by I.B. Holder
*****
Blue walked across the compound. Gravel crunched under his work boots and skittered away from the tread. An old injury gave him an uneven gait, lurching to the right and consequently slightly dragging his left foot. He’d been told that if the knife had been an inch longer, he might have lost the leg at the knee. His chronic pain flared up from time to time. Today was worse than usual, the kick to the knee that Laura so kindly contributed put more drag into his gait. But it didn’t slow down his pace as he walked from the trailers to what used to be the camp showers and gymnasium. Cleanliness was important to protestants, he thought. It showed in the fact that the men and women’s showers occupied more space than the administration office, which he passed listening to the CLANK CLANK of metal clips against a hollow flagpole. It had once been the proud standard for the American flag and the Camp Exoter pennant, but now it was only a rope, three clips and a rusty cap.
Blade peeled off his vinyl mask and sweat poured off him like greasy dew. He spat on the hands, which he used to pluck the tinted contacts off of his eyes then looked up. Hazel eyes sunk into their sockets, cheeks pitted and oily, hair sticking to the sides of his face made up the man nicknamed Blade. He continued his progress checking his watch and muttering “Roll call.”
He swung the main door open and walked in. Tile ran up partition walls to shoulder height. He did a head count looking around the room, and scowled as simultaneously his eyes lit up with delight. “Who’s missing?”
Blade’s men responded like a heartbeat under duress. They sped up, not fully knowing what they were reacting to. This was the same lazy group of thugs from the bar, although they hardly resembled their former selves. Now they displayed a regimented organization. It was a parade, no that’s too grand. It was a dog show put on for Blade. No one wanted to upset the man who’d just entered the room. When Blade got angry there was always punishment, indiscriminate and crippling were his favorite two kinds. His cruelty was legend well before he’d put wheels under this abduction scheme. In the past, he’d organized this group of ruffians into one of the most highly sought, highly paid group of enforcers on the road. He’d hand chosen them from other biker groups and saying no was not an option. Blade had a very persuasive way of keeping his men in line, and he had rules about everything. He wouldn’t let them gain or lose weight. He had a strict hair length code and it was different for each man. It was like he’d built the likeness of each of his crew into an ideal that he would not allow to change. The men complied, just as they complied with everything he said, because they’d seen what Blade had done.
He took on contracts that nobody else would touch. He would follow intimidation farther than anyone else. Blade changed the minds of top businessmen, politicians and even organized crime lords. Not by putting a knife to their throat, but by putting a knife to the pulse of everything that man or woman prized most in this world. He hounded every interest of his target to the ends of the earth until they saw things his way. Accidents happened to everyone they’d ever met, until Blade got his way. Blade once amputated the leg of the college roommate of a man he was hounding with a blowtorch. The victim was screaming the entire time that he couldn’t even remember his roommate’s name. Too bad for him. All Blade did was leave his business card on the charred stub and suggested that he should give his old friend a call, let him know how he was doing. After something like that he’d evaporate into the roadway system, only to reappear a month, a year or even five years later and perpetuate a very dedicated, very personal reign of terror. His crew had achieved quite a reputation.
Now they sat in neatly divided stations, nozzles and air compressors fixed for the colored liquid mixture that was their costume to be sprayed onto their bodies. To the right of the door was Red:
His name was Sean, a tall lanky guy who served as the group’s mechanic. Sean was Welsh, soft spoken, his eyes vacant, he was much more comfortable interacting with the moving parts of a bike than with any person. He was answering the questions of the man in the stall next to him: Vorest, Violet.
“It keeps sticking between second and third, I don’t see why it isn’t a priority.” Vorest said smearing himself in a mixture of powder and oil before applying the color.
Sean saw their leader standing in the doorway then replied. “Blade sets the priorities.”
“Well this should be one!” He said kicking the tub of powder in front of him and sending a cloud into the air, which he snorted deep like cocaine. Vorest had a dark islander complexion and a white hot temper. He was always looking for a fix and a fight. His laugh rattled like an engine, mechanical and joyless, and it cut out abruptly, like he was daring someone to find him less than hilarious. His jokes usually involved pain.
Green was in the next stall and he laughed at everything. He went by the nickname Feely, “I want you guys to start calling me the green goblin.” He liked to give himself new nicknames.
“Right Feely.” Sean said in a low monotone.
He was the mascot of the group, willing to do anything on a dare. Feely was their long haul rider, often making it from East to West coast “balls rattling” in a single straddle of the bike. It was particularly important to have a long haul rider now because of Blade’s rules involving commerce.
He made them buy everything by mail order, and nothing came to the same mailbox twice. So if they needed to buy parts, they set up a mailbox in Tampa or Tuscaloosa, ordered the part and sent Feely on the road.
Feely shrugged his shoulders and passed the talc under the plastic divider to Stones. “Here you go Stones, there’s enough for your body, but it won’t cover your dick.”
“If I were you’d I’d be tired of myself in a week.”
“I’m thirty-one and I’m proud to say after watching Dr. Phil I learned to make myself better through criticism of others.”
“Somebody take away his TV.” Stones smiled, very satisfied with almost everything he said or did.
Feely shot back, “Don’t talk about TV to Mac - “ He stopped short, just realizing that Mac wasn’t there. He looked up at Blade. “Go easy on him, he’s had a bad day –” Blade spotted the empty stall. His skin turned from parchment yellow to a flushed red in seconds. Stones took the conversation off track before he could expel his anger at anyone in the room.
“Our little friend should know not to step in front of bullets, he’s so fuckin paper thin, it’s going to go right through him and hit the other guy anyway” he grabbed Feely’s shoulder and shook it. Feely wobbled like a sheet of tin. Stones let out a deep rumbling laugh. After a moment of breathless indecision Blade joined. Relief spread through the room and everyone returned to the task of suiting up.
Stones’ area was stained Yellow. After a quick dust he began applying the vinyl coating on his skin. Painting the median line below his belly, he encountered what would be to an outsider a truly majestic sight. Stones had one attribute that nobody in the group could argue with, a porn sized penis. It mesmerized the group like a religious object. Many had knelt in front of it – that could explain the confusion. The experience he offered was the kind based on stimulus alone. At the base of the argument about Stones was that he never felt alone, even when there was nobody in the room. It explained the way he got away with behavior that others in the room could not and also the way he thought about himself. His dick gave him a numerical advantage of adjusted net worth. He had the one object of influence that could not be bought of sold and he knew it.
Mac rushed in ranting, “The fucking TV, can’t get my E, how am I supposed to get it together without E?”
“You’re late.” Blade projected from the doorway.
Mac stumbled and nearly fell over the brown stained bench in his area. “Fuckin TV – it’s not my fault. It’s the satellite.”
Blade approached him in even, measured steps. He let words slip out the same. “You know my rules, nobody’s late, no excuses.”
“Come on, it’s not me.” Mac held up his
hands in front of him in a defensive posture, which only angered Blade more.
“Do you think I’d just punch you? I’d never do that.” His right eye twitched, pupil lazily dragging itself from the corner and focusing on Mac with fresh anger.
“I’m not saying you would – it’s a mistake.”
“It would be over too quickly, I like it when someone is waiting for the punishment to come. Do you want it now or later?”
Blade saw the recognition in his eyes. Later was always worse, he’d pick a time when everyone was drinking and happy. There was an instance when he’d waited a year for punishment, then called for it just before the guy was going to meeting up with his family that he’d been away from for six months. He took a gusher over the right eye to the reunion. If a person didn’t stand for the punishment, they ended up dead. He had two pinpoint daggers, assassins’ weapons that were silent on the way in and bloody on the way out. Blade always got in his due, when it came to payback.
“Now.”
Blade put his hands together. He had a secret that made his punches legendary among the people who were on the receiving end. He did what he always did to get the adrenaline running. With a quick twist, he popped a knuckle on his right hand out of joint, excruciatingly painful, his arm lashed out almost as if by itself, striking Mac in the throat. Blade heard his knuckle pop back into joint as it pushed into the meaty flesh of Mac’s throat. The second surge of pain brought a smile to his face. Mac staggered backward falling over the bench and landing on the hard tile. Blade received and dealt out pain in one elegant motion, it was the product of the sickness that infected his pleasure centers.
Mac, meanwhile, was rolling on the floor, gasping saliva and blood into his lungs.
“I like TV.” Blade said with brutal levity, a husky laugh in his throat. “Anyone like it more than me?”
The men were silent. Mac struggled, unable to talk.
“Then raise your hand.” Blade pointed directly at Mac. Mac slowly raised his hand, fingers curled still from the shock of the hit. Blade burst out laughing. “You’re in charge of getting it fixed… it has to be fixed by next week.” The joke spread through the room but just as the mood was passing. Blade added “paint up men, don’t want to be late for the initiation.”
