I feel the temples and veins in my head. I feel every rock and pebble crunch under my steel toe boots as I approach. How the fuck did I get here? What the fuck am I doing? I have a career for fuck’s sake.
He is laughing and holding a half gone bottle of Jim Beam. I step up my pace and he catches my eye. He smiles and then, for one split second, I see his eyes change. His brain is numb from laughter and whiskey, but in that last split second, he has a tiny, tenth of a second of clear and concise thought. His synapses fire hard from his primordial brain that teaches fight or flight. He knows. His eyes tell me in that second he knows. But he cannot react. He is slow, and dumb, and happy with whiskey and laughter. And it is too late.
I hit him hard. Perfectly. My leather gloved fist lands perfectly. I feel the cartilage fold into mush. He’s big. Much bigger than me. A scream. Not his. Some bitch. He goes down hard and his blood hits my mouth. I taste the rancid copper taste of his blood on my tongue. Rage swells through my brain when I taste it. Now I want to kill him for my own reason.
The bottle smashes into pieces in his hand and flies in every direction. I hear his body slam onto the pavement in a thud. His breath escapes his body as he hits the ground. People are running now, between Harleys lined up in a row. Someone laughs hard and loud. I want to kill them too.
I walk over and I see his flattened pig of a nose. Slushed up. Oozing snot and saliva in crimson beads. I lean down and spit the copper taste of blood into his face. But the rage isn’t gone. I pull his sour, whiskey stench face up to me and drive my elbow deeply into his mouth. I watch three teeth break off. He gags on them as they rip and cut their way down his throat. I spit into his gaping throat. And I walk away.
“I said knock the fuck out of him, not kill him.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“ Well, serves the puke right. Get the fuck out of here. Meet me back at the clubhouse”
‘Yeah.”
What happens when you disrespect a club member, a real biker club member. Not yuppie fucking Joe’s weekend riding club. The clubs that police approach carefully. That any motorcycle rider with a brain knows not to fuck around with. Hang around long enough, be hard enough, show you can over and over. And sometimes, even a professor, a doctor, will end up in the club. Rarely. But it happens. And then you’re no longer a professor who likes Harleys. A doctor that likes to ride to Laughlin, Nevada once a year. You’re a member of a family. And that becomes your first identity. Every other identity becomes secondary. And this new life. This new family. It becomes everything. Your old life is gone into flames and ashes. I had that life. And I crossed lines with them. My family. My family that gave everything and expected everything in return.
100, 120 130, the V-twin is pounding my eardrums and I love it. I love the road flying up at me. The blur of the road. I fly through the orange groves in full bloom on Victoria Avenue….slow down, slow down, it’s fucking beautiful. I want to die like this.
Orange blossoms. I roll to a stop and push my Wide-Glide into the dirt road of the orange groves. I am alive. It smells like heaven. This is fucking heaven. The orange blossoms are intoxicating. I lay down in the dirt and suck it all in. Every breath makes me closer to God. I spit the last of the copper from my mouth and lay staring into the stars.
Chapter 7
The man is good I know this. He makes big jugs of Hawaiian punch for all of us dusty poor kids. He has puppies. “You want a puppy, kid?” He hands me a black, brown, and white crested puppy. I look into his brown puppy eyes and I know. This is the best puppy that ever lived. He’s King. My first puppy. My first dog. King. A rustling in the orange trees. I slip my hand into my leather vest and release the safety of my .45 auto. I place it into my mouth and taste the oil. I feel the cold steel and run
He is laughing and holding a half gone bottle of Jim Beam. I step up my pace and he catches my eye. He smiles and then, for one split second, I see his eyes change. His brain is numb from laughter and whiskey, but in that last split second, he has a tiny, tenth of a second of clear and concise thought. His synapses fire hard from his primordial brain that teaches fight or flight. He knows. His eyes tell me in that second he knows. But he cannot react. He is slow, and dumb, and happy with whiskey and laughter. And it is too late.
I hit him hard. Perfectly. My leather gloved fist lands perfectly. I feel the cartilage fold into mush. He’s big. Much bigger than me. A scream. Not his. Some bitch. He goes down hard and his blood hits my mouth. I taste the rancid copper taste of his blood on my tongue. Rage swells through my brain when I taste it. Now I want to kill him for my own reason.
The bottle smashes into pieces in his hand and flies in every direction. I hear his body slam onto the pavement in a thud. His breath escapes his body as he hits the ground. People are running now, between Harleys lined up in a row. Someone laughs hard and loud. I want to kill them too.
I walk over and I see his flattened pig of a nose. Slushed up. Oozing snot and saliva in crimson beads. I lean down and spit the copper taste of blood into his face. But the rage isn’t gone. I pull his sour, whiskey stench face up to me and drive my elbow deeply into his mouth. I watch three teeth break off. He gags on them as they rip and cut their way down his throat. I spit into his gaping throat. And I walk away.
“I said knock the fuck out of him, not kill him.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“ Well, serves the puke right. Get the fuck out of here. Meet me back at the clubhouse”
‘Yeah.”
What happens when you disrespect a club member, a real biker club member. Not yuppie fucking Joe’s weekend riding club. The clubs that police approach carefully. That any motorcycle rider with a brain knows not to fuck around with. Hang around long enough, be hard enough, show you can over and over. And sometimes, even a professor, a doctor, will end up in the club. Rarely. But it happens. And then you’re no longer a professor who likes Harleys. A doctor that likes to ride to Laughlin, Nevada once a year. You’re a member of a family. And that becomes your first identity. Every other identity becomes secondary. And this new life. This new family. It becomes everything. Your old life is gone into flames and ashes. I had that life. And I crossed lines with them. My family. My family that gave everything and expected everything in return.
100, 120 130, the V-twin is pounding my eardrums and I love it. I love the road flying up at me. The blur of the road. I fly through the orange groves in full bloom on Victoria Avenue….slow down, slow down, it’s fucking beautiful. I want to die like this.
Orange blossoms. I roll to a stop and push my Wide-Glide into the dirt road of the orange groves. I am alive. It smells like heaven. This is fucking heaven. The orange blossoms are intoxicating. I lay down in the dirt and suck it all in. Every breath makes me closer to God. I spit the last of the copper from my mouth and lay staring into the stars.
Chapter 7
The man is good I know this. He makes big jugs of Hawaiian punch for all of us dusty poor kids. He has puppies. “You want a puppy, kid?” He hands me a black, brown, and white crested puppy. I look into his brown puppy eyes and I know. This is the best puppy that ever lived. He’s King. My first puppy. My first dog. King. A rustling in the orange trees. I slip my hand into my leather vest and release the safety of my .45 auto. I place it into my mouth and taste the oil. I feel the cold steel and run
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