I rumbled across the weedpatch serving as a yard and came to a stop beneath a drooping cottonwood tree. Mongo never bothered to look up even as my dust settled over him. As always, he was fine-tuning one or another of his 110-inch stroker's high—performance whazzits. After a bit of tinkering, he wiped an already sparkling SNAP—0N, snagged two cans of Bud from plastic rings, and tossed one to me. We popped open and guzzled piss—warm brew. Mongo palmed foam from his dark beard and looked over at me. His eyes had lost the spark of barely curbed mischief that usually gleamed from their green depths. Mongo always looks like he's up to something he shouldn't be doing, whether he is or not.
Now, he merely looked defeated. He sighed and asked me, “Well, did we get it all covered?”
The sound that escaped me was a tangle of kicked dog and homicidal snarl. I did a damn fine job of camouflaging it, though, behind a beer belch.
“Yeah,” managed to claw itself from between my clenched teeth. “We got it all covered, barely.” We studied our beer cans in silence for a moment, like gypsy fortunetellers reading used 60—weight. And the way I read it, our “fortunes” looked as bleak as Kansas. We were stranded in a redneck town, two of our partners in jail. Our joint savings account was gone as surely as lust for a fat girl the morning after. Which meant that our Dream was now dust. The Dream for the four of us —— Mongo, Tramp, Bone, and me, Slinger —— had begun in California. Or more precisely, in leaving California.
Nowadays in the Land of Fruits and Nuts, the fruits are dispensing AIDS with the diligence of meth—crazed Jehovah Witnesses spreading the Word. And the nuts are mostly sociopathic serial—killers. Our main gripe with the Orange state, though, is that it's just too damn crowded. A man needs a little space to spread his wings (without nudging a sociopathic serial—killer, preferably); and so the Dream had been born eight years ago in a smoky (and crowded) dive – in South—Central L.A. In short, we decided to build the Ultimate Scooter Shop. Though off the beaten path (We were leaning toward the Dakotas.) we would offer such skilled craftsmanship and wide variety of goods and services that discerning bikers from all points of the compass would flock to our door. Mongo would turn the wrenches; Tramp would cover painting; Bone would manage the parts & apparels counter: and yours truly would find a comfy corner to ply my trade —— slinging ink.
Add a small beer—garden waitresses by topless babes (my dandy idea) and (what more could any tramp want?). The hard—earned money for our Dream had been banked, and we were enjoying a well—deserved vacation as we sought the perfect place at which to settle.
That all came to a screeching halt in Greendale, Idaho. We’d camped on a pleasantly shaded stretch of the Snake River, where fat catfish were fighting over my baited hook. Monica, as always, was bitching and moaning about whatever the hell she could find to bitch and moan about. We'd all urged Mongo to leave Monica behind. Now, I'd be the first to admit Monica's a gorgeous little shit. Blond and blue, brick shithouse, with fucking dimples. I tell you, the broad looks like cum wouldn't melt in her mouth.
Well, a book by its cover and all that, Monica is about as pleasant and charming as a hemorrhoid. Mongo's reply to our objections was, “Fuck it. She's got a pickup to haul my tools. She goes.”
Tramp and Bone (perhaps tired of hearing Monica bitch and moan) decided to putt into Greendale and check out the local watering holes. Whatever possessed those knuckleheads to stop at a bar called the Cornucopia Tavern only the Great God Pan could guess. One thing, however, soon became apparent —— spud farmers in Greendale, Idaho, don’t much care for scooter tramps.
When Tramp and Bone failed to return to camp by morning, I rode into town in search of them. I found them, in jail. Charged with aggravated assault. Oh, shit. It turned out, though, to be more of a kidnapping than an arrest. In court alongside Sheriff Suscrofa were seven (yeah, count 'em, seven) good ol' boys sporting assorted casts, bandages, and slings. Judge Avarice made it plain, right off : If we agreed to pay all damages, doctor bills, lost wages, and a fine that contained so many numerals it was nearly unpronounceable, he'd lower the charge to simple assault. Tramp and Bone would serve 90—days. If not…?
“Well, then, the boys are looking at fifteen—years in the Idaho State Pen.”
At that point, our lawyer had risen and straightened his tie. “Your Honor,” he said. “Since there were no weapons involved, I fail to see how the 'aggravated' element can be imposed in the first place. In light of that fact, I find the proposed fine quite stringent.”
His chest was all puffed out, prouder than a puppy with two peters over his brilliant legal strategy. Judge Avarice glared at him over his half—glasses. “Shut up, Willie,” he said, “and sit down!”
As the lawyer sank back into his chair, Mongo and I shared a dropped—jaw glance. William F. Truckle III, the confided attorney to whom we'd paid a shitpot of money, had just been reduced to “Willie”? The judge scowled down from his lofty perch and voiced a single word: “Barstools.”
As we stood in front of the rickety, rented shack in Greendale, Idaho, I felt about as low as I'd ever been. The only positive detail about this whole stinking mess was Monica had slithered off during the night. A bit of good fortune there. That's what I thought before the Weasel showed up. The Weasel pulled into the driveway in a brand—new Toyota pickup. I knew instinctively who he was and why he was here. My spirits sank even lower.
The pinch—faced rodent must have thought he was in Texas or some damn thing. He wore a grey Stetson, bolo tie, and snakeskin cowboy boots. He stood 5-5 and would weigh all of llO—pounds with a UL flywheel jammed up his ass. He stomped across the yard, crossed the sagging porch, and, . without knocking, plowed through the front door.
Within seconds, he reappeared and stormed up to Mongo. “Who are you?” he demanded. Where is Ms. Monica Harp? And why the hell are there motorcycles in the kitchen?”
I figured the guy must have been either exceedingly stupid or had a death wish, talking at Mongo that way. Mongo pretty much resembles a tattooed Sasquatch. On steroids. On a bad hair day. Mongo growled and made a lunge, but I managed to intercept him.
Two partners in jail were plenty.
The Weasel continued yapping (and I decided on exceedingly stupid). “Ms. Harp gave me a $lOO retainer on this rental Property and promised to return to my office with the balance of three months' rent and damage deposit. Also, deposits for electricity, water, gas.” His head was thrown back as he stared up at Mongo (who was by now snarling; my double—handed grip on his shoulders the only reason the Weasel was still breathing).
“But I don't want the money. I want you and those … motorcycles off my property. If you're not gone in twenty—four hours, I’ll send Sheriff Suscrofa to forcibly evict you.” He turned and strutted away.
The danger of lessoricide safely past, I relaxed my hold on Mongo. He turned toward me, rage and shame chasing across his I face. “Goddamn, Slinger,” he said, the words leaking from him like air from a punctured l6, “I'm sorry. I should have listened to you guys. But I never would have thought she'd … Shit.”
“Listen, Mongo,” I said. “Don't beat yourself up over this. You're not responsible for her actions.”
The same, I thought, was true for Tramp and Bone. It wasn't like they'd ripped us off —— Suscrofa and Avarice had. All Tramp and Bone had done was stop at the wrong bar for a beer.
“So what are we going to do now?” asked Mongo. With that question, it all came crashing down on me. What the hell are we going to do? We were fucking paupers, man!
I looked at Mongo. “I don't think we have many options, Bro,” I said. “I guess we'll have to put Tramp’s and Bone's scoots in storage and crawl back to L.A. Try to rebuild some bridges.” I stalled for a moment, dreading what must be said next. “You realize, Mongo, we'll have to hock your tools to cover storage fees on the scoots.”
Mongo stuttered but could form no intelligible words. Understandable. Mongo would rather pimp his own Dear Sweet Mother than part with his beloved SNAP—ONs. Finally he managed to croak, “Yeah. I guess you're right.”
I clapped him on the back. “Let's get it done, Bro. First, we'll go fill in Tramp and Bone … then find a pawn shop.”
We backed against the curb beside the black—and—white, and Mongo volunteered to baby-sit the scoots. I pushed through the doors of the two—story cinderblock cube that was Greendale's police station. I instantly felt like I'd fallen into the den of some torpid animal, rather than a public building. The lighting was dim, every surface dusty. It smelled heavily of sweat.
Sheriff Suscrofa (all 4OO quivering pounds of him) had his feet propped atop a desk littered with dirty coffee cups and crumpled fast—food containers. The trashcan beside his desk disgorged a mountain of candybar wrappers. He was drinking a Diet Coke.
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” I said, keeping hidden my revulsion for the slug. His beady eyes peered suspiciously at me over his pug snout.
He dropped his feet to the floor. “What do you want, hippy?”
Somehow, I managed to keep my teeth from gritting, fists from clenching, my eyes from narrowing. I didn't leap over his desk and throttle the sonofabitch. Mustering as much sham respect as I could, I said, “I'd like to visit John Brown and Wayne Bonnarow.”
“Well, you're shit out of luck. The prisoners ain't allowed no communication from anyone except immediate family members.”
Now, I tell ya, in a time when “Bro” is quickly becoming a meaningless synonym to “homie,” we four couldn't be any more immediate family had we shared the same fucking placenta. I really didn't think the jerkoff would understand that, though; so I said, “What about mail? Or could you at least deliver a message?”
“I guess,” said Suscrofa, “you don’t hear so good. I said there ain't no communication outside of family. Now maybe you better mosey on out of here before I get pissed.”
My teeth gritted. My fists clenched. My eyes narrowed. Just asI was about to leap over his desk and throttle the sonofabitch, the door behind me swished open. The creature that lumbered into the room was, presumably, female —— it wore a purple and yellow muumuu. It paused long enough to give me the once over, head to toe. ` It licked its lips.
My balls crawled up into a safer place, and my nape hairs bristled. Fortunately, it turned away and slogged toward its equally obese mate. It spoke: “Why the hell are you still sitting here on _ your lazy ass?”
Suscrofa jumped to his feet, wringing trembling hands.”Wh—why, Sugar Dumplin',” he stammered. “Wh—whatever's the matter?” `
“What day is this, Andrew Dafft Suscrofa?”
“It, well, Sugar Dumplin‘ … it's … Wednesday?” A “Yes, Wednesday,” she/It confirmed. “And didn't I tell you I have a five o'clock appointment at Wanda’s to have my hair and nails done?” (Wanda's, I guessed, must be a gardening store specializing in Weed Whackers and pruning shears.)
“But, Dumplin’,” whined Suscrofa, “I can't leave the prisoners unguaded!”
“Deputy Piles can guard the prison,“ said she. “That's why I made Daddy hire him —— so you'd have time to see to my needs.”
“Well, Dumplin', Piles is gone. He won't be back till six and…
“The prisoners are locked up you idiot! So quit your arguing and let‘s go.”
I slipped outside then, my fingers crossed, an idea forming. The two leviathans followed shortly behind. Suscrofa shepherded the little missus to the cruiser, then squeezed I himself behind the wheel.
Just as I found Baby's sweet stroke, Suscrofa rolled down his window. Glaring at us, he said, “I want you freaks out of my town. Now!” He peeled away before we could respond.
My nascent idea —— merely to find an unguarded cell—window, and I inform Tramp and Bone of the latest developments —— was instantly transformed. I could just imagine the indignities our Bros were it suffering at the hands of that pea—brained, fat—assed sheriff. Fuck this shit!
I turned toward Mongo. His eyes were as hard as diamonds; his jaws clenched so tight I worried he might shatter teeth.
“Slinger,” he said, “I think we've taken enough of this shit. How 'bout you?”
My lips twisted into what a strange might mistake for a smile.
Mongo's face lit up with what genuinely was a smile. “You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”
“Bet yer ass.”
We stomped our Harleys to life (Actually, Mongo twiddled a button on his handlebars; I did the only stomping) and rumbled to the east end of Main. We turned left on Hay Street and left again on Sugar Beet Road. We ended up one block north of the jail, a block taken up wholly by the Greendale John Deere Dealership. Green and yellow farm machinery stretched, in neat rows, to the alley edging the jail's back end. Some were little more than overblown lawnmowers; some looked capable of moving mountains; still others would not have seemed out of place on a lunar landscape.
A quick peek up and down Sugar Beet Road, then we pushed our Harleys behind the parts office. Taking advantage of the shadows offered by the farm vehicles, we made our way toward the jail. Several times I had to latch onto Mongo, drag him along. He kept pausing to eyeball individual tractors. A man in love with machines, he itched to get his grimy fingers into the innards of these awesome examples of American engineering.
At the edge of the lot, we hunkered down to make plans. We would try no breakout tonight, just check the layout of the place, coordinate our plans with Tramp and Bone. The means of contacting our hapless partners became readily apparent: A gutter downspout dropped from the jail roof, intersecting a ledge that ran beneath a set of barred windows.
I cautioned Mongo to watch jiggers for me, dashed across the alley, and shinnied up the gutter. I was feeling quite James Bondish —— till I stepped onto the ledge. It was only about 8″ I wide, which left the heels of my Nasty Feet hanging over a seemingly bottomless abyss. Pucker factor. However, being the bad and brave hombre I am, I released my stranglehold on the pipe, stilled the quivering in my legs, and shuffled my way to the beckoning windows. At the first window, I hit pay-dirt.
There was Tramp, reading a paperback western. “Psstli Hey, Tramp,” I whispered. Tramp swiveled his head fast enough to give himself whiplash.
“Slinger …?” he gasped. “What the hell ya doin' out there, Bro?”
“Trying to get in touch with my feminine side. What the fuck you think I‘m doing out here —— I came to bust youz guyz outta diss here joint.”
Tramp hurried to the window. “Uh, well… okay,” he said. “But we ain't leaving without the whores, 'cause they're our new partners.”
I had no idea how to address that remark, so I simply ignored it. I love Tramp enough to take a bullet for him, and with a Bink's in his mitts, he's Picaso reincarnated. But to be perfectly honest, I sometimes suspect the man's firing on only one cylinder. Bone, on the other hand, is rock solid.
“Tramp,” I said, wake up Bone and get his ass over here.”
Bone's mug replaced Tramp's between the bars, and I filled him in on our destitute situation, our idea for a jailbreak. His response was a tad shy of the overwhelmed gratitude I'd expected.
“Jeezzus, Slinger, you crazy bastard,” he said. “You've been watching too many MacGyver reruns. No one can get away with a jailbreak nowadays.”
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Besides, there's no need for a breakout, Bro. You can get us out of here legally. This whole mess was a setup. Suscrofa, Avarice, and their inbred cousins pull the same scam on anyone passing through this shithole town —— anyone they suspect might have a few bucks they can steal. And guess what the connection between Suscrofa and Avarice is …. ”
“Avarice,” I said, “is Suscrofa’s father—in—law.”
“Not bad,” Bone said. How'd you figure ——” He waved off any answer I might have made. “Point is,” he said, “they're nothing but crooks … and worse. But they were playing out of their league when the yoked up the whores.”
“What the hell's all this about whores?” I protested. “This is Greendale Fucking Idaho, for crissakes. There ain't no whores in Geendale, Idaho!”
“Well, yeah there are, Bro,” Bone insisted. “Thirteen of 'em, but they're not from here. They're from Seattle, and one of them has a get—out—of—jail—free card.”
He went on to explain that the thirteen pros, all friends and tired of the mean streets of Seattle, had dreamed of escaping to some place safer and cleaner to pursue their careers. When Thumper (huh?) received a letter from an attorney stating her aunt had passed on, bequeathing her favorite niece a parcel of land in Oklahoma, they saw their big chance. They'd pooled their resources —— with plans of establishing an old—fashioned, high class brothel —— and began making their way toward Oklahoma.
“That all came to a screeching halt,” Bone said, “right here in Greendale, Idaho.”
“Help me out here, Bone,” I said. “Clarify a point or two. What the hell does that have to do with getting you guys out of jail? And since we now have all the financial assets of a homeless wino, why would we want new partners —— especially penniless prostitutes? And finally, how do you propose we pack thirteen women on four scoots?”
“We won't have to pack the girls,” Bone said. “They have a van.”
I groaned because I suddenly knew exactly what “van” he was talking about. When I'd gotten the Bros' Harleys out of impound, there had been in the lot a late—'60s International Harvester delivery van, the kind that looks like an overgrown VW Beetle. It was painted neon pink.
Bone continued. “As for getting us out of jail … Suscrofa and Avarice put the women behind bars and stole their money the I same way they done us —— with trumped up charges. They're also forcing themselves on the girls and doing a lot of bragging about how slick their scams are —— and that's where they fucked up! Thumper, a babe with brains as big as her tits, managed to smuggle in a mini—recorder. She's taped Suscrofa, Avarice, and Piles incriminating themselves. All you need to do is get the tape and take it to the proper authorities”
The blast of a large—caliber handgun ruptured the evening's quiet. At the same time, the hangie—down part of my left ear was ripped from my head. Now, you might not think the hangie—down part of your ear is all that important a piece of anatomy. But let me tell ya, when it gets torn off by a chunk of hot lead —— IT FUCKING HURTS!
I toppled from the ledge but managed to snag hold of it with a couple of fingers. I hung there by a hangnail (hah!) thinking stupid shit about Bruce Willis movies. When another bullet wrangled off the wall near me, I twisted around to see Sheriff Suscrofa, gun thrust through his patrol car window, taking careful aim at me. Oooh shit! Before he could fire again, however, he was distracted by the bellow of a huge diesel engine.
We both looked over to see Mongo, grinning like a maniac behind the wheel of a gargantuan tractor, barreling toward the black—and—white. The tractor plowed into the cage with a jangle of protesting metal. Mongo poured on the power, smashing the patrol car through the station house wall, directly beneath me. I lost my grip on the ledge and fell onto the tractor's cab a second before it chewed the sheriffls desk into kindling. Beams and stanchions snapped like matchsticks, and the floor above gave way. Whores, bikers, concrete and steal rained down.
Mongo bulldozed the cruiser across the room till it crumpled against the wall beneath a portrait of Richard Nixon. Ol' Tricky Dick fell. A wall safe hidden behind his picture popped open. Stacks of greenbacks tumbled out. We dove for the money.
“Hey! Hey, you sonsabitches!” screamed Suscrofa from inside his twisted metal prison. “Get the hell away from my money!” His words were punctuated with reports from his .38 revolver.
We dove for cover. Four more shots and his hammer clicked on an expended cartridge. I peeked around the tractor to see a blond who could only be Thumper (My god, the girl must be a genius!) threading her way through the rubble. She stopped at the scrunched cage and flicked on a miniaturized recorder. Through the tiny gadget, with remarkably sharp, clear tone, the law enforcement officials of Greendale proved themselves perverts as well as swindlers. Suscrofa fell silent, quit kicking at doors that would never again open without the aid of a jaws—of—life.
Thumper shut off the recording. “Okay, shithead,” she growled, “listen up. We're leaving your quaint little village and taking the money —— and the recording —— with us. You are going to erase every hint that any of us were ever here. If I learn otherwise, I'll send a copy of this tape to a certain U.S. Senator who happens to be, shall we say, quite fond of me.”
We wasted no time getting out of Greendale. We had a bazillion dollars in our pockets and a pink caboose filled with thirteen gorgeous (and unbelievably horny) babes, who turned out to be damn sharp business partners.
As for Suscrofa & Company —— we knew we had to put an end to their shenanigans. Some of the partners favored sending copies of the recording to various law enforcement agencies. I vetoed that.
Too much like snitching.
Instead, we mailed a copy to Dumplin'. If you're ever in Arkoma, Oklahoma, look us up. When we say our custom shop offers everything the discerning biker could want, you can bet yer ass we mean everything.
END
