Page 9 of Lost Soul

Recent Bastard behavior is jeopardizing our agreement and making our job increasingly difficult. There’s been a sudden influx of local kids using, and despite what the people in town are thinking, we ain’t the ones supplying.

We ain’t stupid enough to shit on our own doorstep.

As if all that isn’t enough to deal with, The Bastard scum seemed to be getting the upper hand on all our deals just lately.

They somehow know all that’s coming in and what’s going out. And they’re undercutting us on all the big deals.

They’re always one move ahead of us, and every brother sat around this table knows we can’t let that shit lie for much longer.

The room’s clouded with smoke, the sun pouring through the glass windows reflecting their colors on the huge wooden table that centers the old chapel.

Ten years ago, when the club took over this run-down holiday resort, the irony that it had its own chapel wasn’t lost on Prez. The pews where past vacationers would sit to pray on Sundays were ripped out and replaced with the club table and a gavel. These days, it ain’t songs of praise that echo these walls. Plans are made for gun and drug runs, and the names of the damned are whispered when anyone tries fucking up our shit.

“They have to be getting their intel from somewhere.” Skid’s fist lands heavy on the table, the guy isn’t known to fling his kibby very often. In fact, he’s the calmest out of the lot of us. Skid always keeps his shit together. It’s what makes him the perfect road captain. He thinks about everything strategically, never acts on impulse. So to see him so wound up makes all this a shit load more serious.

“What you saying, Skid? You think someone's ratting?” Prez’s VP, Chop, folds up his arms and leans back in his chair, making sure his wide chest puffs out.

“Is that what I fuckin’ said?” Skid throws himself up from his seat, looking set to launch at his brother across the table. “Don’t spit words into my mouth,” he warns, pointing his finger at Chop. I look across the table at Troj, both of us thinking the same thing. That if these two were gonna start, it’s gonna take a hella lot to stop them.

“Hey, guys, chill the fuck down.” Troj’s arm slams across Skid’s chest, thankfully it’s enough to ease him back down into his seat, though his dark eyes still burn like lasers at Chop.

“We all know there ain’t no one around this table who would rat. There’s got to be something else.” Troj seems satisfied that he’s calmed Skid, and sits himself back down. He got his patch a few months after me and took over Skid’s role as Sergeant at arms when he became road captain last year.

Troj may be young, but like me, he’s earnt his place around this table.

“Way I see it, they can’t go on undercutting us for much longer, we were dragging our balls through a grinder to make some of them deals pay, right Thorne?” Troj looks down the table to our club secretary, and Thorne nods back, running his fingers through his short, slightly greying hair.

“I can’t figure how they're making it pay. No one’s paying more than four hundred for an AK nowadays. It was barely worth the run for us with the price we offered. I can’t see how they could come in any higher… Unless it ain't money that’s the issue.” Thorne’s judgmental eyes set on Squealer, who immediately holds up his hands in defense.

“Nah-ah, don’t try dumping that shit at my feet.” His head shakes.

“Well, the Russians were happy to throw business our way before it happened,” Thorne makes a valid point.

“How was I supposed to know she was a fucking relation? She was at the party. She was free game.” Squealer shrugs looking to his twin brother Screwy sat on his right side, and then to Grimm on his left like they should agree with him.

“So, the fucking accent never gave her away,” Chop laughs, earning him another scowl across the table from his brother Skid.

“If you’re implying that me burying the bone into Fedulov’s sister is the reason the Russians are looking at other buyers, then you’re wrong. The fuckers should be giving us the guns for free after the shift I put in to that one.”

“It wasn’t his sister, Squeal, it was his daughter,” Tac corrects, trying to curb his amused grin.

“Yeah… well there may be a tiny chance that it was both.” Squealer pulls an awkward face, then uses his tongue to flip the wooden pick that sits between his perfectly straight teeth.

Most people believe it’s his twin Screwy who’s the unhinged one. And sure, that guy’s head is fucked beyond any fixing. I’ve never heard him talk in all the years I’ve known him. But you have to question who the real psycho of the family is. The sixteen-year-old kid who one day, flipped and killed his father with his bare fists. Or the twin brother who banged his head against a solid brick wall until he was guaranteed a stint in the loony trap right alongside him.

“None of that shit fucking matters,” Prez shouts across the table. “We can’t blame Squealer and his dick for the deal with the Mexicans falling through last month.”

“Nope, ain’t had Mexican pussy for months…” Squealer nods proudly. Making a pretend gun out of his fingers, he cocks it with his other hand, then points it towards Thorne before he fires.

“Speaking of Mexican, that shit’s getting far too fuckin’ regular downtown, it’s startin’ to become a problem. We need to get a message out to the Bastards. They wanna deal, they do it on their own territory. Got any ideas, Jess?” Prez looks to me now.

After just a year of being patched, I got a role of my own too; Club Enforcer. I learned from one of the best, Vex, and took over from him when he retired. Prez didn’t have to ask which way I wanted to deal with this shit. He knows I’ll want to handle it the same way we had four years ago when the Bastards screwed us...

Brutally.

But this time we have to be smart, think about what’s best for the club and the town we’re protecting. Right now, all we need is to ruffle enough feathers for them to know that dealing in Manitou Springs won’t be tolerated.

“Figure the Bastards have trappers running their shit around town,” I start. “Ain’t no way they’ll have enough balls to show up around here themselves. We could start by finding out who their guys are. I could play around with the fuckers for a few hours, test their loyalties before we send them back to Clunk and his boys with a message.” I spin the handle of my knife in my hand. It’s surprising how inventive I can get with a blade and flesh when I put my mind to it.

---