OTIS
Scott Hildreth
DEDICATION
To all cancer survivors, the less fortunate who gave everything only to find out sometimes everything isn’t enough, and to the families thereof.
My Grandmother Billie Jean Hildreth, my aunt Gina Silor, and to Biker Becky.
This one is for you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.
All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
HUNG 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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BISCUIT
Standing in the courtroom with a Sheriff’s officer on each side of me - my hands handcuffed, my feet shackled, and the two tied together by an interconnecting chain - caused me to feel more like a serial killer than a common criminal. As I waited for the judge to enter the room, I alternated glances over each shoulder and studied the officers.
I raised my hands slightly, pulling the chain taut which connected my hands to my feet. Somewhat frustrated at the entire series of events leading up to my arrest, additional jailhouse punishment, and being shackled and chained, I began yank against it repeatedly, causing it to rattle through the ring in the chain wrapped around my waist.
“Any chance of gettin’ one of you fellas to take these fuckers off?” I asked as I gazed down at my shackles.
“Not a chance,” bad cop responded under his breath, “And if you know what’s good for you, you better quit fucking around with your restraints.”
I stopped yanking on the chain and tilted my head to the left as I waited for good cop to respond.
The officer on my left shook his head and lightly chuckled, “After the shit you pulled this weekend, I don’t think so.”
I lowered my forearms and sighed, “I didn’t pull a god damned thing. The cock sucker tried to steal my fuckin’ cookie. Put yourself in my shoes, fellas. I look like Hannibal fuckin’ Lector here…”
As I began to explain myself, the door in the rear of the courtroom opened and the judge walked onto the elevated platform. An average looking gentleman roughly fifty years old with salt and pepper hair, he looked like a reasonable enough man. Hopefully he would see through the mile of shit the cops were certain to have placed out in front of him and have a little compassion for me. After quietly finding his seat and glancing down at the desk, he lifted his head and gazed my direction.
“This is a combination of an arraignment and the bond hearing for…” he paused and peered over the top of his glasses at the paper he held in his hands.
“Dalton Biskette. Mr. Biskette, you have been charged with speeding, reckless endangerment, resisting arrest, and since your incarceration of Friday evening, two counts of jailhouse battery. Do you understand the charges?” he asked under his breath.
“Yes sir,” I breathed.
“Be it known the penalty for these charges is a maximum of five years imprisonment, a $250,000 fine, or both. How do you wish to plead?” he asked flatly.
Five years for fuckin’ speeding?
I swallowed heavily, knowing he was doing nothing more than trying to scare me. I decided trying to explain myself, using my wit and charm to the best of my ability - while trying to be respectful during the process - would be my best bet.
“How do I wish to plead, your honor? I wish to plead not guilty, but I’m well aware that ain’t…I mean that isn’t going to do me much good. I guess I’d like to plead guilty to the speeding, and speak my peace on the rest of the charges. Can I do that?” I asked as I did my best to shrug my shoulders.
He placed the paper on the desk, removed his glasses, and tilted his head to the side, “Absolutely.”
As he clasped his hands together and provided what I was certain to be a sarcastic grin, I began to recite my best recollection of the events on Friday night.
“Well, I was headed to a meeting, and I was runnin’ a little late. Kind of lost track of my speed, I guess. Next thing I knew, a cop was pulling me over. He uhhm. He had a little bit of an attitude; you know he seemed kind of mad about the whole speeding thing. Next thing I knew, there was about fifty cops screaming at me, and I was shot with a Taser. Unnecessarily, I might add, your honor…”
As I spoke, the judge appeared to be sorting through the paperwork on his desk. Before I had a chance to explain myself further, he raised his hand and interrupted.
“Officer Obie was unable to attend this hearing, and if his testimony proves necessary, we will reschedule. Are you aware, Mr. Biskette, the officer makes notes on his copy of the citation, providing his best explanation of the arrest and the events that led up to it?” the judge asked as he raised a beige piece of paper from the desk.
“I guess not,” I shrugged.
“I have the officer’s report, and I quote,” he sighed.
“At approximately 1933 hours, while stationary at the 7000 block of Kellogg, observed motorcycle approaching at a high rate of speed. Removed LIDAR 001-00200 and directed toward oncoming motorcycle. Speed clocked initially at 133 MPH. After resetting device, clocked motorcycle at 128 MPH. Chase ensued, and motorcycle stopped without attempting to evade. DL, proof of insurance and registration were provided without incident. Identified suspect as Dalton Biskette. Upon stating arrest was mandatory, Biskette became belligerent and non-compliant. After backup officers arrived, repeated attempts to handcuff the suspect proved unsuccessful. Tasers were drawn, and suspect became more belligerent, screaming expletives while threatening officers with harm and anal intercourse. Eventually Biskette was brought down with Tasers from myself, officers Bryant and Moses; handcuffed, and transported to Sedgwick County Jail,” he paused and lowered the paper to his desk.
“First and foremost, explain to me the necessity to be traveling on an occupied highway, in the city, at speeds in excess of one hundred and thirty miles per hour,” the judge bellowed.
I cleared my throat and responded truthfully.
“I was late for a meeting,” I sighed.
“A meeting?” the judge chuckled.
I nodded my head, “Yes sir.”
“You were traveling to a meeting at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” I responded.
He rested his hand on his chin and widened his eyes, “A meeting with whom?”
“The President. Had it just been with one of the fellas, I wouldn’t have been goin’ s
o fast,” I explained.
“As I doubt you were late to a meeting with Barrack Obama, I’ll ask that you explain further. The president of…” he paused as he turned his palms upward.
“The club, your honor. The president of the club.”
“Evasive, Mr. Biskette. You’re being evasive. It is part of the reason you’re here. Specifically, who were you going to meet at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked.
“Slice. He’s the president of the motorcycle club,” I responded.
“Slice? Does Slice have a name,” the judge sighed.
“I’m sure he does, your honor. It’s just that I’m not aware of what it might be. Slice is all I know,” I lied.
The judge shook his head, exhaled, and eventually locked his eyes on mine.
He sighed heavily as he began to dig through the paperwork on his desk, “You’re going to plead guilty to the speeding?”
“Yes sir.”
Without looking up, he continued, “And the reckless endangerment.”
“For the weaving in and out of traffic, I’m guessing?” I asked.
“That is correct,” he responded.
“Guilty,” I sighed.
“Resisting arrest?” he breathed.
I didn’t see much value in trying to explain how I had told officer Obie and Moses I was going to beat their asses and butt fuck them if they tried to cuff me. If the judge wasn’t going to bring it up, I figured it was in my best interest to just plead guilty and save a little embarrassment for us all.
“Cause I didn’t want ‘em to cuff me?” I asked.
“That is also correct,” he said as he glanced up from his desk.
“Guilty,” I responded.
Motherfucker…
This shit’s adding up quick.
“Which brings us to the two incidents over the course of the weekend. Saturday, at the mid-day meal, you were observed beating another inmate to the point of unconsciousness. Would you care to explain?” the judge asked as he raised a white piece of paper from the desk.
I gazed down past the legs of my orange jumpsuit and focused on the little black slipper shoes they made me wear. After thinking for a long minute and exhaling all the air from my lungs, I glanced toward the judge and began to explain.
“I was wore out from the whole Taser thing from the night before, and I was hungrier than hell. I missed breakfast ‘cause nobody bothered to wake me up, and I spent all mornin’ miserable. Later on they called us for lunch, and I followed everyone into the chow hall. I was minding my own business, just eatin’ my lunch, and some tatted up skinhead fella came and snatched the cookie off my tray and took a bite of it,” I explained.
“Continue,” the judge sighed.
“I smacked him, you honor.”
“Smacked him? With your fist?” he asked.
I shook my head, “No sir.”
“The inmate, Mr. Biskette, is still in the hospital,” he said as he shifted his eyes to the paper he held.
“A broken jaw, broken wrist, his skull is fractured, let’s see here,” he paused as he picked up another piece of paper and studied it.
“It seems he has a concussion, and he’s missing four teeth. With what did you strike him?” he asked as he lowered the sheet of paper.
“My head, my elbows, and maybe a knee or two,” I responded under my breath.
“Over a cookie?” he snapped as he dropped the paperwork onto the desk.
“That ain’t what this is about, no sir. It wasn’t about the cookie. It was about principle. The cookie wasn’t his, it was mine. And, while we’re here, I’d like to press charges on him for theft and the second fella I whipped for trespassing. He came in my cell without permission,” I responded.
The judge sighed heavily and shook his head, “Historically, we don’t charge inmates for battery, Mr. Biskette. Jailhouse fighting is a daily occurrence as is jailhouse theft. In this particular case, Mr. Biskette, I have no alternative but to charge you with battery, considering the degree of assault as well as the severity of the beatings you administered…” he paused and shook his head.
He turned his palms up, narrowed his eyes, and gazed at me as if frustrated, “I will not even address your ludicrous claims of self-defense or trespass. I had hopes you would be complaint, forthright, and willing to accept responsibility for your actions.”
“I’ll plead guilty to everything except whippin’ them two fellas, your honor. I’ll fight those charges till the day I die. They needed a lesson in respect, and all I was doin’ was…”
The judge raised his hand in the air, “Stop speaking, Mr. Biskette. Please. It isn’t your responsibility to teach anyone a lesson in anything, nor is there an allowance in the law for such acts. The laws are in place to protect people - even inmates in jail - from being assaulted. There are no such laws, however, allowing the administration of punishment to teach someone a lesson in respect. Consider yourself bound over for trial, and I’ll set the bond at $50,000. If you’re fortunate enough to have the means and methods to assemble $5,000, a bail bondsman may bail you out of jail under certain conditions and restrictions. And I will warn you, if there’s another incident of violence during your incarceration, or during your period of probation, I will see to it that charges are pressed. And you will be on probation until the hearing.”
“Have you any further questions?” he asked.
“If I pay the five grand, I forfeit it to the bondsman, is that correct?” I asked.
“That is my understanding, yes,” he responded.
“And if I pay the entire fifty grand, all I got to do is show up to court, and they give all of it back?” I asked.
“That is correct,” he responded.
“Well, if you’d let me make a couple calls, I’ll just pay the fifty grand, save us a lot of trouble, and be on my merry little way,” I grinned.
“Nothing, Mr. Biskette, would make me happier. I’ll see to it the officers allow you a phone call. This hearing is adjourned,” he said as he stood.
After the judge disappeared through the door behind him, officer bad cop tugged against my right arm and turned me toward the door.
“You’ve got fifty grand?” he chuckled.
“Got a lot more than that, but what I got ain’t any of your fuckin’ business, Boss,” I snapped back.
“Being a 1%er must pay well. What are you guys into, running dope?” he asked in a gruff tone.
I glanced over my right shoulder and studied his name tag.
Kopic.
After turning away and taking a few shuffled steps toward the door, I grinned.
“Nope, we’re into pimping bitches. One little gal makes us a ton of money. Got a weird last name, lemme think…” I hesitated and glanced up at the ceiling as if trying to recall her name.
“Hell, I can’t remember it right now, but she can suck the skin right off a fuckin’ apple. Crowd favorite, she is. She sucks off all the fellas at the clubhouse, and all she wants in return is a gut full of cum. Got a puss on her a mile deep, too. She can take a cock for hours on end. Hell, sometimes she takes ‘em two at a time – one in the twat and one in her tight little ass. What’s her fuckin’ name?” I paused and stared down at my feet for a minute.
“Kopic. That’s it,” I said as I glanced upward and toward the officer.
“Oh shit, that’s your last name. Any relation?” I asked as I widened my eyes in false surprise.
As officer bad cop began to yank on my arm and threaten me with bodily harm, officer good cop attempted to settle him down.
I just grinned; feeling satisfied I’d got under his skin.
Most people are chameleons. They change their color and adapt to whatever their surroundings might be; afraid to be true to who they are, always cautious of what others might think.
Me?
I’m Dalton Biskette, known as Biscuit to my friends and brothers, and I never change.
Never have.
Never will.
BISCUIT
/> After Otis brought the bail money, we got my bagger out of impound and headed to the bar. Luckily, there were no scratches or scuffs on the bike, and I was able to ride away without having to beat someone’s ass for scratching my Harley. In much need of a drink, but in more need of a little pussy, I fixed my focus on the waitress at the shitty little bar Otis picked for our afternoon drink.
“So if it ain’t purple, what the fuck do you call it?” I asked as I stared at her purple fingernails.
“It’s gray,” she said as she spread her fingers apart and pressed them onto the table.
“Looks purple to me,” I shrugged, “I fuckin’ like it. It makes your eyes look deep blue. Well, almost deep blue. God damn, I like lookin’ at you.”
“Thank you,” she grinned.
“Hell, thank you. I just got out of jail, and seein’ you is the best thing to happen to me today, so far that is. That fine fingernail polish just adds to it,” I nodded as I raised my glass of vodka.
“Oh my god. Jail? What for?” she asked.
“Ridin’ my bike about a hundred and fifty miles an hour down Kellogg, beatin’ the fuck out of a couple dozen cops, and kickin’ the shit out of a skinhead gang while they had me locked up. Huge misunderstanding if you ask me. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I grinned as I reached up and pulled against my beard.
“So you’re a bad boy. We get a lot of bikers in here, and most of them are just phonies. You’re the real deal, huh?” she asked as she twisted her hips back and forth.
I took a swallow of vodka, chased it with a drink of Red Bull, and grinned as I lowered the can onto the table.
“As real as it gets,” I sighed.
She glanced toward Otis, and then shifted her eyes to meet mine. After a short pause, she smiled, “I like your beard.”
“Appreciate it,” I said as I glanced toward Otis and winked.
The beard was a love or hate thing for women. There didn’t seem to be much in between. Since I let it grow out ten years prior, it had become my trademark. Now full, well-trimmed, and long, it was a magnet for some, and a means of repulsion for others. The ones who liked it loved it, and the ones who didn’t seemed to simply hate it. As the waitress stood and stared, I ran my fingers through the bottom of it, doing my best to fluff it up.
Hung (Selected Sinners MC #4) Page 1