But nothing would ever be enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Pee Bee
It was darker than a motherfucker in Whip’s kitchen, but there I sat, waiting for his dumb ass to come home. Sooner or later I knew he would, even if it was just to get some stuff for the road. With the silenced pistol in my lap, and a straight razor in my pocket, I was ready to give him exactly what the other three men got, which was much less than what he deserved.
The life of a one-percenter is an interesting life to live. Sometimes years pass, and it’s nothing but breathing in and breathing out. Then, something happens, and each day is like a trip through a booby-trapped minefield – one carefully placed step after another.
Without having some kind of laws in effect, society would be in utter turmoil. In a world without strict rules and regulations, it would stand to reason that the strong would survive, and the weak would perish, but I’m not convinced that’s actually the case.
At least not in the world I live in.
Outlaws live beyond the limits of conventional law, most abiding to a strict set of moral codes and standards that prevent the complete collapse of the world they live in. Outside the world of the outlaw, two types of people live.
Law abiding civilians, and the lawless. One adheres to society’s standards. To the other, there are no rules.
The lawless prey on any and everything that will provide them with a means to fuel their unrestricted life for one more day, never caring who or what they harm in the process.
The lawless have one concern.
Themselves.
The faint sound of a motorcycle exhaust shook me from what was soon to be a light sleep. I glanced at my watch.
3:30 a.m.
As the sound grew closer, I stood up, stretched, and checked the breech of the pistol. I’d checked it half a dozen times before, but doing it was from force of habit.
The garage opener activated, and I grinned to myself. One way or another, satisfaction was going to come. Hidden behind the doorway that led into the kitchen, I could see into the living room, but it would be almost impossible for anyone entering from the direction of the garage to see me.
I lowered myself to the floor, pointed the pistol toward the living room, and waited.
I heard the bike pull into the garage. The garage door closed, and then the door to the house opened. In the complete silence, the sound of the creaking floor warned me of his arrival. With each strep that he took, I held my breath and waited.
As his silhouette passed into my line of sight, I steadied my gloved fingertip against the trigger.
“What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.
He gasped and jumped to the side, still uncertain of where I was.
“Raise both your hands in the air right now, or I’ll shoot you.”
The little bit of light that seeped in through the blinds illuminated him enough that I could see the expression on his face. Concerned, and still unsure of my exact whereabouts, his eyes narrowed. He scanned the perimeter of the living room for a glimpse of me.
But his hands didn’t immediately go up.
I pointed the pistol at his left thigh and pulled the trigger. The sound from the silenced .45 caliber pistol was about as loud as a can of beer being opened. The screaming that followed was deafening.
He fell to the floor.
I stood up.
Over the sound of his wailing and crying, I gave my only demand. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, or I’ll put one in your other leg.”
His arms shot out to his sides.
“I need…a…I need a tourniquet. I’m gonna bleed…bleed to death.”
I pointed the pistol at his other leg and pulled the trigger. “Shut the fuck up.”
He screamed and clutched his thigh in his hands.
I had experience at making gunshot wounds, but I has no experience regarding treating gunshot wounds. I had no idea if he would bleed to death or not. I’d read enough articles over the years about random shootings to know that gunshot victims often lived for hours before reaching a hospital.
To be honest, I prefer that he live, especially in the state I was going to leave him.
When he and his three club brothers showed up at the hospital with the same exact wounds, police would assume – rightfully so – that revenge had been sought out for a crime committed against another club.
But the Savages wouldn’t say a word about who did it. A combination of embarrassment and a hatred for law enforcement would prevent them from it.
The one and only constant shared between the lawless and the outlaw was that snitching to the police didn’t happen.
Resolution was obtained from within the ranks. It was a matter of honor.
I pushed the pistol into my front pocket, unbuckled his belt, and pulled up on the buckle end. After lifting him off of the floor by the belt, the wide leather slipped through his belt loops one by one, until it was finally free.
“I guess I’ll wrap this fucker around the first one I shot.”
“Just call me an ambulance, brother. I won’t say a word.”
“Brother? We’re brothers now? You dumb fuck. You don’t have a clue, you know it? I’m just gettin’ started.”
While he moaned and bitched, I wrapped the belt around his left thigh and pulled it tight. I then reached for the button of his jeans.
Whip wasn’t as big as me, but he was a big man. As soon as I attempted to unbutton his pants, he knew what was next, and the struggle began. A few seconds into it, and I stood and pulled the pistol from my pocket.
I pointed it at his head.
“Tell you the truth, I don’t care. We decided not to kill you pricks in a vote, but I’ll let you pick. Either lay still or I’ll put one in your head.”
“Fuck you.”
If it worked on your brother, it ought to work on you.
I kicked him in the side of the head as hard as I could.
Now on the floor unconscious, he provided no resistance. After putting the pistol in my pocket, I bent down, unfastened his pants, and pulled them to his thighs.
I reached in my back pocket, pulled out the straight razor, and grabbed his nuts with my gloved hand. I had visions of talking mad shit to him while I did the deed, but with him unconscious, it made the experience much less enjoyable.
I pulled down on his scrotum, stretched it tight, and swung the straight razor directly under the base of his cock. The entire wad of flesh came off in my hand, nuts and all.
“Holy fucking shit, that’s nasty.”
He began to stir around. Instead of listening to him, I kicked him in the head again.
Now, the really gross part.
It’s a good thing I’m wearing rubber gloves.
I gripped the tip of his cock between my left thumb and forefinger, pulled up on it as hard as I could, and stretched it to its limit. As he began to writhe around, I swung the razor into the flesh and cut it almost all the way through.
“This motherfucker’s dull as fuck,” I said. “Makes sense, I’ve been through three cocks tonight. Four, now.”
About the time he opened his eyes, I swung the razor into the little flap of flesh that still remained. His entire cock came off in my hand.
“Holy shit. That’s a lot of blood.”
He screamed out in pain and shoved his hands between his legs, no doubt in shock from what had happened.
“Well, Whip. You won’t be raping any more girls with this, because I’m gonna take it with me.”
I reached into my kutte, pulled out the Zip-Lock bag, and unzipped it. After dropping his cock and scrotum into the bag, I squeezed the air out, zipped it closed, and folded it up.
Whip would spend the rest of his life – if he lived through the gunshot wounds and the castration – without having sex again.
Not a day would pass that he wouldn’t regret what he did to Peyton.
A life of pain, agony, humiliation, and regret.
But i
t would never be enough.
Crip’s door opened a few inches. Standing in nothing but his boxers, he looked at me through the crack with sleepy eyes.
“What’s shakin’ motherfucker?”
“Jesus H. Christ, Peeb. Any reason you gave an order that no one could tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on?”
I shrugged. “Wanted to show you myself, so I told the fellas to keep it quiet. You gonna let me in?
“It’s five o’clock in the morning, be fuckin’ quiet,” he whispered. “She’s still sleeping.”
“She’s here?”
“Yeah, she’s here,” he said. “Now shut the fuck up and come in.”
“Nice seeing you, too.”
I walked past him and toward his kitchen. I needed a beer, and I needed one bad. As soon as I stepped into the dining room, I grinned.
On the center of the table, a glass sat. Filled with what looked like pink water, it was a reminder of what a good solid bitch Peyton Price was.
I motioned toward the glass. “She make that for me?”
He nodded. “We went to the hospital and got her checked out. They did some tests for diseases and some other shit. She claimed she got drunk and agreed to let a bunch of guys fuck her. Doctors didn’t believe her at first, but she convinced ‘em in no time. Tell you what, that’s one strong fuckin’ woman. Anyway, when we got back, she made that for you. Been sittin’ there since about 10:00. She fell asleep at 2:00. She’s been worried about ya. She’s not the only one.”
I wagged my eyebrows at him. “Alive and well, motherfucker.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I’m getting’ to it.” I pulled off my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the four Zip-Lock bags.
He glanced at the bags. His face distorted, and then he looked at me. “What the fuck is that?”
I tossed the bags on the table. “Cocks. Four of ‘em.”
“You cut off their fuckin’ dicks?”
“Sliced off their cocks and their balls. All four of ‘em,” I said. “Well, four cocks, and eight nuts. Cut the fuckers off right at the base, too. Didn’t even leave ‘em a stub. Was Cholo’s idea. Said that’s how they do it in Mexico. Figured if it was good enough for the cartel, it was good enough for me.”
I picked up the glass of pink liquid and downed it in one drink. “You have one of these yet?”
“Seriously?” he snapped back.
His mouth curled into a smirk.
“You did, didn’t ya?”
He nodded. “Don’t tell anybody. Fucking shit was pretty good.”
“Man, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s good as fuck.”
“Is that you, Pee Bee?”
“Hey, Peyton,” I said. “How you feelin’?”
“Just tired,” she said. “Other than that, I’m fine.”
She walked into the dining room in one of Crip’s poker runs shirts from 2011 and a pair of his boxers.
Crip reached for the sacks of cocks, but it was too late. She’d already seen them.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Just…” Crip swung his hand across the table and tried to scoop up the sacks, but knocked one of them onto the floor in front of her.
She bent down and picked it up. She lifted the blood-filled sack and stared at it. “Gross. What is it?”
Crip shrugged and glanced at me. Then, she looked at me. pretty soon, Crip followed.
Thanks, motherfucker.
I cleared my throat. “One of those fella’s cocks.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“You cut off their cocks?”
“Yep.”
“Like, off?”
I pointed at the bag. “Off enough that it’s in that Zip-Lock bag, yeah.”
“The whole thing?”
“Cut em off at the base,” I said. “Their nuts, too.”
She looked at Crip. The other three sacks of cocks were clutched in his right hand. He shrugged, and eventually started laughing.
“It ain’t funny,” I said. “You ever cut off a man’s cock? Kinda gross, if you ask me. Bleeds a lot, too.”
“What are we going to do with them?” Peyton asked.
“We?” I asked. “We? I’m done with ‘em”
“Can I flush ‘em?”
Crip eyes widened. “You want to flush ‘em?”
Peyton grinned. “I do.”
He shrugged. “They’re about the side of a good turd. I suppose they’d flush.”
She stood up and reached for the other three bags. “I want to.”
I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. All along, I figured I’d be in charge of the disposal. “Here,” I said. “You’ll need these.”
She took the gloves. “Thanks. Be back in a minute.”
Crip and I looked at each other, but we didn’t talk while she was gone. After the toilet flushed six or eight times, the sound of running water followed. Then, she walked past us and into the kitchen.
“Trash bags?”
“Under the sink,” Crip said.
“Here.” She handed me neatly folded a trash sack. “You probably want to throw that away somewhere else. Or burn it. Get rid of the DNA.”
I looked at Crip. He shrugged.
“I needed that,” Peyton said. “You know; victims of sexual abuse say they need closure. Well, flushing their dicks down the toilet felt pretty fucking good.”
I made a fist and held it at the center of the table. “Good enough?”
She pounded her fist into mine. “Good enough.”
And, just like that, those two words made riding around all night with a bunch of cocks in Zip-Lock bags worth it.
Chapter Nineteen
Nick
I pulled into the driveway, turned the bike to face the street, and shut off the ignition. After a deep breath, I stepped over the gas tank and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans. The short walk up the driveway brought back memories, but it always did.
And it always would.
I knocked three times on the door.
“Enter!”
I pushed the door open. My father was sitting in his chair watching the news. He still resembled the military man he spent his lifetime being, his buzz-cut hair and athletic physique were a testament to his devotion to the Navy. Retired after 30 years in the military, he was now employed as a groundskeeper at a golf course. In his mind, however, he was simply on extended leave from the Navy.
“Get another tattoo?” he asked.
Nice to see you, too.
“Who is it?” my mother asked, her voice coming from the kitchen.
“It’s Nick, and he’s got a new tattoo,” my father shouted. “A god damned bumblebee. On his neck.”
“Let him in for heaven’s sake.”
“He’s already in. Wouldn’t be seeing his tattoo if he was still on the porch.”
“The tattoo’s old, Pop. Been there for a few years.”
“It’s dark.” He got out of his chair and glared. “Looks new.”
“It’s not.”
He studied my neck for a moment, then glanced over the patches on my kutte. “So, who died?”
“Nobody died, Pop. Just came to talk to mom.”
“Elizabeth, he’s here to see you.”
I shook my head and walked past him. “I’m here to see both of you.”
“Well, when you and your bumblebee get done talking to your mother, I’ll be here.”
To the unknowing bystander, my father would appear to be an asshole. Truthfully, he wasn’t. He had an opinion about everything, and offered it whether the recipient liked it or not, but he meant no harm in doing so. Over the years, I learned to dismiss a good part of what he said as being nothing more than bullshit.
“We’ll both come back and see ya,” I said in a sarcastic tone.
I stepped into the kitchen. My mother stood at the sink washing dishes.
“Why don’t you use the dish
washer?”
“It doesn’t get them clean.”
“It’s got a heat exchanger that superheats the water. It’s gets them clean and sterilizes them.”
“This is relaxing,” she said.
She turned her head to the side and waited. I pressed my lips to her cheek and kissed her. “How’s work?”
“Long hours. One of these days, I’ll retire, but I don’t know when. I’ll be done in just a minute.”
“No hurry,” I said.
I opened the fridge, rummaged through each of the Tupperware containers, and eventually found some fried chicken. I grabbed a few pieces and sat down at the dining room table.
“Get a plate.”
“I don’t need a plate. It’d just be one more to wash.”
“Get something to drink so you don’t choke. That chicken was dry. I don’t know what happened to it.”
“I’m fine. And the chicken’s good. Really.”
At the same time that I finished the second piece of chicken, she got done with the dishes. After drying her hands and tossing the towel on the countertop, she sat down at my side.
“You never come over just to see us, so what’s going on, Nicholas?”
I tossed the chicken bones in the trash, washed my hands, and sat down. “I’ve got some questions about a girl.”
Her eyes lit up. “Did you meet a girl?”
“Settle down. I met a girl, but it’s not what you think. There’s nothing going on.”
She smiled. “Why are you asking about her?”
I shrugged. “I just want to make sure she’s going to be okay. Something happened to her.”
She placed her hand on my forearm. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She seems to be.”
My mother worked as a counselor for a sexual assault center, and had for as long as I could remember. Her lifetime of exposure to domestic violence, sexual abuse, and other traumatic events women experienced made her a wealth of information on the subjects.
She gripped my forearm. “What’s bothering you?”
“Don’t go gettin’ all mad, just listen, okay?”
“Okay.”
I stared at the center of the table, and tried to speak without emotion, but it wasn’t easy. “If a girl is gang raped by four men, is it possible that she will recover from it without counseling?”
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