming his hands, half-asleep, tired eyed and slack-jawed. Brian standing tall.

 

When had they last spoken?

 

Johnny wasn’t sure.

 

Was sat down, humming. Looked up at Brian, Brian stern-faced with his hands behind his back and the hat still on, wind whipping at the flame. Light-glint off his glasses and his eyes off in the distance.

 

His eyes flickered.

 

The flame flickered.

 

“Why are you looking at me, Johnny?”

 

Johnny didn’t reply.

 

“You afraid of me?”

 

Johnny scoffed.

 

“You don’t reply to me, that’s ‘cause I think you’re afraid of me.”

 

“Why would I be af- why would that even happen, Brian?”

 

Brian popped his lips.

 

Winnie looked up.

 

Brian just murmured “Whatever you say, man.”

 

“What was that?” Johnny heard him clear as day.

 

“I said, ‘whatever you f*cking say’, alright?”

 

Horse cut “Where’s Terry at?”

 

“He saw that washing machine or whatever,” Johnny said. “Where is- Terry! Terry!”

 

In the distance, “What?”

 

“The f*ck are you doing, man?”

 

Beat.

 

“I don’t know!”

 

Winnie laughed.

 

Johnny laughed.

 

Brian popped his lips.

 

Stared off at the flames like he had something to say. Probably did.

 

Johnny didn’t want to indulge.

 

Brian side-eyed a second but looked back at the fire. Muttered, “Calamity Jane.”

 

Winnie said “What?”

 

“Nothing, nothing. Just… yeah, nothing, man.”

 

Shrugged and went “Okay.”

 

Fire crackled.

 

“She was a bitch, wasn’t she?”

 

Nobody responded to Brian.

 

“Yeah… yeah, she was.”

 

Johnny frowned. “What?”

 

“She was a total f*ckin’ bitch, I think.”

 

“Who’re you talking about?”

 

“What? Oh, I don’t know.”

 

“Ah, shut up, dude.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

Johnny straightened. “I said shut up, dude. Stop fixating. This Calamity Jane sh*t, c’mon. Don’t start nothing fruity.”

 

“f*ck you, Johnny.”

 

Winnie just looked on slant-eyed, knew it was coming. Sighed nigh-audibly.

 

Johnny went “What?!”

 

Mocking, “What, what, what what what what. You agree with her or some sh*t? That c*nt with her f*cking bread? Calling- callin’ me Calamity Jane on account of she thinks I’m some f*ckin’ bitch. That’s why you was looking at me funny just now.”

 

“She said it ‘cause of that stupid goddamn ten gallon hat a’ yours.” Johnny talking the guy off a ledge. “Was a nice woman, Brian. She didn’t mean nothing by it.”

 

“Oh,” Brian went. “Oh, hoho. Now it’s a stupid goddamn hat, is it, Johnny? Wasn’t stupid when we took it off the guy at the ATM. Stupid hat, f*cking slag. Calamity Jane. Calamity Jane, she says. That’s how everyone thinks, right? That’s how you all see me?”

 

Fingertips dug into the dirt.

 

Winnie went “Hey, take it down a f*cking notch.”

 

And arms started flailing accusatory from across the fire. “You hate me, Johnny. Mister-holier-than-though, f*ckin’ Kabbalah, Jew bible sh*t.” Spit flew. “You condescend, you know that? You talk about- you say sh*t about how I couldn’t make it into the army ‘cause of my asthma, for one.”

 

Johnny scoffing “Who the f*ck brought that up?”

 

“You were thinking it.”

 

“No, I was not f*ckin’ thinking it, man. You’re gettin’ caught up on all this sh*t anyway, dude, army’s gay.”

 

“It is not.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“It is f*cking not gay.”

 

“I’m not having this discussion with you--”

 

“The army is not gay.”

 

“I don’t give a sh*t about this. I wanted to be an armyman too, Brian, but I learned--”

 

“You learned you’re too gay for the army? Because- because they don’t let fags in the army and you’re a fag? You’re a fag, Johnny?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“And your brother, is he a fag too?”

 

Pause. Johnny smiled, “Yeah, actually. Michael’s a huge f*ckin’ fag.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“And you are if you take this army sh*t seriously. Should rip that little pin right off your jacket, brother, the one you got at home with that little yellow eagle on it. You ain’t no veteran. And you shouldn’t be, because the army’s for pussies.”

 

“It f*cking is not!”

 

“Brian, chill out.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up you f*cking kike! Shut up!”

 

“I’m not even gonna start with you, dude.” Laughed to himself, “You’re some f*ckin’ joke. And you act like you’d a’ gone somewhere with it. Army is killing civilians in the Middle East and fighting for oil money. Who gives a sh*t? You’re gonna fight on behalf of this whole f*ckin’ Man on Man man-f*ckin’ sh*t?”

 

“I oughta’ rip your little head off you f*cking piece of crap.” He wanted that to come out hard. His voice wobbled by the end.

 

“You’re better than that.”

 

Imitating, “You’re better than that, you’re better than that, buhbuhbuhbuhSHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

 

“Okay, dude.”
 

“Y’know what, I think you are too much a faggot for the army.”

 

“Takes one to know one.”

 

Winnie laughed.

 

Brian’s eyes looked like they were gonna burst.

 

Red faced. He was breathing ragged.

 

Johnny was smiling. He stopped.

 

Brian clenched his fist. And he was clenching it tight, like his nails were gonna cut through his palm, and you could see the teeth gritting. Could see him twitch his eye, which he never did involuntarily. Trying to look angry.

 

Winnie, “So back in--”

 

“YOU ALWAYS HATED ME.”

 

Dead silent.

 

Brian kicked the sand. “God freaking damn it, you always freaking f*cking f*cking hated f*cking me didn’t you? You always f*cking hated me?”

 

Dead silent.

 

“Calm down,” Winnie said.

 

“You’ve been a f*cking little f*cking kike f*cking f*cking f*ck f*cking f*ck this whole f*cking f*cking trip f*cking f*ckingf*cking fffffgghhhUCK YOU!”

 

Johnny stared.

 

“Billy always said you were a little two faced little f*cking piece of sh*t--”

 

“No he didn’t,” Johnny snapped.

 

“Yes he did! Yes he did! Yes he did! Yes he did, he always said that! And I always defended you! I always defended you! But no!”

 

“No what, you baby?”

 

“I’m not a baby! I’m not a baby! I’m not a baby baby I am NOT a f*cking baby.”

 

“Stop acting--”

 

“You called me a baby in Terre Haute. You think I’m a baby. I’m not a baby. And I’m good with my bike. You asshole.”

 

“Who brought up your bike?”

 

“You and Winnie always say I’m no f*cking good at tuning my bike I AM! I AM! I AM good!! I am good! And in Terre Haute you said I was a baby and you alwayyyys thought I was a baby and stupid but I am not stupid. I am not stupid.”

 

Johnny got up. “I don’t remember this.”

 

“Yes you f*cking do! You said it! You said it! And you called me stupid all this trip and you called me stupid about the piss and about everything?”

 

“What? What are you even saying?!”

 

“I was just JOKING about the f*cking piss!”

 

“What piss? What?”

 

“And you always call me names and call me names and YOU’RE FAT, how about that? How about that?”

 

Legitimately didn’t know what he was talking about. “Was this what happened in the Ozarks?”

 

“And you called me stupid in the bar, too.”

 

“...Which?”

 

“Because I’m stupid, right?”

 

“I’m asking which bar, we went to a few.”

 

Winnie said again, “Calm down.”

 

“YOU CALM DOWN!” Pointed right at Winnie. “You called me a retard!”

 

Could see it.

 

Brian was crying.

 

Johnny said “Look, man--”

 

“You f*cking hate me. You didn’t even moo. You f*cking hate me. I thought you were my friend but you hate me. And I bet you blame me for everything, too, because you hate me. And you didn’t moo and you called me a cowboy and- and all this other sh*t.”

 

Moo? What? “I- Brian, I--”

 

“And you snitched on me. Because you hate me.”

 

“Snitched when? You’re not making any sense.”

 

“Because I’m a stupid fat retard baby I’m a baby aren’t I that’s why because I’m a baby I hate you I hate you--”

 

“Brian, calm--”

 

Brian flipped.

 

Brian flipped the f*ck out.

 

Brian did this f*ckin’ spasm, like he was so pent up he couldn’t keep himself standing straight. A f*cking tantrum, f*cking flinging his arms around at nothing and kicking the sand and throwing his head back and forth making this ungodly f*cking noise.

 

“What the f*ck is WRONG with you?”

 

Winnie shouted “Sit the f*ck down--”

 

And Brian just replied with this screech, and he knocked his arm up and down and wound it up like he was gonna cartoon superhero f*ckin’ punch somebody, and his hat went loose.

 

Fluttered on the wind. Into the fire.

 

“Stop being f*cking retarded, Brian--”

 

“No! No! No no no!” Panicking, “My goddamn--”

 

Winnie saying “You got colic, what the f*ck is--”

 

Hat was on the fire. Hat weren’t on fire.

 

Brian dove. He didn’t get off his feet, he was just stomping on the sand like it was gonna do something. And he kicked at the fire, and he kicked the hat off, and Winnie got up a moment to point before Brian dove again. Brian trying to catch the hat on the wind, finally grabbing it by the string.

 

Thing was singed. Not burned.

 

Brian started patting at it, slapping it like it was gonna get the black off it. And he sounded close to f*cking vomiting, eyes red, crying “God damn god damn GOD DAMN god damn god damn--”

 

Johnny said “Brian, what the f*ck--”

 

“I friggin’ HATE you Johnny!”

 

Johnny wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not. Winnie was pissed. Winnie said “I’m gonna knock you down a peg--”

 

“You’re an asshole, Horse! You always didn’t like me!”

 

Johnny said, “Brian--”

 

Brian said “Freaking screw this crap!” And he tossed the hat. Like a frisbee.

 

It got caught on the wind.

 

Twirled and landed at his feet.

 

Brian didn’t even say nothing. He kicked the hat. And it jumped a little before drifting to his left.

 

Standing there, panting, breathing heavy, breathing ragged.

 

Johnny stepped forward. “Can we please just talk--”

 

“I thought you were my friend, Johnny.”

 

Johnny said nothing.

 

Brian glared.

 

Spun on his heel.

 

And he stormed off down the lot.

 

Johnny stood there.

 

Dumbfounded. Just stood there.

 

Felt almost bad. Didn’t know why. Hadn’t done anything.

 

Watched Brian sulk.

 

Sat down.

 

Stared off.

 

“Shouldn’t have talked like that to his vice president,” Winnie muttered.

 

Johnny wanted to say something. Wanted to talk to him.

 

Heard him crying.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Flame flickered.

---

 

They hit I-10 going southwest just before sunrise.

 

Johnny was tired and his neck hurt from the bedspread and he had these sores just above the ankle that looked like a bunch of fire ants had feasted while he slept. Wanted to scratch, wanted to claw, but his nails were f*cking filthy so he held off anyway.

 

They’d packed up and left with nary a word, just Brian muttering and being real loud about putting sh*t back on his bike. He wasn’t wearing the hat anymore, just had the drawstring looped around the right handlebar. 

 

Terry caught Johnny aside while a big rig rolled by. Said “What’s his malfunction?” the same way Winnie’d said it the other night when Terry weren’t present. Either he’d overheard or god was just trying to be funny.

 

Johnny just told him to leave it.

 

They left it while the choppers chopped down the 10 through Animas and the mountain ranges and through the flatlands of tumbleweeds. Was quiet for a while with the sky still merigold and the wind whipping and a whole lotta nothing; just the lone 18-wheeler passing on the left and Johnny’s eyes boring holes in the back of Horse’s head. Interstate was in disrepair, mostly. Winnie made a big show of swerving around tar snakes until they hit the Arizona state line with its GRAND CANYON STATE sign and the fresh paved asphalt and then there weren’t no more reason for show and they carried the road silent for an hour or so.

 

Ankle f*cking hurt.

 

Everyone had slept rough on New Mexico dirt.

 

Around 9 AM they hit the rock formations that made the route stop looking so much like big Robada nothing and swigged from flasks and cracked bones. Winnie wiped his mouth and waited for the commotion of a truck kicking up dust to clear before speaking up.

 

“What say we hit a casino when we make it into Tucson proper?”

 

Johnny went “A casino?”

 

“Yeah, a f*cking casino. Place with beds and bells and whistles. They got a bunch on the rez out here. It’s still early but say we rest up a while and hit the road fresh tomorrow.” Craned his neck. “Last night didn’t do me no good, that’s for sh*t-sure.”

 

“Yeah.” Terry. “Yeah. f*ck it, I could use some rest and relax-i-zation.”

 

Johnny shrugged.

 

Winnie stared.

 

Brian was picking his teeth.

 

Winnie kept staring.

 

Johnny said “Sure,” real noncommittal and kicked his bike back to life.

 

Weren’t no skyline to see on the Tucson outskirts. Just mountains flanking on either side - Whetstones on the left coming in east, Rincon range on the right. Day was crisp and traffic picked up about fifteen minutes out, around the same time Johnny noticed a Xero-sponsored billboard promising free root beer floats and ice cream for truckers off the next exit. 

 

Chuckled.

 

First thing he noticed inside city limits was how f*ck-ugly the knockoff adobe subdivisions were just off the highway. Clone tract housing separated from the highway by yucca and half-walls. 

 

Ankle hurt worse.

 

Fellas rounded the perimeter of the airport following road signs promising an Indian casino - dead straight spot of road with mobile homes on one side and railroad tracks on the other. Divider was strewn with garbage, f*cking trash - bottles, plastic bags on dead trees with who-knows-what in ‘em from god-knows-where. Needles.

 

Air felt heavier by the time they turned into the place proper. 

 

It was just across a church, go figure - parking lot nearly full up despite the clock running a couple hours before noon. 

 

Terry yelled “Where we gon’ put the f*cking bikes?” over the engines and they circled the lot ‘til they found some spots they could park on the diagonal lines far away from handicapped spots and the elderly rollers. Horse tried to place his kickstand real delicately and it wouldn’t give so he just started kicking the f*cking thing - got an instinctive “Whoa!” from Johnny that caught him off guard, made him stop and take the thing down easy.

 

Brian still hadn’t said anything, kept looking at the sky in a way all too purposefully meant to look absent-minded. When they started walking toward the casino he grabbed his hat off the handlebars.

 

Johnny saw. Shook his head.

 

The casino had that Venturas-style semicircle entrance flocked by palm trees with a couple black Stretches taking up room; goddamn suburbia high rollers - fat old men and bottle blondes. 

 

Terry went “Why do broads out here still gotta get fake-tanned? Don’t seem right. It’s Arizona sun.”

 

“That’s a great f*cking question, Terrence,” Johnny told him.

 

The reception was overbearingly gaudy in a faux-lit purple way that let no natural light in or out - wavy ceiling light fixtures and backlit patterns straining the eyes. One woman behind the main desk: Horse called her a “pretty young thing” and Johnny found it odd because she was neither that pretty or that young.

 

Brian still hadn’t said a goddamn word. Horse took care of the room delegation - out in the east wing, by the pool, asked for some spots with “a real nice view of the scorpions and whatever”. Johnny and Terry got adjoining rooms - didn’t much care. Same got offered for Horse and Brian ‘cept Horse wasn’t having none of it, got one all to himself across the corner.

 

Paid up front with that big f*cking wad of cash.

 

Sh*t was awkward. Weren’t no getting around it anymore - tired, filthy, angry, suspicious men huddled up under the mauve with the distant ding-dong churning of slot machines and not a word between them. 

 

They got their keycards. Johnny’s said 509 when it was actually 409 with the typo written over in black marker. Didn’t seem like something that could or should happen - didn’t ask, though. When he turned his attention back to the desk Brian had already f*cked off somewhere.

Didn’t ask about that either.

 

Terry said “You wanna get lunch?” 

 

Horse said “My bowels are shot-through f*cked,” which settled the question. “I’m gonna go lie down. f*ck it. We gather back in the lounge at two, three.” Paused a second, eyes heavy in the direction Brian left. “I gotta say - you got under his skin something good, brother. That was f*ckin’- that was an embarassment last night.”

 

“I didn’t do nothing,” Johnny went. “He’s got the temperament of a babe with whooping cough, dude.”

 

Looked solemn. “You should make it right.”

 

“f*ck that,” Johnny swallowed. “f*ck it. He wanted it like this.”

 

They were walking. Terry asked “The f*ck was it all about, any two ways? I only got the tail end.”

 

“I dunno.” Almost laughed. “He was getting this look by the fire, and then- whatever, man. He can kiss my ass.”

 

Stopped walking at door 409.

 

“This kinda dissension ain’t good. The fat f*ck, BJ, if he wants to be stupid, you know- the sh*t he’s done lately, beating on that feller and then that whole thing at the Irish hole in Tulsa…” trailed off. “It ain’t good, and it ain’t smart. The sh*t he done.”

 

“No.”

 

“Maybe I can get him to open up, y’know. My brother. Maybe he’s gotta talk. Because making it to Del Perro with this sh*t you got going on between you two, it ain’t gonna be fun. It ain’t fun. It ain’t Rode Mine.”

 

Terry made some kinda crack about tempers flaring at the meetup anyways, that this was Rode Mine spirit.

 

Johnny just shrugged. “Parties end, right?”

 

Slotted the keycard and entered his room while Terry and Horse watched.

 

Door closed.

 

Room was made up but the curtains were drawn - ceiling light lit a cherry wood TV unit, headboard, orange bedsheets over the casino carpet carried through from the hallway. There was a bathroom to the left.

 

Johnny didn’t think twice. Derobed. Tossed the duds onto the bathtub and knocked a towel swan clean off the ledge. Got into the shower while the water was still cold and watched muck-strewn grey water cascading down his legs and pooling dark on the fiberglass with the suds.

 

Let his head hit the tile.

 

Let his back slide down the wall.

 

Waited until the water ran clear.

 

Water burned his ankle.

 

When he emerged in either ten minutes or an hour he locked the door tight and made sure Terry and Horse weren’t waiting on him outside, and then he turned tail crashing face-first onto the bed.

 

Slept.

 

Two hours.

 

Three.

 

Was the best sleep he’d had since they hit the road.

 

Four.

 

Went by like it was nothing because then he woke up with a f*cking killer of a headache and the left arm numb from being pinned underneath.

 

2:44 PM.

 

Was still naked like the baby Jesus.

 

Johnny grabbed a mini water from the mini fridge and took a peek behind the curtains: a little balcony and fat Copper Staters poolside. 

 

Had to wonder if this was really an improvement.

 

His stinking f*cking clothes still on the bathtub; got into them all rushed and grabbed his keycard and headed out the door without much of a goal in mind of where to. 

 

Sign on the papered-up wall said directed LOUNGE with an arrow headed around the corner. He darted eyes opposite, where the hallway took an L-shape with Winnie and Brian’s rooms beyond. Instinct guided him and he looked both ways before walking up to the corner and peeking on.

 

Nothing. 

 

No, something.

 

One of those corner garbage bins with the built-in ashtray atop.

 

Didn’t need to get a closer look to realize it was Brian’s ten-gallon f*cking hat stuffed right in the bin, drawstring hanging out the side all delicate under crushed paper coffee cups.

 

Didn’t feel nothing.

 

Johnny headed for the lounge.

 

Past the blue-tinged hallway with this undersea effect on the walls made him feel real woozy: place opened up into twenty-foot ceilings and a bunch of real glitzy sh*t hanging from - chandeliers, diamond-sparkled. There was a bar to the left.

 

Scanned the room and didn’t see no one familiar. Just faces, big faces, sun-pocked and crow-footed. 

 

Bartender behind the mahogany looked tired, was leaned up against the wall typing two-handed on a touchscreen bitterSweet. Pocketed it when he saw Johnny take a seat.

 

Asked “What’ll it be?”

 

Johnny said “Club soda.”

 

Paused. “We only got seltzer.”

 

“Wha-” got Johnny’s attention, “What’s the difference?”

 

Guy shrugged.

 

“Fine, whatever, gimme a seltzer.”

 

Johnny got a seltzer and paid up in change ‘cause he hadn’t gambled so even the seltzer weren’t on the house, and then he moved deeper into the lounge past couples with their mimosas and martinis and into an area cordoned off by these freestanding dividers with these baroque designs and--

 

It didn’t matter.

 

The gang wasn’t around.

 

Weren’t on the sectionals behind the dividers. Weren’t nowhere.

 

He sipped at carbonated water and his head pounded and he took his glass right back in the direction of his room.

 

f*ck it. 

 

And right as he was about to round the corner past the lobby he found his gang.

 

Heard Brian’s voice right before he turned. “--nah, nah, it ain’t about that, it ain’t the f*ck about--”

 

Held back.

 

“You’re killin’ morale. You don’t- you been treating your bike like sh*t, brother. And we made it out this far, we made it, but now this thing ‘tween you and Jonathan. What - that just gonna blow over?”

 

Horse.

 

Horse.

 

“He’s a little Jew f*cking c*nt. He’s such a f*cking c*nt, dude. Horse, you don’t get it, man.”

 

Horse sighed.

 

“But you was gettin’ along well up in Tulsa, weren’t ya’? You and Klebitz?”

 

Johnny swallowed.

 

“Sure,” Brian said. “Yeah. I guess.”

 

“Up about in Tulsa,” he sang. “That bar and that sh*t and whatnot. What happened there.”

 

Someone cleared their throat.

 

Horse kept on, “I came down hard on you both ‘cause- well, you acted a bunch of retards there. But somethin’ like that, you know, notwithstandatin’ - you come out with a certain connection, right?”

 

“I dunno what you mean.”

 

“Well you, Brian, when you was out there at that Angels bar with Klebitz and it all went to sh*t and the cop- when you shot the cop. You go through something like that and you come out the other end different.”

 

“Horse--”

 

“It was you shot the cop, right Brian?”

 

Johnny dug knuckles into the wallpaper.

 

“I guess. What’re you getting at?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You lost me, man. You- you was talking about Johnny?”

 

“NO!” Said it way too f*cking hard. “No, no. Well yeah. I was talking specific ‘bout Tulsa and the cop you shot out at the Angels bar with him. And now we’re out here and you got beef and it ain’t the right way to go about nothing.”

 

Heard footsteps. A couple.

 

Heard them going the other way.

 

Johnny wiped brow.

 

Brain said “I just can’t stand that f*cking fag anymore. I just-”

 

“Hey,” interjected, “you don’t talk about any of your brothers like that. Cut that sh*t out. ‘Specially not behind his back.”

 

“You just don’t understand how far back this holier-than-thou f*ckin’ bullsh*t goes. Sometimes with Billy--”

 

“Billy f*cking Grey.”

 

“Yeah- with Billy. And… I dunno, man. We all go back in some ways, and with the Jew-- when Billy was around-- crap, I don’t know, Winnie.” Trailed off. “Screw this.”

 

Whispered it frantic-like. “No, no, no, keep at it.”

 

But Brian didn’t keep at it. 

 

Johnny heard some more whisperings and then the door closed, and he turned quick f*cking tail back down the hallway he came from no matter who was coming his way. Made it look like he was walking back.

 

Winnie turned the corner.

 

“Oh. What’s up, Johnny?”

 

Said “I thought we was meeting in the lounge.”

 

Scratched his head. “I dunno where the f*ck f*ckin’ Terry is. I was just talking to BJ-”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“-and I think you oughta’ put this to bed.”

 

Johnny’s glass was empty. “He’s just a whiny bitch, Horse. I’m outta f*cks.”

 

“Well, you can’t--”

 

“I’m outta f*cks.”

 

Walked right past. Left him stammering.

 

Johnny went back into his room with back to the door and put the glass down on the TV console.

 

Turned and watched Horse round the corner to his room through the peephole. Heard the door shut.

 

Felt weird while standing there, this f*cking electricity up through the soles of his feet through the veins straight to his head. Made the pounding worse. Like he was just floating there.

 

It weren’t right.

 

No, something weren’t right.

 

Held it for a few seconds before he heard the door shut again and peeked the peephole.

 

Horse, again - beelining down the hallway, hesitating a second with a glance at Johnny’s door.

 

Heading to the lounge anyway.

 

Something was wrong.

 

When the way was clear Johnny turned the heavy handle and opened the door and was blasted by the cool hallway air again. Empty nothing: just a painting on the wall across, string instruments in orchestra, this watercolor f*cking thing. 

 

He should head to the lounge, right?

 

Not how it felt.

 

And this force, this energy, it guided him the other direction across the corner he hadn’t yet been. To the other wing: Brian and Horse’s rooms running adjacent in an identical hallway perpendicular to his own, dim orange light reflecting off the hard carpet. Tried remembering the room numbers from reception and realized he was already at Horse’s before he could recall it proper.

 

411.

 

What the f*ck was he doing?

 

Looked both ways - Brian, he knew, was in his own room; could pop out any second with a sh*tload of questions or maybe nothing. Maybe nothing at all. 

 

Johnny twisted the handle for Horse’s door without the keycard to unlock.

 

It opened.

 

It opened.

 

Like the gates of f*cking Hell.

 

Shuffled in and let it shut behind him and went on autopilot: let the electricity guide his feet through the identical room with the same curtains drawn and the bed all made-up and the TV playing local news; drug bust, bus crash, tree fallen across a residential ave.

 

What the f*ck was he doing?

 

He knew the answer to that, somewhere real back-of-the-mind like.

 

Johnny was opening drawers, popping the closet, the nightstand - a Bible, its jacket all scuffed, recently touched based on the dust inprint. He tossed the pillows and put them back all delicate and checked behind the TV, behind the dresser.

 

Horse’d left his wallet behind. All that cash from f*cking Palookaville.

 

No, that wasn’t what he was here for.

 

Johnny hit the bathroom - the cabinet, the sink drawers. Looked behind the shower door all frantic before realizing he’d half torn the place apart. And then he had to catch his breath.

 

Stopped and stared in the mirror, into his own eyes. At the stubble and the bags and the dark circles, the left eye bloodshot.

 

His ankle throbbed.

 

The mirror was set back in the wall. Hadn’t realized - thought it was flush, solid.

 

He pressed the bottom right corner and the thing opened outward with a spring; sent his reflection crystallized into the wall.

 

Hand soap. Liquid soap. Little bottles of shampoo, of conditioner, this little tight-wrapped packet of tissues.

 

Wires.

 

Coiled wires, wrapped wires. Black. Red.

 

Tucked around this little black rectangle, this little f*cking thing with a tape across it and the writing scratched out. Some velcro. Made to stick.

 

Horse was wearing a f*cking wire.

 

Horse was wearing a f*cking wire.

 

Johnny’d found what he was looking for.

 

He backed up instinctively and went “No no no no no no you f*ck you f*ck” until his back hit the wall and with the mirror opened there weren’t nothing but the wire to look toward.

 

So he put his head in his hands and slid down the tile again, and when he hit the ground all of a sudden Johnny’s ankle didn’t hurt no more.

 

I SEE CLEARLY NOW, UNFORTUNATELY.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

[slimeball supreme]

 

“We do what we needs doing.”

 

“Okay, okay. Okay. Okay.”

 

“You ready?”

 

“I’m ready, brother, I’m ready, brother.”

 

And Lars laughed, and he said “I’m gonna crack some f*cking heads open like a f*cking melon.”

 

“Hand it over, dude, hand it over.”

 

Lars handed Johnny the pipe, and Johnny lit it, and Johnny felt his throat burn out a minute but the high kept building.

 

“It good?”

 

“Yeah, Lars, it’s f*ckin’ nirvana, it’s the f*ckin’ promised land.”

 

Clay bit his lip and wiped the drool away in the back seat and repeated himself, “We do what needs doing.”

 

Johnny said “I told you, I’m f*cking ready, I’m f*cking ready.”

 

The headlights were off on the road. Car rode past with the headlights on, white flooded the car: bloodshot eyes and sallow skin and polymer. Dark again when it went on. Only the blinking stereo playing Christian contemporary.

 

Terry already had his mask on. “What the hell we f*cking dubbie-aitin’ for, the f*ck we waiting for?”

 

“Lemme just-” Johnny breathed, Johnny breathed, Johnny breathed, “Okay okay okay okay… okay. Okay. Let’s party, motherf*cker, let’s party, dude.”

 

Ashley opened the door and Terry led the charge.

 

Balaclavas on. All ski masks except Terry in the hockey. Boots on ugly overgrown grass crossing over the road, onto the cracked asphalt with State Route 30 painted over, feet beating back onto the grass as the five moved on. Already knew the plan.

 

Meth kitchen. Old house out past a tattered chicken wire fence - Ash waited, Johnny pressed his foot down and pushed them all to the ground, others climbed over. Bikes out near the front door and nobody guarding, garage door half-open. Perimeter clean.

 

Johnny muttering to himself, “We’re gonna bust ‘em, we’re gonna bust ‘em, we’re gonna crack ‘em--”

 

Porch light flickered. Nobody stopped.

 

The sky was the clearest Johnny’d ever seen.

 

Clay with the pump-action and Lars - semi-auto Hawk & Little 375 - with his hands on the garage lifting the thing up. Clay crouching down, under, Lars following, garage door gently hitting cement.

 

Johnny had so many shells in his jacket could feel it rattle when he walked.

 

“You ready, sugar?”

 

Johnny said “Yeah, baby, I’m ready.”

 

Gat was too big for Ashley. Too heavy. Johnny told her about trigger safety back in Kearney earlier in the morning while talking with a friend of Lars: you wanna keep your finger off when you ain’t gonna use it unless you wanna accidentally f*ckin’ use it. And she kept asking. And they went to another place, another guy Lars knew, to get the pieces. Collector who had them all lined up in his garage pretty as he could. She asked what the safest would be.

 

Couldn’t see her face through the ski mask. Could see her eyes. Big brown eyes.

 

Could see she was holding the grip with both hands and didn’t have her finger anywhere near the trigger-guard.

 

Terry pressed his hand against the door and the chipping wood.

 

Johnny looked at him.

 

“It’s brittle,” Terry said.

 

“It’s brittle, it’s brittle,” Johnny whispered. “Tell me when. I got a heavy sole.”

 

Terry kept feeling.

 

Nodded.

 

Johnny breathed in.

 

Stepped back.

 

Vaulted his f*cking foot right near the hinges and the thing went f*cking crack! Crack like a f*cking gunshot, Terry charging with the CAT-11 primed going “All you motherf*ckers sit your tweaker asses the f*ck down!”

 

Voice, “What the f*ck?!”

 

Johnny aiming at the sound. Tattered sofa and two guys in leathers illuminated by Weazel playing on a dinky TV and moonlight screaming through the windows.

 

Johnny screamed “Boo, you f*ckin’ punks!”

 

“You touch a gun and you’re goin’, okay?”

 

Two guys were up already - brought their hands up with ‘em. Ash was on the bigger of the two, real tall and broad-shouldered but all skin and bones. Could make out the eyes through the dark, scared green eyes and a superhero chin. Grabbed him by the shoulder and eased him down, “On the floor, Impotent Rage.”

 

Johnny laughed. Gun trained on the other guy, name read out Papa Slab on the cut. Matadors orange. Said “Where you rank, sh*tbird?”

 

Papa Slab said “What?!”

 

“You get your patch yesterday?”

 

“What the f*ck is this? You Angels?”

 

Terry said “We’re LCPD, dumbass, you get on the floor.”

 

“What?!”

 

Johnny pushed him down by the back, “You heard what he said, you stupid f*ck! Move it!”

 

From their six - Lars and Clay. Two more dipsh*ts in the same leathers, little bearded guy and and old dude with a head of white hair. Old prick was going “These guys f*ckin’ cops, Slab?!”

 

Slab, “LCPD, he said?”

 

And whitehead said “What?!”

 

And Clay smacked him upside the head and told him “Get your ass down on the goddamn ground, brother, on the ground with the rest!”

 

Johnny concurring, “On the goddamn motherf*ckin’ ground!”

 

Lars kicked the other guy, kid-lookin’ guy with a shaved head, right onto the ground by the shins. Kid yelped. Got a good look at the cuts under the light with their backs up: MATADORS MC, OMAHA. Johnny grinned.

 

“Sugar baby,” Johnny said. “Keep on ‘em. You too, T.”

 

“Rotgut’s upstairs,” Clay was going.

 

“Rotgut?” Kid type repeated, “Rotgut?!”

 

Johnny kept grinning. “You all keep them gums wet, okay? No f*ckin’ talking, ‘cause my brothers here are liable to knock some f*ckin’ skulls together.”

 

“That’s right!” Lars chirped.

 

“On me.”

 

Walked.

 

Clay and Lars on him. Jitters. Jitter-jittering on the arm, free arm wiggling in the open air while the other had the hand wrapped around the shotgun barrels. Up the stairs, stairs creaking, stairs smacking click-clack cracking rickety as a motherf*cker while boots beat on beat-up wood.

 

“They say what room?”

 

Clay said “Cook room.”

 

Johnny whispered “Cook room, cook room, cook room.”

 

“Said it’d be locked.”

 

“Cook room. Okay. Okay. Cook room. Dude, you hear nothin’?”

 

Lars was already down the other side of the second floor hallway checking doors. Clay and Johnny moving, moving to the end, moving to two kept-together doors and one painted brown with the brown chipping white.

 

Sixth sense. Could feel the chemicals.

 

Johnny yelled “Open the f*cking door!”

 

Clay yelled “Get your little ass outta here, man!”

 

Someone whining behind the door. Metal clacking.

 

“I hear the gun!” Clay was yelling, “We got bigger, man, we got bigger!”

 

Catching up was Lars, “Rotgut! Rotgut!”

 

Muffled: “What?!”

 

“That’s right!”

 

“Lars, what the f*ck!”

 

“Open it buddy, you want to stay pretty!”

 

“Lars, why you--”

 

Johnny had it.

 

Johnny had it.

 

“OPEN IT! DUDE, OPEN IT!”

 

Behind the door, “Lars--”

 

“OPEN IT, MOTHERf*ckER! OPEN IT! OPEN IT!”

 

Clay, “Johnny--”

 

Had his hand around the barrel.

 

Started slamming the handle of the gun right into the door.

 

Slam.

 

Slam.

 

Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. Slam. “OPEN IT OPEN IT OPEN IT! OPEN IT!”

 

“Johnny--”

 

“OPEN IT OPEN IT OPEN THE DOOR OPEN IT OPEN IT OPEN IT-” smashing the f*cking grip on the door and hearing the wood splinter “-OPEN IT OPEN IT OPEN IT DUDE OPEN IT OPEN IT--”

 

“Screw this, Johnny--”

 

Johnny kicking, “OPEN IT, ROTGUT, OPEN IT, OPEN IT OPEN IT OPEN IT--”

 

Wood f*cking splintering.

 

Door gave through.

 

Johnny kicked the f*cking door down and primed the double-barrel with both hands when he stormed the f*ck in. Little guy, Rotgut, skinny dude with zombie-cheeks and sunken eyes - Rotgut fell to the f*cking ground and the revolver went spinning across the floor.

 

Chemical smell. Johnny stomped on over and stamped the guy’s f*cking ankle.

 

Rotgut in the backwards baseball cap screamed. Rotgut with sunglasses clipped around his t-shirt collar that were now broke because the ankle hit made him twist onto his front like a turtle.

 

“I TOLD YOU OPEN IT! I TOLD YOU, DUDE, I TOLD YOU! YOU DO WHAT I SAY!”

 

Lars screaming, “Where is it? Where’s the sh*t?!”

 

Johnny grabbed anorexic f*ckin’ Rotgut by the scruff of his neck and hoisted him to head height and smacked the gun handle right in his f*cking face.

 

Rotgut was sputtering and spitting blood.

 

Clay was sweeping the chemical equipment and breaking beakers and twisting tubes. Muttered “Should’ve got Terry up here, man, he knows this sh*t.”

 

Lars said “I know this sh*t. Where is it? Where is it?”

 

Johnny hadn’t said nothing. Was just breathing in the little man’s face.

 

Rotgut had sick breath and blacked out teeth. Thin, wrecked little things. Johnny said it slow. “Where you keeping your stash?”

 

“Garage,” Rotgut whispered. “Just battery acid here.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Paint cans.”

 

Johnny dragged him out the room. Led downstairs.

 

“Can’t feel my f*ckin’ face.” Clay spitting on the ground, “You feel your f*ckin’ face?”

 

“Hey,” Johnny said. Johnny pushing Rotgut on. “You feel your f*ckin’ face?”

 

He moaned.

 

Down the stairs.

 

Groaned. His ankle dragging. Looked hurt real bad.

 

Kept pushing him.

 

Lars, “We askin’ him?”

 

“When he’s with the others.”

 

Lars laughed.

 

Down the living room.

 

Johnny didn’t tell him. Just pushed down on him with his busted ankle. Went down like a house of cards, spread out onto the floor with Terry going “Is that the bee-astard we got?”

 

Lars said “Rotgut.”

 

Johnny said “Rotgut.” Pressed his hand down on his back. Johnny said “Dogg.”

 

Other bikers were muttering. Murmur-murmur with the guns trained.

 

Rotgut drooled out a “What?”

 

“Carlton Maddox. Carl the Dogg. Wyoming chapter.” Pressed the hand down harder on his back. “Where?”

 

“I don’t f*ckin’ know!”

 

White-hair said “Don’t say f*ckin’ sh*t, Tony!”

 

“Shut your f*cking gab!” Ash was screeching.

 

Let it settle.

 

Johnny laughed.

 

Spat.

 

Stood up.

 

Stomped on Rotgut’s f*cking head.

 

“WHAT I TELL YOU?! DO WHAT I SAY!”

 

This sickening f*cking crunch.

 

Heard the teeth roll out on the floor. Crooked rotten black f*cking spires. Black blood out black gums and this ugly moan.

 

“Tony! Tony!”

 

Terry yelled “I’m gonna break this senile motherf*cker’s neck, Johnny, he don’t shut the f*ck up--”

 

“Tony--”

 

“SHUT IT,” Johnny screamed, “SHUT IT SHUT IT.”

 

Ash was kneeling down with the gat up on his neck.

 

“Gloves are off,” Johnny said. “Gloves are off and I’m gonna stick these claws in you. Carlton Maddox.”

 

Rotgut wasn’t talking.

 

“We don’t have time for this asshole, man.”

 

“You wanna risk somethin’?” Clay spat, “You wanna dribble?”

 

“Lars.”

 

“Yeah, Johnny?”

 

“We gotta ask f*cko here or we got options?”

 

Lars thought. “We got options.”

 

Johnny got closer.

 

Right up to Rotgut’s ear.

 

“You hear that, brother?”

 

Could see Rotgut trying to avoid Johnny’s gaze.

 

Johnny repeated, “You hear that?”

 

Rotgut said “What.”

 

“I can kill you and it won’t even matter.”

 

Rotgut closed his eyes.

 

“You wanna, dude?”

 

Rotgut had his eyes closed so tight could see his muscles tense through the moonlight.

 

“Hey Lars,” Johnny smiled. “This dopey f*ck got any family we can visit? Little kid?”

 

Lars laughed.

 

“Give Tony’s old lady a good time.”

 

White hair yelled “I find out--”

 

Rotgut whined “Fine! Fine!”

 

Johnny growled “Fine what?”

 

“I got an idea.”

 

“Idea of what, Tony?”

 

“Idea where Doggy Dogg might be.”

 

White hair said “Tony, please--”

 

Terry shouted “I’m gonna wipe this f*ck out!”

 

“He in Gillette?” Lars asked.

 

“Nah, man. Nah, bro. He ain’t in Wyoming.”
 

Johnny said “Where?”

 

“Tooele, man. Tooele. Tooele.”

 

“What?”

 

Lars said “Salt Lake City. They’re out near Salt Lake.”

 

Johnny spat “Yeah?!”

 

“Yeah, man. Matadors got a club in Tooele and another somewheres.”

 

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, Tony. Your boy Carlton’s a f*cking Mormon now, ain’t he. He’s a turncoat and a f*cking Mormon.”

 

Rotgut put his hands over his eyes.

 

Johnny stood.

 

White hair whispered “You pig bastards.”

 

Johnny said “Crowdog. You got the product?”

 

Clay answered by heading to the garage.

 

Johnny turned. Turned to Terry and Ash, “What we do now?”

 

Lars said “Pop ‘em.”

 

Johnny nodded.

 

Terry said “What?”

 

Lars said “We get rid of them all. Make sure no roads lead to us.”

 

“Wipe it,” Ash said.

 

“No,” Terry went. “That’s a real dumb move, killer.”

 

“Yeah, I’m a killer.” Lars wild-faced, “I’m a f*ckin’ sicko. I dip my bullets in cyanide, that’s the killer-type I the-f*ck am.”

 

“Seven bodies in a f*cking nowhere is gonna make national headlines.”

 

Lars scoffed.

 

Johnny said “He’s right.”

 

“Some f*cking popcorn fart this is, man.”

 

“Popcorn fart,” Terry said. “I’ll make you popcorn sh*t. You blow everyone out you get every pig tryna’--”

 

Johnny interrupted with this snarl, “You assholes gonna talk to nobody?”

 

No response.

 

Wind sweeping.

 

“We take one,” Johnny said.

 

White hair going “You motherf*ckers--”

 

“This one’s really annoying me!”

 

“Leave him, Terry.”

 

Walked right up to the whitehead cocksucker.

 

Looked around: Superhero chin, big skinny, white hair.

 

Johnny pressed the barrels against Papa Slab’s skull.

 

Papa Slab was whispering.

 

Papa Slab was praying.

 

Johnny swung the sawn-off down to his upper back and pulled the trigger.

 

Papa Slab was a bigger guy and he f*cking screamed like a woman, like a girl, this high pitched terrified primal f*cking noise that rang ears and flowed into gurgling, gurgling, spitting gurgling f*cking noise.

 

Whitehead guy was shouting. Shouting his name.

 

“How’s that?! How’s that?!” Terry spat on the old man’s back, “Old f*ck!”

 

Ash kicked whitehead in the face.

 

Terry stomped on his back. Stomped on his back. Stomped on his back.

 

Lars kicked one of the other guys.

 

Clay yelled “We’re going, we’re going!”

 

Johnny kept the barrels trained on ‘em walking backwards while everyone ran for the f*cking hills.

 

Papa Slab was still screaming.

 

---

 

Lars vomited on the ground.

 

“Watch the f*cking chunks, huh?” Terry put a leg up on the bed of the truck, “Watch it, oh, f*ckin’ watch it.”

 

“Party hard?”

 

Lars vomited on the ground.

 

Johnny laughed. “Party hard.”

 

Drove the XpedE8 truck out to where they’d stashed the bikes, back in Gothenburg. Rotgut’s meth lab was back east near Willow Island - back, forth, back. Switched back onto the Eighty.

 

That was hours ago. Was the morning and nobody’d slept. Stopped the bikes and the truck out near Cheyenne after blazing through the rest of Nebraska on high. Comedown at a Bite sub shop near a Terroil buying beer out the attached 24/7.

 

Ragga Rum and Ashley’s head on his lap. Lars spitting Piß Light on pavement.

 

Choked out a “Go f*ck off.”

 

Ashley laughed.

 

They’d made the news. Drug related homicide, biker sh*t, near Cozad on the river and a man with a record bleeding out real slow. Angels, maybe.

 

Angels taking the fall again.

 

Lars vomited on the ground.

 

The Bite sub shop was next to a Whiz retailer. Burger Shot across the street.

 

Lars spat a little.

 

Ashley murmured.

 

“Is rum kosher?”

 

“What do I give a f*ck?”

 

“I heard-” Lars spat, “I heard--”

 

“I heard some sh*t. I heard a lot. Let me tell you, huh?” Gripped the neck of the bottle with both hands and got sickly-sweet: “Whole lotta sh*t ain’t true and what ain’t don’t matter.”

 

Clay cracked up.

 

Lars said “Yeah?”

 

Johnny said “I don’t f*cking know. Sure.”

 

“Sure. I heard you was Jewish.” He didn’t have his hands on his knees no more, he was up. “But if you ain’t Jewish you don’t gotta worry about that. Are you German?”

 

“No, man.”

 

“So you’re Jewish?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You go to church?”

 

“I ain’t gone nowhere in a while.”

 

“So you ain’t a Jew no more?”

 

Ash was stirring. She was up. Lingered a moment next to Johnny and cooed something Johnny didn’t hear but cared for anyways. Ash said “He’s Jewish but not no more.”

 

Lars wiped his mouth and said “What?”

 

“I don’t pray or nothing,” Johnny said.

 

“So you ain’t Jewish?”

 

“No. It don’t work like that. You got a Jewish last name then you’re Jewish. You can’t stop being Jewish. You can stop being a Jew, but you can’t stop being Jewish.”

 

“So if I became a Buddhist I’d still be Christian?”

 

Clay laughed again. “I remember,” snorted, “I remember was f*ckin’ Jimmy asked you about that.”

 

“Yeah?” Johnny muttered, “Sure.”

 

Lars asked “Jimmy?”

 

Ash was moving. Ash was next to Lars now, on Lars. Swaying to nothing to him. “Jimmy,” repeated that like it was an agreement.

 

“I used to do all that Jew school bullsh*t,” Johnny said. “But I stopped. I don’t think there’s nothing to pray to or nothin’. I got Jew family.”

 

“I used to work for XPedE8,” Lars said. “And I ain’t no more. But I kept the truck. So it’d be like that?”

 

Johnny squinted. “I got family in- I got a lot of family. Upstate and in the city, not just ‘Derney. But it was mostly just at gatherings, I never really kept in touch.”

 

Lars asked “Was Jimmy a Jew?”

 

Clay said “Nah. We only got one a’ the chosen people in the chapter. Jim was mulatto. Mulatto as f*ck.”

 

“So he was half a Mexican?”

 

“Dominican.”

 

“And he was the other half white?”

 

“Yeah. Fitzgerald. But he also f*cked on this broad was also Dominican but she had to switch her name--”

 

Johnny said “Woah.”

 

“Woah?”

 

“Dude.”

 

“Dude, what? What, brother?”

 

“Jackie- let’s just not. Let’s not go there, man.”

 

Clay stared.

 

Johnny didn’t look at him. Was just staring at the ground.

 

“Fine, man.” Clay said “Whatever. She was fine.”

 

“Jackie was his old lady?”

 

“Yeah, Lars.”

 

“She was good people, sugar.” Ashley smiled on his shoulder, “I ain’t seen her much.”

 

“Was she, baby?”

 

“She had a kid.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“But yeah. With Jim, she had a kid.”

 

“I figured.”

 

Johnny grit his teeth. “I got a whole lotta’ family in this town upstate. And it’s all hasids there. This part of the family, they were cousins removed from my pop, they were hasid and then he had a brother was also hasid.”

 

“But Jimmy, he was a mad dog? A killer dog motherf*cker?”

 

“The town,” Johnny said, “is called Shtetl Yankel. We actually passed it on the way here, few hours before we were in Muhlenbergo. You remember that, Clay?”

 

“Sure,” Clay said.

 

“I wouldn’t have gone there anyways, I got no business. But you go there, everyone you see. Everyone on the street is hasidic.”

 

Lars asked “What’s a hasid?”

 

“Hasidic. They got the curls and the beards and the black suits and sh*t.”

 

Ash said “Jimmy was nuts, Lars. You’re a lot like him. Loyal and strong and brave. Got backbones. But also got teeth.”

 

“Nice,” Lars laughed.

 

“I don’t care for that stuff,” Johnny said. “But they’re dedicated to it. My dad read the Torah back to front but he never got down to business like them. I bought some sh*t from one of them. Other guy, little guy, he weren’t hasidic but he was older. And the hasid guy was younger but he carried--”

 

“One time,” Ash said. “Jim and Johnny, they got into something.”

 

“--himself like he ran the show. But f*ck it, dude, what do I know. Were connected to these Italians or something--”

 

“Was this real big man, Lars. Angel Deadbeat guy. Named Joe Jon.”

 

“Joe Jon?” Lars laughed.

 

Clay said “Yeah.” Laughed too, “Oh sh*t.”

 

Johnny was muttering, “--but that was a whole thing. But my dad… he was, with him- I remember I went upstate, for--”

 

“This prick Joe Jon,” Clay went. He was tall but he had nothing on him. But he scared the sh*t outta everyone ‘cause he was tweaked out all the time. They patched him in early because this Aryan prick, Al Lawson - you heard of Al?”

 

“No,” Lars said.

 

“Al Lawson was a real top dog with the Angels. Had this huge swastika on his face, I remember he was in a newspaper with that thing. But he basically picked this Joe Jon kid out the choir.”

 

“I was never a man of faith,” Johnny sighed. “I was never a man of faith. I was a boy of faith, ‘cause I got raised that way.”

 

“We went to this bar in the city,” Clay grinned. “Lucky Winkles. Man, a lot of tight slit you can find in Liberty f*cking City if you can ignore them. And if you can’t ignore them, there’s good slit too. But there’s Angels bikes outside, we know because we travel in those circles--”

 

Lars yapped “Happens all the time.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, all the time.”

 

“I know. But we groan because we’re going through some sh*t. I was trying to get out’d I was gonna re-enlist with the army, f*ckin’ 9/11. We were with Harper ‘cause Terry was out and Harper, he goes f*ck. Not tonight. But Jimmy heads in anyway.”

 

“Haha.”

 

“Yeah, and Jimmy the Fitz, he zones in on Joe Jon at the bar. We’re at the door when we open it and we see Jimmy basically ramming the f*ckin’ ash tray up his f*ckin’ ass.”

 

“Actually?”

 

“He got the thing in his face and had pantsed him before- I sh*t you not- he’d pantsed him, he did pants him but he couldn’t stick it in his ass, but he f*ckin’ woulda’.”

 

Terry was coming out the store.

 

Johnny just muttered “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah? Should’ve seen this f*ckin’ guy,” Clay was going. “Was on ‘em buttering their f*ckin’ bread, man, you shoulda’ seen it.”

 

“But that’s God for you,” Johnny said.

 

“How you mean?”

 

“Just how it is.”

 

Clay nodded. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t much understand.

 

They smoked for an hour behind the gas station and rode.

 

---

 

Doorbell rang.

 

Guy in a knit cap with a hairy neck, no facial hair above the chin, opened the door a crack before shutting and click-clacking locks and reopening. “Heyo! Lars. How are ya’, man?”

 

“Long time, man.”

 

“Long time. Where you been?”

 

“Out in San An. Here and there, I’m keeping on, I’m goin’ to church, it’s all gravy.”

 

“Who’s this, huh, who’s the posse?”

 

Ashley laid her arms over Lars’ shoulders from behind and said “We’re friends, we’re brothers and sisters and cousins.”

 

Lars laughed “Cousins, haha.”

 

Was Johnny who spoke next and poked himself in between and said “Lars said you could help us.”

 

“We’re headed out to Salt Lake.” Lars sniffed, “Headed out to Salt Lake, headed out to Salt Lake.”

 

Knit cap chirped “You need ice?”

 

“Needa’ bat a couple motherf*ckers.”

 

White man said “Bring it in my nigga,” went in for the dap and hugged a good few seconds.

 

Was a house in a little town in Wyoming. Rock Springs. Rode off the Eighty through white-sand desert and sparse shrubbery. Was cold, sky was gray. Mormon church they’d passed down the boulevard to a single-story with chain link fence and no path to the doorstep. Just dirt, a dirtbike parked in the driveway and cigarette butts collecting underneath a window.

 

Everyone followed inside.

 

Plastic tub full of sticks in the living room. Fatal Incursion poster duct-taped to the wall by a black CRT, green helmet propped off a BMX with maybe twelve-incher handlebars and tree trunk tyres.

 

He had a snake. Snake in a plastic box with the floor lined, branch cutting diagonal across.

 

Guy noticed, “It’s a python,” he said.

 

Johnny squinted at it. “I catch your name?”

 

Knit cap said “Cutter. You lookin’ for somethin’ good?”

 

“You got bats?” Was Lars again, Ash with him. “I said that, right?”

 

“Sure,” Cutter said.

 

“I had this wicked thing,” Terry said. Terry behind Johnny, “Me and Johnny, we’d hit these races. Because there’d always be some motherf*cker wanting to race bikes.”

 

“Where you guys from?”

 

“Liberty.”

 

Cutter said “No sh*t, huh? You guys in Lost colors, I was guessing closer to home. Illinois.”

 

“Nah,” Lars went. “Nah, some friend of ours is out here, friend of thems too, but that’s what’s up.”

 

“He f*ck you over some?”

 

Johnny muttered “Something like that,” looking dead at the snake.

 

“Nah though,” Terry beamed. “We’d bring bats along. You can slot it easy. And Johnny might’ve been a f*ckin’ Swingers guy in another life, because he’d go f*ckin’ whap with the f*ckin’ thing right in some piece of sh*t’s face.”

 

Cutter laughed, “That easy?”

 

Johnny didn’t reply.

 

“I showed him how,” Terry said. “Because I got this whole system.”

 

“Nobody wants to race bikes out here. I’ve asked. Nobody wants to. I understand since you don’t want to f*ck with the condition.”

 

“What’s the point, you don’t go fast on ‘em?”

 

“I don’t got a Western no more anyways,” Cutter said. He was kneeling down. Pulled the tarp off this black plastic thing in the corner, “I drive a Bollokan now. But at my old job everyone used to go drool over my bitch. Here,” pulled out this mad aluminum bat out the box. “I got like six of these.”

 

“You got any heaters?”

 

“Sure, Lars.”

 

“We don’t need ‘em, we need--”

 

“You got a wash closet?” Johnny turned around.

 

Cutter laughed. “Down the hall, over there,” pointing rightways.

 

Johnny didn’t say a word.

 

Opened the door.

 

Peeled his hoodie off and threw it on the floor.

 

Bile at the back of his throat. Acid, f*cking burning. Like a f*cking morning star in his neck, like f*cking spikes sticking in the flesh. Like knives digging down the f*cking raw f*cking meat, rotten black f*cking meat.

 

He hadn’t opened the f*cking seat. Johnny vomited on the floor.

 

Felt the comedown like hurt. Tongue pressing the back of his teeth, spit slick on his hands wiping the chunks out his stubble. Rotten smell, rancid butter. And it brought him to his knees, spaghetti legs, needles in his fingers brought down with the palms deep in stomach slick. Was on his side now, face in the sh*t, sick pooling when the shivers kept coming.

 

It weren’t a comedown no more. Was shivering, was his bones dancing and his arms twisting and the vomit sinking into his clothes. Loose hand grabbed his crotch and moved up the middle, up his chest, digging his fingers into his jaw like he was gonna rip it out. He wanted to.

 

His mouth was bleeding and he wasn’t sure why until he realized he bit his lip, bit into his lip, tore the meat open felt it loose. He was gone.

 

He threw up again.

 

Heard banging on the door. Was Clay.

 

Didn’t even realize he’d locked it.

 

“Johnny?! Jonathan, you good?”

 

Banging like a drum like a drum banging like a drum - felt like the vomit was black, felt like it was poison, felt like his insides were toxic. Agony.

 

Banging like a drum, like a drum, banging like a drum.

 

Banging loud. Banging loud. Banging loud.

 

Banging loud.

 

Banging loud.

 

“You wanna see something?”

 

“See what, Billy?”

 

“What’s it matter what you see ‘til you done seen it?”

 

And Michael laughed because it didn’t make no sense in the immediate to him, and he said “I’m not sure.”

 

“You don’t gotta be sure about nothin’,” Billy said. “Johnny, you wanna see this?”

 

Billy always had a skullface. Had these beady, deep set eyes. Big chin, skin like it was stretched across his head. He was eighteen, had those killer thick eyebrows, already had the widows peak and the hair twisting between that steel-white blond and deep dead brown. Rolled the sleeves up his t-shirt, showed off these thick pimpled biceps.

 

He was the coolest man on Earth.

 

Johnny had the Beatboy headphones around his neck.

 

“What you listening to, Johnny?”

 

Tinny out the ears. Johnny didn’t know what to say.

 

Billy snatched the headphones and listened a moment and repeated himself with derision, “What the f*ck you listening to, Jonathan?”

 

Johnny didn’t know what to say.

 

“You always had ass f*ckin’ taste, man, this f*ckin’ Mötley Crüe?”

 

Johnny looked at the ground.

 

Mikey said “C’mon, man, leave him alone.”

 

“It’s better than Skynyrd. I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to Skynyrd. You threw that tape out yet, Johnny?”

 

Muttered “I don’t- I mean, I don’t, uh… sure.”

 

Eyes jumped, “Good. You wanna listen to real music you can borrow some of my tapes, brother, I wouldn’t even sweat it. I don’t even use my Beatboy no more. I don’t need to.”

 

“Thanks, Billy.”

 

Serious, “You gonna answer my question?”

 

“I mean- what question?”

 

“You wanna see something?”

 

“What the f*ck do you even listen to?” That was Michael, and Michael got off the porch, “Because you’re so f*cking cool because you listen to Hendrix. Jezz Torrent or f*cking Rocky Muñoz. That sh*t’s for fags, man.”

 

“I listen to what the world says, Michael, and I tell the world to f*ck ‘emselves because I ain’t wanna hear it no more.”

 

“Why do you always gotta speak retarded?”

 

“Why you always gotta think retarded?”

 

Johnny laughed.

 

“Johnny knows,” Billy laughed. “Kid knows you’re thinking retarded.”

 

“You’re being a butt brain, Michael.”

 

“I’d say this monkey f*ck got more’n a few problems than an ass for a head. Apathy. Antonym for curiosity, which means it’s an opposite. Now you wanna see this f*cking thing or what?”

 

Klebitz family lived off Schneider Avenue. Two-story with the porch off the Vitullo Avenue commerce strip but Abraham Klebitz wanted to move. Move up north or maybe westward across the Pavonia River - not in Guernsey and not nowhere near Liberty, was too many marginal types over there - but somewhere a little more amenable. Because over here you were starting to see blacks move in. Wanted somewhere a little closer to his community. Had asked his rabbi for recommendations. Said there were good schools in Zabriskie, out in the suburbs.

 

Were walking east. Acter Industrial and the spaghetti junction by the marsh.

 

Michael was built, sort of like Billy. Billy was built on a stocky frame made the pale skin look red - Michael was built built. Triangle chest and his father’s chin. Johnny had his mom’s face, ugly like a f*ckin’ mutt. Chubby maybe halfway between there and his dad’s body. Johnny was taller than average. Abe stood in at like 6’5, could’ve been a basketballer.

 

Best basketball players were Jewish back in the day, Mike said once.

 

Nobody’d spoke until they saw the Skyway peeking out. Marsh was eye-bleed green.

 

“You remember BJ, Mikey?”

 

“Wish I didn’t.”

 

“Go f*ck yourself. Johnny, you remember BJ?”

 

Brian was a f*cking delinquent loser. He had this killer Western and a combat knife his dad stole from the army. One time Johnny got to play with it, was f*cking badass. “You and him beat that kid up, right?”

 

“Which one?” And Billy repeated himself all deep voiced, “Which one!”

 

“That little Italian spaz.”

 

“Haha. Gabe Silvestri?”

 

Michael said “Isn’t his face all f*cked up now?”

 

“Probably not. You know about that, Johnny?”

 

“Sort of.”

 

“Gabe is a little faggot. And he keeps talking about his dad, too. Huge queer.”

 

Michael laughed, “He was.”

 

“But he and one of his asshole friends, they were all talking about how wicked they are and stuff. And they tried f*cking with me. I was still in school, Brian wasn’t. So I had to stay that day but Brian, I called him, I asked him to follow him to his house. And afterward, Johnny boy?”

 

“You beat him up.”

 

“I broke his face with a f*ckin’ bike chain. Brian got a tooth, I remember.”

 

“Haha.”

 

“I’m pretty sure he’s doing time right now.”

 

Mikey went “Really?”

 

“Yeah, he got a gun from his cousin and tried to, like, rob that Globe place in Tudor. Or f*ck, was it a Gogo?”

 

“Was he stealing eColas or something?” Johnny chuckled, “Or donuts.”

 

“No, you f*cking retard, he was trying to rob the register.”

 

Johnny was joking. “Sorry.”

 

There was a garbage truck depot up here. Big hill behind the chain-link fence, the grass mixing with the mud.

 

Guy going the opposite way in a Chavos slowed down. Asked if they were lost.

 

Billy told him to f*ck off. Johnny laughed, parroted him, “Go f*ck off!” The driver, black guy, he just sighed and drove off.

 

“I was talking to that guy,” Billy said. “Over here,” pointed down a dip to the left where the reeds were growing.

 

Johnny asked “Who?”

 

“Wasn’t talking to you, twerp.”

 

Michael explained, “This guy. He’s a prospect but he says when he gets his stripe he can vouch for us. Brian’s already getting sponsored by that ugly guy. Sick Mick. This guy is half-beaner like Brian, his name is Fitz.”

 

Johnny laughed again. Billy said “They’re saying they’re gonna give him a patch because he stole some deadbeat’s bike the other month and trashed it. Like, he was busted for it because they found him wrecking it. Punched the deadbeat f*ck off the bike and everything.”

 

“That’s awesome,” Johnny chirped.

 

“Down this way,” pointed.

 

Sewage drain poking out wet mud. Clay, concrete stained brown leaking out into the marsh. Turnpike slashing through the reeds on the horizon while sneaker soles were slick in the muck. Billy knew the solid footing already, Mikey slipping a little before following in his stead.

 

Stew of used needle caps and soda cans beneath them while they kept on trudging.

 

Billy snapped his fingers into a point. Snap, point, snap, point. “Look at that. Hey, hey, look at that.”

 

The tributary opened up into the Oratam River. Into the Pastures: swamp and sh*t. Black-green water could see it sizzle and radio towers dotting ahead. Concrete roadway carved into the dirt on a stable base. Indent on the side a step away from the water.

 

Could make out a body. Make out a blanket. Easy to see in the daylight.

 

Johnny said “That a hobo?”

 

“Crackhead bitch,” Billy grinned. “You’re gonna want to see this, man.”

 

“Is it a man or a woman?”

 

“I said it was a f*cking woman, twerp. Though…” he crouched down, jean cuffs dusting the mud. Picked up a rock.

 

Mikey said “You came out here to show us a hobo?”

 

“Though!” Abrasive, grinning. “Though you ain’t gonna be able to tell.”

 

He tossed it.

 

Landed nearby.

 

Figure jumped.

 

Billy got down, picked up a bigger rock. Threw it.

 

It missed. Figure got up.

 

Soda can. Picked it up.

 

Threw it.

 

Hit the homeless woman this time. Clunk noise, yelled “Hey! Hey!”

 

Billy screaming, “You f*ckin’ busted f*ckin’ whore! You busted c*nt!”

 

Johnny laughed. Johnny picked up a can. Johnny echoed, “You dirty f*cking slut!”

 

Billy scream laughed, “You go back where you came from!”

 

“Whore! Whore! Whore! Go back passin’ yourself around!”

 

Mikey joining in, “Ugly crackhead skank!”

 

Could see her face now.

 

She used the blanket like a cowl. She was screeching out pained-like, like a wounded animal. Dark skinned: latina, maybe black. Spotted sweatshirt and these tattered shorts. And she was burned.

 

She was burned real bad. Like the bottom half of her face had been ripped apart, sick flesh darting down from the temple and spreading out across the jaw. Nose was twisted, maybe gone, couldn’t tell from far away.

 

Billy was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

 

Johnny wasn’t sure what was so funny about it. But Billy was laughing, so he laughed too.

 

“Look at this miserable f*cking c*nt. Look at that.”

 

Wasn’t as much laughing when Michael asked “Whaddya think happened to her?”

 

“She’s f*cked up, ain’t she? Johnny, you see that bitch?”

 

“Yeah,” he cooed, “I sawed her face.”

 

“See. See. See, retard, see. Deformed motherf*cker, like a horror flick.” Screamed out, “Ugly bitch! You get the f*ck outta’ here!”

 

Johnny echoed, “Get the f*ck outta’ here! Crackhead!”

 

Haha, laughing, haha, “You’re a real boy scout, John-John.” To Mikey, “How bad do you think she is?”

 

“Bad how?”

 

Tossed another rock while she was trying to get out the hole in the wall, “How bad she’d be to f*ck, I mean. How bad the hole is. Could probably f*ck her now.”

 

Johnny’s smile was fading.

 

Michael just said “Yeah.”

 

“And she probably wouldn’t even fight much, neither, right? And she wouldn’t be able to. She’d be easy.”

 

Johnny was turning.

 

Billy asked “You a faggot, Johnny K?”

 

Johnny said “What?”

 

“I don’t think you wanna f*ck her, right?”

 

Johnny blinked.

 

Michael said “It’s fine, Billy--”

 

“What are you? What, you was throwin’ rocks just now, you don’t want to f*ck her?”

 

Johnny didn’t reply.

 

“She’s all dirty,” Michael said.

 

“We’d clean her. We’d f*ck her and throw her in the water, we’d make her clean, we’d scrub this ugly f*ck.” Was laughing, “Make her clean like she’s never been clean. But Johnny wouldn’t like that, right?”

 

“Lay off,” Johnny said.

 

“What you just say to me, sh*tbird?”

 

“She’s gone now,” Mikey said.

 

“We can find her. She’ll come back here, I threw rocks at her yesterday. She’ll come back. You don’t wanna clean this miserable--”

 

Johnny was walking away, “Buzz off, Billy.”

 

“You don’t talk to me like that, little man.”

 

Billy pushed Johnny from behind. Pushed him from the back.

 

Johnny fell.

 

“You like mud, don’t you Johnny? You like sh*t.”

 

Johnny tried getting up. Billy put a boot heel on his back, pushed him down into the mud.

 

“You don’t like hole, Johnny, because you’re a little faggot.” Laughing real hard, “You like boy hole, you like fudge packin’. You wanna eat mud, sh*thead? You wanna eat mud?”

 

He grabbed him by the shirt, then by the neck.

 

Michael said “Hey--”

 

“Mikey, your fag brother. Your fag brother, he patch material? He brave? He wanna judge me?”

 

Held him by the neck. Hand on the back of his head, dragging him. A little to the left, a little to the left. Tributary, sewage drain, concrete. Johnny going “Stop it, lay off, lay off--”

 

“You’re a big man, Klebitz!”

 

Shoved his face into the concrete. Into the mud, into the sh*t.

 

Michael stared. Michael said “Cut it out.”

 

“Shut the f*ck up, Mike! Little kike brother of yours, he wants to be a big man! Big man!”

 

Shoved his face into the concrete. Into the mud, into the sh*t.

 

Mouthful of mud. Mouthful of concrete.

 

“You ain’t gonna listen to me?! You ain’t gonna listen to me?!”

 

Mouthful of mud. Mouthful of concrete.

 

“You respect me! Huh? Huh? You ain’t gonna?”

 

Shoved his face into the concrete. Into the mud, into the sh*t.

 

Michael stood there. Stepped a little, “Hey, hey.”

 

Billy put a hand up.

 

Dropped him.

 

“You wanna bitch and moan at me, Johnny, you ain’t nothin’. You wanna get that patch?”

 

Johnny didn’t get up.

 

“Michael, you believe this kid? You believe this kid? He ain’t gonna talk back, smartest f*ckin’ thing he’s ever done.” Pointed down at him, “You’re outta’ line.”

 

Johnny didn’t get up.

 

“You wanna go?” Michael said. “Head back.”

 

“We should’ve f*cked that hole and thrown her in the river. Never gonna for- f*ckin’ whatever. Whatever.” Poked Johnny’s leg with his boot. “Let us roll. Let us ride! What-the-f*ck-ever.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Ain’t you a yessir-factotum motherf*cker. Come on, then.”

 

And they left.

 

Up the pathway.

 

Distant, “You know, Fitz let me meet Winnie the other day. Said I could see Tito.”

 

“No sh*t?” Mikey looked back. “Yeah.”

 

“What the f*ck you lookin’ that way for? Yeah. Bring you and BJ along, too, maybe.”

 

“Yeah.” Michael stared. Michael turned around. “Would be rad.”

 

After a while, you couldn’t hear them no more.

 

Johnny sat up. But he didn’t move. Looked on at the flittering water on the riverbank. The bugs among the reeds. Liberty skyline glittering miles away.

 

All three hung out the next day. Was two weeks later Bill and Brian were arrested for murder. Beat a kid to death in an alley in Alderney City, aluminum baseball bats. They got off.

 

Billy was on the fast track to getting his patch.

 

Johnny sat there, watching the water.

 

IT TASTES REAL GOOD, OLD FRIEND.

LAND & BRAND GLOSSARY.

Edited May 19, 2023 by slimeball supreme