Bonded Couple

by Laran Mithras

  Always the odd one out, never having friends, never part of a clique or group, I had been a loner until I met Kristy. And she had been a loner, too. Immediately we knew we were meant for each other. That was how drastic the depth of need was to be something, someone.

  I squeezed harder on the chain. Jesus? Any insight? Any... thing? I listened for a voice but heard nothing. I felt Him there, though, hidden somewhere in my heart or mind – I couldn't tell. I felt like I was being watched. Watched over, even.

  Whatever happens to me, I will move on and be a stronger person. And I felt better for feeling it. But at the same time, the weight of disappointment at the sudden change in the club towards me made me angry.

  I went into the bathroom and slammed the door. I peed into the ultra-clean toilet. All this work, for nothing? Was I out of a job? Being kicked out of the trailer?

  I opened the door to the bathroom and picked up my Scotch. I sat on the damned table they had tied me to and considered the wrist bindings. They were lying precisely where they had rested after they had been removed. I fingered one, wondering if I could go back what I might have done differently.

  But I could come up with nothing. I was who I was. I squeezed the glass and finished off half of it. Fire burned down my throat. I sighed. "Fuck it." I slid off the table and went out.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was sitting sullenly, unresponsive and on my second Scotch. I was sitting on the damned loveseat sitting right over the spot I had fought Gripper in view of the whole club. I might have landed a few hits, but I had been beat down.

  The clubhouse was filling.

  Sonar poked his head out a few times. The mood looked somber.

  The room quieted and I saw boots in front of me. Dealer's voice was loud. "You've drank enough. Get that fucking vest off."

  I was a prospect in these last seconds. I'd leave knowing I had been one. At least I could claim that. At least outside of this club, I could think back to when I had worn it and... almost been. I set my tumbler down and stood. I removed the vest with leaden arms.

  Sonar ripped it from my hand in the silence.

  Dealer hit me square in the chest and I sat down hard on the loveseat - so hard it rocked backward. "Wear that, Stiff."

  Voices erupted around me, laughing.

  I was confused. My hand clutched my chest where he had hit me and something else. Why did he call me stiff?

  The laughter prodded at me.

  I looked at what was in my hand, and unfolded it. It was a vest. Emblazoned on a nametag was the name "Stiff." I looked up at Dealer, slow to comprehend.

  The bastard was grinning. So was Sonar. So was everyone else.

  I turned the vest around and gawked stupidly at the three patches. The top one said Iron Crows. Beneath that was the black crow detailed in silver. Beneath that was the bottom rocker that said Keystone. I blinked.

  Dealer boomed out, "Stand up, Stiff."

  Everyone in the room laughed.

  "Put it on and greet your brothers."

  I sat there, stupefied, maybe even a little drunk. That's when I felt two things. Fuck it all. I felt the wet on my cheeks and the smile threatening to split my face in two.

  Dealer growled, "Let's help him up..."

  I was lifted to my feet and felt several backslaps. I gasped, "Me?"

  Sonar said, "You earned it."

  I half sobbed and half giggled. Chills were all up and down the skin on my body as I slipped the vest on.

  Gunner stabbed his cigar at me. "You did a bang-up job of cleaning toilets, but you never want to wash your colors."

  Dealer stuck his hand out. "Welcome to the Iron Crows, Stiff."

  I started laughing, turning red. "Stiff?" I shook his hand.

  He laughed with me, but it was subdued. "Yeah, you earned that, too. Wear it with pride."

  Sonar called out. "We have some business to attend. Congratulations to our new member can wait. Firehose has gone missing. The sheriff talked to his wife and she hasn't seen him either. His Harley was found on its side in the street."

  Mutters sped through the people in the room.

  I felt like I was going to bust open and gush tears, blood and pride. But I kept it in check and listened.

  Kristy came up to my side, beaming. She kissed my lips. "Congratulations. They look great on you."

  Sonar called off names, separating us into groups. I was to ride with Twenty, Ghost, and Flats. Our group was to go first. Others would follow and also be on call if we found anything.

  Dealer said, "Find the Surenos. Beat the living shit out of them. They need to know we won't just let them roll in without a fight."

  I picked up my tumbler of Scotch and handed it to Grannie. "I'll be back for that."

  She winked at me.

  Kristy tugged at me at the door. "Be careful."

  I kissed her quickly. "Don't worry about me. I'll be back." I was the first of the group out the door, but I knew I'd be riding in back. No big deal; the fact I was wearing colors had me lit up like a Christmas tree inside.

  I thumbed the starter and waited.

  The other three were out just seconds after me and they mounted. Twenty twirled his finger up in the air as the other two started their bikes. He made a forward motion and we took off.

  I swear, the wind felt alive in my beard. Even dulled by a little too much Scotch, I felt alive as never before.

  Twenty took us along the main streets at the outskirts. Our heads swiveled this way and that, checking side streets. It wasn't until we started checking the center streets that our search paid off. I snatched my phone and thumbed, then held it to my ear. "Surenos, Keystone Café."

  Two low-rider cars were parked a couple of doors down, but the gang members were leaning against the wall outside the café. They heard the rumble of engines. They straightened, looking. There were eight of them. Seeing only four Harleys, they began strutting.

  Twenty twisted his throttle and shot forward.

  CHAPTER 6

  I was eager for what was coming.

  Twenty skidded his bike to a stop and hopped off. Ghost and Flats were right with him. Ghost produced a crowbar from somewhere.

  The Mexicans were in white t-shirts and either blue ball caps or bandanas. I had been right. Gang sign flashed and lips were puckered out. They came out onto the street to meet us.

  But not all of them. Two approached the back of one of the cars. The trunk went up.

  Twenty, Ghost, and Flats raced forward past their bikes. The sergeant, Twenty, produced brass knuckles. Ghost hefted his crowbar.

  One of the hefty Mexicans pulled a shotgun out of the trunk and stepped forward. He pursed his lips and racked the slide.

  I twisted the throttle and shot forward fast on my bike. About twenty feet from shotgun, I deliberately laid it down, sending my Harley sliding towards him on its side. I skipped off, stumbling forward.

  Shotgun started to level towards me, but my Sportster took him down in a tumble. The guy next to him danced out of the way.

  I grabbed up the fallen shotgun and brought the butt down on the fallen Mexican's head as hard as I could. I spun and used the shotgun as a baseball bat, holding it by the barrel. I swung for a homerun, slamming the shoulder stock into the stomach of the dancing gangster. I lifted him three feet off the ground and he went down.

  I twisted fast, feeling adrenaline rip coarsely through my limbs.

  Ghost sent teeth flying with his crowbar. Flats took the same man down and stomped his face with his boot. Twenty ducked and punched, blood spraying wherever the hard brass knuckles impacted.

  I chose the closest Mexican and swung the shotgun overhead like an axe. The man went down like a sack of rocks. Knowing he was down, I spun back to the second guy I had hit. He was trying to get up. Using the shotgun like a golf club, I swung the flat of the stock against his head. He flopped down, totally out and limp.

  I saw faces, briefly, pressed against the window of the café. I spared no time for them. I ad
vanced on the guy who was originally holding the shotgun. He was still out cold, but I wanted the bastard to remember me. I smashed the butt down over and over on his hand, hearing bones crack and break.

  I heard panting behind me.

  "Shit, Stiff. Let up."

  A distant rumble grew.

  The Mexicans were scrambling to get away.

  I looked over to the dancer – the guy I had golfed into unconsciousness. "Grab him!"

  Twenty considered me. He turned to Flats. "Let's do it."

  A van came rushing up. Bikers poured out of it. Harleys swarmed as the Mexicans picked up what they could and dove into the cars.

  Ghost was shouting after them, waving his crowbar. "This is Keystone! This is our town! Tell it to your gang!"

  We let them go. But we held dancer in our arms.

  I almost passed out as the adrenaline left me and the Scotch reasserted itself.

  Dancer was roughly thrown into the van as sirens sounded, distant.

  By the time the cops had arrived, the Mexicans were gone and we were picking up our bikes.

  ~ ~ ~

  I was in the clubhouse, circling the table. The same table I had been chained to. Dancer was on it, groaning.

  Twenty kept slapping him to wake him up.

  Finally the dancer said, "Chingado..."

  The sergeant leaned over. "Fuck you, too."

  Dealer and Sonar were standing back, arms crossed.

  I moved to his head and put my mouth almost up his nose. "Hey, fucker. Where's our buddy?"

  He spat at me.

  I brought my fist down on his pants – onto his dick.

  He groaned loudly and started coughing.

  I leaned down to the side of his head and whispered, "Like that? Asshole?"

  He chingado'ed and puta'ed me several times.

  I paced, feeling angry. Feeling very angry.

  Twenty said, "Where's Firehose?"

  Dancer lifted his head and shut his eyes. His head sank back down. "Who?"

  "The biker."

  "Fuck you—"

  My fist crashed into the side of his mouth. I leaned over him. "No, fuck you!"

  Sonar said, "Take it easy, Stiff."

  I was livid. "Get me a knife. Get me a fucking knife! I want to carve his balls off! See if he remembers then!"

  Dancer cringed away from me. "Hey, fuck you."

  I gripped his face like Gripper had gripped mine months ago. "No, you listen to me, you sick fuck. You talk or I'm going to carve."

  He was silent, focusing on me for the first time. Fear crossed his features. "Hey, I have a daughter—"

  My fist ended his speech. "Our buddy has two daughters and a son in college!"

  Dancer spit out blood. "Hey, man. Hey, man." He struggled against the bonds, realizing he couldn't act all macho.

  I leaned down again. "I'm going to go get a butcher knife." I grabbed his face and turned it towards me. "Understand? I'm going to start carving your fucking balls off. Unless you have something to say about where our buddy is. Got it?" I left the room, slamming the door behind me.

  Honestly, I didn't know if Dealer and Sonar were going to allow me to do shit to the guy, but I was pissed. My anger drove me beyond all restraint.

  The ladies of the club were gathered outside the door, looking shocked. They parted for me.

  I stomped into the kitchen, flicking on the lights. I ripped open the metal drawer, too hard. The drawer came out and knives went clattering. I selected the longest, biggest one I could find from off the floor. I threw open the door and hefted the knife, grinning wickedly. "Here's Jimmy!"

  Dancer squirmed on the table. "He's fucking psycho, man!"

  Twenty eyed me, but said to dancer, "Maybe you better tell him what he wants."

  "What?"

  Twenty grunted. "You might remember once you see him cut your balls from you and stuff them in your mouth..."

  Dancer wailed in fright.

  I waved the knife like a wild fool. "Get his pants off."

  Both Twenty and Gripper moved to do so.

  Dancer went frantic. "Fuck you! Do you know who you're messing with, puto?"

  I screamed at the top of my lungs into his ugly face. "Like I fucking care?" I reached down and grabbed his hairy balls and bunched them into my fist. I pulled.

  Dancer was struggling. "Fuck you! We'll kill you! We'll kill your family!"

  I took the knife and put the edge against the stretched base of his ballsack.

  Dancer's eyes went wide, bugging out.

  I waited.

  He said nothing.

  I drew the knife back, with pressure, cutting deep into his ballsack.

  His scream was blood-curdling, followed by frantic yelling. "All right! All right! I'll tell!"

  I let go and brought the knife up to his face. "See that? That's your ball blood. What you have to say better be the truth because I can easily cut the rest off of you."

  Dancer was frantic. "Fuck! Fuck! Okay! Okay! Fuck! Ahhh!" He growled in pain.

  I whispered into his ear. "Talk. Now."

  "Okay! We took him. We took him."

  Twenty leaned over. "Where?"

  Dancer was shaking his head. "Nah, man. It's too late."

  Gripper grabbed the man's face – just like he had mine months ago. "Where?"

  "He's dead, man. Dead."

  Dealer stepped forward, twisting dancer's face from Gripper. "I want a location or I'm going to let Stiff slice your balls off. Understand?"

  I grabbed his sweaty, hairy balls again and squeezed.

  Dancer shouted in terror. "Okay! Okay! It was a road behind the fire department..." Sonar scribbled down the directions as dancer squealed.

  CHAPTER 7

  I paced next to dancer. The bloody knife jerked upwards in my hand. The Mexican gang had abducted one of ours – one of mine. New to the brotherhood, I felt an immense anger that my inclusion was marred by the cavity left by Firehose's abduction. The man had been solid, fun, and friendly. That I didn't get to shake his hand as a brother – a fully patched member – drove me mad.

  I turned to Dealer. "Are we done with him? Can I bleed him out right here?"

  The president's eyes knew pain. He had lost a brother, too. His jaw firmed and he looked with hatred down at the gang member. "No, not here." He looked back to me. "Get on your bike. Go to the location. See if what this asshole says is true." He looked to Twenty. "Go with him. Take as many as you want to go."

  The sergeant nodded. "Gripper, you're with us."

  The large enforcer growled.

  Dealer said to Sonar, "Grab Big Pizza and let's get rid of this guy."

  I walked out to dancer's howls of protest.

  Kristy was big-eyed, staring at me.

  I moved past her and grabbed my helmet from the table, dropping the knife in its place. I stormed out of the building with Twenty and Gripper following. It was dusk as we mounted our Harleys. I thumbed the ignition and twisted the throttle. My Sportster roared with response. I didn't wait for Twenty to lead, I took off.

  The directions weren't difficult, but there were some turns involved. I eventually let Twenty take the lead. He knew the town better than me and knew the roads. He led us up and out of town, but in a different direction than the cabin where I had killed Thomas.

  The location was not as far out as the cabin. It was a semi-settled district that was plotted residential but at best held a few trailers on small parcels of land.

  Twenty motioned for us, fingers to eyes, to look left.

  It was Gripper who spotted it and hit his horn – a flat blast that caused Twenty to slow and stop. Gripper pulled alongside him and pointed.

  The two bikes turned, led by Twenty. There was a trail to the left with a stump set back close enough to the road to be visible.

  Twenty moved his Harley up the path. I followed behind Gripper. We topped a rise and Twenty slowed. He came to a stop and just sat on his bike. Gripper stopped beside him and slowly got off
.

  I pulled up beside Gripper so we were three in a row. None of that mattered to me when I saw the chains. The lights of our headlamps spotlighted a gruesome scene that I will never forget.

  A body, wrapped in chicken wire, was held down by three large chains spiked out and wide.

  I got off my Sportster and ran to the thing on the ground. The chains and chicken wire were blackened. The smell was atrocious. Firehose had been burned alive. Parts of his face were melted or cooked and the wire had settled into the flesh. The mouth was open in a silent scream.

  I clenched my fists.

  Twenty gritted out, "I'll call the sheriff."

  Despite the soft rumble of our Harleys, his voice seemed to dominate the forest around us.

  ~ ~ ~

  I kept quiet.

  Sheriff Jefferson calmly accepted that we had received the location via an anonymous tip.

  I regretted one thing: I hadn't finished cutting the Mexican's balls off.

  The sheriff was grim-faced and angry. He kept muttering as he paced, "Shit like this can't happen here!"

  Us three Iron Crows remained silent. I didn't need to be told to keep my mouth shut; I wasn't an officer and an officer was present: Twenty, the club's sergeant at arms. It was up to him to speak for us.

  Sheriff Jefferson seemed to know the custom very well; he only addressed Twenty. At the moment, he was just muttering. "When word of this gets out..." He shook his head. "Shit! This is supposed to be a clean town." He glanced at Twenty with perhaps a small amount of accusation.

  The sergeant's crazy eyes blazed. "We blocked a CIA attempt to establish a drug ring here. Very quietly."

  Jefferson straightened to his full height. "God damned government. Sending us child molesters and now the God-damned CIA? Are you certain of this?"

  Twenty said, "One hundred percent."

  The cop's eyes blazed like Twenty's. Behind him, deputies were combing the ground all around Firehose's burned body. He lowered his voice, his eyes darting as if to look at them. "We can't go down without a fight. I won't give up my town that easily. I know I've pushed you to keep things neat and tidy, but this isn't neat and tidy anymore."