Episode 39: Happy Hour
By Robin Technologies |
Bandit’s Cantina opened at 5:00 sharp, like a Broadway Play curtain. The staff took great pride in preparation and execution as if a bank president was standing, glaring at his pocket watch, as Marko hit the lights and unlocked the mighty oak doors.
The bar was restocked and spotless due to Nyla’s bubbly efforts. Mandy and Tina cleaned and prepped the tables, and the Chinaman, on the job for hours, set up the free Happy Hour buffet with the quiet assistance of his Mexican staff. Marko tried to hide remnants of the previous night, unknowing of what was to come.
Christine stumbled from Marko’s Cantina apartment, swung her sensitive pussy and pulsating legs over her Softail and rode out of the parking lot. Her rumor control communication system kicked in before she filled her fatbobs at the Mobil station.
Marko noted uncommon hustle and bustle outside the Cantina and pulled the leaded window curtain aside. Bikes and cars were fighting for parking spots in the lot. The line at the door spread passed the motorcycle-only parking area. The crowd was teaming with chatter, in a tenuous manner, as if they might witness crumpled, bullet riddled bodies on the floor. A local television station van pulled up at the curb. Several reporters knocked incessantly at the door for their inalienable rights to the story.
Marko dealt with reporters in the hills of Afghanistan, on movie sets and during the O.J. Simpson trial. He was a writer, in his own training right, but he detested the clamoring, imperious antics of the press.
Earlier he called Frankie, an ex-drug addict, to help with the door. Frankie, an odd sort, the son of a bicycle riding alcoholic who frequented the local seaside dives and worked odd jobs for booze, lived a similar existence. Marko was confident that he would take the job of perceived power with overt concern. He’d stand the post like a fresh boot camp graduate and never budge from his duties.
The doors opened to a hushed crowd, as the mariachi band set up on the stand. Frankie, a short, stubby non-descript man with a ruddy, over toasted face and scattered brownish hair, wore a Cantina staff parka with pride and demanded that the younger crowd display appropriate I.D.s. The word was out about the shoot-out and the patrons scanned the room hurriedly looking for clues. Marko dealt with the press who wanted interviews with Bandit. “He’s not on the premises,” Marko answered, but their insistence continued.
“Can you tell us what happened,” a reporter demanded.
“I’m sorry,” Marko said, “I wasn’t here. That portion of the staff is off today.”
“That’s bullshit,” the dapper reporter dug, “maybe I should run a security check on you?”
“Maybe you should,” Marko said and pushed him aside. “I have paying customers to look after.”
The Cantina quickly filled to over-flowing. Patrons found the freshly spackled bullet holes in the plaster, blood stains and bullet chipped furniture.
The night rocked on to record sales, behind mariachis with steel and acoustic guitars and wide brimmed sombreros strumming spicy love songs to the inquisitive crowd. The Cantina was jammed and all the new patrons craved to know Bandit’s whereabouts. Locals knew that Bandit sightings were rare occurrences.
As the night wore on Marko had his hands full. The rumors of violence induced fights between usually peaceful men. The air was teaming with curiosity and brazenness. Arguments flourished, and alcohol inflamed the heated demand for answers. As the booze settled in, some accused Marko and Bandit of making up the violent tale as a marketing ruse. Frankie handled the door and Indian John and Marko manhandled the sloppy quarrelsome patrons.
Just after 10:30 in walked another reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gazette. She was knockout. She stood 5’6″, and could’ve been an Anne Klien model outta Vogue magazine. The tan linen suit fit her like a condom.
Her hair was deep amber brunette that curved inward to cupped her soft features. She stood in the doorway to the packed rough and boisterous Cantina crowd, as if the virgin Mary had entered the fray to calm the wild wanton throng. She scanned the rocking ruffian mob confidently. A small engraved plastic badge, above a panting right boob, reflected her stature to Marko from across the room. He approached her, but she scanned his security professionalism with disdain and strolled across the floor of the saloon toward the island bar in the back. Her eyes were set on Nyla who scurried back and forth behind the teak counter filling drinks, sliding bottles of beer, slapping half drunk customers, who argued as if they had pistols strapped to their hips and were itchin’ for a gunfight.
She focused on the cotton gathered top that Nyla’s sizable tits bubbled over and Nyla’s open jubilant demeanor. She handled every customer as if each was a long lost cousin. She took their curvature stares with aplomb, their jokes with brother-like glee, their overt passes with madam confidence and warm love-interest offers with compassion. There was something else, a point of intrigue that immediately attracted the reporter from Long Beach. The way Nyla looked at and dealt with the saucy waitresses, especially the redhead Mandy.
They shared a knowing bond, like co-workers should, but there was something more. The way Nyla’s eyes danced over Mandy’s curvaceous body and they touched delicately at the waitress station exchanging drinks, checks and cash.
Within 5 feet of the bar Nyla spotted the dress approaching over the husky shoulder and vest belonging to a massive biker, who was working on his fifth margarita and beginning to lean heavily on the bar. He was taking up two stools at the corner. For a dark second in the dim rebellious Cantina her eyes met the blue pools heading her way. “A lesbian reporter?” Nyla pondered.
“Hey ya big battleship,” she hollered at the biker over the steel guitars and chatter.
He turned slowly, his eyes focusing in slow motion. “Yeah baby?” he muttered.
“Move over,” Nyla ordered. “Got a classy customer comin’ in for a landing.”
The battleship on two engineer boots tried to turn and assess the new client and do as he was ordered. He stumbled, hung onto the bar and slid sideways to the right to free up the corner stool.
Nyla licked her lips and wished she had a mirror and lipstick handy. She knew better than to be overt and moved down the bar to assist other hollering patrons. The woman strode up to the bar confidently, set her purse on the edge of the thick teak and followed Nyla’s bouncy ass toward the other end of the bar. She waited patiently watching Nyla’s bubbly banter, her body and the soft curve of her neck. Two long minutes later behind the barroom clamor Nyla returned. “What can I get ya?” Nyla bounced.
“Corona and a lime,” the girl said and Nyla was caught off guard. She fully expected a chardonnay order.
“Comin’ right up,” Nyla said thinking that the bombshell in the shear blouse was trying to fit in. She’d find out to what extent? “What brings you to this nasty-assed joint?”
“My editor sent me to do a feature on the shoot out,” the reporter said drilling Nyla with her hot gaze.
“You’ll need a shot of Commerativo to go with that beer,” Nyla coerced, “to build the right ambiance for the story. What’s your name?”
“Rachel, from the Grunion Gazette,” She said extending her manicured hand. Nyla looked her over for the first time, holding her hand for obviously long moments. She was hot from her soft ruby lips and carefully carved eyebrows, to that delicate pointy nose and warm cheek line. Her smile danced across her lips unlike most ardent unscrupulous reporters exhuming every nasty detail. She was confident but not hardened. Nyla’s eyes danced cautiously along the soft line of her milky cleavage, as she removed her jacket, then through the shear blouse to discover that Rachel wasn’t wearing a bra, but just a thin silk camisole, that barely concealed the dark rose color of her ample nipples. Nyla could sense an immediate warmth in her loins.
“Can you tell me about last night?” Rachel said, downed the hearty shot and backed it with a gulp of Corona.
“Not now,” Nyla protested responding to demands from the other end of the bar. “I’ll be back in a sec…” Nyla exchanged her empty shot glass with a full one, then disappeared down the bar.
By 12:30 the crowd was beginning to disperse. Marko helped riders stow their bikes and obtain rides home. Frankie was off the door, patrolling the parking lot. Bits and pieces of jaded information slipped from the staff and the crowd was duly entertained with the saga. The story would grow in proportions over the years to come.
Rachel finished her forth shot and second beer, completely mesmerized by Nyla’s bartender antics. “You’ve got to tell me about last night,” She slurred her words through a sexy giggle as Nyla leaned over the deep sink in front of her revealing her succulent bouncy cleavage. “My boss will kill me, if I don’t come back with a story.”
“You like talking to women, don’t you?” Nyla said.
“That’s not all,” Rachel gasp at the sight of Nyla’s hardening nipples and the soft calling of her perfect jiggling orbs.
Nyla gently removed Rachel’s hand from her blouse and sucked each fingertip.
“You’ve heard all the stories from the guys,” Nyla said taking one of Rachel’s wet fingers and moving it along the top of her breasts, then slipping the warm hand between them.
Melting, Rachel stood and removed her Chiffon blouse and tossed it on the empty stool beside her. “I need the story from your lips,” Rachel whispered tasting her tingling fingertips.
“Speaking of lips,” Nyla kidded, “how about your own story. That’s old news, let’s make our own. Did you drive tonight?” She teased Rachel pouring another shot with a wry grin. “How about a story you’ll never forget?”
“I took a cab. How about a shot for you,” Rachel said taunting Nyla.
Nyla glanced at the Indian Motorcycle wall clock and hollered, “Last call for alcohol!” Then she grabbed the woven tassel on the ship’s bell and rang it ardently.
“I’m ready,” Nyla said grabbing the dark bottle of Kahlua. The Cantina crowd dwindled to half-a-dozen stumbling stiffs. But Nyla brought them around as she ducked under the bartop and came out the other side. A couple of inches shorter than Rachel she yanked her off the barstool and kissed her.
The mariachis were long gone, but the jukebox spilled a comforting Four Tops tune throughout the quieting saloon. Nyla embraced the woman thoroughly, kissing her softly on the lips and turning the haunting brunette until her back was to a checkered red and white table cloth covered table. Mandy saw what was happening and cleared the table. Rachel sat on the edge, stunned by the kiss.
She pulled at the skirt’s edge and poured the dark sweet liquor into the woman’s succulent navel and buried her face in the soft container warming the liquid desert.
Marko rushed over and chased off the last of the drunks being drawn to the action. “It’s closing time boys, show’s over,” he ordered firmly herding them toward the door.
“Not bad, I could use another one of those,” Nyla said between kisses to her stomach.
“Please,” Rachel murmured in a euphoric daze, and pulled her top above her tits.
Mandy stood by giggling, hoping she’d get a turn.
Nyla tipped the bottle and poured the syrupy liquid from her navel to her nipples. Mandy’s mouth watered as Nyla’s tongue traced a warm path up her torso to her substantial boobs. Nyla, continued to kiss her way up the girls silk-like body to her neck, then leaned over Rachel and pulled her top free to dangle one of her sizeable tits in the girls mouth. Rachel sucked and kissed hungrily.
Rachel reached up and hugged her around the neck. Panting heavily she tried to talk as Nyla pulled her to her feet. Mandy pouted as they headed toward the long carved stairway to Bandit’s den. “Nyla, can I help?” she called.
Rachel turned and looked at her with a sinful smile of approval, then back at Nyla, “I’m not that drunk, sweetie. If Nyla doesn’t mind, the more the merrier.”
Just another night in the Cantina.
Episode 38: The Morning After
By Robin Technologies |
Shaking off The Night Before And Rumor Control
Marko’s push broom shoved brass shell-casings and beer-soaked sawdust into the corner of the hardwood deck. The dining room remained quiet as Nyla stood on a step stool and patched bullet holes with spackle.
Early in the fog soaked morning the Pistoleros fired up their bikes, refueled and hit the bricks to dodge rush hour traffic. The Arizona border in their sites, with thoughts of riding without the restrictions of helmets, they pondered the experience at Bandit’s Cantina and club business at home.
Indian John finished his steaming plate of Chinaman cooked chriso and eggs. In silence the brother without a voice hugged Bandit and Marko, pounded his chest with his right gloved hand and signed the shape of a large heart in the air, then pointed at Bandit, indicating in his unique fashion, his love and respect for the Cantina Crew.
As the sun attempted to split the soft gray mist hanging over San Pedro, the staff quietly departed. The night, long and stressful, rolled slowly to a warm conclusion. All for the best.
Marko slept like an sheep dog after a long drive, in his single apartment next to the warf’s edge. He set his H-D piston alarm clock for 5:00 p.m. His next assignment called for prepping the Cantina to open for Happy Hour at 6:00. He had no notion of what the wake-up call would bring.
An incessant tapping on his door jarred his senses at 4:30 in the afternoon. He spun, wearing only black boxer shorts, and opened the steel door. A buxom bouncy biker broad pushed her way in.
“You didn’t call me?” Christine said. She worked at a local H-D dealership in sales. She professed to know everything and everyone in the industry. She attempted to take up residence with Marko unsuccessfully a year prior.
“Why?” Marko muttered turning his back to her and snapping on his coffee maker.
“Oh that,” Marko exclaimed unconvincingly and turned to face her soft features around jagged searching eyes.
“You have to tell me all about it,” she demanded bubbling over with curiosity. Peeling her tank-top off, she unsnapped her black bra and press her equally bubbly tits against his chest and hugged him.
“I heard someone was shot?” she hummed as her soft nipples responded to his hairy pecs.
Attempting adjustment to the infusion of razor sharp, violent memories, Marko wasn’t awake enough to analyze each weapon, position or aggressive maneuver, just yet. It was his job as head of Cantina security, but it would take time and slow plodding thought. He also knew that any report to Christine would pierce the afternoon gossip, cell phone communication network as fast as last night’s automatic-weapon fire. He shoved her toward his queen-sized bed. She quit questioning while air-born toward a soft springy landing. He yanked off her riding boots and pulled off her soft black spandex, skin-tight slacks. Finally her ruby thong underwear snapped over her tight ass and he buried his face in her quivering pussy, to her unending delight. She spread her legs, arched her back and moaned as if it was her first tongue lickin’.
Marko knew that while he fucked her, the interrogation would end.
Don’t miss the next episode of Bandit’s Cantina: Rumor control jams the Cantina with tourists swarming to see remnants of the OK Coral shoot-out the night before. One groupie is a young female reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gusset. She drills incessant questions at Nyla. Find out how her night ends…
Episode 38: The Morning After
By Robin Technologies |
Shaking off The Night Before And Rumor Control
Marko’s push broom shoved brass shell-casings and beer-soaked sawdust into the corner of the hardwood deck. The dining room remained quiet as Nyla stood on a step stool and patched bullet holes with spackle.
Early in the fog soaked morning the Pistoleros fired up their bikes, refueled and hit the bricks to dodge rush hour traffic. The Arizona border in their sites, with thoughts of riding without the restrictions of helmets, they pondered the experience at Bandit’s Cantina and club business at home.
Indian John finished his steaming plate of Chinaman cooked chriso and eggs. In silence the brother without a voice hugged Bandit and Marko, pounded his chest with his right gloved hand and signed the shape of a large heart in the air, then pointed at Bandit, indicating in his unique fashion, his love and respect for the Cantina Crew.
As the sun attempted to split the soft gray mist hanging over San Pedro, the staff quietly departed. The night, long and stressful, rolled slowly to a warm conclusion. All for the best.
Marko slept like an sheep dog after a long drive, in his single apartment next to the warf’s edge. He set his H-D piston alarm clock for 5:00 p.m. His next assignment called for prepping the Cantina to open for Happy Hour at 6:00. He had no notion of what the wake-up call would bring.
An incessant tapping on his door jarred his senses at 4:30 in the afternoon. He spun, wearing only black boxer shorts, and opened the steel door. A buxom bouncy biker broad pushed her way in.
“You didn’t call me?” Christine said. She worked at a local H-D dealership in sales. She professed to know everything and everyone in the industry. She attempted to take up residence with Marko unsuccessfully a year prior.
“Why?” Marko muttered turning his back to her and snapping on his coffee maker.
“Oh that,” Marko exclaimed unconvincingly and turned to face her soft features around jagged searching eyes.
“You have to tell me all about it,” she demanded bubbling over with curiosity. Peeling her tank-top off, she unsnapped her black bra and press her equally bubbly tits against his chest and hugged him.
“I heard someone was shot?” she hummed as her soft nipples responded to his hairy pecs.
Attempting adjustment to the infusion of razor sharp, violent memories, Marko wasn’t awake enough to analyze each weapon, position or aggressive maneuver, just yet. It was his job as head of Cantina security, but it would take time and slow plodding thought. He also knew that any report to Christine would pierce the afternoon gossip, cell phone communication network as fast as last night’s automatic-weapon fire. He shoved her toward his queen-sized bed. She quit questioning while air-born toward a soft springy landing. He yanked off her riding boots and pulled off her soft black spandex, skin-tight slacks. Finally her ruby thong underwear snapped over her tight ass and he buried his face in her quivering pussy, to her unending delight. She spread her legs, arched her back and moaned as if it was her first tongue lickin’.
Marko knew that while he fucked her, the interrogation would end.
Don’t miss the next episode of Bandit’s Cantina: Rumor control jams the Cantina with tourists swarming to see remnants of the OK Coral shoot-out the night before. One groupie is a young female reporter from the Long Beach Grunion Gusset. She drills incessant questions at Nyla. Find out how her night ends…
Episode 37: Cantina Showdown
By Robin Technologies |
The real Indian John, shot by Markus Cuff.
Indian John stood less than six feet. He rode an old Indian chopper with highbars, an oil-dripping flathead engine and a crystal door knob for a suicide shifter. He was old school to the bone, old clothes, old bike, weathered leathers, long hair, and no job. He rode that Indian everyday, drank every day, but there was one human aspect he didn’t do any day, no matter what; he didn’t speak. Throat cancer snatched his vocal cords a couple of years ago.
Indian John lived in the streets with his motorcycle and meager disability payments. It was against his code to be a snitch. Against every cell that filtered through his alcohol soaked veins. He couldn’t get much further than downtown L A on the rickety Indian. He had no escape if he turned to the lowly antics of being a snitch. Everyone in the bar knew that aspect of John’s humble personality.
The three petrified riders at the table weren’t locals. They didn’t know Indian John from Adam. The sharp ratta-tat-tat report from the automatic weapon froze everyone in their tracks. Glass and adobe fragments still fell to the planked floor. The fat Mexican outlaw still screamed in agony. The other outlaw scrambled to his feet, but stood wide of the double-barreled, carriage shotgun in the middle of the table, as if it was just part of the condiments.
Marko snatched the .357 mag off the deck and stepped to the side of a thick wooden pillar to cover the two outlaws in his corner of the room. Dismal Dan, one of the loners, had lost a chunk of his finger. Blood spurted across the table onto Sharky’s black T-shirt–Sturgis 1999. He snatched a doo-rag out of his back pocked and handed it to Dan. Dan hadn’t felt real pain in a couple of decades. He reveled in emotional upheaval and saw every half full glass as stone empty. This was his first run-in with pain and danger and suddenly all his self made depression was gone, replaced with abject horror.
Ron was in terrified shock. He had smacked the charging outlaw in the nuts, and the man was down. His fear centered on his next move. The mad menace at his feet would surely come to his angry senses. And who the hell was Indian John, anyway?
Bandit stood at the top of the stairs tentatively with his H&K MP-5 K submachine gun at his side. He popped the warm empty magazine and replaced it with a fresh 9mm – 30 round unit. He knew he was in a spot. This was his livelihood, his life and his home. These bastards were barking up the wrong tree and he didn’t know why. If he killed them all, more would come to avenge the slayings. If he won he would lose. If he lost–that wasn’t a thought provoking option.
Time was a factor like a lit fuse on a suicide bomber in Israel. The club boss knew the score. His name was Thirty-Eight and he kept two in shoulder holsters under his vest. They were secured snub-nosed revolvers in upside down holsters. The rig was tight over a club sweatshirt, and he practiced drawing and firing both weapons daily, in the desert outside Dallas. His fingerless gloved hands rested uneasily on the edge of the thick oak table, but he knew that he was in unfamiliar territory and at a disadvantage. He was confident that a single man didn’t want a problem with an entire outlaw organization.
The short tough, curled into a painful ball on the floor beside the loners, moved. A bullet split the hardwood floor next to his head and he froze, again. “Will the boss come forward?” Bandit’s voice from the stairs asked.
The four men in the booth spilled out like pythons from a cage and lined up against the wall of red vinyl tuck and roll booths. The light from outside waned and the bar darkened. Nyla hadn’t the time to light the table candles. The smell of gun powder tickled their nostrils with the scent of certain death.
“Indian John ain’t no snitch.” Bandit said stepping down the stairway toward the dining room. “He can’t even talk.”
The boss, Thirty-Eight, was now in his prime. He was unencumbered by the booth, where he felt like a sitting duck. Now he could draw and wanted to. Two of his members were down. One was still whimpering on the deck and that pissed him off. Two trusted brothers stood on either side of him. They were both armed and speed raced through their veins
“Fuck you,” Thirty-eight barked. His steely gaze analyzed Bandit’s every step. His teeth ground with sheer meth induced rage. “My brother is doing time in Texas because of that sonuvabitch, and fuck you anyway. No one hurts a Pistolero and gets away with it.” He was average height and moderate weight. He appeared small beside the large muscular outlaws at his side.
Marko assessed each man wearing cowboy boots planted at shoulder width. The first held his club belt buckle firmly an inch from the .45 automatic stuck, barrel first, in his waist band. The second, was the boss, obviously positioning himself to draw. The third had his hand firmly on a carved ivory handle of his leather Bowie knife sheath. Marko was familiar with the night lighting in the Cantina, but so were the club members who frequented Dallas titty bars. Marko eyed the last man, spotting his slithering gloved hand as he reached under his vest for a shoulder holster.
“You’re in my bar, my home motherfucker,” Bandit said. “No one fucks with my people or my home.”
From across the room neither Marko, Bandit or the girls could tell that every club member in the room had been up for 72 hours riding hard, to the coast, from Texas. Their brother was indicted for killing a dancer who wouldn’t perform for him. The member professed his innocence to his boss and told him that Indian John, from SoCal, had killed the girl, snitched him off and ran to the coast on a hopped up Road King.
The hours without sleep and the meth soaring through their veins, like methanol in a fuel line, whipped all logical thinking from the boss’s brain cells. He was a bomb with a short fuse–lit.
“Who the fuck cares,” Thirty-eight snapped and both hands flew under the flaps of his vest. Simultaneously the last outlaw reached deeper into his vest, and the first outlaw spun to grab the automatic in his belt.
“Indian John rides a 1947 Indian,” Bandit said loudly in a firm voice, and snatched his very short and compact weapon, dangling at his side, into a ready position. The shit was going down.
Dismal Dan, Rotten Ron and Sharky were dead center of the room and completely aware of their treacherous surroundings. They dove for the deck. The stocky outlaw on the floor sensed the violence in the air, as if someone spun a siren in his ear. He scrambled for the front door on all fours. The scrawny member near the shotgun dove for the weapon. Marko cocked the stainless revolver and sited for the last outlaw’s forehead, while the man reached for his shoulder holster.
Even Nyla snatched her H&K from under the bartop and crouched down behind the bar.
“Whoa,” Thirty-Eight shouted releasing his weapons and snapping his hands into the clear, empty. Empty-handed he lifted his arms above his head tentatively. “Brothers hold up. What did you say, Bandit?”
“I said he rides a ’47 Indian.”
The man stood still for a long moment. The room was as quiet as a chilled tomb. Marko released his index finger pressure on the stainless trigger. The members looked at their leader in relief and dismay. Thirty-Eight held up a hand indicating truce, reached into his vest and retrieved his cell phone, dialing hurriedly. At the same time the rumble of a motorcycle could be heard outside as it neared the door. Nyla set her weapon down and came around the bar. Even in the heat of war she looked hot, her nipples visible in her frilly top, see-through from sweat. She unlatched the door and in walked Indian John.
Thirty eight eyed John suspiciously as he muttered something into the phone. Bandit came down the stairs motioning for Thirty-Eight to come outside and see what John was riding. His ’47 Indian Chief clicked and hissed as the rain drops sizzled on the black engine.
The boss looked up at Bandit with tears in his eyes. “I’ve been betrayed,” he said.
“You’re alive, goddamnit,” Bandit said, “Let’s party. I’ll put your members up for the night.”
As they looked at John’s classic chopper, that obviously didn’t rush John home from the panhandle, the sky cleared and the moon lit the harbor once more.
“Margaritas all around,” Bandit said as he took Nyla by the waist, held her close and shook Marko’s hand. He eyed the sexy Mandy behind the bar, still quivering from fear. “Take special care of the loners, will ya, babe? And ask the Chinaman for some grub.”
As Bandit approached Indian John, John handed him a note, his only form of communication. It read, “So where’s all the action tonight?”
Episode 37: Cantina Showdown
By Robin Technologies |
The real Indian John, shot by Markus Cuff.
Indian John stood less than six feet. He rode an old Indian chopper with highbars, an oil-dripping flathead engine and a crystal door knob for a suicide shifter. He was old school to the bone, old clothes, old bike, weathered leathers, long hair, and no job. He rode that Indian everyday, drank every day, but there was one human aspect he didn’t do any day, no matter what; he didn’t speak. Throat cancer snatched his vocal cords a couple of years ago.
Indian John lived in the streets with his motorcycle and meager disability payments. It was against his code to be a snitch. Against every cell that filtered through his alcohol soaked veins. He couldn’t get much further than downtown L A on the rickety Indian. He had no escape if he turned to the lowly antics of being a snitch. Everyone in the bar knew that aspect of John’s humble personality.
The three petrified riders at the table weren’t locals. They didn’t know Indian John from Adam. The sharp ratta-tat-tat report from the automatic weapon froze everyone in their tracks. Glass and adobe fragments still fell to the planked floor. The fat Mexican outlaw still screamed in agony. The other outlaw scrambled to his feet, but stood wide of the double-barreled, carriage shotgun in the middle of the table, as if it was just part of the condiments.
Marko snatched the .357 mag off the deck and stepped to the side of a thick wooden pillar to cover the two outlaws in his corner of the room. Dismal Dan, one of the loners, had lost a chunk of his finger. Blood spurted across the table onto Sharky’s black T-shirt–Sturgis 1999. He snatched a doo-rag out of his back pocked and handed it to Dan. Dan hadn’t felt real pain in a couple of decades. He reveled in emotional upheaval and saw every half full glass as stone empty. This was his first run-in with pain and danger and suddenly all his self made depression was gone, replaced with abject horror.
Ron was in terrified shock. He had smacked the charging outlaw in the nuts, and the man was down. His fear centered on his next move. The mad menace at his feet would surely come to his angry senses. And who the hell was Indian John, anyway?
Bandit stood at the top of the stairs tentatively with his H&K MP-5 K submachine gun at his side. He popped the warm empty magazine and replaced it with a fresh 9mm – 30 round unit. He knew he was in a spot. This was his livelihood, his life and his home. These bastards were barking up the wrong tree and he didn’t know why. If he killed them all, more would come to avenge the slayings. If he won he would lose. If he lost–that wasn’t a thought provoking option.
Time was a factor like a lit fuse on a suicide bomber in Israel. The club boss knew the score. His name was Thirty-Eight and he kept two in shoulder holsters under his vest. They were secured snub-nosed revolvers in upside down holsters. The rig was tight over a club sweatshirt, and he practiced drawing and firing both weapons daily, in the desert outside Dallas. His fingerless gloved hands rested uneasily on the edge of the thick oak table, but he knew that he was in unfamiliar territory and at a disadvantage. He was confident that a single man didn’t want a problem with an entire outlaw organization.
The short tough, curled into a painful ball on the floor beside the loners, moved. A bullet split the hardwood floor next to his head and he froze, again. “Will the boss come forward?” Bandit’s voice from the stairs asked.
The four men in the booth spilled out like pythons from a cage and lined up against the wall of red vinyl tuck and roll booths. The light from outside waned and the bar darkened. Nyla hadn’t the time to light the table candles. The smell of gun powder tickled their nostrils with the scent of certain death.
“Indian John ain’t no snitch.” Bandit said stepping down the stairway toward the dining room. “He can’t even talk.”
The boss, Thirty-Eight, was now in his prime. He was unencumbered by the booth, where he felt like a sitting duck. Now he could draw and wanted to. Two of his members were down. One was still whimpering on the deck and that pissed him off. Two trusted brothers stood on either side of him. They were both armed and speed raced through their veins
“Fuck you,” Thirty-eight barked. His steely gaze analyzed Bandit’s every step. His teeth ground with sheer meth induced rage. “My brother is doing time in Texas because of that sonuvabitch, and fuck you anyway. No one hurts a Pistolero and gets away with it.” He was average height and moderate weight. He appeared small beside the large muscular outlaws at his side.
Marko assessed each man wearing cowboy boots planted at shoulder width. The first held his club belt buckle firmly an inch from the .45 automatic stuck, barrel first, in his waist band. The second, was the boss, obviously positioning himself to draw. The third had his hand firmly on a carved ivory handle of his leather Bowie knife sheath. Marko was familiar with the night lighting in the Cantina, but so were the club members who frequented Dallas titty bars. Marko eyed the last man, spotting his slithering gloved hand as he reached under his vest for a shoulder holster.
“You’re in my bar, my home motherfucker,” Bandit said. “No one fucks with my people or my home.”
From across the room neither Marko, Bandit or the girls could tell that every club member in the room had been up for 72 hours riding hard, to the coast, from Texas. Their brother was indicted for killing a dancer who wouldn’t perform for him. The member professed his innocence to his boss and told him that Indian John, from SoCal, had killed the girl, snitched him off and ran to the coast on a hopped up Road King.
The hours without sleep and the meth soaring through their veins, like methanol in a fuel line, whipped all logical thinking from the boss’s brain cells. He was a bomb with a short fuse–lit.
“Who the fuck cares,” Thirty-eight snapped and both hands flew under the flaps of his vest. Simultaneously the last outlaw reached deeper into his vest, and the first outlaw spun to grab the automatic in his belt.
“Indian John rides a 1947 Indian,” Bandit said loudly in a firm voice, and snatched his very short and compact weapon, dangling at his side, into a ready position. The shit was going down.
Dismal Dan, Rotten Ron and Sharky were dead center of the room and completely aware of their treacherous surroundings. They dove for the deck. The stocky outlaw on the floor sensed the violence in the air, as if someone spun a siren in his ear. He scrambled for the front door on all fours. The scrawny member near the shotgun dove for the weapon. Marko cocked the stainless revolver and sited for the last outlaw’s forehead, while the man reached for his shoulder holster.
Even Nyla snatched her H&K from under the bartop and crouched down behind the bar.
“Whoa,” Thirty-Eight shouted releasing his weapons and snapping his hands into the clear, empty. Empty-handed he lifted his arms above his head tentatively. “Brothers hold up. What did you say, Bandit?”
“I said he rides a ’47 Indian.”
The man stood still for a long moment. The room was as quiet as a chilled tomb. Marko released his index finger pressure on the stainless trigger. The members looked at their leader in relief and dismay. Thirty-Eight held up a hand indicating truce, reached into his vest and retrieved his cell phone, dialing hurriedly. At the same time the rumble of a motorcycle could be heard outside as it neared the door. Nyla set her weapon down and came around the bar. Even in the heat of war she looked hot, her nipples visible in her frilly top, see-through from sweat. She unlatched the door and in walked Indian John.
Thirty eight eyed John suspiciously as he muttered something into the phone. Bandit came down the stairs motioning for Thirty-Eight to come outside and see what John was riding. His ’47 Indian Chief clicked and hissed as the rain drops sizzled on the black engine.
The boss looked up at Bandit with tears in his eyes. “I’ve been betrayed,” he said.
“You’re alive, goddamnit,” Bandit said, “Let’s party. I’ll put your members up for the night.”
As they looked at John’s classic chopper, that obviously didn’t rush John home from the panhandle, the sky cleared and the moon lit the harbor once more.
“Margaritas all around,” Bandit said as he took Nyla by the waist, held her close and shook Marko’s hand. He eyed the sexy Mandy behind the bar, still quivering from fear. “Take special care of the loners, will ya, babe? And ask the Chinaman for some grub.”
As Bandit approached Indian John, John handed him a note, his only form of communication. It read, “So where’s all the action tonight?”
Episode 33: The Winter Dip
By Robin Technologies |
The Cantina was hopping, the cash register vibrating to the changing coin. Burnouts marked the parking lot. Bandit recently installed a big screen to entertain the troops. It was Margaritaville just 150 miles north of the border. The jute box was jammin’ the Senoritas swayin’, the booze flowing and the scooters sliding up to the bar.
The weekends were jumpin’ and Nyla drove out to the harbor to back up Mandy during a Sunday jam. Bandit hired Joel Williams, a one-man band, to play on the patio in the afternoons. He was setting up speakers a customers located tables and marked their spots with leathers and purses. Joel was a young rider who enjoyed playing his mellow jazz and rock for the bros and broette’s jiggling around the sunlit patio on the main channel of the port while ships, loaded down with thousands of containers, meandered past at 5 knots and Cruise ships housing 3,000 tourists honked their massive horns and the parting tourists lined railings and waved at the land lubbers in the patio hoopin’ and hollering.
It was an up weekend. Rain had let up and everyone was sunning their pearly-whites in the warmth. Marko roamed the premises light-hearted with the knowledge of the sex maniac close at hand. Marge slipped in an out of his life like men at a whorehouse. When he saw her, they had sex, in the garage, in his apartment, on the bar late at night, and creeping into his bed on her way to the gym. It was fuckin’ perfect from several aspects. Marko didn’t cotton to lasting relationships, actually had little use for women and their trappings. He liked sex once in awhile and that was the extent of his involvement. He had other shit to do. But this woman was beginning to creep under his skin. Her touch lingered, her lips tasted right and her body fit like a glove, besides she didn’t hang around.
The redheaded bartenderess, Mandy, was rocking from one bottle to another crystal clear tumbler. She had no time to breathe while handling the polished bar on a sizzlin’ Sunday. She jammed from tap to iced beer mug. The Chinaman’s boys brought out chips and salsa and spread the cheer from one red checker table cloth to another. The Chinaman took particular care with his cilantro based salsa and his freshly fried chips. He made sure no one could stop at one wicker basket of chips. The salsa was lively and cool, the chips salty, thin, not filling, flavorful and warm.
Nyla bounced around the bar teaming-up with Mandy, but she was enjoying more than challenging her ability at pouring drinks with speed and accuracy. She relished being near to Mandy, brushing against her and peering down her frilly white top. In fact, Nyla enjoyed watching both redheads dance around the bar. Mandy had thick dark wavy auburn hair while Tina’s hair was brighter, orange, soft, straight and pulled into a ponytail. She wanted them both and her body was telling her that the horny light was shinning bright.
She started the morning with her hair pulled back and held in place with a plastic monster. She was beautiful and her blue eyes sparkled. She had small diminutive ears. Her lobes were barely big enough to be pierced, but she had a set of blue lapis earrings that enhanced the color of her eyes. The Cantina uniform was always Mexican, low cut and loose. She let her tits jiggle freely in her blouse as she entered the bar area and approached the redhead storming from station to station, “Need some help, baby,” she said and Mandy spun to see her smiling face.
“Sure boss,” Mandy said, “go for it. I can’t keep up.” She turned back to a customer, Micah, who stuck out his tattooed flamed arm holding a twenty.
“I’ll pick up this end of the bar,” Nyla said and wrapped her slender arm around Mandy’s waist and gave her a squeeze. As she released her tender grasp she let her hand slide down the small of Mandy’s back and over her supple ass. Mandy didn’t notice until her plump ass was being caressed, but she was moving fast. Nyla’s touch felt good, though.
Nyla moved to the other end of the oval bar, with the island in the center, and took orders. Clay was leaning on the bar, his usual dower self, knocking back shots of gold and smoking one cigarette after another. Tina brushed his arm to pick up a tray of freshly filled beverages. Clay didn’t notice, he was caught by the site of Nyla’s hand caressing the shapely curve of Mandy’s ass. It was the first time in months that for a split second he didn’t ponder how his life had turned to shit.
Two new shapely female customers pushed open the massive door as a dozen bikes screeched into the parking lot and the roar filled the cantina. It was a local club called the Orphan MC. The group strolled into the bar in unison. A prospect had arrived twenty minutes earlier and made absolutely sure a table in the patio was free. Marko was checking the parking lot when the group rolled in. He followed them inside and when he saw them head toward a table on the patio he grabbed Tina, “Take care of them, will ya,” Marko said and slipped his arm around her narrow waste in a purely friendly gesture.
“Sure Marko,” Tina said and motioned for one of the busboys to deliver chips, salsa and menus.
“I knew it!” came a shout from the door way as the massive oak and wrought iron door closed behind Marge. “You’re no fuckin’ good. Just like all the rest,” she shouted.
Marko turned as the bar quieted as if a big bastard farted in church. Voices dwindled and silenced as all eyes turned toward the raving woman at the door. Marko hardly recognized the voice. Marge was suddenly a changed woman from what he had encountered previously. Before it had been all softness and sensuality.
He was trained to deal with anything violent. Even the club guys, just reaching their table, stopped and turned. They didn’t sit down but stared through the French doors into the Cantina.
“You sonuvabitch,” Marge continued in a jealous harangue. “I should have never considered any relationship with you.”
Marko was stunned, but only momentarily. He didn’t utter a word but began to walk toward the fiery female conflagration at the door. As he closed on her tall form she began to swing at him wildly. Her punches had no direction but hammered at him haphazardly. He ducked her attack and put his shoulder into her pert navel forcing her backwards. He lifted her over his shoulder wrapping his arms securely around her tights-covered thighs.
“I knew you couldn’t keep your hands off other women!” she shouted pounding at his back with her fists and kicking with her feet. “I knew it! You’re nothing!”
Marko walked right out the door of the Cantina and passed the patio while she screamed and battered his back with her slender fists. The club members were still standing, watching. Inside the Cantina the crowd shook their heads and continued their conversations over frosty margaritas. Heads turned in the pation and Joel stopped setting up his instruments, as Marko continued to walk toward the edge of the harbor’s main channel.
Without a word he tossed the screeching woman into the briny bay 15 feet below the dock’s edge. She broke the chilling surface of 54 degree winter water with a belly-flop splash.
“Can you swim?” Marko shouted down to her when she surfaced.
“I competed in college!” she blurted astonished, sputtering and spitting in 20 feet of oily salt water.
Marko turned his back on the broad and walked back toward the snickers and applause from the brothers in the patio.
Episode 33: The Winter Dip
By Robin Technologies |
The Cantina was hopping, the cash register vibrating to the changing coin. Burnouts marked the parking lot. Bandit recently installed a big screen to entertain the troops. It was Margaritaville just 150 miles north of the border. The jute box was jammin’ the Senoritas swayin’, the booze flowing and the scooters sliding up to the bar.
The weekends were jumpin’ and Nyla drove out to the harbor to back up Mandy during a Sunday jam. Bandit hired Joel Williams, a one-man band, to play on the patio in the afternoons. He was setting up speakers a customers located tables and marked their spots with leathers and purses. Joel was a young rider who enjoyed playing his mellow jazz and rock for the bros and broette’s jiggling around the sunlit patio on the main channel of the port while ships, loaded down with thousands of containers, meandered past at 5 knots and Cruise ships housing 3,000 tourists honked their massive horns and the parting tourists lined railings and waved at the land lubbers in the patio hoopin’ and hollering.
It was an up weekend. Rain had let up and everyone was sunning their pearly-whites in the warmth. Marko roamed the premises light-hearted with the knowledge of the sex maniac close at hand. Marge slipped in an out of his life like men at a whorehouse. When he saw her, they had sex, in the garage, in his apartment, on the bar late at night, and creeping into his bed on her way to the gym. It was fuckin’ perfect from several aspects. Marko didn’t cotton to lasting relationships, actually had little use for women and their trappings. He liked sex once in awhile and that was the extent of his involvement. He had other shit to do. But this woman was beginning to creep under his skin. Her touch lingered, her lips tasted right and her body fit like a glove, besides she didn’t hang around.
The redheaded bartenderess, Mandy, was rocking from one bottle to another crystal clear tumbler. She had no time to breathe while handling the polished bar on a sizzlin’ Sunday. She jammed from tap to iced beer mug. The Chinaman’s boys brought out chips and salsa and spread the cheer from one red checker table cloth to another. The Chinaman took particular care with his cilantro based salsa and his freshly fried chips. He made sure no one could stop at one wicker basket of chips. The salsa was lively and cool, the chips salty, thin, not filling, flavorful and warm.
Nyla bounced around the bar teaming-up with Mandy, but she was enjoying more than challenging her ability at pouring drinks with speed and accuracy. She relished being near to Mandy, brushing against her and peering down her frilly white top. In fact, Nyla enjoyed watching both redheads dance around the bar. Mandy had thick dark wavy auburn hair while Tina’s hair was brighter, orange, soft, straight and pulled into a ponytail. She wanted them both and her body was telling her that the horny light was shinning bright.
She started the morning with her hair pulled back and held in place with a plastic monster. She was beautiful and her blue eyes sparkled. She had small diminutive ears. Her lobes were barely big enough to be pierced, but she had a set of blue lapis earrings that enhanced the color of her eyes. The Cantina uniform was always Mexican, low cut and loose. She let her tits jiggle freely in her blouse as she entered the bar area and approached the redhead storming from station to station, “Need some help, baby,” she said and Mandy spun to see her smiling face.
“Sure boss,” Mandy said, “go for it. I can’t keep up.” She turned back to a customer, Micah, who stuck out his tattooed flamed arm holding a twenty.
“I’ll pick up this end of the bar,” Nyla said and wrapped her slender arm around Mandy’s waist and gave her a squeeze. As she released her tender grasp she let her hand slide down the small of Mandy’s back and over her supple ass. Mandy didn’t notice until her plump ass was being caressed, but she was moving fast. Nyla’s touch felt good, though.
Nyla moved to the other end of the oval bar, with the island in the center, and took orders. Clay was leaning on the bar, his usual dower self, knocking back shots of gold and smoking one cigarette after another. Tina brushed his arm to pick up a tray of freshly filled beverages. Clay didn’t notice, he was caught by the site of Nyla’s hand caressing the shapely curve of Mandy’s ass. It was the first time in months that for a split second he didn’t ponder how his life had turned to shit.
Two new shapely female customers pushed open the massive door as a dozen bikes screeched into the parking lot and the roar filled the cantina. It was a local club called the Orphan MC. The group strolled into the bar in unison. A prospect had arrived twenty minutes earlier and made absolutely sure a table in the patio was free. Marko was checking the parking lot when the group rolled in. He followed them inside and when he saw them head toward a table on the patio he grabbed Tina, “Take care of them, will ya,” Marko said and slipped his arm around her narrow waste in a purely friendly gesture.
“Sure Marko,” Tina said and motioned for one of the busboys to deliver chips, salsa and menus.
“I knew it!” came a shout from the door way as the massive oak and wrought iron door closed behind Marge. “You’re no fuckin’ good. Just like all the rest,” she shouted.
Marko turned as the bar quieted as if a big bastard farted in church. Voices dwindled and silenced as all eyes turned toward the raving woman at the door. Marko hardly recognized the voice. Marge was suddenly a changed woman from what he had encountered previously. Before it had been all softness and sensuality.
He was trained to deal with anything violent. Even the club guys, just reaching their table, stopped and turned. They didn’t sit down but stared through the French doors into the Cantina.
“You sonuvabitch,” Marge continued in a jealous harangue. “I should have never considered any relationship with you.”
Marko was stunned, but only momentarily. He didn’t utter a word but began to walk toward the fiery female conflagration at the door. As he closed on her tall form she began to swing at him wildly. Her punches had no direction but hammered at him haphazardly. He ducked her attack and put his shoulder into her pert navel forcing her backwards. He lifted her over his shoulder wrapping his arms securely around her tights-covered thighs.
“I knew you couldn’t keep your hands off other women!” she shouted pounding at his back with her fists and kicking with her feet. “I knew it! You’re nothing!”
Marko walked right out the door of the Cantina and passed the patio while she screamed and battered his back with her slender fists. The club members were still standing, watching. Inside the Cantina the crowd shook their heads and continued their conversations over frosty margaritas. Heads turned in the pation and Joel stopped setting up his instruments, as Marko continued to walk toward the edge of the harbor’s main channel.
Without a word he tossed the screeching woman into the briny bay 15 feet below the dock’s edge. She broke the chilling surface of 54 degree winter water with a belly-flop splash.
“Can you swim?” Marko shouted down to her when she surfaced.
“I competed in college!” she blurted astonished, sputtering and spitting in 20 feet of oily salt water.
Marko turned his back on the broad and walked back toward the snickers and applause from the brothers in the patio.
Episode 36: Draw MoFo
By Robin Technologies |
Marko could feel the warm flesh of his temple being pressed cold by the icy steel barrel of the 357 magnum, as a myriad of thoughts flashed through his mind.
The drama hanging over his head that seemed like the end of the world yesterday, was of little matter now. It had all started last weekend after Clay’s wedding. All day Marko had carefully protected the white monkey suit they forced him into wearing. The wedding was over and he was home free, or so he thought.
He carried out his usherly duties by propping open the church doors and now stood as if a guard in front of Buckingham Palace. There was no way for him to know the jealous psychotic bitch that he threw into the harbor a few weeks ago was now waiting in the dark shadows of the building. The wire clenched in her hand was as cold as her heart and attached to a five gallon pale of salt water laced with the greasy excrement of the endless ship traffic in the harbor.
Marge’s pulse pounded with the power of revenge as her athletic body hoisted the 40 pounds of sea sludge with ease. Marko had humiliated her in front of everyone and now it was his turn. By the time Marko sensed the on coming danger she was running full speed straight at him and there was no escape.
Ever since that day Marko had been consumed by the $250.00 bill for the tuxedo….. until now.
When your head is against the business end of a Smith and Wesson, it suddenly makes clear the foolish habit of stressing out over the day-to-day problems life sends us.
No longer having the luxury of thinking, it was time for Ron to live up to the bad ass image he had alway portrayed. The machete wheeling outlaw was about to cut up his best friend and had forgotten one of the first rules of war. When given no options, even the weakest of cowards fights back. As the patch holder dispensed the blade and lunged forward Ron twisted in his chair unleashing a round house upper cut charged with entire force of his strength, impacting the balls of the little outlaw like a missile and lifting his road worn boots from the floor.
The outlaw fell forward slamming the razor sharp knife to the table. It severed the end of Dan’s pinky finger at the first knuckle, shooting it across the room.
Jerking to life, the outlaw in the corner was caught off guard. Fumbling to get his feet off the table and hands on the shot gun sent him and the rustic wooden chair over backward.
The Mexican moved the revolver from Marko’s head toward the table of strangers where all the action was. Marko would not let the opportunity slip by. He clamped onto the wrist of the gun hand, stood, and turned using his hip in a fulcrum toward the side of his foe. The enormous weight of the fat Mexican kept his feet planted solidly and when his elbow met Marko’s muscular shoulder it snapped like an accountants pencil. As Marko heard the gun hit the floor he ducked under the arm in one smooth continuous motion twisting the broken limb behind the outlaw’s back, then grabbed a handfull of hair for control and pulled the opponent close for a human shield. It all happened so fast it wasn’t until the fat Mexican’s head snapped back that he let out a cry of sheer pain from the depth of his soul.
The club officers were still frozen from surprise when air suddenly filled with splinters of oak and chips of stucco from the walls as a pass of full-auto, gun fire panned the room just above all their heads.
The room became silent except for the eerie sound of debris raining to the plank floor.
An enraged voice came from the top of the stairs “throw your shit into the middle of the room or the next pass will be two feet lower…………..
Will the Cantina run red with blood? Tune in next time to find out.
FTW,
Episode 36: Draw MoFo
By Robin Technologies |
Marko could feel the warm flesh of his temple being pressed cold by the icy steel barrel of the 357 magnum, as a myriad of thoughts flashed through his mind.
The drama hanging over his head that seemed like the end of the world yesterday, was of little matter now. It had all started last weekend after Clay’s wedding. All day Marko had carefully protected the white monkey suit they forced him into wearing. The wedding was over and he was home free, or so he thought.
He carried out his usherly duties by propping open the church doors and now stood as if a guard in front of Buckingham Palace. There was no way for him to know the jealous psychotic bitch that he threw into the harbor a few weeks ago was now waiting in the dark shadows of the building. The wire clenched in her hand was as cold as her heart and attached to a five gallon pale of salt water laced with the greasy excrement of the endless ship traffic in the harbor.
Marge’s pulse pounded with the power of revenge as her athletic body hoisted the 40 pounds of sea sludge with ease. Marko had humiliated her in front of everyone and now it was his turn. By the time Marko sensed the on coming danger she was running full speed straight at him and there was no escape.
Ever since that day Marko had been consumed by the $250.00 bill for the tuxedo….. until now.
When your head is against the business end of a Smith and Wesson, it suddenly makes clear the foolish habit of stressing out over the day-to-day problems life sends us.
No longer having the luxury of thinking, it was time for Ron to live up to the bad ass image he had alway portrayed. The machete wheeling outlaw was about to cut up his best friend and had forgotten one of the first rules of war. When given no options, even the weakest of cowards fights back. As the patch holder dispensed the blade and lunged forward Ron twisted in his chair unleashing a round house upper cut charged with entire force of his strength, impacting the balls of the little outlaw like a missile and lifting his road worn boots from the floor.
The outlaw fell forward slamming the razor sharp knife to the table. It severed the end of Dan’s pinky finger at the first knuckle, shooting it across the room.
Jerking to life, the outlaw in the corner was caught off guard. Fumbling to get his feet off the table and hands on the shot gun sent him and the rustic wooden chair over backward.
The Mexican moved the revolver from Marko’s head toward the table of strangers where all the action was. Marko would not let the opportunity slip by. He clamped onto the wrist of the gun hand, stood, and turned using his hip in a fulcrum toward the side of his foe. The enormous weight of the fat Mexican kept his feet planted solidly and when his elbow met Marko’s muscular shoulder it snapped like an accountants pencil. As Marko heard the gun hit the floor he ducked under the arm in one smooth continuous motion twisting the broken limb behind the outlaw’s back, then grabbed a handfull of hair for control and pulled the opponent close for a human shield. It all happened so fast it wasn’t until the fat Mexican’s head snapped back that he let out a cry of sheer pain from the depth of his soul.
The club officers were still frozen from surprise when air suddenly filled with splinters of oak and chips of stucco from the walls as a pass of full-auto, gun fire panned the room just above all their heads.
The room became silent except for the eerie sound of debris raining to the plank floor.
An enraged voice came from the top of the stairs “throw your shit into the middle of the room or the next pass will be two feet lower…………..
Will the Cantina run red with blood? Tune in next time to find out.
FTW,
Episode 35: A Dark Day
By Robin Technologies |
There’s Never A Dull Moment In The Cantina
A blustery storm blew in along the coast of California like the black sheep of waves. Three riders pulled up to the Cantina and dismounted as the wind shifted gears and blew their gloves off their seats. They had ridden to Los Angeles to escape the northern winter cold and the constant drizzling wet shit and snow. As the threat of rain neared one of the riders said, “At least we don’t have to shovel rain.”
“We’re at war and now this shit,” Dismal Dan muttered and tried to light a Marlboro. “I don’t know if I can make it. I gotta call my ol’ lady.” He was 6 foot of dank depression. His hair was long, scraggly and shit brown, like the deep circles around his drug soaked eyes. If he wasn’t addicted to some broad, he was to alcohol and drugs. Meth had rotted his stinkin’ teeth.
Ron leaned down to the pavement and retrieved his tan leather work gloves he used for riding. “Let’s get a drink while were stuck here. This’ll blow over. You know, it never rains in California.” He stood just over 5 foot 6 inches of blistering blond shortness. He had the demeanor of a bad ass and the baby face of a teenager at 29.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sharky said and threw his helmet in the bushes. “I hate those fuckin’ things.” He was skinny and tall as a beanpole, wiry as fly-casting rod and a born-again drifter.
“It’ll get soaked, ya dumb sonuvabitch,” Rotten Ron said strapping his helmet and gloves to his bedroll and hauling the whole package toward the big oak Cantina doors. As he reached the wrought-iron handle he felt the first spray of wind swept sideways rain. Dan threw his half smoked cig in the weeds and stumbled after Ron.
Disgruntled Sharky plucked his wet beanie helmet from the shrubs and followed. The Cantina held the air of a bad day gone sour. Mandy and Nyla hardly looked at their new customers. Usually they were bubbly and welcoming but not this day. There was something in the air besides the gray clouds sealing off the windows from the sunlight. Eight members from a southern bike club had stormed the cantina from employee entrance and sealed off all the exits except the front door. A big fat blubbering Mexican pressed the blued barrel of a .357 revolver against Marko’s temple, “Sit down, boy.”
Marko did as he was told and observed every movement. The three loners strolled in the front doors as a short stocky member jogged toward the entrance. He jumped to the side and allowed them in through the big oak doors. Unaware, the three brothers sat a table in the center of the room. “I thought this was a hot biker hang-out,” Ron said, “It’s fuckin’ dead.” Then he noticed an outlaw in the corner of the room with his boots resting on the checkerboard tablecloth, leaning back in the rustic wooden chair with a sawed-off shotgun across his chest. He glared at the loners through narrow sunglasses.
Suddenly Ron was distinctly aware of his potentially violent surroundings. There were a number of outlaws spread out around the bar, all armed. Ron’s knees began to quiver. He looked at his brothers wide-eyed. “You see…,” he said unable to enunciate his words his mouth was so dry.
Dan looked at Ron quizzically and lit another cigarette, “You’ve always been the badass. What gives?”
The little outlaw that fucked-up the front door security looked toward the corner booth where four outlaws sat smoking. They took a fifth of Quervo Gold from Nyla and several shot glasses. They were the officers. One a grizzly bear of a man with a 6-inch scar on his left cheek and a full black beard looked at the short outlaw and smiled, “Maybe one of them knows the bastard we’re looking for?”
The little outlaw approached their table as the sun drifted over the ridge to the east and the Cantina became suddenly dimly lit as if by fate. Three feet from the loners’ table the stout little man with a shaved head and long Fu Manchu mustache reached across his tight muscular belly and yanked a long bowie knife out of a fringed, black leather sheath. The blade glistened in the dim lighting as he positioned himself for an attack. The short bastard was fireplug stout with thick Popeye forearms and no neck. His eyes were bright as hot metal pokers and narrow. “Where’s Indian John?” He mutter so angrily he seemed to be spitting, “I want to cut that snitch motherfucker from ear to ear.”
Ron pushed himself back in his chair terrified. Dismal Dan lit another cigarette and looked at Sharky. “Can’t we get a drink? Fuck, it rains and now no drinks.” Sharky never pretended to be tough. He was just a biker who loved the open road. If relationships, work, politics or people challenged him, he rode on.
“Shut the fuck up,” the outlaw spat circling the table toward Dan. “I like to cut. You wanta be the first?” He seemed to be salivating as if a hungry lion peering at his next prey.
“Look asshole,” Dan said, “we’re not from around here. We came in to check out Bandit’s Cantina and get a drink. That’s it.”
The outlaw’s forehead turned crimson, veins pulsed against his thin skin, beads of sweat slithered across his brow. He had to move on this loner or lose respect in his brothers’ eyes. He lunged forward, his massive arm cocking back to swing the Damascus steel blade…
Don’t miss the next episode.