said, “Who’s your date?”
“Aw, just a little something I picked up.”
“Where’s the rest of her?” Teddy asked, drawing a snickering laugh from Dub, and a disgusted look from two of the truck-guarding-drones. “And where’s the rest of your crew? Eight rode out, four came back?”
“Had a little trouble there, Teddy. A little fucking trouble.”
“We are trouble, bro. The hell happened?”
Dub glanced up at a group of bikers who had just exited the front of the jailhouse, turned back to Teddy, and said, “We caught some carnival-ass midget coming out of a pawn shop. Started getting medieval on his hide and he gave up his old lady. Said she was his old lady, don’t think she was, though—just… old.”
Teddy snorted out a laugh, and Dub said, “Wasn’t too old, though.” Dub smiled. “If you get my drift.”
“Not too old to pass the cootchie around, huh?”
“Well, you know how it goes.”
“Looks a little rough around the edges now, brother.”
“Yeah, they always look a little rough by the time we’re done with ‘em.”
“No shit.”
“Anyway,” Dub said. “We take off and leave Crazy Joe and his pals working on the midget’s squeeze, go looking to see what else we can get ourselves into, but, well, you know how it is. People hear the hogs churning up the road, they scatter like cockroaches. ‘Bout the time we’re coming back down the drag, all hell breaks loose, shotgun blasts exploding all over the place—and I know they ain’t carrying no shotguns. So we pull up a couple of streets to the west, run over on foot and there they are blown to Kingdom Come. All four of ‘em, Crazy Joe’s head blasted clean away, the rest of ‘em a bloody, chunkified mess.”
“What’dya think, the Puerto Ricans?”
“Them, some John Q’s, maybe. Who the hell knows? Whoever it was sure as shit took ‘em apart. We looked around but they were gone, probably hiding up one of those dark alleys, hoping we’d venture their way so they could cut us down too. It’s dog eat dog out there, man. Sometimes the puppies bite back.”
“Not these puppies, brother,” Teddy said, nodding at the two drones, who had turned their backs to them and now stood watching the empty street.
Dub stared out at the tanker truck. With a fleet of them tucked away at a secret location known only to him and Teddy and a handful of their most trusted associates, (not Bert and Ernie—they’d tell the first skank to give them a blowjob) they had fuel enough to last for years, surely enough to keep them going until they figured a way to get the power plants up and running. But that was a ways down the road. First they needed to turn the gang into an army, use the army to quell any resistance that might rise up. Spread out and turn this patch of the country into a police state, a dictatorship governed by Dub, ruler of the land, King of The Devil’s Own.
Finally, he said, “Fuck ‘em. C’mon, Teddy. Let’s get us a beer and talk some business.”
Dub and Teddy left the drones to their misery. Pausing just long enough to exchange pleasantries with the armed bikers at the jailhouse entrance, they headed through the glass doors, down the hallway and into a lobby, where all the office furniture had been removed, the desks and chairs, fax and copy machines, all swapped out with an array of plush La-Z-Boy chairs and fine leather couches, arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the great room. Behind the furniture were banquet tables piled high with every canned food item imaginable, from roast beef to ham, to canned Spam to caviar. Paper plates, plastic cups and cutlery and rolls of paper towels were scattered across the tables as well. A wall-sized plasma television screen book-ended by six-foot stacks of speaker cabinets adorned the western end of the room, fed by an HD DVD player that had been run through a high-powered, state of the art sound system. All items summarily ripped straight from the Best Buy
“Aw, just a little something I picked up.”
“Where’s the rest of her?” Teddy asked, drawing a snickering laugh from Dub, and a disgusted look from two of the truck-guarding-drones. “And where’s the rest of your crew? Eight rode out, four came back?”
“Had a little trouble there, Teddy. A little fucking trouble.”
“We are trouble, bro. The hell happened?”
Dub glanced up at a group of bikers who had just exited the front of the jailhouse, turned back to Teddy, and said, “We caught some carnival-ass midget coming out of a pawn shop. Started getting medieval on his hide and he gave up his old lady. Said she was his old lady, don’t think she was, though—just… old.”
Teddy snorted out a laugh, and Dub said, “Wasn’t too old, though.” Dub smiled. “If you get my drift.”
“Not too old to pass the cootchie around, huh?”
“Well, you know how it goes.”
“Looks a little rough around the edges now, brother.”
“Yeah, they always look a little rough by the time we’re done with ‘em.”
“No shit.”
“Anyway,” Dub said. “We take off and leave Crazy Joe and his pals working on the midget’s squeeze, go looking to see what else we can get ourselves into, but, well, you know how it is. People hear the hogs churning up the road, they scatter like cockroaches. ‘Bout the time we’re coming back down the drag, all hell breaks loose, shotgun blasts exploding all over the place—and I know they ain’t carrying no shotguns. So we pull up a couple of streets to the west, run over on foot and there they are blown to Kingdom Come. All four of ‘em, Crazy Joe’s head blasted clean away, the rest of ‘em a bloody, chunkified mess.”
“What’dya think, the Puerto Ricans?”
“Them, some John Q’s, maybe. Who the hell knows? Whoever it was sure as shit took ‘em apart. We looked around but they were gone, probably hiding up one of those dark alleys, hoping we’d venture their way so they could cut us down too. It’s dog eat dog out there, man. Sometimes the puppies bite back.”
“Not these puppies, brother,” Teddy said, nodding at the two drones, who had turned their backs to them and now stood watching the empty street.
Dub stared out at the tanker truck. With a fleet of them tucked away at a secret location known only to him and Teddy and a handful of their most trusted associates, (not Bert and Ernie—they’d tell the first skank to give them a blowjob) they had fuel enough to last for years, surely enough to keep them going until they figured a way to get the power plants up and running. But that was a ways down the road. First they needed to turn the gang into an army, use the army to quell any resistance that might rise up. Spread out and turn this patch of the country into a police state, a dictatorship governed by Dub, ruler of the land, King of The Devil’s Own.
Finally, he said, “Fuck ‘em. C’mon, Teddy. Let’s get us a beer and talk some business.”
Dub and Teddy left the drones to their misery. Pausing just long enough to exchange pleasantries with the armed bikers at the jailhouse entrance, they headed through the glass doors, down the hallway and into a lobby, where all the office furniture had been removed, the desks and chairs, fax and copy machines, all swapped out with an array of plush La-Z-Boy chairs and fine leather couches, arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the great room. Behind the furniture were banquet tables piled high with every canned food item imaginable, from roast beef to ham, to canned Spam to caviar. Paper plates, plastic cups and cutlery and rolls of paper towels were scattered across the tables as well. A wall-sized plasma television screen book-ended by six-foot stacks of speaker cabinets adorned the western end of the room, fed by an HD DVD player that had been run through a high-powered, state of the art sound system. All items summarily ripped straight from the Best Buy
Similar Books
