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Authors: Edward Bungert
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few beers." Counsel motioned to Christy, who came running over with two pitchers of beer.
Mike's was becoming crowded. Many of the people who frequented the bar were regulars. The Henchmen never bothered them. In fact, many of them felt safer in that bar than in their own homes.
One story I heard was about a woman, Jenny, who had been followed to the bar one night by two men looking to collect on her dead husband's gambling debts. These guys must not have known, or didn't care, that this was a Henchmen bar. Despite her protests, they sat down next to her at the bar and harassed her until Counsel and Fat Jack lifted them off their chairs, threw them a beating, and tossed them into the street. They were both hospitalized.
By midnight The Henchmen had discussed fourteen murders, countless cases of rape, sodomy, and theft, and two future assassinations. One potential victim was a tough, street-smart police sergeant in New York and the other a writer named Ross who lived near San Francisco. The club was pissed at Ross for having written some revealing articles about The Henchmen for World Weekly Magazine. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to keep all this information in my head until I got back to my apartment to write it down. I, of course, had to brag of my escapades. My active imagination, and my access to Bureau files on "Dr. Death" Randall's alleged activities, made my tales convincing. Integrity and brains.
I heard a bike pulling up outside the bar. Aside from a couple of raised eyebrows, no one paid much attention. It wasn't unusual for members to come by Mike's throughout the night. I later learned that The Henchmen never met at Mike's without a guard on the roof with a thirty-thirty rifle and infrared scope. An attack from a rival club was a constant threat, real or imagined.
All Henchmen turned toward the door.
"What the fuck is that?" said Iron Man.
Walking through the doorway was something I had seen before only in sadomasochistic magazines. A leatherman, complete from his leather police cap to the spurs and studs on his boots. He walked right up to the white line and the dismayed outlaws.
"I have fifty bucks for anyone who has something I can choke on," lisped the leatherman.
The bikers looked around, their eyes bulging in disbelief. Then, all at once, they began laughing and slapping each other on the back. When the laughing had subsided, Hank the Skank stood up from his chair.
"Let's see the fifty, bitch," Hank ordered. The leatherman complied. Hank then whipped out his cock, ordered the man under the table, and enjoyed what he later described as the best blow job of his life. This assignment was beginning to get weird.
Chapter 6
It was a wet, chilly morning. Savage was already waiting inside the van when I arrived at the clubhouse at seven-fifteen.
"Get in, Doc," he said as he rolled down the window. I hopped in and sat on the passenger's seat.
"Here's your niner."
"Twelve shots?"
"Yeah, here are some more clips." He handed me three twelve-shot cartridges.
"We're just buying some guns, Savage, not going to war, man."
"You never know, bro. I don't trust these fucking Frito-heads for shit. I'm ready for anything. You'd better be too."
Our conversation was interrupted by a tap at the window. It was Dog and Iron Man. Dog was drinking a beer, holding the rest of a six-pack with his free hand. He looked like he was ready to go fishing or camping. Savage pointed toward the rear with his thumb. They piled in through the rear doors.
"Morning, gents," said Dog.
"Dickhead," Savage mumbled under his breath.
Dog and Iron Man immediately began assembling a tripod and a thirty-millimeter submachine gun. The van had special mounts which accommodated the tripods of various machine guns, as well as an antitank missile launcher.
"Ready for anything, eh, Savage?" I remarked.
"Fuck, yeah."
Now I was beginning to wish I'd asked for backup when I had the chance. These guys were ready for war. I
Mike's was becoming crowded. Many of the people who frequented the bar were regulars. The Henchmen never bothered them. In fact, many of them felt safer in that bar than in their own homes.
One story I heard was about a woman, Jenny, who had been followed to the bar one night by two men looking to collect on her dead husband's gambling debts. These guys must not have known, or didn't care, that this was a Henchmen bar. Despite her protests, they sat down next to her at the bar and harassed her until Counsel and Fat Jack lifted them off their chairs, threw them a beating, and tossed them into the street. They were both hospitalized.
By midnight The Henchmen had discussed fourteen murders, countless cases of rape, sodomy, and theft, and two future assassinations. One potential victim was a tough, street-smart police sergeant in New York and the other a writer named Ross who lived near San Francisco. The club was pissed at Ross for having written some revealing articles about The Henchmen for World Weekly Magazine. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to keep all this information in my head until I got back to my apartment to write it down. I, of course, had to brag of my escapades. My active imagination, and my access to Bureau files on "Dr. Death" Randall's alleged activities, made my tales convincing. Integrity and brains.
I heard a bike pulling up outside the bar. Aside from a couple of raised eyebrows, no one paid much attention. It wasn't unusual for members to come by Mike's throughout the night. I later learned that The Henchmen never met at Mike's without a guard on the roof with a thirty-thirty rifle and infrared scope. An attack from a rival club was a constant threat, real or imagined.
All Henchmen turned toward the door.
"What the fuck is that?" said Iron Man.
Walking through the doorway was something I had seen before only in sadomasochistic magazines. A leatherman, complete from his leather police cap to the spurs and studs on his boots. He walked right up to the white line and the dismayed outlaws.
"I have fifty bucks for anyone who has something I can choke on," lisped the leatherman.
The bikers looked around, their eyes bulging in disbelief. Then, all at once, they began laughing and slapping each other on the back. When the laughing had subsided, Hank the Skank stood up from his chair.
"Let's see the fifty, bitch," Hank ordered. The leatherman complied. Hank then whipped out his cock, ordered the man under the table, and enjoyed what he later described as the best blow job of his life. This assignment was beginning to get weird.
Chapter 6
It was a wet, chilly morning. Savage was already waiting inside the van when I arrived at the clubhouse at seven-fifteen.
"Get in, Doc," he said as he rolled down the window. I hopped in and sat on the passenger's seat.
"Here's your niner."
"Twelve shots?"
"Yeah, here are some more clips." He handed me three twelve-shot cartridges.
"We're just buying some guns, Savage, not going to war, man."
"You never know, bro. I don't trust these fucking Frito-heads for shit. I'm ready for anything. You'd better be too."
Our conversation was interrupted by a tap at the window. It was Dog and Iron Man. Dog was drinking a beer, holding the rest of a six-pack with his free hand. He looked like he was ready to go fishing or camping. Savage pointed toward the rear with his thumb. They piled in through the rear doors.
"Morning, gents," said Dog.
"Dickhead," Savage mumbled under his breath.
Dog and Iron Man immediately began assembling a tripod and a thirty-millimeter submachine gun. The van had special mounts which accommodated the tripods of various machine guns, as well as an antitank missile launcher.
"Ready for anything, eh, Savage?" I remarked.
"Fuck, yeah."
Now I was beginning to wish I'd asked for backup when I had the chance. These guys were ready for war. I
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