Twisted Tales of Mayhem: 2019 MMM Special Edition Anthology

by Sapphire Knight

  “I’m guessing whatever you did landed you both in here.”

  “Ronnie married my b…b…big sister, but he hates my g…g…guts. I was trying to g…g…get him to like m…m…me, so I got us a b…bunch of P…P…Pink Floyd tickets to scalp, but we got p…p…pinched in the p… parking lot trying to sell them.”

  “Tough break,” I said. “But I don’t have any drugs and I’m not a lawyer, so best of luck with your brother-in-law, I’m gonna try to get some sleep.”

  My eyes had only been closed for a moment when Ronnie pushed his way through the inmates that had been blocking us and made his way to the spot where Pete and I were sitting.

  “I mean it, you stuttering little prick,” Ronnie spat out to Pete, while pointing a nicotine-stained finger at him. “I don’t give a shit that you’re my old lady’s little brother. I’m gonna tear you a new asshole for this.”

  “P…P…Please, d…d…d. P…P…Please, d…d…don’t.” Pete struggled to get the words out as the sweat continued to pour from his forehead. He was curled up tightly in a ball as Ronnie continued to get closer and closer.

  I’ve never been one to insert myself into anyone’s business, especially the family kind, but I hated bullies more than anything and I’d heard just about enough from this Ronnie fellow. I rose to my feet and my eyes met his, once I looked up another four inches.

  “How ’bout you lay off the kid for now?” I asked politely.

  “How ’bout you mind your own goddamned business, you piece of biker trash?” Ronnie replied and poked my chest.

  That would be the last thing Ronnie would do with that finger for the next six weeks. Before he knew it, his right index finger was in my left hand. Once he was aware of that, his finger was then snapped in two places. Reflexively, Ronnie dropped to his knees, and my boot easily pinned his head down to the floor while I maintained control of his arm.

  Two feet of space and six seconds was all I needed to gain complete control of my larger opponent. Ronnie could thank the United States Army for that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Duke

  Ronnie winced in pain as I maintained my hold.

  “I think you owe this young man an apology,” I said, nodding toward Pete. Our scuffle had now gained the full attention of the entire cell’s population, including the Burning Saints, the biker gang I’d spotted when I entered.

  “What the fuck for?” Ronnie said, his head, still under my boot.

  “For starters, you can apologize for making fun of the way the boy talks. He can’t help that shit.”

  “That stuttering prick can go fuck his mo—”

  I gave his finger a twist.

  “Alright, alright! I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, okay?” Ronnie cried out in pain.

  “Not to me,” I said. “To Pete.”

  “I’m sorry, Pete. I won’t make fun of you no more. Just tell this guy to back off, okay?”

  “I f…f…f…f…forgive you, R…R…R…R…R…”

  At this point, I wasn’t sure if Pete’s stutter was worse due to adrenaline, or if he was just fucking with Ronnie. Either way, I could tell he was enjoying the moment.

  “…Ronnie,” Pete finally finished.

  Before I knew it, and with my hands still full with Ronnie, another inmate came up from behind me fast. Pete, God bless him, tried to warn me but only got as far as “L…l…look”

  Whoever had Ronnie’s back had gotten the drop on me and I could only hope he didn’t have a shiv. I barely had time to let go of Ronnie and begin to rotate around when my would-be assailant was tackled by one of the Burning Saints. A big cornfed looking fella with red hair, a bushy beard, and a checkered shirt on under his kutte. This ol’ boy looked like Paul Bunyan might if he rode a Harley.

  “You got him, Zaius?”

  I spun around to see the rest of the Burning Saints standing with their President at the front of the pack. His patch read, “Cutter.”

  “He ain’t goin’ anywhere,” the burly man replied.

  “Thanks,” I said with a head nod.

  “I don’t like bullies either,” Cutter said, his accent devoid of any trace of the south. I looked at the front of his cut again and saw the Burning Saints rode out of Portland, Oregon.

  “You’re a little far from home, ain’t ya?” I asked with a smile.

  “Long story,” Cutter replied.

  “Long ride,” I said.

  The sound of an approaching guard immediately snapped everyone into “act casual” mode, and I backed away from Ronnie, toward my new-found biker friends. Ronnie scrambled with his one good hand, finally rising to his feet just as the guard reached the cell.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” the guard asked Ronnie.

  “He slipped and fell,” Cutter said before Ronnie could answer.

  “Yeah, the county really needs to fix the leaks in this place,” Zaius added.

  “I’ll add that to the suggestion box,” the guard replied before asking, “One of you assholes named Hill?”

  Surprised to hear my name I called out, “That’s me.”

  “You’ve got a phone call. Come with me.”

  The cell was awash with sideways glances and head scratches as I made my way to the door. The guard let me out and cuffed me before leading me down the hall to a small grey room that contained a single chair, and a table with a white phone on it.

  “Just pick up the receiver and press the red button. You have three minutes.”

  “Who the hell’s calling me?”

  “Three minutes,” the guard repeated and slammed the door behind him.

  I picked up the receiver and pushed the flashing red ‘hold’ button as instructed.

  “Hello?”

  “Randall. Listen to me closely and don’t say a goddamned word.”

  My heart sank the moment I heard my father’s voice.

  “Our family Lawyer, Mr. Bird, on his way to get you out. You sit tight and keep your big mouth shut until he gets there.”

  I said nothing.

  “You understand me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied reluctantly, and my father abruptly hung up. Another example of a typical ‘conversation’ with my old man. Anyone else would be more than happy to be getting out of this dump, but I knew the price I’d have to pay for my freedom, starting with a four-hour car ride with Mister-fucking-Bird.

  I hung up and rapped on the door to let the guard know I was done with my call. He returned moments later, but this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a man that was the embodiment of Georgia law enforcement. He was a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a perfectly pressed sheriff’s uniform complete with stark white cowboy boots and hat.

  “How are you doing there, Randall? My name is sheriff Don Early, and this is my jail.”

  “Nice place ya got here, sheriff.”

  “You probably don’t remember me, Randall” the sheriff said.

  “No, sir. Can’t say that I do,” I replied in complete honesty. “And it’s Duke.”

  “I suppose you picked up that handle in the service, am I right?” he asked. “I’d heard that you’d enlisted and about how you were wounded over there in Vietnam.”

  “I’m sorry, how do I know you?” I asked.

  “Of course, you don’t remember. You were no taller than one of my huntin’ dogs last time I saw you,” sheriff Early said with a grin wider than the brim of his hat. I had no idea who this politician cop was or why he was being so nice to me, but it made me uneasy.

  “Your daddy and I are old friends,” sheriff Early continued and my feeling of uneasiness doubled. “I remember he once invited me and my kids to go deer hunting on your property one season,” he said, and a flood of memories came rushing to the front of my mind. While I still didn’t have any recollection of sheriff Early himself, I remembered that hunting trip and his shithead twin boys very clearly. They were sadistic monsters that were a few years older than me, who got off on seeing animals suffer.
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br />   On the first day of our hunt, I took down a doe towards the very end of the day. I remember my old man telling us three boys to run into the thicket where she fell and make sure she wasn’t suffering. I was around nine years old, so this wasn’t my first kill, but until this point, my father had always cut the throat of deer once I’d taken it down. This minimizes the animal’s suffering and is better for the quality of the game meat. My father raised me to be respectful and resourceful with every animal that we hunted. We hunted humanely and legally, and used every bit of the animal we possibly could.

  I was excited because my old man had allowed me to handle the task, but scared shitless to do it. He probably figured as much which is probably why he sent the older boys with me, but instead of helping me, they thought it would be funnier to hold me down and make me watch the deer die of shock from my bullet wound. We were out of sight of our fathers and by the time they let me up I ran back to the camp empty-handed.

  My father was pissed about the tainted venison, but even more so that I’d returned from the thicket bloodless and crying. I hated those shithead twins for not only fucking with me, but for making the deer and my wounded relationship with my father suffer needlessly.

  “I seem to recall you took down a nice buck that day, Randall,” sheriff Early said, snapping me back to attention.

  “A doe,” I corrected.

  “Is that so? I’m sure your memory is a lot better than mine these days young man,” he said in a tone shaped by years of pandering for votes. “Well, my staff knows what good friends me and your daddy are, so the moment your name came across my sergeant’s desk, he called me and I came right down.”

  I bet you did.

  “I’ve had the chance to catch up with your father on the telephone and apologize for this entire little mix-up.”

  The only thing I wanted to mix up was this spineless dipshit’s face.

  “Your father is anxious to have you back home in Savannah, so as soon as your lawyer gets here, we’ll go ahead and get you released. Sound good?”

  Sound good? These cops wouldn’t have pissed on me if I was on fire when I was brought in, and this guy was treating me more like a hotel concierge than the county sheriff. This could only mean that his campaign for sheriff was bought and paid for by my old man.

  “Sounds great, but there’s just one more thing,” I said casually, now knowing that this guy was in my father’s pocket and that I held all the cards.

  “What’s that?” sheriff Early said through an obvious forced smile.

  “My friends. I think my father would want my friends, who were also falsely imprisoned, to be released as well.”

  “What friends? I was told you were brought in alone on a traffic violation.”

  “No, I ride with some of the other gentlemen in the tank. They’re hard to miss. They’re all dressed like me.”

  Sheriff Early’s head snapped toward the deputy guard, who stammered through an attempt at deflecting his heat.

  “The other bikers were brought in earlier, sir. We didn’t know Mr. Hill was with them. I—”

  “Just get their names and make sure their release paperwork is ready by the time Mr. Hill’s lawyer gets here.”

  “Yes, sir,” the deputy replied and turned for the door.

  “And my good friend Pete,” I added cheerily.

  “Pete?” sheriff Early asked, his dumb hick face now turning red.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Pete’s last name.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know his last name and yet you are good friends?”

  “Very close,” I replied dryly.

  Without turning away, or taking his eyes off me, sheriff Early said, “Deputy Pine, please find Mister…Pete and have him released along with Mr. Hill and his other associates.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile, and Deputy Pine led me back to the processing area where I waited for the arrival of Mr. Bird, Esquire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Duke

  It had taken over two hours after I’d spoken with my father for my lawyer to arrive, and another half hour to complete the release process. We headed down the jailhouse steps to where Mr. Bird had parked his black Lincoln Continental.

  “Where’s my bike?” I asked as we approached his front row parking space.

  “Your father’s instructions were very clear. I’m to drive you directly to the ranch, where he is waiting to meet us.”

  “Fuck that,” I snapped. “I’m not going anywhere without my bike and I’m never going back to that place.”

  “Mr. Hill’s instructions were—”

  “Fuck my old man’s wishes and fuck you if you think I’m getting into that car.”

  “Everything alright?” a voice from behind asked. I turned to see Cutter and the rest of the Burning Saints.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “It appears we owe you one for springing us, so if this guy’s hassling you—”

  “No, this is my family’s lawyer and I’m just filling him in on the facts.” I said. “Plus, you don’t owe me shit. You had my back in there and I know how to repay a debt.”

  “Family lawyer? No shit, man? I wouldn’t have pegged you as a rich kid,” Cutter said with a grin. “But then again, I don’t even know your name.”

  “My buddies call me Duke.”

  “Pleased as hell to meet you, Duke. I’m Cutter and this is my club, the Burning Saints. You sorta met Zaius already.” The burly redhead nodded. “And these gentlemen are Red Dog, Hacksaw, and that furry mess over there is Warthog.”

  “Charmed,” the aptly named Warthog replied.

  “Nice to meet y’all and thanks again for helping me out in there. Now, if y’all excuse me, I’ve got to look for my bike,” I said.

  “Well, you won’t f…f…f…find it around here,” Pete said, appearing out from behind the wall of Saints.

  “How’s that?” Cutter asked.

  “The police impound lot is a c…couple of miles up the road on J…J…Jefferson. Your b…b…bikes will be there.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Pete,” I said.

  “Thanks for s…sticking up for me. N…n…no one’s ever done that for me b…b…before.”

  “You wanna hang with us? Maybe we can get you something to eat before we go get our rides.” I said.

  “N…no thanks. I g…g…got people around here I can c…c…crash with.”

  “You be careful with these people you know, Pete. You understand me? And you go easy with the junk. That stuff’ll kill you, man.” I said.

  Pete thanked us again before disappearing into the blackness of the night.

  “Mr. Hill, I really must insist…” Mr. Bird squawked, motioning to his car.

  “And I must insist that you and my father go fuck yourselves while I go retrieve my bike from of the police impound yard.”

  “I like this kid,” I overheard Zaius say to Cutter.

  “Say, man. Since we’re all headed the same direction, you may as well stick with us. Who knows what these shit kickers get up to at night around here?” Cutter said.

  “I am one of those shit kickers,” I replied with a smile.

  “Well, then you’d know,” Cutter said, before adding, “I don’t see a club patch on your kutte. Surprised a guy like you would be a lone wolf.”

  “I prefer to keep to myself when I can. Besides, I haven’t been back home long enough to put down any roots. I got out of the army a little over six months ago, and I’ve been on the road since.”

  “You in Nam?” Zaius asked.

  “Yes, sir. Twenty Fifth Infantry Division. Second Battalion.”

  Zaius let out a low whistle. “Twenty Fifth? You boys saw your fair share of shit.”

  “You serve?” I asked.

  “My older brother was a Marine. Killed in the Battle of Hue. February of ’68.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Appreciate it,” Zaius said with a nod.
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  “You fellas from Oregon, huh?” I asked, motioning to Cutter’s patch.

  Cutter let out a good-natured laugh. “Shit, man. I dig the way you say OR-uh-GONE.”

  I smiled. “Kind of a long way from home ain’t ya?”

  “We’ve been on a bit of a road trip ourselves, following the Pink Floyd tour since Maddison.”

  “Big music fans?” I asked, a bit taken aback by Cutter’s answer.

  He laughed. “Sure, but not that psychedelic shit.”

  “Shit. Cutter still listens to Johnny Cash,” Red Dog said.

  “Don’t you say a word about Johnny Cash,” Cutter snapped back.

  “We’re out here on business,” Zaius said.

  Cutter elaborated, “We’ve been working the parking lots, selling acid to hippie kids going to the Dark Side of the Moon show. Atlanta P.D. pinched us at the Memorial Coliseum tonight before the show.”

  “We’re raising money to open a second chapter on the East Coast and were thinking Atlanta might be the place,” Zaius said.

  “But after tonight’s heat, we’re rethinking that plan,” Cutter said.

  “Tell you what. If y’all are looking to open shop in Georgia, Savannah is where you want to be.”

  “No shit?”

  “We’ve got the shipping ports, plenty of gambling action. Police that are friendly to those who are willing to share the love. It’s wide open out there. I’m telling you,” I replied.

  “How do you know so much about Savannah?”

  “It’s where my family is from, and where I was raised all my life.”

  “If your people are there, why are you on the road?” Cutter asked.

  “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

  “Sorry, man. Don’t mean to pry, but like I said, I’m looking for members and you seem like a stand-up guy.”

  “I get it. Good people seem harder and harder to come by these days.” I said.

  “You headed back to Savannah now?”

  “Supposed to be,” I replied. As if on cue, Mr. Bird shouted, “Mr. Hill!” and I turned around to give him one final profanity-laden send off when I saw the most gorgeous creature I’d even seen in my entire life walking up the police station steps.