HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Keep using words like that and I just might cut your throat. You sound like a fucking cop, sayin’ shit like corroboration. You a cop, little girl?” Biscuit grunted.

  “Far from it. Right now I’m a jobless, homeless, hopeless, penniless bitch that needs a ride to my car. And this isn’t my first time around 1%ers. My brother’s in an outlaw club, Hell’s Fury. Is, was, whatever. He’s doing life in Big Sandy now,” she snapped.

  Damn, no wonder she kept her mouth shut.

  Biscuit widened his eyes, crossed his arms, and took one step back as he studied Sydney. “Hell’s Fury, huh? Don’t think I won’t check him out. I know a few of those fellas in the Fury’s Colorado Springs Chapter. What’s his name?”

  “Jackson Shephard, same last name as mine. Road name was Killer. Just Google him. If you all remember the ATF infiltration of the Fury and the conspiracy to commit murder charges, well that was him. And if you want to read the piece of shit, they wrote a book about it,” she explained.

  “I remember it. Fuck, everyone remembers it. Chicken-shit undercover ATF agent rode with ‘em for a few years, got patched in and everything, and then tried to set the club up on murder charges. When they couldn’t get ‘em to kill anyone, they made up some bullshit about a contract killing for another 1%er club and railroaded a few guys. And fuck, Big Sandy’s no joke. That’s a shit-hole penitentiary, even for the Fed’s. Tough time to do, right there,” Otis said.

  “You got it. Undercover ATF agent fucked them over big time. Set my brother up like a bowling pin. Since they shipped him to Big Sandy, he won’t even let me visit, but that’s a whole different story,” she said.

  Biscuit took one more step back and narrowed his eyes. After a long pause, he began to speak. “So, lemme ask you a question. If you’re homeless, jobless, penniless, and what else did you say? Hopeless? If you’re all that, what the fuck were you doing in a fucking bank of all places?”

  “I was going to rob it, but the other fucker beat me to it,” she responded without expression.

  Biscuit glanced in my direction.

  I shrugged my shoulders and grinned.

  “You truly homeless?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes and nodded her head. “Somewhat ashamed of it, but yes I am.”

  After her confirmation, it appeared no one really knew how to respond to her. As the three of us stood and stared, she broke the long silence. “See this top? Doesn’t it look like I dug it out of the dirty clothes? Know why? Because everything I own is in the back seat or trunk of my car. I live out of it; have been for about a month. Now I’m down to no money and only a little bit of gas. Hopefully I’ll find a job in the next week or so.”

  As I considered what to say, Otis and Biscuit both reached for their wallets at the same time. She turned her hand up and shook her head.

  “Sorry, fellas. I don’t take handouts. Call me whatever you want including stupid, but I can’t do it. I’ll die first. I work for my money. I just need to find a job,” she said in a voice full of emotion.

  “Do you use dope?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Never have.”

  “Liar, thief, cheat, or anything of the like?”

  “Nope, I’ve never stolen anything in my life. And I don’t lie or cheat. I’m actually a great person who was dealt a shit card in life,” she responded.

  I crossed my arms and examined her. Other than the fact her top was covered in too many wrinkles to count, nothing about her really bothered me. She certainly didn’t appear homeless. In fact, she was a very well put together woman. The blonde hair hanging well past her shoulders was beautiful and full of body, and although she wore minimal makeup, her skin appeared to be blemish free and healthy.

  “Can you wait tables?” I asked.

  “Never tried, but I’d be willing to give it a go,” she said.

  I lowered my chin slightly and uncrossed my arms. As I raised my hand to my chin I grinned slightly. “I tell you what. I can give you a job at my restaurant in Winfield. It’s thirty miles from here, but you can start tomorrow if you want. I pay minimum wage plus tips, which is more than most restaurants. Tips aren’t much, but with your looks and attitude, you’ll probably do well. It’s the least I can do for a 1%er who’s locked down; or I guess for his sister. Maybe you can put some money on his books; get him some zoo zoos and wham whams.”

  “I can’t make it that far on the gas I’ve got in the car. If you want to give me a ride by my car and let me grab a few things, and then if you could maybe give me a ride to Winfield, I’ll sure start tomorrow,” she said.

  It dawned on me as she spoke that she was actually homeless. Not homeless in a broad meaningless sense, but truly without a place to stay. Her car full of personal belongings was all she had. She had no money, no means, and certainly had no possibility of even doing something as simple as bathing. Seeing someone like her in the condition she was in made me angry with society. I wanted to know what happened to cause her to be destitute. Before I had a chance to water down a question and make it seem less invasive, Biscuit beat me to the punch.

  Still standing with his wallet in his hand, Biscuit cleared his throat. “So, if I can ask, what happened?”

  “You sure can, and I’ll tell you. The aircraft plant laid me off. I had a high school education and ten years of experience when they did. I went quite a while looking for another job and couldn’t find one because I was pushing 30 years old, and had no experience other than pounding rivets. I couldn’t pay my rent, and eventually got evicted. I lived in and out of cheap hotels for almost a year delivering flowers part time, but lost that job when they found out I didn’t have a license to drive.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch, you can’t catch a fuckin’ break, can ya? What happened there?” Biscuit said.

  “I got three parking tickets for leaving my car sitting in one spot too long. Working part time, it got down to either eat or pay my tickets. I chose food.” she said.

  Everyone on this earth requires money to survive. Unless a person is born into wealth, they must work to obtain the money. Realistically, we all must drive to our place of work. Society dictates we need a license to legally drive a car. At some point, we must park that car. To think Sydney was given a ticket or multiple tickets for parking a car she wasn’t able to drive because she couldn’t afford to do so, and was then relieved of her license for failure to pay the tickets angered me to no end. Thinking of the rules, regulations, and requirements of society often angered me to a point of being furious. I stared down at my boots for a long second and attempted to collect my thoughts.

  “I tell you what,” I said as I looked up.

  I raised my hands and rubbed my temples with my fingertips. “I’ve got a little rental house Otis and I have been working on for a while. It didn’t cost me shit, and I was going to rent it at the end of the summer when we were done painting and making a few cosmetic repairs. Rent’s cheap in Winfield. Probably go for $350 a month. It’s a shitty one bedroom in a shitty part of town, and it doesn’t have a garage. I understand the pride thing, and not wanting a handout. How about this; pay the rent at the end of each month instead of the beginning? You can pay me the rent in four weeks. One catch, you’ll be responsible for making the repairs.”

  Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I don’t know what the repairs are, but I’ll do my best. Seriously?”

  I nodded my head as I exchanged glances between her and Otis. “Just minor painting and stuff, and yes, I’m serious.”

  “Please tell me it has running water,” she asked excitedly.

  “Sure does. I turned on all of the utilities when Otis and I started doing the work. I gave the city a few hundred bucks for the bills. What I’ve paid in advance will probably get you to September if you don’t run the air conditioner too much, but after that the utilities are on you,” I responded.

  “You’ve got a deal,” she said. “Holy shit. This is crazy. Oh my God. Are you for real?”

  As I nodded my
head, Otis and Biscuit both grinned. What satisfaction they received was not from my helping her. They, I imagined, were more concerned with the fact her 1%er brother was doing life in a federal penitentiary for some bullshit charge fabricated by a lying undercover ATF agent. In their minds, helping her was helping him, or as close as they could come to doing so. The legal case she spoke of received a lot of attention by 1%er clubs all over the nation. In fact, the Selected Sinners modified their bylaws as a result. When the ATF agent co-wrote a book about his experiences in infiltrating the club, further lining his pockets with money, it sickened each and every one of us even more.

  For me, it was a little different. I wasn’t necessarily helping her in my mind, I was saving her. And, saving her was something I felt I had to do. I didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Giving Junior the job at the restaurant was a similar circumstance, at least according to my psychiatrist at the Veteran’s Administration.

  A facet of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a severe case of Survivor’s Guilt. Until I was diagnosed with PTSD, I believed I should not have lived when so many Marines in my battalion died. I often wondered what I could have done differently, and questioned if I had made other choices, whether or not some of the dead would have survived. In short, I felt guilty - subconsciously - for surviving when so many other Marines did not. The human mind provides its own therapy in receiving satisfaction from saving others from a traumatic situation. Saving a life now, in a sense, for the ones I couldn’t save in the past.

  Impossible for me to totally understand, my PTSD caused me to lack compassion in some areas, and be far more understanding and sympathetic in others. I realized I couldn’t save the world, nor did I wish to. For some reason I had attached myself to certain people and their needs, feeling tremendous guilt if I didn’t step forth and extend my hand to pull them from whatever it was they were drowning in.

  Sydney, for some reason, was one of those people.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  TOAD

  The tone of Axton’s voice didn’t have to change, the look in his eyes told the entire story. We had been arguing about the concept of good versus evil for nearly twenty minutes. He was clearly aggravated and so was I. As he pushed himself away from the table and maintained eye contact, he raised his hands to his face, tilted his chair back on the rear legs, and spoke.

  “Stop being so fucking philosophical, Toad. Answer this, would you kill a man if he crossed you? Let’s say if he really, really did you or your family wrong?”

  I pushed against the edge of the table, sliding my chair back a few feet. “You know I would.”

  Axton gripped the edge of the table in his hands and flexed his forearms. “So let me ask you this, how can you say you stand up for all of what is good if you’d kill a man for simply doing something you perceive as wrong?”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and exhaled. I shifted my gaze to meet Axton’s, inhaled a shallow breath, and responded. “Because it’s in defense of or in support of what’s good. I wouldn’t kill someone for the sake of simply killing them, Slice. I’m not a cold-blooded fucking killer. That’s my point. They’d have to be a really bad person or be doing something pretty fucked up.”

  Axton shook his head and stood from his seat. “I think that’s the Marine in you, Toad. You’ve been reprogrammed to think because of your abilities that you’re required to stand up against evil. Society might see it as good or bad, but you don’t give two fucks. If you see it as bad, you’re going to stand up and speak your mind. If it requires physical intervention, you’ll intervene. If it requires killing a motherfucker, you’ll do it. I guess I’m damned near done arguing about it, but my point is this. Just because you believe it to be right doesn’t make it right. You’re a good man, Toad. Make no mistake about it. But you do, you’ve done, and you’ll continue to do what’s evil when you feel it’s necessary.”

  I looked up at Axton for a moment, and eventually stood. Having him stand over me made me nervous. The conversation began over discussing the bank robbery, and my interview with the news media. After the editing of the interview, several of my long responses were cut down into a few short remarks. One of the longer statements ended up edited to nothing, with my stating, I stand up against evil. The original question was regarding the MC, and my statement in whole was, although I’m in an Outlaw Motorcycle Club, I’m not a criminal. A common misconception is that men in Outlaw clubs are criminals, and we are not. I’ve always made an effort to stand up against evil. The woman interviewing me said, so you stand up against evil? And I responded, yes I stand up against evil. The changes they made to the interview took what I said out of context, and the entire thing, including Axton’s questioning me, was beginning to irritate me. Now somewhat frustrated and standing across the table from Axton, I crossed my arms, mimicking how he was standing.

  “A man’s abilities do not define who he is. His choices, and the application of those abilities, however, do. Life is not only about the choices we make, but why we make them. If a man commits an act and it is perceived by the masses as evil, but it is done to support all of what is good, or it was administered with good intention, the man and the act are good.” I uncrossed my arms and rubbed my palms together, convinced I’d made my point.

  “All evil acts aren’t preceded by a conscious thought of evil, Toad,” Axton said.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  Axton turned his palms up and shook his head. “I just fucking said it, Socrates.”

  I stood silently and continued to glare in Axton’s direction.

  “Some people commit acts of evil without thinking the act is evil. Or, they don’t consciously believe they’re preparing to commit evil before they act. That doesn’t necessarily make the act just or right.”

  “I’m done arguing about this,” I said as I turned away.

  “I was done a long fucking time ago,” I heard Axton chuckle.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” he asked.

  “Out to the shop,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Don’t get all butt hurt, Toad. I wasn’t attacking you,” Axton said.

  I continued to walk toward the door, opened it, and hesitated.

  “So let me ask you a question, Slice. If a man crossed you, or let’s say really, really did Avery wrong, would you kill him?” I asked.

  “Without even thinking about it,” he replied.

  I released the door handle and turned to face him. “So why are you crawling all over me for having the same reaction?”

  Axton reached behind his head with both hands, placed his fingers against the base of his skull, took a deep breath, flexed his biceps, and exhaled.

  “Because I know I’m evil, Toad. I’m pretty fucking certain if there’s a heaven and a hell when we’re all done here, I’m going to the place with the warm climate. And I’m not the man stopping bank robberies, being interviewed by the news, and saying I stand up against evil. Hell, you walk around this motherfucker all the God damned time making reference to the Bible. And unless I’m going completely crazy, that night you got your patch - when we killed the child molester - you cited the Bible chapter and verse to that prick before you killed him.”

  I stood staring his direction blankly as I considered what he said. In actuality, he wasn’t worried about me being who I was or believing what I believed, but he damned sure wasn’t pleased about my news interview while wearing my Sinner’s cut. To be honest, I wasn’t either.

  “You pissed off about the news segment?” I asked.

  “Can’t say I’m real happy about it, Toad,” he responded.

  I stared down at my boots and thought about what had happened and how it may have an effect on the club. Before I had a chance to speak, Axton began to walk in my direction. Without turning and facing the bylaws, he began to speak from memory.

  “The Sergeant at Arms is responsible for the safety and security of the club, as well a
s the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. Upon becoming aware of any real or perceived threat to the club, its Members, Prospects, or events, he shall immediately notify the Executive Committee of that information.” He paused and smiled his shitty little smile.

  I smiled in return.

  “Toad, you’re on the Executive Committee now. Be as nice or as fucking evil as you feel you need to be. Personally, I wish it was me who would have taken the gun from that shithead in the bank. Hell, I’d have probably shot the prick just to save taxpayers a little money. More than likely would have taken the homeless girl home too. But what I wouldn’t have done was agree to do that fucking interview. They never put them on the news the way they’re recorded. Always think of the best interest of the club,” he said as he extended his hand.

  As I reached for his hand, he pulled me through the doorway and slapped me on the back. “You’re a good man, Toad. I’m proud to have you as my Sergeant at Arms, I really am. Consider the club first in all you do.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” I said, using the Marine acknowledgement that an order had been received, was understood, and would be carried out.

  “Carry on,” Axton said as he released my hand.

  “Sorry boss,” I said.

  “No apology needed,” Axton replied.

  I turned and walked into the shop as Axton quietly followed. Unlike many of the other Sinners who continuously spoke until interrupted, Axton was a master of knowing when to speak, what to say, and when to be silent. I stopped a few feet from my bike, placed my hands on my hips, and stared. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, I looked over my left shoulder toward Axton.

  “I’m thinking the interview with the news was me being a little selfish. You know, wanting the recognition and such. I’m not using this as an excuse, but I’m thinking it might be part of my PTSD; the Survivor’s Guilt. I think I thought if the entire city believed I saved those people at the bank from harm, then maybe that would have made up for all the Marines my battalion lost in Afghanistan. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll talk to my shrink at the VA on Friday when I go to mental health,” I said.