It was good to be on the hunt again even if I was hunting poor white trash with only the dimmest understanding of reality.
Let me back up.
This weekend, three years ago. I lost everything that gave my life meaning. I lost everything would have kept me on the straight and narrow. As a result, I was sinking into the usual fourth of July weekend depression. But my new family saw it and suggested something very therapeutic.
Which is why I was hunting Calvin Dorfman and I was probably going to have to bust up his friends too.
Rusty had, true to his word, gotten me an address for him from public records. Calvin, sometime after his dishonorable discharge from the Army, had drifted into sovereign citizen groups and militia groups hungry for someone, anyone with actual military training. He’d been along for the ride when he, The Bundy’s and about 2 dozen other ammo-sexuals had broken into the Malheur Wildlife preserve and trashed the place, then dared the federal government to stop them. Most had ended up giving themselves up after the food ran out and one guy had gotten killed trying to make a run for it. True to form, Oregonians, who tend to run strongly conservative away from Portland proper, had acquitted the group of almost all of the charges. Most had gone back to their ranches and farms and there had been little uproar about it except in Portland, of course.
In trying to find something to do with my skills, I am confronted by the fact that, unless it involves remembering things I’ve read, or working on engines, or extracting crap via beating. I am not exactly the most skilled individual. So, perforce, my contributions to a better society are usually found in the matter of throwing a beating to people who are deserving of one. Calvin, and probably his friends, fit that bill admirably.
I changed out my pipes on Lulu. I am a big believer in the concept of “Loud Pipes Save Lives” But for these matters, and patrolling the neighborhood, I prefer a much quieter cycle. I was in my old riding leathers, with the “Gallowsbait” insignia on the back. If anybody happened to see me at all, they’d connect me to a cycle gang that is defunct, by dint of the fact that there are no survivors. Or rather...None anyone knows about.
And in truth, I like the idea of the Gallowsbait MC legend continuing like this. I think at least some of my brothers would approve.
I have brought along my only face-concealing helmet. Which I intensely dislike. But I don’t need too many people putting me in a lineup or pulling me out of a book of mug shots. Additionally, I had shaved my head and my beard. If I change shape, It will all grow back so much faster. That little trick got me out of a sticky situation in Nogales about a year ago...
The hardest bit of the operation was being sneaky. I am no-one's idea of an Irraka. I tend to stick out in nice neighborhoods. And frankly, I’m not exactly circumspect by nature. But I find that if you park the bike in an out of the way spot, and then slip into Urhan form, you can move around in the burbs pretty good.
Calvin’s neighborhood wasn’t exactly a cesspool or anything. There were at least a few folks who tended gardens and kept their lawns neat and clean and took care of their things. Not everybody had the same attitude in the neighborhood. Calvin and/or his family certainly didn’t.
I did end up setting off one of the motion detecting back porch lights. Had some spots in my eyes, but my reflexes didn’t fail me as I made for the fence-line before anyone could see me. I was able to creep up to the side of house without being observed. I opened up my senses and pressed my ear flat up against a basement window.
The suburbs have a particular smell to them. A kind of sensory collage. Urban areas are different. There is a tendency towards a certain amount of sameness in an urban area. Especially downtown where the smell of carbon monoxide is pervasive. The suburbs are different. There are more children. There are more pets. There is more pool chlorine.
I crouched at the casement of Calvin’s window and breathed in the scent of his home.
-Gun oil. A lot of it.
- Faint traces of the smell of children. Guess the wife got custody.
-Cooked fish from at least a week ago. I’m betting there’s a bass boat in the garage.
I hear whistling. Not like a kettle, more like some dude getting ready to go out. and...Oh god...Is that Aqua Velva? I didn’t even know they still made that shit!
It was Friday evening. I had been hoping that Calvin and his drinking buddies were going out. And it appears that was the case. But Aqua Velva put me in mind that maybe he and his friends might be off to a strip club.
That could be problematic for a number of reasons.
As he made his way out to his pick-up I made my way back to my bike. Then I picked up his trail and followed at a discrete distance.
Following people is easy. It’s hardwired into my DNA. But following people on a bike is not easy. Not because it’s not feasible. But because if you’re trying to be stealthy at all, you run into the problem of other motorists simply NOT FUCKING SEEING YOU. So, it’s maybe a good idea to drive your scooter like you’re wearing hot pink and you’ve got a million dollar bounty on your head.
I shadowed Calvin to his closest titty bar. A little place called “Cowgirls”. From all the brown glass strewn around the parking lot, I was able to infer a couple of things.
1) There would be no actual booze in club. Most places like that let you get a lot closer to the dancers and lap dances are much more common. Clubs with booze tend to have limits on how close you can be to the dancers at any given time. Not all strip clubs do this...But the good one’s do. If there was booze inside, it would mean this was the kind of strip club where strippers go to die.
2) Brown glass would mean that there would be a number of dudes out here in the parking lot periodically tanking up and then going back inside. I’m not as worried about that. But it could mean witnesses later. Eyes peeled. Head on a swivel.
I go inside. The smell of bathroom vending machine Drakkar Noir and baby powder forces me to take a second to force air out of my nose until I can adjust. I pay the cover, collect a soda in a plastic cup that glows under the ultraviolet lights and find a seat where I can keep an eye on Calvin and his boys.
The sad thing is, Calvin is something of an Alpha among his peers. He’s 450 if he’s an ounce, and I guess he’s been in a fight or two. His friend who is slightly older, I have dubbed “Moe” because of his constant scowl. Moe looks like he can handle himself pretty well in a fight, but he’s not a talker. “Larry” keeps excusing himself to go off to the jakes and comes back rubbing his nose. He’s the one with the roving eye, but he’s got no money really because he spent most of his cash on blow. So even though he’s in the seat that is right on “Perverts Row” he’s not throwing down a dollar for the girl working the pole right in front of him. I guess he thinks he’s going to get his swerve on from just charm and personality alone.
Yeah...
And then there’s “Shemp”, Muscley and dumb as a box of rocks. Probably has an Iron Cross and two lightning bolts tattooed on him somewhere. Trying his best to keep up with Larry’s constant motor mouthing and the Delphic oracular announcements of Calvin’s. Over the throb of the music, which is already starting to give me a headache...I manage to hear a bit of Calvin holding forth. “See, if the flag in the courtroom has got that gold fringe on it, that means it’s an ADMIRALTY flag. And you can claim that you don’t recognize the authority of Maritime law on dry land and they have to throw the case out of court...”
These boys think that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Even Moe almost smiles.
I am trying to figure out my next move when my view is occluded by a rather large black man in front of me.
“Can I help you cousin?”
I look up, and up. he’s at least half a head taller than me...and I ain’t small.
And he’s an Uratha.
I smile. Because I am charming and affable.
“Hi”
“Hi, yourself.” He looks me up and down. “You gonna cause me some trouble?”
“No sir.” I look him up and down. He and I got Ink in some of the same places. It shows on his large forearms. He’s got on a pink polo shirt and khaki pants. He has serious pythons.
“Why don’t I believe you cousin?”
“I must just have that kind of face. I MAY mean some trouble to someone in here. But I ain’t meaning no trouble to you and I don’t reckon it’s got to happen in here. Is there a problem with a fight in the parking lot?”
“There is if we’re talking bodies.”
“On what little honor I got, It is not my intent to murder anyone. I’m just here to punch a bitch ticket or two.”
“Well.” He smiles “That there is a horse of another color ain’t it? Yeah. If someone fights in the parking lot, that ain’t really my business.”
“Cool.” I look over at Calvin and his table. His eyes follow mine.
“Oh, I see. You have fun. I’ve been waiting for an excuse for a long time, but this keeps my paws nice and clean.”
“I appreciate it. You got a name cousin?”
“None you would have heard of. You?”
“Same. If you get into Portland, ask around for Butch and your first round is on me.”
“Much obliged cousin.”
After about an hour, I get fed up. It appears that they’ve run through their money, but they’re still here and trying some grab-ass with the waitress, the only woman who still has to go over there. The dancers have already figured out that these mooks are used up and have moved on to greener pastures, it being Friday night, that isn’t hard to do. I take a moment to put my helmet on and flip up the visor. I walk over to their table and stand in front of it. and I say clearly enough for anyone in the club who WANTS to hear. “ If I see you pig-fuckers touch my sister one more time, I’m going to kick every one of your asses up into your throat.”
“Larry” who is literally the most hands-y of them has the nerve to look surprised. But Moe, Shemp, and Calvin all get grim-faced like I've just taken a dump on their table.”
“What’s it to you fuck-face?” Says Shemp as he stands up
“It’s exactly what I want to make of it.”
“HEY!” says my new friend from across the bar. “None of that in here!” And then he picks up a shotgun that he and I know he does not need.
“My cousin is right.” I let that sink in for a moment. “You boys want to see me outside. I’ll be most enthusiastic.”
And then I turn my back on them and stride out.
I’m pretty sure I’ve made their night. They aren’t getting any pussy, so a good fight is probably the best they can hope for, obviously, this drunk fuck doesn’t realize he’s outnumbered...
I go outside, look around to make sure I have enough cover around the corner of the building and I shift into Dalu form. Since my face is covered, the lunacy is less likely to affect them.
While the seconds tick away as they’re shifting their fat-asses to come after me, I activate some of my gifts. My strength flows into my veins. My instinctual understanding of how to give pain sharpens like a Ginsu knife. Inside the helmet. I smile.
Shemp comes out first. Fast. Pissed. Hard enough to slam open the door and nearly get caught by it coming back into his face. “Awright ya fucker. C’mon! Let’s fucking dance.”
Larry comes out right behind him, Larry has a switchblade. pearl handled job. real pretty. Real sharp. Good.
The lights of the club have drawn nearly every moth in the tri-state area, or so it seems. It makes everything seem to flicker. not like a strobe effect or anything, but I’m in among them before they see me and that’s really all I want.
Larry has a weapon, so I step into his left side and without much thought about it, shatter his jaw. He goes down onto the gravel with a sound like a gurgling scream through a wet straw.
Shemp wheels on me and starts throwing punches at my chest and bread-basket. If he’s noticed that I’ve grown about a head taller since last he saw me, it hasn’t registered on his dumb face. He grabs the front of my helmet and slams it hard enough into the wall of the club hard enough to ring someone’s chimes pretty good. As it is. I am only mildly inconvenienced. I realize, the someone, probably Moe is going to work on my side with what feels like brass knuckles.
That actually hurts. Moe also knows what he’s doing and I can feel my ribs breaking under his work. It’s not fun. It’s also not the only time I’ve had broken ribs. I expect my heart rate is still much lower than my assailants.
So. Since Shemp is largely preventing me from moving around freely, I aim a kick at the low side of his knee. What is known in the martial arts as a “Trap kick” Nothing fancy, just a hard kick to the side of the knee, the least armored bit. The center line of the human body is usually the most armored except at the throat and genitals. The best policy is to strike at an oblique.
I am rewarded for my efforts as Shemp immediately falls down. holding his busted knee in both hands. From this day forward, he will know when inclement weather is coming. He will not thank me for this gift.
Moe does not have brass knuckles. He has a long hunting knife which he is holding up between us like an experienced knife fighter. it has blood on it. It has my blood on it.
I realize that I have been stabbed. Multiple times. Adrenaline will get you killed sometimes. My body is already trying to compensate, but I see spots and I can’t seem to get air into my lungs. And I have no idea where Calvin is.
Something in me raises up. I know that I can end this fight right now if I take Gauru form, but it will be very public and likely caught on camera. Not only that, but frankly, I’d be embarrassed if these jabronis managed to put me on the deck.
So I pour cold water on that part of me, that part that wants to let the Divine Wind loose.
I take the warm embrace of Essence and my vision clears, Moe comes in fast, but with more room to maneuver I am much harder to hit. He slashes at me, missing. I punch him in the face. He slashes again, missing. I punch him in the xiphisternum, stealing his breath. He slashed wildly at me, his piggy eyes betraying his panic. I move inside the arc of his swing and headbutt him with the front of my motorcycle helmet, breaking his nose and sending him to the gravel.
As soon as he falls. I am shot.
Calvin, who is maybe not as stupid as I took him for, sent his boys to the front, while he himself, exited the club via fire door. Whether he was concealed carrying in the club,(Not likely) or went to his truck (95% chance of the later.) makes no difference. He’s shot me with what looks like a desert eagle. My shoulder feels like someone ripped it off and makes my lack of air, which is still something of a problem, seem like a trivial and pesky thing.
I run through the last of my essence closing the holes in my side. I stay standing through sheer mulish orneriness. I turn to look at him. He’s in the proper stance. Two handed grip. “Who the fuck are you before I fucking kill you?”
“I am El Zurdo di Justicia.”
He smirks at me. “You know what fucker? I don’t fucking care who you are. You don’t know who you’re...”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. It turns out that he doesn’t know something that I do know, and that is, it’s actually really goddamn hard to hit a moving target that is rushing right at you. Adrenaline does a number on your reflexes and as I said, I can be very hard to hit when I have room to move or I can actually see the damn gun.
I am on top of him in very little time. I am kicking him quite hard. In fact, it is very unlikely, based on some of the noises that I have heard, that he will ever have another child. Indeed his pelvis may no longer be a load- bearing structure.
When I am certain that he will require hospitalization, I stand over him. “Calvin Dorfman. This country is better than you imagine, and it is FAR better than you deserve. Tell the others... Tell them I come for them. I am the left hand of justice and I am coming for them all.”
And then I spat my blood on him and walked away.
It’s difficult to shift gears on your cycle when your shoulder is all but useless. Although after a bit of time, I had an easier time of it. I drove back to Calvin’s house. Located his copious gun collection and selected a few nice pistols. I could certainly file off the serials on these and put them into useful hands. I didn’t have enough space on the bike for the assault weapons or the long arms though. Shame.
While I was moving around in his house, it occurred to me to see if he had stashed anything like gold certificates or bearer bonds. He didn’t, but he had some commemorative coins. Maybe a couple hundred bucks worth in actual gold. I left the silver alone. Naturally.
When I was done, I fetched some brake fluid out of his own garage, some crystal Drano out from under his own sink. dumped the crystal Drano into a rubber dishwashing glove and tied it shut. I poured the brake fluid into the bucket. then set the glove in on top of it. then set the bucket on top of the stack of guns and ammo.
I had about 30 seconds. I walked out of the door. Got onto my cycle and drove away.
After about 20 minutes of driving. I wasn’t feeling any pain anymore...and I found myself smiling.
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