by Ora Wilde
“In our world, yours and mine, that’s as legit as you can get,” Prez calmly responded.
“Legit my hairy ass. That sounds like pussy work advertised as a papal visit,” Talos began to insult our club. “What I’m offering is more than just one, two or a handful of pussies, Jonas. I wanna give your crew the entire fucking brothel. Drop your colors. Join us. Say yes to this patch over and we’ll make sure that you’ll get ten times more of what you’re sucking out of this city.”
“What, exactly, are you planning to do with San Mateo?” Prez asked, though anyone who was able to count to ten already knew the answer. I guessed he just wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.
“Glad you asked, Jonas,” Talos said with a grin brighter than before. “Drugs. And I’m not just talking about weed that only high schoolers smoke these days. I’m not even talking about meth. Geez. Anyone can cook that shit from their own kitchen. I’m talking about high end stuff... coke, benzos, uppers, E... you know... the kind of shit that rich folks would pay for.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why San Mateo?”
“I already have. Your pier. You got connections. San Fran is the middle point of Canada and Mexico. You can only imagine why the Northern Kings and the cartels are going gaga over this place. And San Mateo? It’s like the butt hole of the county... you know... the backdoor to the mainland. You got a nice, little inlet that leads to and from the gulf straight to your pier. It’s fucking perfect for shipments of the most dubious kind, you dig?”
“We already know that,” Prez answered, making his disinterest even more apparent.
“Yeah, yeah... you use the pier for your legit smuggling business. So you said. I wanna use it for drugs. Fuck, Jonas... you know that it’s easier to transport that shit through the open seas rather than through the highways, right? I want your pier. I want San Mateo. And I promise you, you and your boys will get a fair share of the profits.”
Prez fell silent. It wasn’t because he was thinking about the offer. He was trying to find a way to turn them down without resulting in a war for our territory.
“Come on, Jonas,” Talos persisted. “You know this is best for business. I want you and your boys to dream big! This is where the money’s at.”
“And at what cost?” Prez replied. “Our colors? Our history? Our identity?”
“Ohhh... this is about your feelings, huh?” Talos mocked, prompting a round of laughter from his men except for Cannibal. That monster’s mouth seemed to have been sealed shut by the burns he has suffered. “You see, Jonas, me and my officers... we’ve already discussed this. We... analyzed... every possible scenario. Of course we can just make you our... associates... and you can keep your club’s colors. But this is a very volatile undertaking. We can’t afford the smallest treachery. We’d rather keep things in-house, if you know what I mean. And to do that, we gotta take you guys in. Make you one of us. This way, club histories and allegiances won’t be issues. We’ll all be one, big, happy family.”
“So that’s the only option you’re giving us?” Prez wanted to clarify. “To bury our club and wear your colors?”
“Don’t be overly theatrical about this, Jonas. You make it sound like we want to kill your club. We don’t. We just want to... adopt it. And you know how adoption goes, though, right? You have to start using our name.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Prez answered with what seemed like newfound boldness.
“I am?” Talos beamed, expecting an affirmative response to his proposal.
“Yes, this pier is indeed very important. Strategically and logistically.”
“Glad we’re on the same page, Jonas,” Talos said. He was growing more and more confident about the patch over.
“That’s why we’re keeping it,” Prez dropped the bomb and the patches grinned. “San Mateo will remain the Filthy Dogs’ territory.”
The anger that immediately consumed Talos was almost palpable. Cannibal groaned behind him as he clenched his fists, ready to strike.
“You know what this means, right?” Talos warned.
“I do. Do you?” It was Prez’s turn to rag on.
“We can wipe you out in a day,” Talos continued to threaten him. “We got seventeen charters and more than four hundred bodies. You have what? Four charters and fifty?”
“One of us can take down twenty of you,” Prez confidently remarked.
It was an exaggeration, but somewhat true. The patches, excluding Macho, have served in the army. They’ve had training with all forms of combat. They’ve been groomed to take on armies. The Godless? They’re known for hiring street thugs, pampering them up to look like bikers.
Still, they outnumbered us eight to one. We could put up a good fight, but it’s always a numbers game. They could cover more grounds, fire more bullets, stab with more knives, and punch with more fists. We were at a dire disadvantage.
But with Prez’s pronouncement, war has been declared. It was just a matter of formalizing it, something which Talos soon did.
“What are the terms?” the Godless asked, referring to the rules of the looming war.
“First to five,” Prez proposed, indicating his preference for the Duke Rule where the club that’s first to eliminate five members of the opposing crew would be declared the victor.
“No!” Talos vehemently rejected his suggestion. “First to zero,” he countered, wanting a total wipe out to determine the winner.
“That’s a coward’s way, don’t you think?” Prez jeered at him. “Considering you have the numbers.”
“You can call me whatever the fuck you want!” Talos screamed. Gone was the composure he displayed earlier. “None of you would be left laughing in a week’s time anyway.”
“So be it,” Prez wanted to conclude.
“So it is done,” Talos confirmed.
One by one, the Godless left the premises but not without giving us some menacing stares. Cannibal was the last one to mount his bike. His face, as emotionless as it has always been, still brimmed with sinister foreboding. It was like he was telling us what he’d do to us without actually speaking... and none of those deeds were good.
Smoke filled up the street as soon as they rode off. When the fog settled, the patches gathered in a huddle. They discussed, quite placidly, what just happened, what must be done, and how they would choose to proceed.
A few minutes later, they dispersed.
Then, all of them approached me.
“I wanna beat the shit outta you, prospect,” Rotten confessed, gritting his teeth with anger. “You fucking rat!”
“I’m not a rat,” I defended myself. “She’s the boss’ kid, she grew up with the club. She has the right to know.”
Rotten savagely shook his head and coiled his fist, ready to pound it against my face. I took on a defensive stance.
Prez held Rotten’s arm before he could strike, however. Then he stood between us.
“When a patch accuses you of something, don’t make any fucking excuses,” he told me. “Know your damn place. Apologize.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said. I dropped my hands thinking that Rotten has ceased his attack.
“You served, correct?” he wanted to know. He already knew the answer. They made their due diligence before allowing Screwdriver to sponsor me.
Maybe he just wanted something we could talk about. Maybe he just wanted to diffuse the tension.
“Yeah. Special Forces, MARSOC,” I stated.
“Impressive. How long?”
“Two and a half years.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“Many places. Afghanistan. Egypt. The Philippines.”
“Your training was more intensive and comprehensive than regular members of the marines, correct?”
“Yeah.”
It was then when Prez punched me. His fist landed on my cheek with so much force that it pushed me two steps backwards.
“You had one job... one simple, fucking job... and you didn’t
do it?” he roared as Rotten snickered behind him. “Where the fuck did all that special training go?”
“She tricked me,” I explained.
“Tricked you? A twenty-four year old girl tricked you? You? A fucking MARSOC?” Prez expressed his disbelief.
“Yeah. She said she wanted some ice cream.”
Everyone bursted into laughter, followed by a deluge of curses and insults. Idiot. Airhead. Lunkhead. Dumbass. Nitwit. Retard. Moron. Fag.
Prez just bobbled his head in obvious dismay.
“You may think of this as a simple matter,” he continued to speak. “But it’s not. We just started a war with the Godless, and you know how they work. They’ll try to find every advantage they can get... and you led her to them. Now they know she’s here, and they’re going to come for her to get to me. They don’t give a monkey’s ass if she’s a woman. They’re a bunch of thugs. They don’t honor any kind of code. They’re fucking animals. Now, they know how to get what they want. And it’s all because you’re too fucking stupid to keep her away from the fucking clubhouse for just one fucking day.”
I didn’t think of that. Prez’s words filled me up with dread. His daughter was leverage and the Godless knew that. They’ll be gunning for her now that they knew what she looked like and that she’s staying in town.
Shit! I wanted to bang my head against the wall for the mess I just made.
“It... It won’t happen again,” I assured him, though I doubted that I’d be given another chance to redeem myself. Hell! I wasn’t even sure if I’d continue as a prospect after today’s fuck-up.
Prez held my cheek - the side which he punched - and gently tapped it.
“Yeah, make sure it doesn’t, son, okay?” he said with an unexpectedly kind voice.
“Yeah, it won’t,” I reiterated my promise.
“Good,” he uttered. He turned around and started to walk back to the clubhouse. Then he stopped midway. He raised his right hand as if he was signaling something. The patches nodded. They approached me immediately.
“Sorry, prospect,” Bang Bang muttered before unleashing a kick to my thigh, the first of what would be many.
The pain was too much for my leg to bear. I collapsed on my knee. My hands touched the concrete floor to help maintain my balance. I looked up and I saw them, converging around me. Some were smirking. Others were indifferent. A couple were laughing excitedly.
They didn’t take turns in beating me up. I was bombarded with fists and boots and steel pipes from what seemed like a million people.
“This’ll only last for a minute, prospect,” I heard Bang Bang say once more amidst the sound of flesh being pummeled and bones being broken and the cackles of grown men enjoying the violence. “Just a minute, prospect... hang in there. Don’t resist. Don’t fight back. Just survive.”
It was tough love. I screwed up. They had to punish me. Sixty seconds of hell was just right.
It would be done and over with in a minute.
But I didn’t last that long.
Twenty seconds into the savagery, I felt my consciousness slipping into blackness.
The last thing I saw was the girl who caused all this trouble. She was on the second floor, peeping out the window, her lovely eyes at the verge of tears.
I passed out smiling.
4
SAMANTHA
“Ouch! Shit! Careful!” he bellowed after I applied salt water over the gash near his chin.
We were sitting by the counter. Miranda, the nice girl who was manning the shop that morning, couldn’t help but giggle at him.
“Be still and you’ll make this a whole lot easier and a whole lot faster,” I reminded him.
“It’s just a wound,” he argued resentfully. “It’ll heal. You don’t have to clean it up.”
“Uhm, correction, mister. It’s just a wound, one of many. We’ve barely even started.”
The boys really did a number on him. Spots of blue and purple and red were scattered all over his face and his arms. It’s likely that he has more lacerations and bruises underneath his clothes.
That thought made me feel worse.
“Are we done with my chin, at least?” he asked impatiently.
“Not yet,” I said. “I have to apply an antibiotic ointment.”
“For what?”
“To guard against infection.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Save your tough guy act for when it really matters.”
I opened up my first aid pouch only to discover that I ran out of cotton. That’s a big problem. I didn’t want to touch the ointment with my finger. It’s icky. So I searched my bag for something else I could use. The closest that I could find was my unused concealer blush. I thought twice about using it. It’s a Bobbi Brown, after all. But my guilt got the better of me. With a heavy heart, I squeezed the antibiotic tube over the bristles of the brush.
“Hope you understand the sacrifices I’m making just to clean you up,” I mumbled. A little louder than I meant to, it seemed, as he heard parts of it.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked incredulously. “Your sacrifices? Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who started this mess in the first place?”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that,” I apologized unapologetically.
“What’s your glitch, anyway?”
I almost laughed with his usage of the word glitch. That’s so nineties, back when computer hacking was supposed to be cool. I guessed he couldn’t help it. It’s his generation after all.
“I hate my father,” I answered as I rubbed the brush over his wound. “I wanted to piss him off. That’s my glitch.” I made sure to derisively emphasize the last word.
“Is that why you’re back here in San Mateo?”
I hesitated about responding to his question. But he got into trouble because of me. I guessed he owed a modicum of an answer.
“I need my father to sign some papers,” I told him.
“Really now? You could’ve just sent them over via a courier service. One day delivery, one day back. That would’ve been easier, right? Could’ve saved us from all this shit too.”
“He won’t sign them if I won’t deliver the documents personally.”
“Yeah? Why? What are they? Checks for your monthly allowance?” He was being scornful. He was still mad about yesterday.
“They’re waivers for my mom’s estate.”
“Oh.” His tone suddenly changed. He dropped his sarcasm, replaced by a timbre of pity and remorse. “I... I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. She died three years ago. She left behind a house and a car and a small sum in her bank account. My folks... they separated but they’re not really divorced. She was committed on her refusal to sign the papers. He was never interested in going through the inconvenience of a proceeding. No papers came because they were both too lazy to file for nullity. Growing up, that gave me a bit of hope, you know? That somehow, they’d end up together again.”
“I understand. Maybe they still love... loved... each other?”
“I doubt it. She wouldn’t have died a lonely, miserable woman otherwise.”
“And this waiver... you want your dad to sign off from any claims to your mom’s properties?”
“They’re her properties. She got them when she moved to LA. Unfortunately, California law considers them to be joint properties of both wife and husband... which they were, legally at least.”
“Heh! That’s why I always have a prenup ready.”
“You do?” I asked in shock.
“Yeah. Got one right here, in my wallet. I had this... thing... with a lady attorney a couple of years ago. Had her draft one for me.”
“You keep a prenup in your wallet? That’s... That’s... That’s ridiculous!”
“Hey! You’ll never know when you’ll get married, right? One night in Vegas is all it’ll take. Love at first sight, that sort of shit. Next thing you know, you wanna spend the rest of your life with her... an
d a drive-thru chapel is just nearby. You can’t blame me for being prepared.”
“Yeah, I can’t,” I remarked while chortling. It’s amazing how he made me laugh immediately after talking about my mom and the sad fate that befell our family.
“You said that your dad won’t sign them if you weren’t here,” he reminded me. “Why’s that?”