“I’m going to go into this deal looking like an idiot who doesn’t even know how to fucking shave,” Axton said as he wiped his finger along the bottom of his ear.
“These are the richest, snottiest, brattiest little bitches I ever seen, but I can’t stop watchin’ this shit,” Biscuit said as he stared at the television.
“You’re the only motherfucker I know who doesn’t have a television, Biscuit. What the fuck are you watching?” Axton asked.
“What is it, Otis?” Biscuit asked as he continued to stare at the T.V.
“Keeping up with the Kardashians, he’s been watching it for three hours,” Otis said.
“This is some good shit. One of ‘em just dropped a $75,000 earring in the ocean, and she’s throwin’ a fit. Who wears $75,000 earrings anyway?” he asked.
“Shit, I bet that bitch wipes her ass with $75,000 toilet paper,” I said.
“Big basketball player boyfriend just found it. Ain’t that some shit? You know they found that sum bitch when they was on a commercial. He probably handed it to that big dumb prick and told him to claim he found it when the commercial was off. God damn, these girls are hot,” Biscuit howled.
“You do realize that they edit this shit, right?” Otis asked.
“What do you mean?” Biscuit shrugged.
“Nevermind,” Otis said.
“Alright. Jesus fucking Christ, enough about the Kardashians. Good God, men. I feel like I’m in a room of high school girls. Let’s roll. My ear can air dry. It’s already 105 degrees in this God forsaken place,” Axton growled.
“Rollin’,” Otis said as he pointed to the door.
Biscuit, still standing with his eyes glued on the television, held his finger in the air. “Gimme just a minute.”
Frustrated with Biscuit, Axton shoved the hotel room door open and burst out into the parking lot. “I swear, I wonder if you motherfuckers don’t just do shit to piss me off.”
He hopped on his bike and immediately started it. After the engine warmed, he began revving the motor, blowing the loud exhaust against the building.
“Poor fucker doesn’t have a T.V. at home,” Otis yelled.
I nodded my head as I started my bike. Within a couple of minutes of coming outside, we were all revving our motors loudly. It sounded like a bunch of children had been given control of the throttle of our bikes. As the deafening sound of our exhaust echoed against the wall of the brick building, Biscuit came through the door.
“Sorry fellas. Had to see how it ended,” he yelled as he hopped on his bike.
“It doesn’t,” Otis laughed as he released his throttle. “That one you’re watching is a few years old.”
“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Axton hollered over his shoulder.
“Meeting is at some warehouse two miles south of here. Two abreast, and maintain distance, who’s up here with me?” Axton asked.
I raised my left hand. Axton nodded his head, released his clutch, and slowly began to move forward. As we rolled out of the parking lot and onto the access road which ran parallel with the highway, the sound of the bikes echoed against the concrete structure supporting the elevated highway. Being in the club provided a sense of brotherhood, but something about riding in a group always provided me with a feeling of brotherhood and power. As we merged into traffic, our positioning and ease of riding with each other reminded me of Marines marching. When the Sinners rode in groups, we were always synchronized.
After a few miles, Axton’s left arm shot upward, indicating a right turn. As we exited the highway, it was immediately apparent which building we were going to. A few hundred feet from the intersection was a metal building with a small concrete parking lot out front. Twenty bikes perfectly positioned in the small lot stood as proof the riders were in tune with club practices. Axton tossed his head in the direction of the building. I nodded my head in affirmation as I pointed toward the building.
As we pulled into the lot, we situated our bikes at the end of the row of motorcycles already parked. A quick check of time by Axton indicated the meeting was probably underway or close to it. Now even more frustrated, Axton stepped from his bike and turned toward Biscuit.
“You and that fucking Kardashians shit,” Axton growled.
“Can’t help it boss, that girl turns my fuckin’ crank. I’d like to fuck her until she couldn’t even walk,” Biscuit said.
Axton shook his head and turned to face his bike.
“Don’t imagine Kanye West would appreciate that,” Otis said.
Biscuit turned toward Otis and shrugged his shoulders. “Who the fuck’s Kanye West?”
“Alright, you three can stay out here and talk about rappers and millionaires, I’m going in. Don’t be dicking around out here making a bunch of noise or racing up and down the street like a bunch of fucking kids. Just stand here and enjoy this weather. I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so,” Axton said as he looked at his ear in the rearview mirror of his bike.
“Got it, boss,” Otis said with a nod.
“I’ll keep it civil,” I said flatly.
“Do that,” Axton said as he turned and walked toward the door.
Biscuit stepped toward Otis and me, pushed his thumbs into his front pockets, and grinned. “So, when we were headed toward Temple and that truck kicked that fuckin’ rock up and hit my windshield, it got me to thinkin’. What’s the biggest thing you ever had to dodge on the road? And I don’t mean some deer on the side of the highway that startled you. I mean you had to take the ditch or hit the shoulder or the other lane or somethin’? Biggest object or whatever?”
“You all know my story. When we were headed to Sturgis in 2006. On that two lane highway when a truck in the other lane lost half a tire. I was riding sweep, and keeping my distance, and this motherfucker lost a tire. I watched that fucker roll toward me thinking it was going to miss me. Next thing I know, boom! I hit that motherfucker, blew out a front tire, and rode on the rim for a half mile before I got stopped. Damn near shit my pants,” Otis responded.
“Don’t count. I said dodge. You didn’t dodge shit, brother. You hit it. What have ya missed?” Biscuit snapped.
As Otis stood and thought, I stared blankly across the street. The building where we were parked was in what appeared to be a residential area. The adjoining streets were filled with small poorly taken care of homes. A street perpendicular to the street in front of the building intersected a few feet beyond the far side of the lot the building was on. Close to the intersection of the two streets, a man sat in an old Ford Taurus. An intermittent puff of smoke indicated the car was running. The manner in which he was positioned in the seat indicated he was either half asleep or he didn’t want to be seen.
“Guess it would have to be a dog. Had one run out in front of me chasing a cat or squirrel or something. Motherfucker got in my lane, stopped, and just fucking stared at me. Hell, I was east of Wichita, coming in for a poker run. We stared at each other like we were both in a trance. At the last minute, it was pretty obvious he was either too stupid to move, or stubborn as fuck. I took the other lane and missed him by about five feet,” Otis said.
“That’s a boring as fuck close call. What about the Toad man? Whatcha got Toad,” Biscuit asked.
I shifted my gaze from the car to Biscuit. Although the car and the occupant made me uncomfortable, I didn’t dare say it. Spending many years in Iraq, I learned to study people, their patterns of behavior, and their body language. Seeing someone nervously walking toward a car in Iraq typically indicated the vehicle was loaded with a bomb or the person was in route to plant an Improvised Explosive Device. How a person held their arms as they walked or what they were wearing may indicate they were hiding a weapon. In previous wars, our troops were fighting a force of resistance who were in uniform, and clearly identified as the opponent. Encountering a person in civilian clothes provided our soldiers and Marines with comfort the person was in fact a civilian, and not a threat. In Iraq and Afghanistan, the
opponent was incapable of being labeled a civilian or a threat by their dress alone. Anyone, at any time, could be a threat. As a result, we learned to identify a threat based solely on their behavior.
Upon returning from the war and becoming a Prospect for the Sinners, I repeatedly made verbal note of anyone who made me uncomfortable. The constant replies of you’re not at war anymore, Toad, no one’s out to get ya caused me to stop revealing my thoughts. My nervous attention to detail, however, never ceased.
Biscuit’s fast talking brought me back to a conscious state of awareness. “Where’d you wander off to, motherfucker?”
“Huh?” I responded as I attempted to focus my eyes on Otis.
“Over here,” Biscuit said as he snapped his fingers.
“You alright, Brother? You go back to Afghanistan for a minute?” Biscuit chuckled.
“No, I was…I was just thinking,” I responded.
Biscuit looked down at his feet as he kicked a rock from the concrete lot toward the street. “About stinky twat?”
“She doesn’t have a stinking fucking twat, and no. Just, I don’t know, thinking. Why the fuck are you fucking with me?” I snapped.
He looked up with widened eyes. “Whoa. Settle down, killer. Did ya get enough sleep last night? Maybe you need to take a little nap.”
“Fuck off, I’m fine,” I said.
“Damn, take it easy. We was talkin’ about dodgin’ shit in the road. What’s your best?” he asked.
I glanced toward the car. The occupant was still slumped in the seat. After a few seconds, a puff of smoke from the exhaust provided proof the car was still running. After staring blankly for some time, I shifted my gaze to Biscuit.
“A wheelbarrow,” I responded.
“No shit?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said.
“Already heard this, it’s a good one. Tell him, Toad,” Otis said.
“Well, I was on the highway headed up to Newton. I’m behind this guy in a truck. The highway’s a two-lane at that point, headed north on 35. So, I’m behind this prick, and there’s a string of cars on my left, and cars behind me for a mile. It’s rush hour, if Wichita has one. It was like 5:15, just after everyone’s getting out of work.” I paused and glanced toward the car. As I shifted my gaze to the fellas, I continued. “So I’m behind this fucker, and his tailgate on the truck is down, and the back is full of construction shit: tools, shovels, a tool box, and this fucking wheelbarrow. I’m behind him about twenty feet, following pretty close, and I’m studying this wheelbarrow. It’s bouncing up and down, and I’m thinking is this motherfucker tied down?”
“So I study it, and I watch it wobble around for a few miles. Now you know how when you see something like that you try and decide if it’s a threat or not?” I asked.
Biscuit reached into his saddlebag. “Red Bull anyone?”
I shook my head. As Biscuit took a drink, he nodded his head eagerly. “I sure as fuck do. I pay attention to all that shit. Hell, Brother, you gotta keep your eyes peeled.”
“Okay, so we hit this expansion joint or whatever, and this fucking wheelbarrow flies out of the back of his truck. Now I’m tooling along about 80 miles a fucking hour, and this motherfucker comes out and right toward me. Fucker’d have killed me if I didn’t react,” I said.
Biscuit’s eyes widened as he took another sip of Red Bull. “So?”
“Well, I grabbed a handful of brake and laid on the back brake, car behind me damn near hit me. Let off the brakes and immediately swerved right, into the fucking narrow part that has the drunk bumps on it. Came to a complete stop and collected my thoughts.” I hesitated, knowing there was more to the story, and Otis had heard it a few times.
Biscuit waved his free hand toward me. “Holy shit, that’s a good one. Better’n mine, for sure.”
“Tell him the rest,” Otis said.
“There’s more?” Biscuit asked.
I glanced toward the car. The man sat up in the seat slightly, looked our direction momentarily, and lowered himself back down into the seat. I glanced toward Otis and considered saying something about the car.
“Uhhm, yeah. When I pulled off the side of the road, the fucking wheelbarrow immediately smacks the car behind me in the front, he hits his brakes, and the fucking thing flips over the top of his car and lands in the windshield of the car behind him. The fucker with the wheelbarrow in the windshield hits the car in front of him; which was the guy behind me. I sat and watched this shit like it wasn’t even real. After about thirty seconds, there’s a ten car pile-up, one of which has a fucking wheelbarrow stuck in his windshield.”
“Jesus jumped up Christ. Did ya run down the cocksucker in the truck?” he asked.
“No, I stayed and helped out with the accidents. Filled out police reports, and bullshit like that. But they caught the guy,” I said.
“Serves the dumb fuck right,” Biscuit said as he stomped his boot on the empty can, smashing it flat.
“Tell him how they caught him,” Otis said.
I looked at Otis and rolled my eyes.
Otis slapped Biscuit on the shoulder and began to tell his version of the story. “Ol’ Toad here knows the tag number. After all that bullshit, car wrecks, and such, the cop asks if anyone got the plate number of the truck. Hell, it’s been an hour after the shit goes down. Toad says yeah, I got it memorized; it’s BR549 or whatever the fuck it was. Fucking guy pays attention to all kinds of stupid details, but this time it paid off.”
“He’s a nervous acting fucker sometimes, that’s for sure. Yeah, I notice shit too, motherfucker, I been noticing you starin’ at that car across the street since we got here. What the fuck’s wrong with you today?” Biscuit asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. Fucker just makes me nervous. We’ve been here about twenty minutes, and the fucker’s been sitting over there waiting,” I snapped.
He chuckled and shook his head from side to side. “Yeah, parked cars freak me out too.”
“Fuck you, Biscuit. I’d rather have my shit wired tight then get blindsided,” I hissed.
Biscuit carried the smashed can to his bike and dropped it into the saddlebag. As he glanced up, he continued. “Yeah, Austin is full of ISIS and Al Qaeda.”
Fuck you, motherfucker. You wouldn’t make it ten minutes in combat.
I turned to face Otis. As I shook my head and lifted my shoulders slightly; the sound of people coming out of the building shifted my focus to the door. Several men walked out, got on their bikes, and left. Others lingered, standing by their bikes talking. As Axton walked out talking to a man dressed in cargo shorts and a wife beater, I laughed to myself at his choice of attire. He looked like a big, bald, musclebound weight lifter wearing tennis shoes. Knowing he either had to walk here or ride one of the bikes parked, I assumed he must have rode one of the bikes. More than likely, considering the fact he wasn’t wearing a cut, he was one of the potential members of the new club. .
What a fucking idiot.
“Couple of these fellas are going to roll with us to the bar. Said we ought to go to the Red Shed Tavern.” Axton turned to face the big idiot as he finished speaking.
The oversized bald guy nodded his head as he walked in our direction beside Axton. I stared down at his shoes and shook my head in disbelief. As he approached, he pulled his right hand from the pocket of his shorts.
You better not even try, you wannabe motherfucker.
Although most people don’t realize it, there’s an unwritten rule regarding shaking a 1%er’s hand. Most outsiders perceived the standoffish nature as arrogance, but in reality it was more a precautionary measure and a means of not affiliating ourselves with someone who didn’t measure up. If an outsider ever approached a 1%er and introduced himself with an outstretched hand, most would be met with a blank stare. Not many 1%er’s would be willing to shake the hand of a man they didn’t know. If another 1%er introduced that person, however, it would act as a reassurance of the outsider being a stand-up guy and confirmation he wa
s worthy of a formal introduction. At that point, if the fellow 1%er didn’t shake the hand of the outsider, it would be disrespectful to the man introducing him. I wasn’t in any way willing to shake the hand of this oversized bald headed motherfucker covered in a combination of garage and free world tattoos.
As I pressed my palms into my armpits and crossed my arms over my chest, I noticed a few more men walk from the building. One, in particular, immediately caught my attention. I shifted my gaze from the big bald idiot toward the door.
Can’t be…
You’re dead.
I blinked my eyes in disbelief. As Axton and the oversized bald-headed fool stopped in front of the three of us, I stepped around Axton without speaking and stared toward the two men standing by the door. Seeing one of the two men caused me to immediately feel a flood of indescribable emotion.
The man, dressed in jeans, desert boots, and a white tee-shirt, stood talking to another man who wasn’t wearing a cut. The man he spoke with was wearing an oversized black hoodie and looked nervous. I wiped my eyes, shook my head, and stared. This was impossible. As I stood filled with skepticism and stared, the man gazed at me. As our eyes met, the look on his face confirmed my suspicion.
But you died…
Chapter Sixty
TOAD
After the explosion of a roadside bomb severely injured several Marines in our small convoy, myself included, we were removed from what was left of our Humvees, and the more seriously wounded were treated by a Corpsman while waiting on a medevac chopper. The entire area immediately took tremendous fire from insurgents in the small village, primarily from the rooftops of surrounding buildings. As every one of the vehicles in the convoy was damaged, all we could do was wait.
Wait and hope.
A highly decorated Staff Sergeant who was in our convoy took a large piece of shrapnel to the hip, and was bleeding profusely. Refusing treatment, and with only one useful leg, he drug himself to a position of cover, propped himself against the rear of an abandoned car, and began returning fire. I attributed my having survived for the amount of time it took to be medevaced out to his bravery and courage. As I was literally being carried to the chopper, I watched in horror while he was shot twice as he attempted to crawl away from the cover of the car. I later learned upon returning to my battalion that he had died while being treated for his wounds.
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