by Carey Lewis
“So who are these Black Knights?” Bulldog asked, trying not to draw too much attention. He was in the back of the garage, watching everyone play the racing video game on a projector set-up. Watched Mick play as a Dinosaur on some small car. The other kids made fun of the one choosing to play as some broad in a pink dress.
“No one knows. I never saw one,” Jason said, had his mask pulled up on top of his head, concentrating on the game. Bulldog watched his video game character shit out banana peels.
“We just know they run everything,” Mike said, his mask resting on his forehead.
Bulldog was getting tired, watching these kids and his leprechaun looking friend playing the game. Mick was getting into it, leaning into the turns, screaming out profanities. If they weren’t going to find out something useful, they were just wasting time here.
“Who’s car is that out in the driveway?” Bulldog asked, referring to the black BMW M4.
“It’s my dad’s,” Mike said.
“Mind if I look?”
“Knock yourself out dude.”
Bulldog saw the look in Mick’s eyes. He knew it well. It was just a matter of time before Mick lost his shit, the perfect cocktail of dark liquor and pot coming to a head.
He went out the side door, went into the driveway and looked the car over. Looked around the neighborhood, every house in the subdivision looking exactly the same. He saw a woman walking her dog, some small thing with white, curly fur, tail sticking up in the air like even the dog was snooty. He smiled and tilted his head at her as she passed, waited until she turned the corner.
Bulldog leaned on the car, expecting an alarm to go off. The car bounced up, no sound. Dad probably got tired of his high and drunk son tripping into it, making the thing go off every night at three am. He tried the handle on the door, and again, no alarm.
So he went about breaking into the car and hot wiring it, the thing almost silent as it idled in the driveway. He couldn’t believe how comfortable the seat was. That’s when he heard a crash.
He went back in the garage, saw the tear in the projector screen just before Mick ripped it from the wall, screaming a string of swear words. Mike tried to control him but Mick threw him across the garage, then punched the Saw kid in the face. Jason backed up, his mask coming down on his head, and he tripped over the little ottoman in there. Then he watched Mick punch the Saw kid in the face again, all because he tried to get up.
“Mick?”
He looked over at Bulldog, his chest heaving, arms spread wide like the Irish Hulk. Bulldog motioned with his head to leave and Mick huffed and puffed as he left the garage, blew past Bulldog and sat in the passenger side of the BMW like he was expecting it to be his ride.
Bulldog climbed into the drivers seat, taking his time, tuning the radio to Asteria’s show, put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Mick reached across Bulldog, gave the kids the middle finger as violently as he could as Bulldog drove off.
“Nice car,” Mick said.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Bulldog asked, trying to find his way out of the subdivision.
“They cheated,” Mick said.
“They’re kids,” Bulldog slowed the car, rolled down the tinted window, saw the same woman walking her snobby dog.
“Got to teach them at a young age.”
Bulldog sped off, needing to get out of the bends and turns of the neighborhood, saying to himself, “did I take a left here last time?” put the turn signal on and made a right. “What’re you doing, smoking and drinking with them?”
“They offered.”
“You could say no.”
“Going to pass that up?”
“I did.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that one either boy-o.”
“Jesus,” Bulldog said, slowing down, seeing the kids in their Halloween masks out front of the house with their parents in bathrobes. “Are you fucking serious?” he asked himself.
“Who’s that?” Mick asked.
Bulldog sped away, not caring to be discreet now. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the father running after them, his bath robe flapping open.
“It’s a nice car though. Got that out of it,” Mick said.
“We have to get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“It’s been reported stolen. You really this dumb?” he looked over at Mick, saw the bloodshot eyes and the anger pooling behind them. Knew it was coming but was still surprised when Mick backhanded him in the chest.
He passed the lady and her dog again, decided to go left this time, came to a stop sign. Bulldog looked both ways, looking for any sign of life to get out of the area. He felt Mick leering at him.
“You can’t be smoking and drinking on the job Mick.”
“Clearly I can.”
“That’s why you don’t get nowhere.”
“Looks like we’re in the same car.”
Bulldog made a right, got to the next stop sign, went through that and went to the T intersection. Decided to make a left, coming to another stop sign, made a right and finally got to a street light.
“Not for long,” Bulldog said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Means we got to ditch it, I already told you.”
Bulldog calmly pulled out, making a left on the four lane street, careful to mind the speed limit. He searched his mirrors for flashing lights, then searched the empty parking lots in front of the strip malls, looking for another car.
“You’ve become a bitch, you know that boy-o?”
“Mick, you need to calm down.”
“What’re you going to do? Huh?,” pushing Bulldog.
“Won’t be as close as last time,” Bulldog said, trying to keep the car straight on the road.
“No boy-o, this time I won’t take it easy on you.”
Bulldog swerved the car into an empty lot on the right, the car behind them laying on his horn. Bulldog pulled diagonally into a spot, got out of the car. Mick did as well, marching around the car to Bulldog.
“This isn’t what we do here Mick.”
“No huh?” and Mick punched Bulldog in the face.
“We’ll do it after if you want, but not here.”
“We do it where I say boy-o,” and Mick swung at him again.
“That’s it,” Bulldog said.
Mick jumped back, his fists up to fight, watched Bulldog turn and walk down the street.
“Where you going?”
“Cops going to pick up the car, figure I don’t want to be around when they do. Thought I’d go into that strip club down the street.”
Mick looked up and saw the neon outline of a half naked woman and forgot everything he was angry about. He ran to catch up with Bulldog, neither of them saying another word about what happened for the next half mile they walked.
Bulldog led the way through the double doors, coming up to the entrance that was lit by fluorescents, the black lighting in the club sneaking it’s way through the cracks of the closed door leading inside from the lobby. The red carpet with the faded green floral pattern all but worn out in a path from the door to the club.
He turned to see Mick in high spirits when they walked in, watched Mick soak it in, looking at the padded diamond patterns on the walls with stains on them. Watched him get excited as he heard the deep bass beats that awaited them through the door.
The bouncer let them in, a big bald guy sitting on a stool looking half asleep.
They walked into the darkness of the club, the music hitting them in the face. Bulldog stood at the entrance, Mick bumped into him, wide eyed looking around.
In front of them was a stage with a spotlight on a half naked woman walking around a pole. To the left was the bar, the bored bartender with her head propped against her hand, ignoring the young guy shouting at her to get her attention.
To the right of the bar, further in to the back was another stage where the daring amateurs got up to give it a go. Bulldog looked at a chunky gir
l jumping up and down, wearing her bra and jeans, saw her college friends leaning over the stage with dollar bills. All of them were laughing at the novelty experience.
A girl came by wearing a swimsuit, introduced herself as Candi and offered a lap dance.
“Think we’ll get a drink first,” Bulldog said, then had to pry Mick from his spot and lead him toward the back to an empty booth. They sat down and Candi was there again, telling them she was their waitress.
“You just offered a dance,” Bulldog said.
“Now I’m offering you a drink.”
Bulldog ordered a water, Mick tried to order a beer. Candi heard Mick’s accent, led him on to think it was cool, suggested an Irish Car Bomb instead. She whispered something into Mick’s ear then tried shaking her ass as she went through the club to the bar.
He looked at Mick, seeing his eyes, seeing his excitement, knew it was just a matter of time. It made Bulldog sad, especially knowing he used to be the same way, seeing himself in Mick.
What he wanted to do, he wanted to lay Mick out at the car, maybe even put him inside for the cops to find. That’s what he would’ve done not too long ago. Cops find him, he gets processed, they all have a good laugh the next day. Years from now, Bulldog would say ‘remember that time I left you in a stolen car?’ then they’d laugh and have a drink.
But Bulldog worked for The Boss and if Mick got caught there was a chance it would come back to him. Bulldog used his head now, thought about those things. And since he did, he thought about what he could do with Mick tonight. The way he was going, he wouldn’t stop drinking and if he didn’t stop drinking it wasn’t a matter of if he’d get picked up or worse, it was a matter of when.
Long and short of it, Bulldog had to fire him. And Mick wasn’t in the mood to be fired tonight.
Candi came back and put the drink in front of Mick, crawled into the booth beside him. Bulldog heard her thigh stick along the plastic cushion. She didn’t even bother bringing him his water.
Bulldog got up, went through the small crowds of people milling about, got up to the bar and leaned on it, getting a better view of the college kids in the back. It was the girls that were leaned over the stage, egging on their friend, but it was the guys Bulldog wanted to talk to. The guys that were watching the asses of the girls watching their friend. The guys that didn’t know if they should act interested or not.
He flagged down the bartender. She rolled her eyes as she came over and Bulldog shouted his order, two Jaeger bombs. He paid for the drinks then went over to the back stage, taking a seat beside the guys. They looked over, not knowing what to make of him.
“These are for you,” Bulldog said, offering them the drinks. They didn’t want to take them, really weirded out.
“Want to know if we can talk,” Bulldog shouted over the music.
“We don’t swing that way.”
“It’s about the girls.”
“You a porn producer?”
“You get that a lot?”
They looked at each other, not knowing how to answer.
“I know you guys are taking these girls home and I know how you’re doing it,” raised his eyebrows to let them know he knew.
“How’s that?”
“I just want to buy some off you. Maybe three?”
They laughed, asked him if he planned on knocking out an entire ski team. Apparently the kids were into skiers now.
“Irish,” Bulldog said and they nodded like they understood. He watched the one kid reach into his pocket, Bulldog said “not here. Washroom.”
They looked at each other again, but then all of them got up and went into the mens room where Bulldog bought three doses of rohypnol, or ‘roofies.’ He left the washroom, ordered another Irish Car Bomb from the bartender and dropped the pills in, stirred it until he was sure they were dissolved. He crossed the club again and was right in his assumption that Mick’s drink would be done. He put the new one in front of him and smiled.
Mick took a drink and smiled back, then put all his attention back on Candi. Bulldog got out of the booth, walked over to Candi and whispered, “make sure he gets home. He’s got two hundred in his pants that’s yours, just do him right.”
Then Bulldog left the strip club to get back to work.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything broken?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you move?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you try?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“That’s how I find out if something is broken.”
So they laid there, Cleon and Ajax, staring up at the trees, once in awhile a star shined through.
“You want to wait here?”
“Yeah,” Cleon said.
“We jumped from a train.”
“I was there.”
“That was pretty rad.”
“Can you move?”
“I can try. Will you try?”
“I’ll try.”
On the count of three, they both sat up. Ajax felt the pain tear through his side, holding it felt tender.
“You okay?” Cleon asked.
“My side hurts. Think I belly flopped on a branch. You?”
“My hip is a little numb,” Cleon felt his hip, pulled his hand back to see blood. “Think I’m bleeding.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out shards of his phone.
“Is it bad?” Ajax asked.
“We jumped from a fucking train,” Cleon said, just hitting him for the first time. He started laughing and looked over to Ajax. “You look like shit.”
Ajax rolled to his side, looked at Cleon. There were cuts on his face. Twigs and leaves encrusted in his hair and his clothes were ripped. He imagined he looked the same. Ajax started laughing.
Then Cleon started laughing, saying to each other they looked like shit and they jumped from a train. They kept laughing like that until a voice in the trees said “it wasn’t even moving.”
A man came out of the shadows, a white guy dressed like a Native with long black hair, warpaint on his face, moccasins, the whole deal. He came out and crouched beside them, gestured for them to be quiet, then pointed into the trees.
Cleon and Ajax saw the flashlight beams moving in the darkness, heard the whispers and calls.
“Come with me,” the Indian said.
“Fuck that,” Cleon said.
“We wish you no harm. Merely to find out what happened. We haven’t much time.”
“Who fucking talks like that?” Cleon said, trying to get up, coming to find that he rolled his ankle and the cut on his leg really pinched.
“We jumped from a train, we can do anything,” Ajax said.
So they agreed to follow the Indian through the woods, introduced himself as Chippewa, taking them to meet Apache, the leader.
They were quiet going through the woods, Cleon having to lean on Ajax for support. Once in awhile Chippewa would crouch down, told them to stop. He’d listen for a bit, then told the Boppers to follow him. He did it so much it got to the point Ajax just rolled his eyes. The guy didn’t realize how painful it was for the two of them to keep crouching because he heard the wind blow.
They walked for awhile, not following any path they could see, until they came to a historic battleground Ajax remembered from a field trip in the third or fourth grade.
It was a large field with some brick buildings spread out, some maps of the place put on placards placed sporadically around. There was the usual memorabilia, a canon stationed there in the middle, some roped off places with information kiosks set up, but no one working now. Statues of cowboys and Indians, the information about them at the base.
“Come,” Chippewa said, getting into his character.
They walked across the field, Ajax thinking they’d be heading for one of the teepee's but passed it, look
ed like they were going into the modern brick building that had lights on inside.
Another Indian came out of nowhere, this one carrying a hatchet and a bow and arrow slung over his shoulder. He put his arm around Cleon too, helping Ajax bring him to the log cabin that had a faint glow.
“We’re not going over there?” Ajax asked.
“That’s the gift shop,” Chippewa said.
They went inside the log cabin, lit by a fireplace at one end which was beside what Ajax guessed was a stove, definitely not Maytag. There was a log table which had crude cutlery on it and some bowls. Beyond that was a couple of cots.
It was the one that called himself Cheyenne that came running over, took Cleon and sat him down at the table, looking over the wound in his hip. At the back of the room stood another one with his arms crossed, watching them all. Ajax guessed it was Apache.
“How does he fare Cheyenne?”
Ajax heard the door slam, turned to see Cherokee behind him. He saw more bows stacked up against the wall, some hatchets and spears to go with it.
He turned and saw Cheyenne leave Cleon, go across the room to gather a small bowl and then came back with it, laying it on the table as he crouched beside Cleon again. Ajax and Cleon both looked at each other, utter confusion on their faces.
A hand holding a pipe was thrust in Ajax’s face. “Smoke this,” Cherokee said, “for the pain.”
“Does it make any of this less silly?” he asked. The only one that could even pass as an Indian was the leader, the Apache fellow, standing there with his arms crossed, looking like one of the statues outside.
The door flung open and closed, another Indian inside now, saying they weren’t followed. The one called Chippewa said of course they weren’t followed, what was he, new? It was hard to keep track of them all.
“Jesus,” Cleon said. Ajax looked over to him, saw this Cheyenne guy with a Bowie knife in his hand. Ajax moved to attack but was grabbed from behind, forced to watch as Cheyenne took the knife and slid it down Cleon’s leg, cutting his jeans open, revealing the wound. He was surprised Cleon wore white briefs.
Then he watched Cheyenne put the knife away, pick up the bowl from the table and smear the green goop on the wound. Cheyenne said, “you have been wounded by the trappings of your modern technology,” peeling out shards of phone plastic from his hip.
