by Ora Wilde
No... it wasn’t respect. It was fear.
I’ve seen him before. Once, the day I arrived in San Mateo when I stole the van and drove straight to my father’s clubhouse. He was there, with the rest of the Godlesses, at the frontline of what ended up as a standoff that led to this war of theirs.
“Oh... and this right here?” Oliver added, tilting his head upwards as his eyes rolled to the side to get a glimpse of the brute behind him. “This is my sergeant-at-arms, Cholo Kreed. But you can call him Cannibal. We all do.”
Cannibal? He surely looked the part. Bikers have a propensity to choose ridiculous road names for themselves in their desire to come up with something intimidating. This character, though, chose an appropriate one.
It’s just a name, I repeatedly told myself. He was terrifying enough as he was. There was no need to make him even more frightening in my mind by thinking that he was really a cannibal. It’s just a damn name.
“Glad to finally meet your boyfriend,” Nicker continued his subversive tirade. He told me that he knew they were going to kill him. Maybe that’s where he got his courage from... the certainty of death and the hopelessness of his fate. A man without hope is a man without fear, after all.
Once again, Oliver just laughed at him.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” Oliver said as he began to pace around the area in front of his men. “Well, as you know, we’re at war with your father’s club.”
“I’m not a part of his club!” I countered in a desperate attempt to convince him that my abduction would be pointless.
“Of course you’re not, sweetheart,” he agreed. “But you’re still his daughter. And if he’s the man who I think he is, and even if he’s just half the father that I am, then I know he’ll do anything just to get his precious little girl back. And that includes agreeing to a patch-over.”
“He won’t!” I contested. “My father doesn’t care about me. Never have. Never will.”
His eyes widened in shock, but he still kept his grin.
“Oooohhh, daddy issues, eh?” he remarked. “Darling, get that sorted out quick. See Cannibal over here? He had daddy issues too, when he was a kid. The old bastard even tried to burn him alive. Can you imagine that? His own son! That’s fucking sick! Yeah, I saved him from that senile geezer, and Cannibal eventually got his revenge. But my point is... you wouldn’t want to end up like Cannibal, right? So do yourself a favor. Don’t go... how do young folks say it these days? Ah yes... don’t go hatin’ on your dad. That would be sad. Really, really sad.” He gave an impression of a downcast face, but his insincerity still managed to show.
“I don’t care about that beast you’re keeping as a pet,” I truculently and carelessly replied. “I’m telling you the truth. My father won’t give you what you want.”
“Well, you can’t speak for him now, can you?” he snapped back. “But you know who can?”
He clapped his hands thrice. One of his men came running from the back of the group that formed behind him. The thug was carrying an iPad.
“Is he on?” Oliver asked, to which his underling answered in the affirmative. Oliver grabbed the tablet and looked at the screen. “Ah... speaking of the handsome devil... Jonas! I never thought that you’d have WiFi in that donut crap shop you’re holed in. How have you been, my friend?”
I couldn’t believe what I just heard. My father’s at the other end of the line, via video chat?
His voice boomed out of the device’s speakers, confirming my shock.
“Tusk! If you hurt her, I’m going to rip your fucking head off!” I haven’t heard him that angry, ever. Even when he was faced with the direst of situations, he always kept his calm. The entire club looked up to him for guidance, and he has always played his role well.
“Oh, don’t worry, Jonas,” Oliver responded. “That’s all up to you, you see. You’ve got all the aces here. It’s just a matter of playing your cards right.”
“What the fuck do you want, Tusk?” my father furiously asked. The desperation and urgency in his voice was very apparent.
“You know what I want, Jonas. This war... it’s stupid. War, war stupid and people stupid, as the saying goes,” Oliver laughed at his own joke. “No one has to die. Uhm... lemme correct that. No one else has to die. If you haven’t gotten the news yet, we just wiped out your Essex chapter.”
“Fuck you!” my father yelled with intensified rage. “You’re going to pay for this!”
“Will I? As I was saying, Jonas, no one else has to die for this war. What I want is quite clear. The patch over. Say yes to it. Join us, and I’ll make sure that your daughter will be delivered to you safe and unharmed.”
My father didn’t reply immediately. I could still hear him though, together with other voices. They were conferring with one another, trying to determine how to respond to Oliver’s proposal.
“I don’t have all night, Jonas,” Oliver impatiently interrupted them. “Just in case you haven’t noticed the obvious, let me spell it out for you. You ain’t got any other options here, man. Don’t even think about trying to rescue her. We got an army scattered all over San Mateo. If any of you will leave your donut shop - Jesus Christ, I still couldn’t get over that choice for a clubhouse! Anyway, if any of you will leave your fucking donut shop, they won’t be able to ride past the city’s borders. And if all of you will ride to Tulare... my God... that’ll be stupid! You’ll leave your clubhouse undefended and we’ll just burn it to the ground, together with all your friends and loved ones inside.”
“Prove to me that she’s safe,” my father demanded, realizing the futility of any rescue attempt he might’ve been planning. “Prove to me that she’s... she’s...” he struggled to continue his sentence. “Prove to me that my daughter’s alive.”
“Your wish is my command,” Oliver answered before turning the iPad around.
And I saw him, together with his brothers who were lined up behind him. His face has become pale with anxiety and dread, but his mouth slowly curved into a semblance of a smile. He was relieved to see that I was still breathing, that I was relatively unhurt.
Then he bowed his head. He was thinking... deeply... as if the weight of the world was on his aging shoulders. Screwdriver, who was the one closest to him, placed his hand on my father’s shoulder, squeezing it to assure him that whatever decision he’d make would be respected. The others wore their faces with restrained fury. They wanted revenge, but they knew they weren’t in a position to be aggressive.
The silence lasted for almost a minute. An unbearable kind of heaviness began to crush my heart... one that became even more overpowering when, for the first time in my life, I saw a tear - a solitary tear - dribble from my dad’s eye until it careened down his wrinkled neck.
It was then when it struck me.
The burden he carried.
The burden he has always carried.
The burden which, at that moment, reached a boiling point.
My father was being asked to decide between the club he has pledged his life to lead, and the daughter he gave life to.
If he was a normal man who lived a normal life, the choice would be easy. But an outlaw’s life is anything but normal, especially if he was the president of the club. Everyone’s lives, including the lives of their loved ones, depended on the decisions he would make. Countless people, throughout the years, have died for the club and if he would just give it up easily, he would be dishonoring their sacrifices.
And I... I was his daughter. For a normal man, I would mean everything to him. But my father isn’t a normal man. For an outlaw, and compared to his club, I was just his daughter.
Yeah, he would choose his club. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became.
His impending choice should hurt me. It should make me mad. It should make me feel insignificant.
But somehow... somehow... at that moment when I saw him weak and broken and vulnerable... his impending choice actually made me feel somethi
ng else.
Relief.
My father began to raise his head and look at the screen once more. My eyes met his. He was still trying his best to ward off his tears, to put on a brave front, to be strong for me and his men.
Just do it, I wanted to yell at him. It’s okay. Don’t surrender the club. Fight. Survive. It’s what you do.
He began to confer with his men, looking at each brother straight in the eyes, wanting them to know that what was in his heart and what must surely be done.
I expected the patches’ faces to show grim determination, a resolute stance that they were not going to give up the fight.
But they didn’t.
Instead, they showed suppressed rage, a silent understanding, a hint of sorrow.
And it struck me.
My father... he wasn’t going to abandon me to their enemies. He was going to yield the club for my safety.
No.
The club is his life. He couldn’t forsake it just like that... not for anything... not for anyone... not for a daughter who never showed him the love that he deserved.
I never thought about what I did next. It just happened. I flailed my hands in order to free myself from the men who were holding me back so that I could run closer to the screen that served as our only connection. But my captors were strong and all I managed to do was to force them to strengthen their grips.
They were restraining my arms... but they weren’t restraining my mouth.
“Don’t do it, dad!” I screamed. “Don’t surrender the club! I’m not worth it!”
He was startled beyond belief, a sentiment shared by the patches behind him.
Oliver, however, was far from being pleased.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” he yelled at me with volcanic rage. It was the first time I’ve seen him lose his cool. His boldness was shattered, his conceited confidence unraveled for the false act that it really was. He furiously turned the screen away from me until he, alone, could see my father. “Listen and listen to me good. I’m giving you twenty-four fucking hours - and I mean exactly twenty-four damn hours - for you to gather up your men and surrender your kuttes. Whether it’s San Mateo or here in Tulare or somewhere in between, it doesn’t fucking matter. I want those kuttes before the next daybreak, or else...”
“Or else what?” I heard my father challenge him to continue.
Oliver’s evil smile returned. “Why don’t you go see for yourself, Jonas.”
He pointed at the thugs who were holding Nicker as he turned the tablet towards them. The goons nodded. They dragged Nicker away from my side to the area in front of the throng.
Someone stepped out from the crowd. He was carrying something long and seemingly rusty. It took me a while before I recognize what it was... and that realization made me scream in absolute horror.
It was a machete.
Nicker saw it too. His swagger immediately disappeared. His eyes told me that he wanted to beg for mercy... but he was trained to stand proud until the very end. He remained resistant, though everything in him was shivering in fear.
One of the men extended his right arm. Nicker tried to defy it, but another guy came in to help. Soon enough, Nicker was lying face first on the ground, his right hand drawn out perpendicular to his body. One of the Godlesses was stepping on his nape, immobilizing him even more.
He knew what was coming. He bit his lips, his way of preparing himself not to screech.
That didn’t help.
When the machete came down, he squealed. The rest laughed and cheered and sang. I was too weakened by terror to even utter a single word.
They pulled his arm off, completely detaching it from the rest of his torso. I heard the sickening sound of flesh being ripped apart and bones breaking off their designed appendages. I saw blood spurting out of a shoulder that once supported a limb. And I saw Nicker, rubbing his face against the muck as he tried his best to suppress the pain, swallowing some soil in the process.
One of the men brought the uncoupled appendage to Oliver. He scrutinized it with a leer.
“Now, what a fantastic show of bravery!” he mocked the fallen Dog. “Come on, people! Give this man a hand!”
His words were met with another round of hoots.
I struggled once more against the men who held me. I wanted to dash to where Nicker was. I wanted to help him. He was bleeding bad. I didn’t want him to die.
I didn’t want to be left alone.
But they weren’t done yet.
The man who was carrying his arm walked to the bonfire which, by now, was blazing even more fiercely than when we arrived. He positioned the limb in the center of the raging flames. The stench of burning flesh made my stomach turn. I wanted to throw up.
“Are you watching, Jonas? Are you watching?” Oliver queried excitedly, though he knew the answer. Everyone from my father’s club has been bellowing and cursing since the perverted show began. The question only begot howls of total rage and hatred.
The man they called Cannibal walked towards the fire with calculated steps.
“That good enough for you, Kreed?” Oliver asked his henchman.
Cannibal didn’t respond. His sight was focused on the burning arm that has turned blackish red.
“Give it to him,” Oliver ordered the lackey who was carrying the limb.
He handed it over to the monstrosity who stood beside him. Cannibal ravenously looked at the appendage as dark smoke seeped out from its pores.
He started with a bite. It was followed by a munch. In a matter of seconds, he was chomping on the entire extremity. Skin and pulp stuck between his rotten teeth, extending upwards like hardened glue whenever he would pull out his mouth.
The Godlesses were silent. They, too, were too jolted - or repulsed - to react.
I had no choice but to close my eyes.
Cannibal.
It wasn’t just a name.
Oliver pulled out a gun. He walked towards Nicker, still carrying the iPad, and planted the barrel at the back of his head.
A single gunshot and it was mercifully over for the last remaining Dog of Essex.
“Twenty-four hours, Jonas,” Oliver firmly reminded my father. “Twenty-four fucking hours, or else, your kid’s arm won’t be the only thing I’ll be feeding my beast.”
9
LOWLIFE
“How bad can it be? It’s a fucking mall, for cryin’ out loud.”
Jeremiah kept babbling about the mission since we left HQ. We were at the back of the M-ATV - Jeremiah, Marcos, Trent and myself - checking our stuff to see if everything was in order. M27s on safety. Five magazines tucked on our combat belts. Our helmets locked around our chins. The laces of our boots securely tied up. My bomb suit folded up and ready for deployment if it’s needed. Trent’s trio of grenades dangling from his own belt just in case things got shitty. Yeah, we were ready. But we were all wondering if we were a bit overdressed for a matter that may just end up to be another hoax.
Jeremiah just happened to be the most vocal of us. He always was.
“I’m tellin’ you, these pyramid fuckers are just up to their usual crap,” he continued to rant. “Fucking prehistoric country! Maybe they just discovered how to fucking text. How many bomb threats have we received this week? Nine. Nine! That’s more than the bomb threats the entire Walmart chain receives in a fucking decade!”
“Jerry... do everyone a favor?” Trent interrupted him. “Can you just shut the fuck up?”
Jeremiah clicked his tongue. He wanted to go on, but he knew better than to disobey the Element Leader.
“Yeah, this may just be another dud,” Marcos interjected. “But we’ve got a job to do. Let’s just get out there, see if things are alright, and assure the good citizens of this motherfucking country that it’s safe to continue shopping for their shit, okay?”
We arrived at City Stars Mall at Ath Thamin. As we alighted from the all terrain vehicle, we were surprised to discover that the shopping center was still open. A lot of peo
ple, numbering in the hundreds, were walking around, laughing and chatting and studying every shop for something they could buy. It was as if they weren’t aware of the danger that we were warned of.
“What the hell?!” Trent remarked incredulously. “Didn’t HQ tell the manager to close the damn establishment?”