All Part of the Service (Werewolf: The Forsaken)

I got a call from a fella who calls himself “Dirty Ed”.  
I don’t know. Maybe he thinks it’s cool or something.

Dirty Ed is a Bail Bondsman. What he does, is put up 10 percent of a criminals bond, allowing that fellow to be released on parole until his court date. It’s a decent gig because many criminals, especially professionals will keep a bail bondsman on retainer like they might do for a lawyer. it’s like insurance in a way.

Of course, if a guy has his bail bondsman put up his percentage and then the guy decides maybe he’s allergic to court...Well, then the Bondsman is on the hook for the entire Bail.  Which is likely considerable.  Which is where I come in.

Bail Bondsman services either have their own bounty hunters, or they’ll sub-contract out. Technically. I’m a bail bondsman too.  I have a business license. I’ve got an investor and seed capital.  I just don’t have a storefront yet.   No Storefront means no clientele of your own.

I like the bounty hunting though. You could say it’s in my blood. That is if you don’t mind being a bit on the nose.

I was working on Francesca’s car. I’d told her that I was souping it up a bit. But I had been waiting for a part, that didn’t turn up in the mail until after Christmas. It was kind of embarrassing. But now I was working on installing the blower and putting a new exhaust package on her wheels. When I’m done, no one will believe it will go this fast. I also put on fresh brake pads.

“I got a tough one. Only you can do it, Butch.” Ed huffled into the phone. Ed had a reputation for somehow not being able to pay hunters who had saved his considerable bacon. He was perhaps one of those few individuals that you literally cannot intimidate. I know a number of guys threatened his life in some very creative ways.  He was 400+ pounds and maybe that had something to do with it.

The first time I had done some work for him, he tried to give me some song and dance about “Expenses” until I lifted him off the ground.

He looked surprised. Which is as close to scared as anyone has ever seen him.  I had my check in an hour.

Consequently, of course, he stopped calling me for work he could farm out to anyone he could actually screw. It occurred to me that he might actually be desperate.

“Stop rubbing my ego, Ed. It’s going to get all swole and then my pants won’t fit. What’s the gig?”

He huffed a bit as if I was being rude for not being flattered. “Aw don’t be like that. You’re getting a rep on the street for being able to dig out some of Oregon’s most dug in scumbags.”

“So I’m guessing this guy is like that?”

“Does the name John Freeland mean anything to you.”

Oh yes.

John was suspected to be one of the big wheels in the Aryan Brotherhood. I’d heard that Oregon State police had finally caught him and his merry pranksters transporting long arms and had jumped up and down on them until they were almost a fine red paste. If they could get any of the charges to stick, then John was looking at gumming his food before breathing free air again...That is unless he could roll over on his higher-ups.

“How in the FUCK did he end up getting bailed out.”

“Aryan Brotherhood pulled some strings and got him a serious lawyer. Prosecutor didn’t know what hit him.”

“And you put up his bond. Are you mental?  Dude like that isn’t going to roll and he isn’t going to swing either.  He’ll go to ground.”

“Which is just what I thought...But then his lawyer got me to change my mind.”

Either John’s lawyer is supernatural or just THAT good. I’ll ask Rusty to go round and look at him later.

“So let me guess. His court date is coming and you’re fucked.”

“I’m offering 1,500”

That gave me pause. Usually, a Bounty Hunter’s take on a job is a tiny percentage of the original bail.  This was double the take of any gig I’d done so far.

“ Wow. Ed, you must be seriously fucked. I’m kind of enjoying it over here. Karma isn’t a bitch, but she always remembers...”

“Look. I need him back in custody before end of business on Friday or my whole store is shut.”

“ Aw. Couldn’t happen to a more delightful fellow.”

“I’ll give you half down!”

I had to stop. I don’t like Ed much. But half down for a con not in custody yet, was seriously unheard of. I could practically see his upper lip sweating in my mind’s eye.

“I am going to regret this. I just know it.”

Within an hour, I was already regretting it. Ed had given me a check (Post-dated, and probably as bouncy as Tigger.) and his lean intelligence file on John Freeland. (Due diligence mother-fucker. Do you speak it?)

I went home, got myself a thorough shower, put on my one and only suit. (Yes sir, your honor.) and drove to the mailing address listed. I was greeted at the front door by a near-toothless woman in a shapeless kaftan and the smell of meth cooking somewhere inside.

“Wat?”

“Hello miss.” She could be anywhere between 17 and 45 with Meth mileage on her. I was just being safe.

“If you come to take the car, I don’ got it no mo.”

“No Ma’am. I’m with Holmes, Baker, Savage, Gillis, North, and Dean.”

“Huh?” 

“It’s a law firm.”

“I knowd THAT! What you want? I done got a continuance on my...

“No Miss. I’m not interested in you I’m looking for John Freeland.”

Her twitchy eyes stopped moving and locked in on me and then she tried to shut the door. I’m not terribly fast, but I was faster than that.

“Fuck you! Get off my door! I’ma get my gun!

“Miss! It’s about his inheritance!”

She stopped trying to close the door on my hand. She put one gimlet eye to the door crack.

“What’re you talking about?”

“His uncle passed away recently. Our firm represents the executor. The assets were liquidated and split among the living relatives at the executor’s direction. His bequest comes to almost 9,000 dollars.”

Fun Fact: When peddling a premise like this, It's tempting to make the uncle super-rich. Don't. I was going with the idea that the Uncle's main asset was a palatial double-wide trailer.

“Bullshit!”

“I assure you, Miss. No Bullshit. I have a cashier’s check in this briefcase for him. “

“Give it to me then!”

“Miss. My instructions are very precise.I must put it in his hands directly. Once he has it, my interest is at an end.”

I stopped talking and put on that face that Rusty does when he invites you to keep talking yourself right into the noose.

‘You some kind of Jew lawyer?”

“No Miss. I am a Quaker.”

Either she was chewing that over or didn’t know what that was. I knew which way I was betting.

“He don’ tell me where he goes alla time.”

I sigh. 

“That’s too bad, I could imagine that if someone WAS to help me locate him and give him this money, he might have enough gratitude to cut them a slice.”

...You got a pencil?

The address I am given is down-country from Mt Hood. Lots of little creeks and tiny lakes all through that area. Ritzy-titzy boat owners cheek by jowl with dudes who live in trailer parks and yet somehow still have a bass boat. Overwhelmingly white and deeply conservative.  The kind of place where I and the rest of the Gallowsbait MC would roll into and drive to apoplexy. 

This would not be a good job for colors nor my trusty bike, Lulu.  I gave the RV a good wash, checked over the regular bags that I kept stowed in there. And then went for a drive.  

One of the things that you learn over a few years of wandering is that Wal-mart LOVES live-in customers.  It’s not unusual to find RV’s parked in Wal-Mart parking lots anywhere.  You can connect up to the really large lamp-posts for power and there are cameras in the parking lot too. So if you skive off for a bit, there is the expectation that you’ll come back and you’ll still have all your stuff. This really only applies to the 24 hour Wal-marts. But most actual cities have at least one open all night. 

I park.

I snack on peanut butter and crackers and the occasional bottle of Watermelon “Juice” from Minute Maid. I cat nap. Dick around on my iPad and wait for it to be past 2 am.  I put on sneakers, sweats, and a sock hat. I put a pack of smokes and a lighter that I gave up almost a decade ago in my pocket. In case someone might see me. (“What’re YEW doing out in THIS weather?”) ... I say a short prayer to the higher powers for a distinct lack of sleet. I lock up the RV and head off across the parking lot toward a small patch of wood in between the Wal-mart and another section of the strip mall. I shift to Urhan and I am already warmer.  I move through a tiny section of suburbs like a ghost and then into fuller woods. I spend some of my carefully hoarded Essence for one of my gifts and I pick up speed beyond what an ordinary wolf could manage.

I had plotted my course with Google maps, Google earth, and the US topographical survey website.

And because I am eidetic. I have this map in my head.

About a mile before I make it to the trailer park. I am crushed by a deadfall.

Or at least I would have been, were I not already very very tough. A change of form enables me to shift the stupid thing off me and a few minutes of lying there catching my breath enables me to knit some of my bones back together. 
I seem to have this thing with traps.  When I can walk again without pain, I set a slower pace. Open my senses more and avoid a few more booby traps. Pit traps with Pungi spikes. The occasional home-made mine.  An antique claymore, which could probably still detonate.  I don’t take a chance with that guy. That shit is NOT what they pay me for.  I do turn him around just in case I have to cover a hasty retreat.

I crest the rise and get a good look at the place. I can see why none of the other bounty hunters got farther than this.  The trailer park itself is nestled in a natural valley. It’s like a figure 8. Plenty of trees and so on. Some industrious soul had brought in some kind of back-hoe and enhanced the already natural structure with some additional material making it into a full-on palisade. The back side of the park butts up against the lowest parts of Mt. Hood. Looks like there are septic tanks all the way around the park. Naturally, there isn't going to be much more than electric service out this way.

The front of the Trailer park looks like a great big concrete arch that blocks off the entry. You drive right in the front.  I think I can see a tiny lit sign on the left half of the arch proclaiming that it is the office and the emergency maintenance guy’s number.

This place is seriously fortified. Like they’re expecting a siege. Not at some point down the road, like Tuesday... I start paying attention to the details.  I mean, it’s not like they’ve got Wehrmacht bumper stickers or anything like that. But they’ve ALL got pick-up trucks.  You won’t find a Prius up here.  A lot of Dish up here.  This place is self-contained to the point, where I suspect that there’s an actual working well and a stockpile of Mail Order Meals-Ready-To Eat. I count 14 trailers I suspect one or more men per trailer. Then I see the thing that makes my blood run cold.

I see the tricycle.

I roll over onto my back and shut my poor angry eyes. I want to howl in frustration.

I had been looking at this like some military operation designed to stomp John Freeland and anybody who cut eyes at me while I was doing it.  I’m expecting him and his cronies. I’m not expecting their women. I’m not expecting their kids.  Leave aside any possibility that they aren’t also infected with that Aryan Brotherhood madness. It’s not likely. But I don’t kill families.

Not only that but I couldn’t see how I could wade in their without going full Gauru. And the herd can’t know. I’d have to kill them ALL.

There might be some Uratha that might consider that a small price to pay. I’m not one of them.

I look up at Mother. Fulsome and bright like a Mercury dime.  Nearly my auspice moon... I can’t infiltrate. Everybody would know everybody in that little enclosure. I can’t hit it head on without it becoming an utter bloodbath. I don’t have TIME for anything else really. I’m not the sort of Blood Talon who has that knack for looking at things and seeing all the weaknesses.  What am I going to do?

And then Mother smiles at me... And I see a way. 

I make my way back to my RV and I bed down.  Tomorrow will be a big day and the weather is calling for sleet again.

The next day, I walk into the Wal-mart. I cash my stupid post-dated check. Which fortunately for Ed, does NOT bounce, and I go shopping.

I buy a case of unlubricated condoms and a case of crystal Drano. The old school granular kind. I buy a crate of bottled water.  I also go over to the sportswear section and get myself a set of ear plugs and nose plugs. I buy a wetsuit.

I begin making my preparations, and then when I’ve got a moment. I call my daughter and ask her if she’s having a good day.  I then call Celene, (Straight to voice-mail, she may be trying to sleep, poor thing.)  and then I text Frankie (Who may be trying to doctor.) I let them know what I’m up to. Just in case this thing goes completely off the rails and I need doctoring, bailing out, or full on pack rescue.

It starts to rain then I can hear little peck-peck-peck sounds on the roof of the RV. Yesterday, I would have cursed this weather. Tonight it will work to my advantage.

I haul out a tiny black ruck-sack and put most of my materials into it. I wait until it’s almost 2 am again, and then I make my way back. I fill my body with my speed and my unnatural strength. And then before I am in sight of the compound, I sharpen my ability to do harm. It’s weird. It reminds me of those scenes in the Sherlock Holmes movies where Robert Downey Junior is mentally rattling off how he’s going to take some dude out.  Where Frankie might see ways to heal...I see ways to hurt.

It’s late. Few lights are on. Most folks are buttoned up for the night. With my gifts that I have working, It is relatively easy to leap over the palisades and land inside the ring. I choose to enter at the center of the figure eight.  

Each of the water bottles has been half filled with Gasoline. I have taken the crystal Drano and dumped it into the unlubricated condoms. and tied them off. Three layers of condoms on each.  See, gasoline will eat through a single layer of condom in about 45 seconds to a minute. This is an educated guess, but three layers ought to give me enough to place these. 

I move about in Urhan form to stay low and move fast. I come upon my first target. One of the septic tanks that collect the wastewater from the park.  I reach over and using my strength, start undoing a bolt on the top that would ordinarily require an enormous monkey wrench for torque.

I pop open the top, the smell of the effluent would normally have me on my knees and dry heaving, but that’s what the nose plugs are for. I drop the condom into the water bottle, cap it, drop it into the septic tank pop the lid back on and re-tighten the bolt. Total elapsed time. 24 seconds.

This might be tight.

I nearly get seen by a sentry, but thankfully I’m already in motion and he’s not sure what he saw. Maybe a neighbor’s dog out for a poo. I do hear the occasional dog bark. Most of them big dogs. Nearly always, their owner shouts at them to shut up.

I plant my Aryan Brotherhood “Christmas Presents” and then find myself a safe vantage point. I’ve only got one earplug in before the first one goes off.

There is a low whump. A column of flame reaching high into the sky, and then about a heartbeat later, screams coming from inside the trailer park homes as the explosions cause the toilets inside to explosively back up.

Then there is another. and another.

Something about this just makes me smile. These people are pretty shitty already. 

Shit and flames and screaming terrified people are everywhere and many of them come running outside half dressed and slip on the ice for good measure. I’ve chosen one of the many trees that would make this place a nightmare for a sniper and keep my head on a swivel. Finally, I see what I was hoping to see. John Freeland, clad only in jeans, and slippers and covered in shit slamming out through his front door and starting to yell orders.

Nope. Can’t have them getting their feet under them.

So I whistle as loudly as possible. And when I see him look at me. I yell. “JOHN FREELAND! ANTIFA SENDS IT’S REGARDS.  Then I drop to the roof of the trailer below. (Slick, but thankfully flat) and then I run and leap over the palisade wall.

Sue me. It seemed appropriate at the time and they reacted the way I wanted them to. Like I had drop-kicked the hornet's nest

When no one can see me, I ditch my earplugs, shift to Urhan, and then find a spot to stay low. Everyone is trying to get out but the shit and ice slurry is turning it into keystone cops out there. The menfolk are trying to get organized and dressed in something warm that doesn’t reek and grab ALL of the guns. There are, as I estimated around 17 dudes. Every one of them has some AR15 or shotgun. lots of knives. Bows and crossbows and shit like that.

The women-folk are just trying to load the terrified kids into the trucks and fuck off for the high cotton. 

I leave them a trail that a blind redneck could follow. I might as well. I’m not super stealthy like some.  But I can jack up a tracker something fierce by dint of simply leaping up into the trees and doubling back.

Again. I’m not super stealthy. I don’t get cute and try to take them out one at a time. But when the force gets spread out enough that the men are three man teams. I might leap up and scare the fuck out of them in Dalu form.  Fun fact: When you conk two guys heads together they don’t actually make that coconut sound.  I feel as if the Stooges lied to me. Do that to two guys and the third goes running screaming about the huge freak he saw.

I feel like I’m living the last half of Rambo: First Blood. I don’t necessarily want to kill these guys but I can NOT let them gang up on me. So a lot of this is psych-ops. 

I catch one guy alone. He tries to yell, but I slap a cobra clutch on him. Just like I learned from Sergeant Slaughter so many Saturday mornings ago.  He goes down like a sack of bricks.

I see one of John’s “Sortie groups” coming. Well...I smell them first. Each man has a long arm. and they could still technically put me on the deck with them. But before they know it I have leaped into their midst and I am laying about myself with Butchery.

I do get shot twice, but in seconds the rest of them are down on the ground and holding some part of themselves in agony.

I take a breather. shift to Urhan. Heal a bit. keep an eye out.

Freeland has been directing this little battle from a jack-leg command and control post but since I’ve put more than half of his soldier on the deck, he’s come out to see for himself.

From my vantage, I can see that he’s got some tracking chops, and maybe a little military experience too.  He’s got three guys in tow. Each of them armed to the teeth. From my vantage point, I peg a rock at the head of the guy in the center. >pok!<  Down like a bag of wet cement.

The other two guys look at each and start firing wildly in what they think is my direction. It takes a good 20 second of Freeland yelling at them to stop before they hear him and can try to calm down.

I take a moment and reach down for the Dalu bass in my voice. “Children. I have no interest in you. But John Freeland will be mine this night. Run and I’ll forget all about you.”  

And then before they can pinpoint my voice. I dummy up.

John surprises me. “ Go ahead, boys. I’ve got this. “

They look at one another wordlessly and then turn back up the path.

John walks out into the clearing. “OK Antifa. You’re about to see what the master race is all about.

I should describe the motherfucker shouldn’t I?  6’10” if he’s an inch. Broadly framed and heavily muscled. Like me, his body is covered in ink that tells a few stories of bad judgment and the prison time that followed.  He is stripping off his reeking shirt. He cleans off his torso and his face with the clean bits. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. Maybe he’s trying to work himself up into some kind of berserker rage or some crap.

I step into the clearing.  “MR. Freeland. I am a bonded authority and I am here to take you in. I am going to assume you aren’t coming peaceably.

He gets a good look at me. “Shit...Don’t I know you?”

“Yes sir you do. La Jolla Penitentiary. Sometime around 2002”

“I seem to recall wiping the floor with you.”

“You did.  You’re still coming with me.”  Then I show him my silver eyes. You know pure psych-ops rattle him with the lunacy some. He’s actually a hard combatant. I could use the edge at this point.

Only...he doesn’t even blink.

Uh oh.

“He reaches behind him and pulls out a blade about two handspans long. It is silver and it catches Mother’s light.

So...You’re one of THOSE huh.  My dad was one of those. I fucking hated my dad.

He lunges.

Ok. So this is a quandary. I can NOT let him stab me with his big silver knife

*I pivot the high part of my torso. As his arm comes in. I slip underneath and smash the nerve cluster under his armpit with my balled up fist. He does not drop the knife.*

If he hurts me significantly, I’ll death rage and considering he has a silver knife. I might be the one going down if I lose my head. 

*He shifts his weight then drives his elbow into my face right around the orbital ridge of my eye. and then he draws a line of white fire down my face and torso with a shallow slashing cut. unthinkingly I shove him. I still have the strength advantage and he sprawls a bit before recovering his feet.*

Also: I won’t get paid. and after this, I feel I should get paid.

* He flips the knife around Spetsnaz style and comes in high looking to slash me or maybe nick my hands and forearms. unaccountably he leaves his jaw open. I shatter it*

He makes a kind of “fuffguggling” noise when I do this. Only, I am horrified to see that his jaw is already starting to re-knit itself. Taking advantage of his momentary discomfiture. I grab ahold of his knife wrist. We struggle. He’s strong. At the moment I’m stronger but also more wounded. He gets a loose hand and digs a thumb directly into my eye. It really hurts. His own eyes are a seething maelstrom of hatred and madness. Neither of us has good footing. A slip in either side could mean it’s all over.

Then I remember, and just in time too...That I am smarter than him.

I shift my weight by throwing my feet out from me and then effectively Power-slam him

I snap his wrist. His big silver knife drops nervelessly from his hand and lands in the snow. 

From this point onward, it’s just me breaking bones. HIS bones.

Then at some point, I throw his insensate body over my shoulder. And walk back to the RV.

I do pick up the big silver knife and put it in my rucksack. Not a tool...more like a trophy.

When Mr. Freeland regains consciousness. He is handcuffed and his thumbs have been zip-tied. Also,  he has about 14 bungee cords securing him. He is largely healed from our conflict but has nothing to say as I have placed a gag in his mouth. He stays more or less in this particular configuration until I remand him to the custody of the State Prosecutors office.  Fun fact: John Freeland, noted domestic terrorist is not a fan of the Spice Girls, nor, is he a fan of my singing the many many hits of the relentless juggernaut of Power-Pop that is, the Spice Girls.  If you need any other proof of his low character. Look no further.

The fire at the trailer park made the local news. The Aryan Brotherhood is taking up some collection or something to rebuild from ANTIFA terrorists or some dumb shit like that.

Ed is so overjoyed, He pays me on time.