by Layla Wolfe
Treasurer was Dust Bunny. He looked more like a scientist than an MC member with his halo of blond frizz. And a Sergeant-at-Arms, whatever that was, was a guy named Anson Dineyazzie, half Navajo. He had the fierce, flashing eyes of an Old West sheriff. Other photos depicted the eclectic group engaged in more fish fries, gang runs on their bikes, helping kids. They gave toys to Toys for Tots. They couldn’t be all bad. Was I compromising my moral authority to assist them? No, I’d be assisting the stricken. If I helped the club indirectly, was I contributing to their delinquency? What exactly were they delinquent in, anyway? If Noel had joined, they couldn’t be horrible criminals. And Noel was still a priest. I wasn’t.
I told Turk, “Well, for the Romans, demonology is important enough that we were schooled in it at pontifical universities in Rome. This way, they don’t have to deal with it directly—demonologists do. We also studied philosophy, theology, psychology, and biology because these subjects are all intertwined.”
Turk nodded, serious. “I trust you, Fa—Antonio. Father Noel has been a huge asset in our inroads down on the rez. We feel we’ve made life better for the Diné down there. Let me bring in Lock to explain this, ah, this character we’d like you to work with. He started out prospecting for us—you know, doing menial jobs until he’s proven himself to be worthy of his full colors—but several things gave us pause for thought.”
Turk brought in the dashing bail bondsman, or human tracker, as they called him. He was brash and businesslike as he described this guy Barclay Samples who had just gotten out of “the loony bin.” The Bent Zealots had urged him in that direction after he’d been found wandering the shores of Mormon Lake covered in blood.
Lock said, “He had a bucket of blood in the back of his pickup, but it turned out to be bovine, so the park ranger let him go. Weird thing is, Barclay claims that his blood is turning to powder so he has to drink blood to survive.”
Dios mio. This persona loca was a true classic.
Turk said, “Several of us have heard him claim that. A little too weird for us, believe it or not.”
Lock said, “He keeps saying he has demons. No one knows if he’s being figurative or literal. Old high school friends have told us he became one wave short of a shipwreck around age twelve. His mother is certifiable, classic schizo, and Barclay was subjected to constant fights between her and his dad.”
I nodded. “Very common in disturbed youth.”
“Right. He had no girlfriend, no close friends, and he just deteriorated. He’s got arrests for drunk driving and carrying a firearm without a license, smoking weed and drinking heavily. Not that we shun that, but in a guy like Barclay it’s a recipe for disaster. He hung with the acidhead crowd.”
I asked, “Do you know if he’s killed anyone by accident—or otherwise?”
The couple gazed warily at each other. Was the question so complicated? Finally, Turk said, “We can’t be sure. One of our guys, Dipstick, caught him biting the head off a bird. Another guy—"
“Harte,” said Lock, stubbing out his cigarette in a plastic ashtray with a casino logo.
“—Harte saw him shooting himself up here in our clubhouse. But it wasn’t heroin. Turned out it was rabbit’s blood.”
Joder! Fuck! This guy definitely sounded like a candidate for my services. “Where is he now? You said he got out of the psych ward.”
“He’s living in an empty office building near the London Bridge. We don’t want him coming around here as long as he’s a liability, so we’ve tasked our men Lily Silverberry and Twinkletoes with keeping an eye on him.”
Lock said, “We’re basically forcing them to live in the building with him. We can’t just throw him to the wolves, Antonio. He was our Prospect and now he has no one. That’s not how we operate. At the same time, we can’t afford the danger of having him directly involved in club business, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” I said. “The guy could also be schizophrenic, certifiable. An institution could very well be the best place for him.”
“Could be,” said Turk. “But you’re the man to make that decision.”
“Right,” I agreed. “Don’t use the word ‘demonologist’ in front of anyone. It stops people in their tracks, particularly if they’re involved in a demonic atmosphere and aren’t aware of it. I need Mr. Samples to be open to me, trusting. There are only seven recognized demonologists in the US. The other six are ordained clergymen.”
“Of course,” said Turk. “It stays within these walls.”
Just as we stood and shook hands, shouting burst out in the bar portion of the clubhouse. The three of us turned to look at the closed door. Were the Zealots fighting among themselves?
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said Turk, frowning. He took a few long strides to the door, whipping it open.
Lock took a handgun from the waistband of his jeans. Pulling back the slide, he chambered a round and thumbed the safety back on. He nodded at me. “Just stay here,” he instructed before following his partner out the door.
Of course, I didn’t stay there. Watching Lock in action sent a thrill through me I hadn’t felt since I was a kid target practicing with my friends. I’d done a lot of wrestling and boxing in my day and could hold my own in a fight. Besides, what better way to prove my legitimacy to this band of ruffians? I’d just joined them as a consultant. I should prove my loyalty, both to them and to Noel.
Absolute chaos reigned in the bar. At first, I couldn’t tell who was fighting whom, and I needed to sort that out, so I just peered around the corner. I saw Lock go down brutally without even drawing his gun after holding his own for awhile. One of his attackers was plainly an Aryan Nation or skinhead guy—he wore no shirt and was littered with tattoos of the new sorts of swastikas they were using nowadays. He kneed Lock from behind, a cowardly move, then snapped his neck. It really looked from where I stood as though the shirtless skinhead may have broken Lock’s neck. I emerged from my hiding spot to throw a right cross at the back of the guy’s skull. Why not? He’d snuck up on Lock.
The brute spun to face me, and I ladled out hot knuckles for dessert. He was handsome in a Nordic, cross-eyed sort of way, but I didn’t hesitate to land a flurry of hooks that had sweat leaping from his forehead and saliva spraying from his mouth.
He quickly wised up, darting and ducking from my blows. He connected a jab directly to my nose, and I felt it crunch—again. As I bent to hold my palm to my face, I watched a Zealot smash a skinhead over the noggin with a beer bottle. I remembered the swords on the wall of the conference room. If weapons were fair in this fight, swords would be an asset. When I straightened back up, the skinhead was gone, so I dashed for the chapel.
That’s when the strangest thing of all happened. I was suddenly flat on my face, tackled by another skinhead, I supposed. He crushed my face into the filthy tiles by gripping the back of my neck.
“You think you can just raid our clubhouse,” he growled. That’s how I knew he was a Zealot.
But further evidence proved he was a gay biker. He gyrated his hips against my posterior. And his penis was obviously stiff.
Of course, I squirmed to remove myself from his clutches. And my penis lengthened and plumped as I swiveled my pelvis against the floor. The sensation of being dry humped by a muscular biker was divine. And I didn’t really want to free myself.
“You stupid asshole,” I snarled back. “I’m on your side.”
He didn’t immediately stop massaging his penis against my crack. Would I ever be able to identify who my molester was? His chest was hard and jacked against my back, and he was definitely my match in strength to hold both my wrists with one hand like that. Or was I trying hard enough to escape?
Probably not. Noel had been my Dom, the dominant to my submissive. I had taken great pleasure in being fucked by his long, thick cock. And the night before our meeting with the bishop was the last time I’d been in that position. I wiggled what had been called my �
�shapely ass” against this anonymous assailant.
His penis became harder as he jabbed me in the anus with his tool. My phallus jumped and squirted. I redoubled my efforts to wriggle beneath his muscular body.
A deafening gunshot put a stop to our erotic play.
It seemed everyone in the room froze solid. The phrase “you could’ve heard a pin drop” came to mind, and I actually heard blood drip from my nose. One guy burped. People panted from their exertion.
All at once, men leaped into action. To my chagrin, my attacker eased up on me, allowing me to raise my head and view the shooter. He was a burly, manly leather-vested Zealot I identified as Haven from the photos in the chapel. He held the handgun, stock still in a shooting position, as my eyes darted to the victim. A nondescript neo-Nazi lay doubled up by the bar’s foot rail, cold as an Eskimo’s nose. And absolutely no one ran to assist him.
In fact, the skinheads were concerned with racing out the swinging double doors. A bottleneck ensued, with three wide guys trying to get out at the same time. They wound up pulling each other’s hair, where applicable, and flailing ineffectual punches at each other’s backs. My assailant was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Flinging his body at the clog in the door, all four of them burst through to the other side. And just like that, the rumble ended.
Turk sprinted to the doors and shouted, “That’s what happens when you motherfucking Death Squad invade our turf!” before dashing back to his fallen partner, who was coming around.
So my dream lover was an Aryan. I was a black-haired guy from Spain. It figured. That was my luck in love.
We all were coming around. My nose had already stopped bleeding. I wiggled the bone, and it didn’t seem broken. Meanwhile, n0body bothered looking at the guy Haven had shot. I shook my head to clear it of the gunshot echo and found myself looking at two pink cowboy boots.
A Navajo girl loomed above me, hands on hips. “Who are you?” she demanded.
I still had to stop myself from saying “Father Antonio.” “Antonio. Turk and Lock hired me to do some work. Who are you?”
“Lily Silverberry,” she said in a softer tone.
Oh! The Zealot tasked with looking after Barclay Samples. Hauling myself to my feet, I reached out to shake her hand. “You and Twinkletoes. You’re rooming with Barclay Samples.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes hooded.
I nodded in the direction of the bar, where a Zealot was already busy pouring his brothers congratulatory beers. “Let’s have a drink, talk about him.”
She nodded as though she had a hundred better things to do, and we elbowed aside a couple bikers at the bar.
B
I
t was happening again.
I couldn’t move. Trying to scream with my entire lungs emitted only a trickle of a squeak. A great invisible weight pressed down on my chest. I felt I’d sink through the bed.
Had I been given some bad drugs?
Flannery had accompanied me to my truck in the back alley. From there he directed me to a truck stop where I could park it for a week without being harassed. I rode in his pickup to the pill mill, where the clinician gave me ten Oxys for five hundred clams—a rip-off even for pill mills. And how long would that last when I was taking four or five a day?
“You know what’d really help me,” I told my friend Flannery, “is some nice fresh heroin. I could snort it. Know about that?”
He shrugged. He looked really idiotic at times like this with his lower lip sort of hanging slack, head too small for his giant, muscular body. He had finally donned a colorful jacket, but shirtlessness seemed to be his brand. He definitely waxed his chest. “Haven’t heard of any for awhile. Say, let’s go back to our crash pad. There’s a great brewpub right around the corner. Sit outside and watch the sailboats.”
That was the best idea I’d heard in years, and since Flannery was my only friend in town, along with Karl Thalhammer, the dodo king, I went. We met Thalhammer and the other morons at an outdoor table, and you could indeed see a lit-up view of the London Bridge, only yards away.
I found out that some of them, including Thalhammer and Flannery, were truck drivers. Not with the union, for a local contractor in town. A few others were laborers. The guy who needed stitches in his head kept calling everyone fags and gay boys, as though it was his biggest fear. Not a single person mentioned poor Crusty, cut down in the prime of his life by a queer.
I guessed I could see their position. If they’d reported it to the cops, they’d be in trouble for all manner of other shit. Not to mention, no upstanding criminal—such as the members of the Death Squad, or me—would ever go sobbing to the cops.
Finally, I just had to mention it. “What about Crusty’s body? Someone should at least stick their head in, ask if we could remove it.”
Thalhammer snorted. “Sounds like that’s a job you want. Doesn’t it?” he asked the others.
“Well,” I said, a little irked, “even in war, you never leave a casualty behind. It’s just not done.”
Flannery hit me with the back of his hand. He was determined to be palsy-walsy with me. “Let’s you and me go, tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you two lovers go,” said Finn, the guy obsessed with gay boys. “If those faggots haven’t burned ol’ Crusty into ashes by now.”
I felt free enough to say, “Right. They’re gonna burn a body in their clubhouse.”
Flannery laughed along with me. “Okay, buddy. Shall we go?”
What? Right now? “Tomorrow, right? I’m dead to the world. Maybe go back to your crash pad, smoke some weed, sleep.”
Flannery launched into an exaggerated stretch, fingers entwined above his head. “Yeah, sounds like a plan. Let’s go back to the cave and get stoned.”
So we clattered—these guys had to clatter, with all the shit clipped to their belt loops, their paramilitary boots—to these abandoned offices, the Nichols Building, right smack on the water. They had squatted in a line of glassy offices looking out over the harbor. Not bad for free rent. The office doors all opened into a common reception area, and they’d even taken over the women’s room because it was closer to the “bedrooms.”
We draped ourselves over rolling chairs while Finn logged onto something called Discord on the computer and sat there chortling as he typed with two fingers. I smoked a little weed, an indica strain called Magic Bus the guys had gotten at that dispensary. It gave me the necessary mellow, so I went in search of the kitchen to see if there were any munchies.
That’s when things got weird.
To start with, there was a dead cat on the counter. Under the flickering overhead fluorescent light, it looked as though it might teleport up. But no, it was definitely just a dead cat.
Wrinkling my nose, I peered around warily. No one. A plastic bottle of lemonade and an opened bag of Oreos were the only other things on the counter. I definitely didn’t want any munchies now. I was about to go back into the office and ask the guys about the cat when a stranger emerged from the shadows, like in a horror movie.
But the guy seemed utterly harmless, even goofy. Eyes too close together, an unattractive, oversized nose. He was a chinless wonder. This guy couldn’t possibly be a Death Squadder.
Ignoring the cat, he went right for the lemonade and guzzled some. Then he looked pointedly at me and intoned, “They tried to make me go back.”
“Back?”
“Into the institution. But I was declared healthy and sane, and now I’m out.”
Hoo-wee. We’ve got a live one. “Well, that’s good, you know. To be declared healthy.”
“You’re damned fucking straight it is!” He reached for the cat, grabbing it by the scruff. “My mom won’t let me come back to my house even though I’m taking all the right meds.” He carried the cat to the sink and slung it in as though it were a bag of onions.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Ah, what’re you planning to do with that cat?”
He looked brightly at me, as though he’
d just come up with a brilliant plan. “Drink its blood, of course!”
I grabbed his wrist. “Oh no, you’re not. Not on my watch. Did you kill this cat?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. If I waited around for a roadkill cat, I’d die, man!”
“Why. Why would you die without a cat’s blood?”
He was becoming frantic, his pupils tiny dots. He seemed to be looking right through me. “Because, man! My blood’s turning to powder. I need more blood to replenish it and keep death away!”
I tossed his wrist, and he didn’t make for the cat again. “That’s insane, dude. Nobody’s blood turns to powder. What do they call this disease of yours?”
“I call it the Samples Blood Powder Disease!” He bowed his head and pointed at his crown. “See? The plates are moving around because my blood is disappearing. I can only steal so much from the blood bank before they catch me again. I need to get more from animals!”
“Hey, hey, hey. You said you’re on medication, right? Do you live in here?”
“Sure do.”
“Well, why don’t we go to your room and find your meds. Let’s throw this smelly old cat away. See, it’s too old and putrid to help you. You don’t want dirty, black, congealed blood, do you?”
He appeared to ponder on this. “Black, congealed blood . . .”
I rattled him by the shoulder. “Come on. Where’s your room?”
I put my arm around this pathetic, sick youngster, more to prevent him from making a mad dash back toward the cat than anything. I had learned long ago that people are never totally good or evil. And to keep up the good fight against evil, sometimes you must have bad people in your environment. If I ignored the guy, more cats would be dead—or worse.
His room stank of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Well, they probably have no laundry facilities in an office building. He showed me his med bottles which appeared to be some kind of anti-psychotic medication. One was labeled Haldol, another Prolixin, and the third Abilify. I stood by while he swallowed one of each, three in all.
