Damian
I put the kickstand down on my bike and climbed off. There was a bright slice of moon hanging high in a clear sky, casting the world around me in a silvery light. Taking my helmet off, I ran a hand through hair that fell to my shoulders and enjoyed the quiet of the night for a moment. There was a taste of the nearby ocean in the air, and everything was peaceful.
And then I remembered why I was there to begin with.
“You ready, bro?”
I turned and looked at my buddy, Crank, whose real name was Arthur Banks – but we'd taken to calling him Crank for reasons that were lost somewhere in the haze of time and memory. We all just accepted Crank as his name and never really thought twice about it.
Crank had been my friend since high school. We'd served a few tours in the shit together back when we were Marines, and now he was my right-hand man. There wasn't anybody on the planet I trusted more than Crank. I knew that no matter what, he always had my back.
I hung my helmet from the handlebar of my bike and nodded. “Yup. Let's do it.”
We walked to the back door of the diner and pulled it open. The smell of hamburgers, fries, and everything else they were cooking came flooding out – and smelled delicious. My stomach growled, reminding me that it was well past dinner time. I followed Crank into the kitchen, where some of the cooks looked at us. I saw the fear in their eyes the moment they saw us, most of them turning away quickly, becoming totally engrossed in whatever task they were doing.
Such was the way when you wore a Kings of Chaos kutte.
Our MC was both feared and respected. We had a colorful reputation – we stayed mostly out of trouble, but we also didn't take shit from anybody. If push came to shove, we weren't afraid to throw down and put a beating on somebody. Most people thought we were responsible for a multitude of disappearances and murders. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if somebody out there wanted to pin the JFK assassination on us. And we were happy to let people think whatever they wanted. It only enhanced our rep.
But truth be told, the only blood spilled by the Kings had come in self-defense. We'd had more than a few scrapes, but as far as cold-blooded killing? Never happened. And the bottom of the barrel truth was that I only knew of two bodies that could actually be pinned on the MC – and both of those were because it was a case of them or us. We'd never taken a life just to take a life, no matter what anybody else thought.
Still, I couldn't sit there and say that our hands were clean. We dabbled in drug running – pot and ecstasy mainly – and we took a slice of local business profits as a service fee for keeping the streets of Fernwood safe, clean, and free of trouble.
I grabbed a handful of fries off of a plate as we headed for the office. Crank opened the door without knocking and stepped inside. Stan, the owner of the diner, was leaning back in his chair with his hands locked behind his head, a look of pure rapture on his face. When we walked in, he looked startled enough that he might have pissed himself if it hadn't been for the brunette on her knees in front of him. She looked up with an expression of pure relief and tears shining in her eyes.
Stan stumbled as he got to his feet while trying to pull his pants up at the same time. The girl, her lipstick smeared and hair mussed, stood frozen in place. She was one of the waitresses; that much I knew. I thought I'd seen her in here before. And she looked all of about seventeen or so.
“Don't you assholes ever knock?” Stan almost shouted.
“How old are you, sweetheart?” I asked the girl softly.
“Sabrina, get your ass back out on the floor!” Stan yelled. “Now!”
I shot Stan a look that stopped him in his tracks. Crank stepped up, putting himself between Stan and me, his face colored with anger – as I was sure mine was. As the girl moved to hurry past me, I put my hand on her shoulder and forced her to look me in the eye.
“How old?” I pressed.
“Nineteen,” she said, lowering her eyes as if she were ashamed.
“Nineteen?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
She never took her eyes off the floor. “I can show you my ID if you want,” she said, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “I'm nineteen. I swear it.”
“She's an adult,” Stan said as if it made everything okay. “Now, can you two get the fuck out of here?”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked the girl, ignoring Stan completely.
“I–I need this job,” she said, still avoiding my eyes. “There's not much opportunity here. You know that. It ain't like I can run away to go to college or something. And Mr. Greeley here said if I didn't blow him whenever he wanted, that he'd fire me.”
The girl looked up at me, tears spilling down her cheeks. The rage that existed inside of me – dark and abiding – welled up and threatened to overwhelm me. I was a lot of things. Some might call me a monster – and maybe I was – but if there was one thing I could not, and would never condone, it was violence done to women and children. Nothing enraged me more quickly or deeply.
“Please,” she said, her eyes pleading. “Don't do nothin' that's gonna get me fired. I can't afford to lose this job.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “I won't. When I'm done here, you're not going to have to worry about a goddamn thing.”
I released her, and she scurried out of the office. Stan looked at me, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. Sweat dotted his brow, and he looked terrified. Which was good. That's exactly how I wanted him to feel. I narrowed my eyes and gave him my hardest look.
“You're an even bigger scumbag than I took you for,” I growled.
“Maybe we should just burn this dump to the ground,” Crank added. “Put two in his head for good measure.”
Crank stroked the butt of the pistol that was sticking out of his waistband. He carried it more for show than anything. I honestly didn't think he'd shot at anything with it other than bottles and cans.
“L-l-look, you guys don't have the right to come in here like this,” Stan stuttered, trying to sound confident and tough – and failing. “You got no call to be tellin' me how to run my business.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not. But we do got an interest in protecting the people of this town. And judging by what I just saw, you're a goddamn predator.”
“I ain't no predator,” Stan said. “What you walked in on was a consensual act between two consenting adults.”
I was a large man, and because of that, people underestimated just how quick I was. But I'd played some tight end back in high school and had plenty of speed. Stan was one of those who underestimated me. I closed the distance between us so quickly that he didn't have time to react. And when I drove my fist into his ample gut, all he could do was croak and wheeze as the air was forced out of his lungs.
Stan doubled over, clutching his belly. He tried to speak, but all that came out were strangled gasps. Crank knelt down beside him, putting his face mere inches from Stan's, and smiled.
“You know, Damian's just getting warmed up,” he said. “He's still working through some rage issues he developed over in Afghanistan. And I can tell by the look in his eye that he'd love to tear you apart piece by piece.”
“P–please,” Stan croaked and held his hand up in surrender. “Stop. I–I won't do it again. I swear. I'll never touch Sabrina again.”
I knelt down on the other side of the man, staring hard at him. “You're goddamn right you won't,” I hissed. “You're not gonna touch any of your employees ever again. You got me?”
He looked at me, and beneath the fear, I could see the hatred in his eyes. It was buried under layers of terror, but it was there all the same. That look told me that he was going tell me what I wanted to hear, whatever would get us to leave, but was still going to do whatever in the hell he wanted.
“I'll tell you what I'm gonna do,” I said. “I'm gonna give Sabrina my phone number. And I'm gonna tell her to call me if you ever – and I mean ever – look at her sideways again. And the same goes for all of the girls that work here. You even think about forcing them to do anything, even if it's just working a double shift, I'm gonna pay you a visit. And I guaran-fucking-tee you, it's not going to be nearly as pleasant as this.”
“You better listen to the man,” Crank threw in. “When he guaran-fucking-tees something, he's serious. His word is his bond, bro.”
Stan was slowly getting his wind back, and he looked away from me, the fear winning out over his defiance. He slowly straightened up, his wheezing lessening. Crank and I stood up and stared him down.
“You understand me, Stan?” I asked. “You touch any of the girls working here, and you may as well go ahead and eat a bullet because I'll be coming for you.”
His face was flushed, but he nodded.
“One more thing,” I said. “If I hear that Sabrina or anybody else here gets fired, and it smells the least bit suspicious or retaliatory to me, same deal. I'll be coming for you.”
Stan looked at me, that defiant light back in his eyes. “You can't tell me how to run my business—”
“You're right,” I agreed. “And I'm not trying to. What I am doing, is making sure that you're not preying on innocent girls who don't know to stand up for themselves when they're dealing with a scumbag like you. I'm just making sure you're playing fair here.”
“You do that,” Crank added. “And we're all good. But you start cannin' people because of what happened here today, and – well – we're most definitely not all good, bro.”
Stan walked back to his desk, putting it between him and us. Yeah, as if that would protect him. He looked at Crank and then at me and sighed. His shoulders slumped, and he looked defeated.
“What are you two doing here?” he asked, his voice monotone and dejected.
“It's tax day,” Crank said brightly.
“What? It's not—” Stan looked over at the calendar next to his desk and sighed again. “Oh.”
Avoiding our eyes, Stan turned around and opened the safe that was behind his desk. He took a stack of bills out and put them in an envelope before tossing it on his desk.
“There,” he said. “Your blood money.”
“Just think of it as our fee for the community service we provide,” Crank said and started to move for the envelope.
I put my hand out to stop him. Crank stopped in his tracks and didn't say a word, didn't cast me a questioning look. After all these years, he knew me well enough to know when I wanted to make a point. So, he just stood by and waited for me to make it.
“Bring the envelope to me,” I said.
Stan finally looked up at me. “What?”
I gestured at the envelope. “Bring it to me.”
“Pick it up your own damn—”
“Now!” I shouted.
Stan jumped and looked like he turned ten shades paler than his pasty ass already was. Almost reacting on instinct, the man snatched up the envelope and hustled around his desk. It was only when he was standing in front of me that he realized what he'd done – which was to do what I had commanded when I'd commanded it. And I saw the anger burning in his face.
Stan was a proud man. And one who liked to believe he could stand up to us whenever he wanted. But the truth of the matter was that he was a cowardly little bitch. He was a scumbag and a predator. Which was why I treated him like I did. I had nothing but distaste and disrespect for this man.
I grabbed the envelope out of his hand and passed it over to Crank without ever taking my eyes off of Stan. He looked away, nervously chewing on his lip beneath my scrutiny. He caught himself and stopped, meeting my gaze and tried to look confident. Defiant.
Crank counted out the money in the envelope – I had no doubts it was all there, I just wanted to squeeze Stan a little bit tighter.
“We're good to go,” Crank said.
I nodded and gave Stan a wicked smile. “Looks like we'll see you next month then.”
“Yeah, great,” he muttered.
Crank and I turned to go, but I stopped and turned back. “One more thing, Stan,” I said. “Remember what I said about Sabrina and the rest of the girls here.”
And just to make sure he really got my point, I drove my fist into his gut once more for good measure – harder than before. I laughed as Crank and I walked out of his office, leaving him on the ground gasping and sputtering for breath.