by Carver Pike
This is how a real outlaw lives. He rides. He drinks, steals, kills, but always rides.
The music from inside the bar suddenly blared louder and I realized someone had opened the front door. Then it opened again and again.
“Yo!” somebody yelled. “The fuck you think you’re doing?”
No answer I could give would suffice so I went with honesty.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I was walking by and I saw these bikes. I admire you guys greatly and have always wondered what it’s like to ride around in a brotherhood like yours. So I foolishly sat on one of the bikes and fantasized for a minute.”
“You fuckin’ fantasized on my bike?” one of the other bikers said.
He was huge, covered in tattoos, and had a greying goatee. He was definitely not the person to fuck with. Yes, I’d killed people, but never anyone like this guy. I imagined I could shove my knife into his gut and he’d just flex his muscles and send the blade crashing to the ground.
“A daydream really,” I said as I stepped away from the motorcycles and tried to scamper back toward my car.
“You don’t touch a man’s ride,” a third biker said.
“Bring his fuckin’ ass over here,” the owner of the bike said.
Three bikers ran toward me, and as much as I wanted to turn and run away, my feet wouldn’t move quickly enough. It didn’t take long for them to have me by my arms, dragging me over to them.
“You wanna be in our club?” the owner of the bike asked.
The other guys stood with their arms folded in front of their chests.
“Umm,” I said.
I wasn’t sure what answer would be the right one. If I said no they might beat my ass for thinking they weren’t worth joining. If I said yes they might kick my ass for thinking I had what it takes to ride with them.
“Let me show you what we do in our club with fuck wads like you,” the owner of the bike said.
With that, he pulled his heavy right arm back and unloaded on me, smashing his large fist against my jaw. Then he hit me with his left hand in the stomach. I’d thought his right was his power arm. I was wrong. Once I hit the ground, they all stomped me. They kicked the shit out of me. I couldn’t ball up quickly enough. They were on me kicking and punching and spitting and cussing.
That was the night I killed a fan of Shadow & Flame, met the Iron Claw MC, and crawled my way back to my car with hate running through my veins. I hated rock groups, I hated motorcycle gangs, and I fucking hated pumpkin pie.
Chapter 8 – Kevin
My relationship with Mrs. Rebecca was nice. It was almost perfect. Almost. The day Ivory got out of prison was the day it all changed. Before that, I spent every night at her house, wrapped up in her naked body, doing things I’d never done with any other woman. She gave me everything. She cooked for me, cleaned for me, and made love to me.
Keeping secrets from my brother was something else I’d never done. I’d always tried to be open and honest with him. He wouldn’t understand my need to be with Mrs. Rebecca. In his mind, she was evil and deserved to rot in hell for what she’d done to me. What I saw as an awakening, he saw as a horrendous act of depravity. So I didn’t tell him about her.
We’d begun speaking again as his parole date approached. He reached out to me with a handwritten letter explaining that he’d chosen to cut off communication for a little while so that I’d have room to grow without feeling the need to spend all my time visiting. That and he needed a way to try not to think so much about life on the outside. He’d needed to serve his time so he could get out and start over anew. With our inheritance, we’d finally have the chance to open our own tattoo parlor.
The day I met him at the prison gates was one of the best days of my life. Seeing him free again liberated me. It took the weight off my shoulders. I no longer felt so guilty for being free to roam while he was trapped in a cell. Yet, in my newfound freedom, I also felt trapped. I had a secret that I couldn’t tell him. I was in love with Mrs. Rebecca.
During our written communication, I did tell him about Melanie and Brandon’s departure. He’d taken it better than I’d expected but that’s the beauty of written communication. Not all emotion makes its way onto paper. I had no doubt he’d done his fair share of crying and yelling and punching of walls.
When I picked him up that day, he was pleasant. He seemed happy. He walked to my car with his hands in his pockets. He’d entered the place with nothing and he’d left with nothing more than some new tattoos and a couple of fresh scars I never asked about. Our first embrace was so strong and so tight that I had no doubt everything would be great. We were back to normal.
“Wanna stop for some burgers and beer?” he asked.
It took a moment for me to get his joke. At first I thought he was only hungry and I told him we could do whatever he wanted.
“It’s a fucking joke, Kev,” he said. “That was the last thing we did together before I got locked up, remember?”
“I d…do,” I said, finally laughing under my breath.
“I don’t suppose Melanie ever got in touch?” he asked.
I shook my head and pulled his son’s tiny shoe out of the glove box. He took it from me.
“It’s th..th…the only thing she l…l…left b…behind,” I said.
He touched the shoe to his forehead and closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a while. Finally, he opened his eyes and they were watery.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” he said. “Take me somewhere. Take me anywhere but here.”
I took him to Red’s so we could get the beers minus the burgers. He’d always liked Red’s. I think he liked the biker attitude, the “I don’t give a fuck” mentality. Sometimes I think if he didn’t have me to worry about, he’d hop on a Harley and disappear like the rest of them. He’d make a good biker. He was so carefree and so damn good looking and talented. He’d always gotten anything he wanted when he tried hard enough.
Watching him swig down his first beer, I realized how proud I was of him. I was the older brother but often felt like the youngster. Earlier that day he’d stepped out of a prison where he’d served time to keep me out of trouble. What’s more honorable than that?
“J…James,” I said. “I’m p…pr…proud of you.”
He tilted his head to the side and looked at me with a cocked eyebrow. He didn’t understand what I meant.
“Proud?” he said.
“Ya…ya…you’re a good m…man,” I told him. “Th…Thank you for wa…what you d…did for me.”
He stood and grabbed the back of my head, pulling my forehead against his.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
“I’d do it a hundred more times. You’re my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. But let’s not do it again if possible ‘cause that fucking sucked.”
That time I got the joke and I laughed.
“You two gonna have another beer or you gonna fuck?” the deep voice of the bar owner, Red, barked at us. “Fuckin’ pansy ass brothers.”
“Red,” Ivory said, snatching the man’s hand up to shake.
They both smiled and laughed.
“James,” he replied. “How the hell are ya?”
“It’s Ivory now,” he said.
“I…Ivory?” I said.
“Ivory?” Red repeated. “Like the fuckin’ Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney song?”
My brother laughed and held up his beer as if making a toast.
“Exactly,” he said. “I was the ivory in a cellblock full of ebony.”
“Seems you came out okay,” Red said.
“Changed,” Ivory said, “But yeah, I’m okay.”
“I…Ivory,” I said again, trying the name out for size.
I didn’t like it at first. It sounded…soapy.
Isn’t there a soap by that name?
“So what are you fellas gonna do now?” Red asked. “Kevin hasn’t been visiting me the way you always did. I
was feeling kind of neglected.”
“Really?” Ivory said. “Kev, what you been doin’ all this time? Why haven’t you paid Red a visit?”
“I…I…I just b…been busy,” I said.
“I do believe your stuttering brother is puttin’ that mouth to good use,” Red said. “Got yourself some pussy, ain’t ya?”
I smiled, giving away too much. Ivory patted me on the back.
“You got a girlfriend, older brother?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“Sh…she’s a little c…c…crazy,” I said. “B…but I like her a l…l…lot.”
It was the first lie I’d told Ivory in a long time. Holding back the truth was something I’d grown accustomed to since I was a child but telling lies isn’t something I like doing. I’d rather not talk at all, which is one of the benefits of having a stutter since I’m not expected to talk as much as normal people.
“You gotta bring her in here sometime,” Red said. “Hell, I’ll even buy the first few rounds to celebrate. It ain’t every day that your ass gets some ass.”
“Wha…what are we g…gonna do na…now,” I said, trying to change the subject back to Red’s question.
I wasn’t sure what the plan was. I knew we had the inheritance money, which of course we weren’t ready to disclose to a former biker and his rowdy pals, but I was curious what Ivory had in mind.
“You kept the tattoo machines and shit we picked up that day, right?” Ivory asked.
I told him I did.
“Well, we’re gonna open us up our own tattoo parlor,” he said. “I’ve been practicing nonstop over the years and I’m pretty damn good now. How ‘bout you?”
“I…I…I’m real g…good, James…I…Ivory,” I said.
I was really good. Not to brag, but I’d learned new techniques with so much time on my hands. I’d taken lots of art classes in college. I never did graduate, but I learned as much as I could. I was damn good at 3D art. I’d taken a few part time gigs at tattoo parlors around the city over the years and had even done some work on Mrs. Rebecca. I gave her an amazing tat with two hummingbirds on the right side of her ribs that looked so real it seemed they were actually hovering around a flower. Yes, I was damn good at my craft and I was ready to open a shop with Ivory.
“If you guys are serious about this,” Red said, “My brother has been trying to get me to rent out a space a few blocks from here. Get this. He wants me to open a fuckin’ karaoke bar with him. You believe that shit? Karaoke? These dirty motherfuckers in here would keep singing Highway to Hell or Born to be Wild until I had blood drippin’ out my fuckin’ ears. If you want, I can get the info for you and maybe you can turn the space into a shop.”
“That would be great,” Ivory said.
“Wa…wow,” I replied.
I couldn’t imagine having a tattoo parlor of our own so close to home. Ivory hadn’t even seen home yet. We’d come straight to Red’s. While he was away, I’d rented a larger apartment than the one we’d had before he got locked up. I’d even used part of my inheritance to furnish the place. I bought Ivory a queen-size bed and the softest pillows I could find. I got him a dresser and a mirror and even made sure his bedroom was the one with the bathroom.
Our living room couch was secondhand but it was comfortable and our TV wasn’t one of the expensive flat paneled ones but it did alright with basic cable. We weren’t big TV watchers anyway. I imagined we’d be even less likely to veg out now that we were opening our own shop.
Red offered to back us if we needed it but Ivory cautiously declined, telling him we’d saved enough to get the place going but that was about it. Getting in bed with a biker was almost as dangerous as borrowing money from the Mafia. Red was a good guy but this place needed to be legit and Ivory didn’t want anyone to be able to yank it out from under us if times got tough. For that reason, renting the space wasn’t enough. We bought it. We no longer needed to depend on anyone. From then on it was Ivory, me, and The Motor Quill.
We did, however, take Red’s advice and hire a guy named Chunk. He was a big, smelly member of Iron Claw MC. Well, kind of an ex member but once in the gang you never really leave. He was what you might call retired. He’d throw down for his brothers at the drop of a hat but for the most part, he hung around the shop, smoking, drinking, cussing, and tattooing. He was damn good too. His specialty was vintage stuff, the kind of work most of his brothers wanted. We had a lot of bikers as clients. That was a good thing. It helped with our image and made sure nobody fucked with us. At least that’s what Ivory said.
Business at The Motor Quill was slow at first. We needed to build up our reputation in order to reach new clients. Eventually, after we’d been open a few years, we were able to afford better furniture for the waiting area, new seats and tables for the workspaces, and even new machines. Ivory had a few TVs put up on the walls where we’d play music videos most of the time. That or MMA fights or episodes of Sons of Anarchy whenever the show was on.
Believe it or not, most of our real biker buddies liked the show. They’d laugh at some of the parts they thought were bullshit, but according to them, it painted a fairly accurate picture of the life of an outlaw. That is, if outlaws were able to get in good with the cops in a tiny suburban neighborhood surrounded by skinheads and Mexicans and black street gangs and whorehouses and porn studios.
“Charming,” Chunk once said as he laughed at the show the way he always did. “Maybe in fuckin’ LA but not in a town called fuckin’ Charming.”
He always made fun of us for watching. Then again, he was a big fan of The Vampire Diaries so his taste in shows wasn’t exactly a good way to gauge manliness. He covered up his fascination with young vampires by proudly displaying his Arnold Schwarzenegger, Chuck Norris, and Steven Segal VHS collection. Everything in Chunk’s cubby was taken in trade for tattoos. He was a pawn shop that exchanged ancient artifacts for damn good ink.
Yes, things were going great. That was until Nikki showed up. This is where I kept my next secret from Ivory. I knew she was in town long before she showed up at The Motor Quill. I first saw her at Red’s. She was dating a member of the Iron Claw MC, a guy named Haven. He didn’t frequent the bar as often as some of the others so I just happened to see her one night. She was there at a table full of bikers and their ol’ ladies. Nikki looked terribly out of place and quite uncomfortable. It was clear she was trying to be something she wasn’t. One thing that remained the same about Nikki was her good looks. She’d always been hot, but over the years she’d turned into a total knockout.
What she looked like wasn’t important to me. I only wanted her to stay away from my brother. Things were going great for us and she could only fuck things up like she had in the past. I wished the woman no ill will but we had no place in our lives for the blonde bombshell nowadays. Back when Ivory was locked up, I would’ve given anything to be able to track her down and have her pay him a visit. If nothing else, she might’ve given him some hope, but she hadn’t been there when I needed her and now it was too late.
So I watched her. I stalked her to put it frankly. When I wasn’t at the shop and I wasn’t at Mrs. Rebecca’s, I was following Nikki around. I’d never lay a hand on the girl but I needed to make sure she stayed far away from our business. I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t the only one keeping tabs on her. Someone else, something else, watched her every move. Something dark and sinister wanted Nikki. It was a part of my past I’d tried to keep buried, but it was rearing its ugly head. Dark demons had settled over our city.
Chapter 9 – Simple Simon
Terror was the only way to put it. Alone in a dark room, surrounded by faces with no warmth, love, or acceptance in their expressions. The darkness was becoming stronger. What I’d done to the woman after the concert was sick. It was insane. I’d smashed her face in with a pie. That wasn’t normal. Nothing about me was normal. For the first time, I scared myself. The demons were no longer only on the exterior. No, they were within me. They�
�d taken over the parts of me that I’d kept human.
Two weeks had passed since I’d killed the groupie whore. The cops never came looking for me. I’d half expected them to find traces of my semen somewhere in the apartment or track me down by my fingerprints but they didn’t. I’m still amused by that. I’d thrown a full condom into the toilet and flushed it. At the time, it didn’t seem so crazy, but during the following two weeks, I kept thinking about it, wondering if that would be my undoing. What if I’d somehow gotten semen in the toilet or on the seat or what if they examined the fucking pipes?
I knew I was being paranoid, but was I really? This was a young girl, not a homeless war vet. She deserved to have someone track down her killer. Yet, nobody came for me.
Only the demons came. They visited me every night, shouting insanities in my face, spitting forth their foul saliva. Only my comforter served as a shield, but no earplugs would drown out their high pitched shrieks. Evil can’t be blocked by a blanket. So I shivered alone, a grown man cowering in fear like a small child. I wanted to kill myself. I thought back to that night at the convenience store when I’d almost downed a gallon of vodka and slit my wrists. I’d come so close to ending it all. The taste for blood had awakened a whole new side of me. I was inspired by the flow of energy that took hold of me when doused in human blood. The blood was always good. It was the build-up I dreaded. Finding my next victim was the part I loathed. So I put it off until the demons became too much to handle.
All my life, whenever the demons became unmanageable, only one place could help me relax. It was the one place I’d always felt welcome, the only place with warmth, until it was all ripped apart. I’d come and gone many times from Mrs. Rebecca’s house. It started out as a kind of safe haven, but sneaking out at night to kill was too difficult. She was too fucking nosy. She’d always been that way and in her older age it had gotten worse. As if I was still a young child needing to explain my whereabouts, she’d wait for me to come home at night and would ask where I’d been. The last time I was there, she accused me of sleeping around.