P-Nut

On my way home from the clubhouse after a late-night meeting, I rolled to a stop at the traffic light. While I tapped my fingers to a tune that no one else could hear, an SUV pulled alongside me on the left.

Then, another on my right.

I glanced at one, and then the other. They were identical in color, appearance, and stance.

Fucking feds.

My asshole puckered.

I looked at the traffic signal, pulled in the clutch lever, and prepared to run the red light. As I watched for a break in cross traffic, a third – identical – SUV swerved out of the intersection’s traffic and came to a screeching stop in front of me.

Fuck.

Twelve doors swung open, and no less than a dozen armed men jumped into the street. As soon as the heels of their boots hit the asphalt, the screaming started.

A burly bastard wearing a helmet and some ridiculous goggles over his eyes stepped in front of my bike. The barrel of his rifle was fixed on my chest the entire time.

“Don’t fucking move!” he demanded.

“Keep your hands where we can see them!” someone on my left said.

“Don’t move!” another shouted from behind me.

Dressed in military-style garb and fitted bulletproof vests, the yellow letters stitched to the front of their gear left no doubt as to who I was dealing with.

The ATF.

Fuck.

With the barrels of a dozen rifles pointed at me, my choices were few. I flipped the run switch to off and swept the kickstand down with the toe of my boot.

The last thing I was going to have happen was to see my bike tipped over when they tried to pull me off it.

“Evening, fellas,” I said with a broad grin. “Kinda late to be starting a party, isn’t it?”

The one with the goggles moved the barrel of his rifle within a few feet of my chest. “Percy L. Welsh?”

“You askin’, or tellin’?”

“Are you Percy L. Welsh?” he growled.

“If I say no, are you pricks going to get back in your cages and roll out of here?”

“With. Your. Hands. Fixed. On. The. Handlebars,” he shouted, annunciating each word. “Lift your right leg over the rear fender and stand beside your motorcycle.”

“Right leg, rear fender. Let me see what I can do.”

I stepped off the bike, locked eyes with him, and crossed my arms.

“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” someone shouted.

I unfolded my arms and turned my palms up.

My goggles wearing compadre spread his legs, pointed the barrel of his rifle at my chest, and cocked his head to the side.

“Search him,” he said dryly.

One of the many dip-shits behind me began to pat my body down. I was promptly relieved of my wallet, cigarettes, and knife.

“It’s him,” he said.

Mr. Goggles nodded toward my feet. “You can make this easy, or you can make it tough. Take a knee.”

I wasn’t in the mood to get tuned up by a dozen of the federal government’s finest thugs. I lowered myself to one knee, and then the other.

“Hands behind your head,” he said.

“I know the fucking drill.”

The agent at my rear handcuffed me and pulled me to my feet.

I tilted my head toward my bike. “If there’s one scratch on that motherfucker when we’re done, I guarantee you’ll wish there wasn’t.”

“You’re not in a position to be making threats.”

“It wasn’t a threat,” I said flatly. “It’s one of the realities of life.

“Load him up,” he said.

As cars slowly drove past, people gawked at the sight. Some took pictures with their phones. One man sat on the adjacent street corner with his phone pointed directly at us, undoubtedly videoing the fiasco.

“Kid in the jacket’s filming this. Better not make a mistake,” I said, my tone thick with sarcasm. “I know how you pricks tend to fuck things up. Ruby Ridge. Waco, Texas--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mr. Goggles snapped.

Two of the agents lifted me to my feet, loaded me in the SUV on my left, and shut the door.

* * *

“What you two fuckers don’t understand is that even though I’m nuts, I’m not your stereotypical dip shit biker.”

They looked at each other, and then the one with the curly hair sat down. “You’re losing me, Percy.”

“Call me Percy again, and I’ll plaster a picture of your wife sucking my cock on that blank billboard at exit 53.” I reached for my cigarettes and quickly remembered they’d taken them from me. “Might come as a shock to you two brain surgeons, but this isn’t my first time being apprehended. I know how this shit works. I’m either under arrest, or I’m not. If I’m not, I want you to tell me.”

He tried to hide the fact that I was getting under his skin, but he didn’t succeed. He covered his ring finger with his right hand and then met my gaze. “We’re investigating the disappearance of an ATF agent. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

The ATF agent they were looking for hadn’t disappeared. I knew exactly where he was, but I wasn’t about to tell them. They’d find him one day, but only when I was ready to let them. I pushed my chair away from the table and crossed my arms. After giving him a few seconds of my best crazy-eyed stare, I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and cleared my throat.

“Am I free to go?”

Without breaking my gaze or showing an ounce of emotion, he responded. “No, you’re sure as fuck not.”

“Am I under arrest?”

He looked at his partner, and then at me. “Did either of us say you were under arrest?”

“Answering a question with a question is a punk move, cop.”

“I’m not going to tell you again, I’m not a cop,” he snarled. “I’m a Special Agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”

“So, I’m not under arrest.” I alternated glances between them, and then locked eyes with my kinky-haired friend. “In accordance with the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, I refuse to answer any of your questions without an attorney present, cop.”

He pushed himself away from the table. “So, it’s going to be like that?”

“Sure as fuck is,” I said dryly. “Gimme my smokes. I got shit to do.”

“Got meth to manufacture?” The second cop asked, his voice thick with conjecture. “Gas stations to rob?”

“No. I need to poke my dick down his wife’s throat.” I tilted my head toward the curly-haired cop and grinned. “Then I need to snap a few pics. We’ll take a vote at the clubhouse to see which one the fellas think will be the best for the billboard.”

Curly pivoted on the balls of his feet, spun toward me, and then shot me a glare. “I’m not married.”

“Yes, you are.” I pushed myself away from the table, stood, and nodded toward the tan line on his ring finger. “You’ve got a wife, and you’re worried I’ll find her.”

He crossed his arms. “You making threats?”

I wasn’t about to get caught up in a conspiracy charge with the feds. Backing down completely wasn’t an option, either. I shook my head. “Not a threat, cop. A prediction. She’ll like the taste of my dick more than she likes yours. Now. Gimme my fucking smokes.”

He motioned toward cop number two. “Get him out of here, Clark. I’m tired of listening to his bullshit.”

I looked at the second cop. “Yeah, Clark. Gimme me my smokes, and let me outta here.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Curly said.

“Save us both some trouble, and just give me your wife’s cell phone number,” I said with a laugh.

“Fuck off, Percy,” he said through his teeth.

People’s perceptions of me differed. Their opinions were based on how well they knew me, and what portion of my true self I allowed them to see. Most would agree, regardless of their depth of knowledge about me, that I was a man of my word.

And, I promised Curly that I’d poke my cock down his wife’s throat if he called me Percy again.

I turned toward him and grinned as I tried to decide who would enjoy it the most.

Me? His wife? Or the people who drove past the billboard?

I’d find out soon enough.