by Layla Wolfe
He had not wanted the divorce from Nicole. In fact, he hadn’t understood it for a long fucking time. Every day he rolled out of bed or someone else’s couch expecting to smell her coffee. Every day was a new punch in the gut, the realization that he’d truly lost his wife and two children. He’d nearly resigned himself to going over the edge. He couldn’t look at himself anymore.
Seeing the final Decree of Dissolution in black and white like that really put the zap into Knoxie’s head. Suddenly he was done with lying around growing moss, coming out of a stupor only long enough to lay down another brilliant ink sleeve on a biker’s arm. He almost felt as though he was done with throat-pumping sweetbutts at this cum factory. Almost.
“Oh, yeah, baby,” whined Courtney. “Oh, yeah, give it to me, big boy. Can you feel my cunt squeezing your dick?”
Knoxie couldn’t. But it didn’t matter what she said, because the dialogue at Triple Exposure wasn’t recorded. It was all dubbed in later. He felt more virile and powerful than ever as he speared the tiny woman on his big cock, growling, “Tell me how much you like it, Courtney. Tell me how much you like being drilled by my big dick.”
Courtney must have been a pretty good actress. Corkscrewing her hips enthusiastically, she burbled, “Oh, yeah, Knoxie. Everyone on this crew likes being nailed by your giant fat dick. We’re all so glad you shitcanned that slut Nicole and joined our crew. You’re nice fresh meat, not that stale old Broke Dick or that limp noodle Stash McVeigh. He can’t hold a candle to—”
Tearing himself abruptly away, Knoxie gripped the girl by the bicep. A slight fear appeared in her heavily-lined eyes as he shouted. “What’d you say, bitch? Did you call my wife a slut?”
Courtney was way less sure of herself now. Her pumped-up tits jiggled with her heartbeat. “Nicole’s a slut. Why else did you dump her? She was whoring around with some Boners, that sergeant-at-arms guy who smelled, and you already knew about Kneecap.”
Of course Knoxie knew about Kneecap. That Ronald McDonald lookalike had been named Elmore before Knoxie had gotten ahold of him. Now Kneecap tottered around with a cane attempting to run one of the club’s fronts, an indoor archery range across the street from The Bum Steer where Knoxie was forced to live. At least if Knoxie was going to have to see the jolly clown in the red afro wig every day, he’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d lamed the guy.
Knoxie poked Courtney in the clavicle with a stiff forefinger. “Listen, you used-up pass-around. Nicole was a fucking lady, unlike most of the half-assed Triple Exposure twats who pretend they’re actresses.”
Courtney sneered. “Oh yeah? You could take some Method acting refresher courses yourself, stud. Why else do you think we need to stick Russ Gollywow’s voice over yours on the final DVDs?”
“Gollywow’s a professional singer, you gash! Of course he’s got a good voice.”
Knoxie was being led astray from the real subject at hand—he knew that. It would take him awhile to pull himself out of the haze brought on by his water pipe that was constantly packed with locally-sourced Young Man Blue indica. He knew Nicole had spread her legs for a few brothers, so he shouldn’t be taking it out on Courtney. Courtney had only been trying to pump Knoxie’s ego. She’d called his penis giant and fat. But he was sort of glad when the director Mel stepped in and put a hand between his two leads.
“All right, keep it nice.” He slapped Knoxie’s hard-on affectionately, professionally. “You’re still up like a steel plate. You can go back in, Rex.” He called Knoxie by his stage name, Rex Havox. Mel had chosen it because both real and fake names ended in an X and were therefore easy for everyone to remember.
Suddenly Knoxie didn’t want to dive back in. He suddenly felt finished with being Rex Havox, for some reason. It had served a purpose and now he was ready to move on. He was glad when the heavy door to the soundproofed room banged open and the handsome silhouette of Lytton Driving Hawk appeared. Lytton was the freshly-minted sergeant-at-arms for The Bare Bones MC. Not the smelly one Courtney referred to, Lytton had gone straight from his service as a Prospect and a grunt to take over the valued number three—some called it number two—position in the heavy-hitting club. Lytton was not only owner of the Leaves of Grass pot farm up in the mountains, now he was a big fish in a big pond, the entire Pure and Easy area his backyard.
So everyone stood at attention when Lytton yelled, “Knoxie! Drop your cocks and grab your socks. I’ve got an urgent errand for you.”
Knoxie did drop his cock and sprang to grab his street clothes as Mel sighed heavily.
“Lytton. You can’t just bust in here and grab my best guy. This guy’s so good he doesn’t even need his own fluffer.”
Lytton peeled some bills from a roll in his jeans pocket and handed them to Mel. “Here. This should make up for your money shot. Knoxie, I saw your cage in the lot. I need you to take me up 89.”
Knoxie wasn’t a patched member of The Bare Bones so he wore no cut. He was used to getting dressed and undressed in a snap, so now he just had to throw on his 501s, skintight white wifebeater, and his patch-free black leather jacket. He knew better than to ask Lytton what was up with the whole film crew—all five of them—eavesdropping.
So he made small talk while he dressed. “Does Madison still work at that doctor’s office? I was thinking of just going for some bloods. You know, get my cholesterol checked. I feel a sudden health kick coming on.”
Lytton snorted. “You need a health kick? You’re the studliest stud in the paddock. But if you want to check your bloods, yeah, it’s a cardiologist she works for. She can take your blood up at The Citadel.” The Citadel was a massive airplane hangar where the Boners ran their commercial concern, a heavy equipment rental business. It also served as their clubhouse since they’d stopped using The Bum Steer a couple years back. Now the Steer under Knoxie’s apartment was strictly a legitimate biker bar and grill.
Mel said, “Okay Misty, you got those billiard balls? We’re gonna move onto the weight training scene next.”
“Aw, damn,” groaned Courtney.
Knoxie was glad to avoid the weight training scene. Some other guy could do it. On the way out Knoxie practically ran into Misty carrying two handfuls of billiard balls. Misty had glossy, straight, blue-black hair, a pert nose, and uplifted boobs. She thought she was getting too old to act in the porn business, so she’d graduated to assisting Mel. They’d talked about her joining Knoxie’s private studio. She had a few years’ experience laying down ink, excelling at tribal, which is where Knoxie lagged.
However, he’d never thought of her as a potential bed warmer until now.
Her eyes twinkled as he passed her by. “I was looking at the Hell City website,” she started.
Knoxie was already walking backward, Lytton was hotfooting it so fast. “Oh yeah?” What a moron. That’s all I can think of to say? I’d better brush up on my flirtation.
Misty said, “I think we should book our hotel rooms soon to get the best ones. I’d like the Biltmore.”
“Okay,” Knoxie said moronically.
He followed Lytton down the hallway past the sign that declared TRIPLE EXPOSURE STUDIOS. It’s what the world is coming to. Hell City was a top industry tattoo festival held in August in Phoenix. Live tattooing, world class tattoo masters, bands—it was the high point of the year, professionally.
Knoxie asked, “What sort of run is this up 89?” Knoxie had gone on protection runs for the club before. He’d done minor favors for them over the years, things like create distractions, pass along messages, driven his cage for tasks that required a cage. Ran backup, offered his muscle.
“Wild Man was joyriding out by Slide Rock when he saw something that’s a whole game changer. Just need manpower to go check it out. I was the closest so I’m the point guy, and you’ve got the cage in case we need it.”
Leaving the building, they made a beeline for Knoxie’s Mustang, jumping right in. The Triple Exposure was in the industrial area of Pure and Easy, and it was a s
traight shot to the highway north. Knoxie waited for the pot farmer to explain the errand.
“You know those douchebags from that whack job cult out on Merry-go-round Canyon?”
Knoxie was highly intrigued. Those weirdoes had set up residence near Pure and Easy about seven years ago and had been a bee in the county’s bonnet ever since. There were rumors people had killed themselves after taking part in some whacko sort of pseudo-therapy groups up there. People had gotten out of control, had broken bones becoming violent. More, they were too over-the-top, even for Pure and Easy’s relaxed standards. The spiritual vortexes around the neighborhood had encouraged a lot of woo-woo reflexology practitioners, Rolfers who liked their chakras balanced, but there were already enough of those Shirley MacLaine types around. Even the most tolerant local citizens had started to bristle at the new invasion. Vendors had started to pop up selling T-shirts with photos of that Swami or whatever his name was in the crosshairs of a gun.
“Who doesn’t? They’ve been groping each other all up and down Bargain Boulevard in front of poor old ladies and kids. They scream at anyone who’s offended that it’s natural and we’re the twisted prudes.”
“That’s the fucking least of it. Because they give all their money to that cult leader when they join, even the richest lawyers are edging out the natives with their fucking concession stands full of purple clothing, peanut butter and dream catchers. Lots of brothers from Fort Apache have been up in arms about these batshit Moonies crashing their own backyard.”
“They’re not Moonies. Fact, I think the leader is a white guy. He runs around like he’s from India, or so I’ve heard. Never seen him downtown or otherwise. But he’s a fucking white guy. Looks like it on the T-shirts, anyway.”
“They’ve been on our radar ever since a huge shipment of Russian ladies and M-4s were intercepted by ATF down by Tonto Basin heading our way. ATF assumed it was us of course and gave Ford a raft of shit about it. And me being the sergeant-at-arms, all the crap lands on me. I’ve got to protect this club. ATF’s crawling up our ass, and we keep trying to tell them we’re just Harley fans and heavy equipment specialists. Run a weed dispensary, an archery range, everything on the up and up.”
Knoxie frowned. “But the iron was for the nutjobs?”
“That’s what we finally figured out. I shadowed them, ran some intel. Turns out they have their own little platoon of armed guards. They even wear berets like some kind of Aryans left too long on the tilt-a-whirl. Now we’re in ATF’s sights again because they’re building a new empire in our fucking backyard. Heard reports about them selling Hell’s Minions pot and something even worse. You get any purples in your shop?”
“One. He wanted me to ink a grey wash of that fearless leader, but the only photo he had of the douche was a tiny one around his neck. I told him I work from photos when someone wants a portrait. So he went with a Buddha instead. Had me ink the words ‘I Will Confuse You’ under it. Didn’t make any fucking sense, of course. So what’d Wild Man see?”
“You’re never gonna fucking believe this. A few vans drove onto a butte up there and dropped off a ton of people, just left them in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“Maybe they’re having one of those vision quests.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But why would they be shooting at people who’re just trying to hallucinate about their spirit animal?”
Knoxie gaped. “Shooting? What the fuck? They took busloads of people out there to kill them?”
“Well, check this. Wild Man thinks they were just trying to hasten them on their way, because they were shooting at the ground behind them as they ran, like some warped kind of hunger game.”
“Holy mother of fuck. Did Wild Man talk to any of the people?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly want to stick around until he had backup.”
“Understandable.”
“So he called Ford, who knew I was at some ride detailer in the industrial section. And he knows I’m never without my Glock. So we’re going to just go scope it out, maybe talk to one of the people who were dropped off. They might have a beef with the cult. We need to find some leverage to use against these wingnuts.”
“You want to put these twatwaffles out of P&E?”
“That, or squeeze them for a payoff. If they’re on our turf earning green they need to pay the piper.”
“Running them out’s the best. There’s no room for more herbal essences around these parts. It’s already bad enough with that annual vortex festival attracting every head case between here and Jonestown. I always make a mint doing a lot of flash prefab tats of Grateful Dead roses, but three days a year is the most I can take of that shit. Turn here?”
“Turn here.”
They were silent for a few moments as Knoxie drove on the narrow road that led to a scenic area. Knoxie had a Glock in his glove box, so he wasn’t worried about any purple twatwaffles going off the rails. He was one hundred percent on the same page as Lytton when it came to the best interests of the Pure and Easy business community. Lytton had the Leaves of Grass to protect, and Knoxie had his Missing Link shop on Bargain Boulevard.
Lytton said, “You know, the Red Rocks Original is here for you, Knoxie. You’ve done us a lot of solids in the past. I want to extend our offer again to you. We’d welcome you with open arms in the club. You’ve been like a brother to lots of us for going on ten years now. You’ve been half in and half out that whole time.”
Knoxie had a feeling Lytton would bring that up again. The Bare Bones had been extending an invite to join their brotherhood for many years now, ever since he’d returned to Pure and Easy after several tours in the SEALS Special Ops. That had been Ford Illuminati’s unit, so already they shared much in common. Back in those days, it had been Cropper Illuminati who had offered to sponsor him. Cropper had died down near the border under mysterious circumstances, so Ford had taken over as President, continuing to extend the offer to Knoxie.
Knoxie had never joined The Bare Bones. He was similar to those men, but not. He thought it went against his straight arrow family man image. He knew plenty of Boners were diehard fathers and husbands. He just didn’t want to risk running afoul of the law when he had two children to pay for. As it was, he had never raised his family far above the poverty line with his tattoo shop, so that was all in the rearview now. Nicole’s main bitch was that she was forced to live in a shitty rental house in a bad area of town. Money was always tight, and things never seemed to get any better. Knoxie had failed Nicole on many levels, and when she moved out, he’d just plunged deeper into the mire. Might as well prove everyone right.
Knoxie’s situation had changed now. He no longer had to protect his two children—not now, when they lived in Flagstaff. “I understand, man. And you’re probably expecting me to say no. But actually…” Knoxie paused for dramatic effect. Glancing to the side, he saw that he had Lytton’s full attention. “I’ll think about it.”
Lytton was all over it. “You don’t have the ball and chain anymore,” he said excitedly. “Fact, I saw you pushing up on that Misty twat.”
“Chick,” Knoxie corrected. “Chick. She’s just a chick, now that she doesn’t act.”
“Chick. You’ve been working with the lovely merchandise since you split with Nicole, haven’t you?”
“It’s straight money, Driving Hawk. But I think I might start to see the benefits in throwing my lot in with you outlaws.”
Lytton grinned slyly. He really did look a lot like his half-brother, Ford. “Never a dull moment with us, that’s guaran-fucking-teed. Whoa, hey, there’s Wild Man.”
The crazy-haired equipment operator had tried to hide his bike in a cavern carved in a sandstone boulder. Knoxie had never seen him this frantic before.
“Bros,” Wild Man intoned with eyes like bowling balls. He talked to Lytton with Knoxie’s engine still idling and he pointed out over the mesa. “The weirdoes ran out there. I didn’t stick around to see whether they fell off the cliff or
not, but they’ve got to still be out there. None have come waltzing back around this way, and there’s no other way out.”
“Shit,” growled Lytton. “I should’ve asked for more cages if we want to pump them for intel.”
“We should wine and dine them,” Knoxie agreed.
“Right.” Lytton appeared to come to a decision. “Let’s find a couple of the sanest ones and take them back to the Citadel. Wild Man, follow us. You can take one on your bitch seat.”
Knoxie maneuvered his precious cherry Mustang off the sealed road and onto the sand. It sashayed a bit as he didn’t have four wheel drive but the sand was soft enough, if he didn’t hit any long cactus thorns.
Knoxie’s chest swelled with excitement and pride that he was doing something useful. Starring in porns was an ego boost, for sure. He got plenty of trim just by stumbling downstairs into The Bum Steer and dropping a few hints that he worked at The Triple Exposure. Since Nicole had walked out on him and taken the kids, he’d needed that boost.
But it was already getting old, stale. He saw acting as just that—acting, faking it, putting on a show, an unemotional show devoid of true feelings. The other actors were burned-out carcasses. It was hard for Knoxie to put his finger on what was wrong with these career porn actors, but they were missing something, some sensitivity chip that would have enabled them to see how hollow and paltry their career really was. It was an all right gig for a few months while he got back onto his feet again after the Nicole disaster. But now he had to move on.
“There,” Knoxie said, pointing.
The Jesus-like form of a man accustomed to wandering in the desert appeared in silhouette against the grey slate of sky. Knoxie headed for him. His eyes were caved in, so dark Knoxie couldn’t make out pupils. Had the cult been starving their members? They’d get the dirt on this swami nutjob and put the screws to him. There was no place in the Pure and Easy business world for someone like that. Especially not someone who bussed their undesirables onto a mesa and left them.