Thrash
“What the fuck happened to your face?”
Mark ‘Riot’ White sits up from where he’s reclining on the busted old couch we keep in the garage of our clubhouse and stares at me with an infuriating grin on his face.
He and Rhett ‘Creole’ James, enforcer for our club – the Rebel Riders MC – are playing poker on the coffee table in front of them. And looking at me like they’re ready to give me hell.
I’m prepared for it. I knew once I let things get out of hand with that woman in the car, that I should expect to hear about it from my brothers. They wouldn’t be my brothers otherwise.
“A taco happened,” I say. “Al pastor.”
“You know, that’s not how you eat a taco, Thrash,” says Creole. “Maybe sometime I’ll take you out for Mexican and I can show you how it’s done, yeah?”
“That’s not what I was talking about,” says Riot. “I was asking about the rest of him… Were you always this ugly?”
“Fuck off,” I say, grinning. “I’m good looking enough for your mom.”
“How dare you say that about my mother,” Riot says, standing up. “She helped raised you. She took you in. And now you slander her?”
He’s trying to look angry, except he definitely can’t suppress the grin on his face. Riot’s been my best friend since the week after I turned sixteen, back before either of us joined the MC and were just a couple of kids kicking around on motorcycles. Back then, I was just a kid from a few towns over, taking every chance I could to get out of a broken home.
One week after getting my motorcycle license, while on a long ride after a fight with my deadbeat drunk father, I arrived in Crescent Falls. I met Riot – though he just went by Mark back then — outside a convenience store on the outskirts of town. Together, we shoplifted a few forties and spent the day getting drunk and raising hell.
He’s been my best friend ever since.
“Seriously, Riot, cut the bullshit — there’s nothing ‘daring’ about banging your mother; there isn’t a man in town that hasn’t done it. Fucking your mom is about as daring as buying a coffee; everyone does it and it costs about the same,” I say.
“Seriously, man, she could give lessons on dick-sucking to some of the club girls. Your mom is a gigantic whore,” Creole adds, grinning.
Riot glares at me, but he knows it’s all in good fun. I only say it to him because it’s fun as hell to rile him up. Truthfully, his family gave me a place to crash plenty of times when I was younger, and I practically lived in their garage for a couple weeks when I first moved out to Crescent Falls and started prospecting for the MC.
“Enough, man,” Riot says. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand: why the fuck do you have salsa all over your face? What happened to the shipment you were supposed to pick up? Creole and I waited for your call so we could go pick up your bike once you’d secured the car.”
Just him mentioning it brings me back to thinking about her. That woman in the car who took me down a notch with a well-placed taco. And about how badly I want to take her for a ride.
How the hell she is mixed up with the Reaper’s Sons? She looked way too smart to be one of the Reaper’s girls or related to any of the those bastards — it ain’t too hard to spot them since inbreeding that severe tends to be a pretty visible affliction.
She’s got to be pretty new to town. I’d remember seeing a face like hers.
So what’s she doing in with the Reapers?
“I didn’t come through with it,” I say. “Creole, the information you got was good, I’m sure of that. But when I went to take the car so we could snatch the cargo, there was some chick driving it that I haven’t seen before. I think I’ll need to take a different approach next time.”
Creole frowns. “Thrash, I gave you that info because you promised to be subtle. There’s nothing fucking subtle about getting a taco to the face and botching a robbery. We can’t go tipping off the Reapers, there’s supposed to be a truce between our clubs, remember?”
I shoot him a sharp look.
“Yeah, there’s a truce. And while we’re sitting around fondling our cocks, the Reapers are expanding their business and set up a direct connection with fucking Mexico. What’ve we done?”
“There’s the pot growing op that Bull’s setting up out in that old abandoned lumber camp,” Riot says.
I shrug. Bull’s our VP. Of our club’s leadership, Hunter ‘Bull’ Bennett is the only one who doesn’t have his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. Still, his plan ain’t much and I know we should be making bigger moves to expand our business.
But like so much, he’s hampered by our president, Hawk. Hawk has as much forward vision as a rearview mirror.
“Tell me, Riot, what’s the value of a good ounce of weed?” I say.
He shrugs. “Depends. Maybe two, three hundred depending on the quality. But it’s legal now, so it’s less risk.”
“That’s only partly true. It’s still a federal crime and you know anything any MC does has good odds at attracting federal attention — which means you’re talking RICO and anything else the Feds want to use to nail us up the ass. Now, Creole, what kind of prices do you think the Reaper’s Sons would be getting for their cocaine or whatever the fuck else they’re bringing up from Mexico?”
“More than pot,” he says. “The fun stuff costs a premium.”
“Exactly. So if we’re going to get fucked either way — whether it’s pot or coke or anything else — why not go for the greater cash? It’s just a simple value proposition.”
“He makes a good business case, Creole,” Riot says.
I know I can always count on Riot to back me up.
Creole shakes his head. “What the fuck do you know about business, Riot?”
“I read that Tim Ferriss book once. The business one, about the workweek. Learned a lot.”
“Oh yeah? And what would Tim Ferriss say about Thrash’s plans?”
“Tim’s all about getting the greatest value for your time. He’d probably agree with it,” Riot says. “He’d also probably recommend we hire some virtual assistant in India to do all the menial bookkeeping and other work.”
I give him a nod when Creole isn’t looking to let him know I appreciate the backup. Between the two of us, we can convince Creole to stick with my plan of muscling our way in to disrupt the Reaper’s Sons business and make a fair bit of cash for ourselves and for our MC, the Rebel Riders.
“My point is, while the truce is great and all, the Reaper’s Sons are positioning themselves to make a much bigger chunk of change. Money is power, and once they set their drug operation up and start out-earning us, what’s to stop them from deciding that they don’t want a truce anymore? We’ll be fucked. We need to take them down a peg. And why not earn some cash doing it?”
Creole nods. “Fine. Next time my buddy with the brother in the Reaper’s Sons and I play cards, I’ll see what I can get out of him. Should be tomorrow night. Son of a bitch loves to blab like he’s the next Tony Montana just by associating with the MC, so I doubt I’ll even have to fucking ask him.”
“Thanks, Creole,” I say.
“Just be careful, alright? You end up starting some shit with the Reaper’s Sons and Hawk will have all our asses.”
Creole isn’t lying. Hawk is old-school and his concept of justice and leadership is Old Testament biblical.
I nod and look around the garage while he lectures me about being careful not to tip off the Reaper’s Sons that we’re poking around their drug business and looking to jack their cargo. Personally, I don’t see why Creole’s so adamant about it — he might be giving me the information, but this has been my show from the start. I’m the one out there putting my ass on the line. And when we take a load of their cargo and start to push them out of their drug business, I’ll make sure I get my fair share of the cash.
But the more I think about the problem, the more I come back to the one obstacle that stands in my way: that woman who stared at the gun in my hand like she just doesn’t give a damn.
There’s got to be some way to convince her that it’s in her best interest to work with me.
And then, once we’re in bed together in a business sense, I’ll see if I can get myself a taste.
My eyes settle on a set of wrenches while Creole blathers on with his warning. I get an idea.
“Thrash, are you listening?” Creole says, snapping his fingers at me to get my attention.
“Yeah, man, don’t worry. I’ll be real fucking subtle.”
I know just what I need to do to win her over.