Double Dip

So, as many people can tell you I’m not typical for a biker. I have certain liberal attitudes. I got no kick against anyone with a different racial background. I am ok with people being whatever orientation or gender they want to be. Many of my fellow riders are hardcore conservatives despite the rich comfortable people being scared shitless of them and driven to apoplexy by their antics.

I feel at home in Portland which is a vast island of liberalism surrounded by a sea of rednecks. Having a black wife and children will make you see things in your life that you might not have seen otherwise. I do still hold SOME conservative attitudes. To me, Gun control is 2 in the head and 2 in the center mass. I don’t think we need more school shootings though and maybe some registration and more vigorous background checking wouldn’t be a bad idea. Hope that happens before some loon walks into a maternity ward with an AK and opens it up.

I’m also firmly of the belief that you ought to know how to do certain things by a certain age. I may never ever know how Escrow works but by god, by the time you own a vehicle, you ought to know how to change the oil on it fruit cup. Can’t count the number of lumbersexuals I’ve assisted on the side of the road with SIMPLE fucking repairs. Sorry, pal. Your flannel had me fooled.

So if there is something about me that is kind of different, it is that I don’t really cotton to the Neo-nazi movement types in this part of the world. And I look for opportunities to jack them up whenever possible. I think Kayla would approve. Although I’m fairly sure she wouldn’t enjoy me putting myself at risk. She never could stand to watch me fight. Even though, I’m pretty fucking brilliant at it.

So when Marty Collette turns up on my to-do list. It feels a bit like a twofer.
Marty is a weasel little fuck who cooks meth for a living. I don’t judge him for that. I’ve done that myself back in the day. But he cooks in bulk and he’s got White power connections to help him move the product. Word on the street is that he got popped buying fixings in bulk on the internet because the Nazi’s set him up in a lab. So they hauled him in and gave him a court date and he bailed out using my service and didn’t turn up to court today, so now I’ve got to go round and collect him. I’m betting he’s met some wheels in the white power movement and they want their names kept out of things, so they’re hiding him someplace.

So I kiss Frankie and tell her not to wait up, I call my daughter and let her know I’m going looking and I hit the streets.  I don’t exactly have a network of informants or anything like that but if you go enough places and buy enough drinks you’ll find someone willing to talk.  The trick is always trying to sieve gold out of a pan full of shit.  You might get a bit closer to your target and then be stuck listening to some water-head pouring out his tragic life story. I try to stay polite because you never know when THAT guy might have something useful and call you up. It takes me some time. this sort of looking. The only other way of going about it would be to have access to the sort of bulk chemical supplies that you’d need in order to produce meth in the amounts that would be worthwhile. but I don’t have access to that sort of intel. Nor am I much of a computer user, much less a hacker. 

The bartenders are cool for the most part, mainly because they know I’m not a cop and I tip. I make the rounds. I buy a drink for any dude with bad skin and jacked up teeth. I get a lot of non-specific answers about where the stuff is coming from. until finally, I lose patience with some dude who’s grinning at me like “hey fuck you copper I ain’t said shit...” And I am forced to lift the shithead off the ground.
Suddenly, the dude gets much more respectful, especially since I’m not letting him breathe much and he tells me what I want to know. I am able to extricate myself from the affair without the local constables being summoned and I account myself blessed in this regard.

The dude, tells me that the Meth suppliers are up in Elliot, which puts them in my backyard and they’ve got a patch inside the Parkhurst apartments  Which is NOT good news.

The Parkhurst is a complex block that is kind of ingrown like a toenail. cops don’t go in there in groups of less than 5. They don’t bother canvassing that neighborhood for information about nearby crimes. It’s a white trash ghetto.  Cartman singing “In the ghetto” pipes up in the back of my head and won’t stop. using my expense account, I get myself an apartment there. just so that I have an excuse to tool around the place. I go and meet with the apartment manager, a lovely young woman named Rachel, who shows me the place and tries to make it sound like it’s a good decent neighborhood filled with God-fearing people. I note as we’re looking around that no one in the apartment complex hallways seems to have an inside voice. also, and this ought to be a great big flag, but my unit does not have a fire extinguisher. Which means others are in a similar boat too. great. I could burn to death in my sleep because some stoner nods off with a roach still burning.  I walk by one door and the smell of skunk weed practically smacks me in the face.  As we are returning to my cycle, I find a guy attempting to jimmy my bike’s ignition system. Motioning to Rachel to stay back, I sneak up on the poor dumb unlucky bastard and before he knows exactly what's happening, I have broken his wrist and I have one knee on his ribcage and I seem to weigh as much as a goddamn anvil. I show him the merest edge of what I am. My eyes turn silver and he sees the predator under my placid zen-like exterior. I look down at him and say, “If I see you near my bike again, I will eat your fucking heart.”  I’m pretty sure I mean it. he’d scratched Lulu’s paint some with his screwdriver. He is certain that I mean it and when I let him up he runs away at top speed cradling his wrecked wrist.  rachel apologizes profusely, thinking she’s lost the sale, but I simply say. I’m fine Rachel. Sketchy neighborhoods don’t frighten me. never have and I ain’t rich enough for anything else really. She sighs. In relief, I suspect, and hands me a set of keys.

This gives me a seed of a plan. I go to the local rent-a-center and max my Expenses card filling the apartment with a futon, a leather couch, and a large tv. I am conspicuous about carrying that stuff in. Sure enough, about 2 night later some “person” shows up and picks open my door lock. fortunately, my “enormous fucking dog” is asleep in there and bites that guy. And because I’ve tasted his blood I can track him right back to his door which I break down and then beat the shit out of him in front of his neighbors. I then tell them that he’s a thieving motherfucker and maybe they ought to look for their missing stuff in his place.
I probably wouldn’t have to do this in a black neighborhood. White people get ugliest when they are desperate. Mainly because it’s such a shock to them. I mean, they’re the MASTER RACE, right?

I catch the dude who is jimmying open the mailboxes to steal welfare and unemployment checks and send him to the hospital too.

Eventually, they send some guy around. I come into my apartment after being at the office and immediately note a muscular white man sitting on my futon. He is holding a shotgun trained on my crotch.  Since I like my crotch, I don’t immediately rush him.
“You're a big one”
“Sorry pal, I’m only prison gay. Lower the gun.
“Why should I?”
“because you’ll make me nervous. I don’t like to be nervous. and you definitely won’t like me nervous.
“Now we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“interesting means of doing it. get the fuck off my couch.”
“Dude. you may be pretty tough, but I’m holding the gun, so you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”
“Look in my eyes. Do I appear scared of your gun?”
“Maybe you’re crazy.”
He might have a point there.
I’m looking him over at this point, he’s got prison ink and I’ve memorized his scent. I notice that our conversation has rumbled to a stop.
“Okay. You’ve got approximately 20 seconds to speak your peace before I take that gun away from you and feed it to you.”
“We just wanted you to know we’ve noticed you and we think maybe you should calm down some. You’ve hurt a couple of our people and we can’t really have that. Obviously, we know where you live and all...So.”
“Okay. that was fairly straightforward and now I’ll return the favor. Keep your fucking people away from me and we won't have a problem.
“that’s not really how this works. but you’ve shown yourself to be willing to take steps to protect yourself. maybe we could use a man like you.”
“Not interested.”
“There’s money. serious money.”
“5 seconds”
He lowers the shotgun.
“my boss is not going to like this. he doesn’t like loose ends.”
“I don’t give a tap-dancing fuck what your boss does or does not like. Get out of my apartment while you can still walk.”
He raises the shotgun again and shuffles out awkwardly.

Only a matter of time now.
For the next few nights, I get this feeling like I’m being watched every time I come and go. I am patient. I wait. I expect that the watcher is waiting for me to lower my guard. I’m not going to do this.I’ve been in prison.
 After a couple of days of this, I go wandering around the complex. I locate the meth production area by the smell in a matter of minutes before some Mook with a nickel-plated 9 turns up and barks at me. I resist the urge to feed it to him despite the fact that he’s holding it sideways like some dumb kid in a gangsta movie. I move along, noting the pinch points, and where the sentries and snipers are likely to be. they’re pretty well dug in. I am admittedly flummoxed as to how to proceed.

The next night as I am rolling into the parking lot a group of muscly looking types gets off the curb and starts rolling towards me with intent. Some of them have chains and a couple of pipes. I imagine they’re looking to tune me up by the time they reach me I am in Dalu form but with my motorcycle helmet still on so they can’t exactly see my face. I reach into my well of essence and activate my killer instinct and butchery. Someone strikes me in the helmet and ends up prone for his trouble. I wade into them with a great big smile on my face.  By the end of the fight, I am the only one left standing. I pick one up and shake him a bit until he’s relatively conscious. “Tell your douchebag boss that I’m here for his cook. And if he gives me the cook, I’ll stop making trouble.”

I might even mean it. These guys got a load of Nazi ink on them so when the ambulance comes around to collect them, I feel a positively warm afterglow.  It doesn’t last. as I am walking back to my apartment, someone right next to me clears their throat. I turn, to see who the fuck got this close to me without me noticing and now the silencer/muzzle of the gun is resting on my eyelid. I hear, “You so much as twitch I’m going to fill your brain-case with lead. I don’t imagine it will kill you, but it will very likely jack you up pretty badly.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve seen a Rahu or two take a shot in the head with conventional bullets and yes, they usually are able to get back up afterward. Our skulls tend to be thick. But I’ve also seen an uratha or two take a full-on brain injury and yes. it can put you on the deck, if not permanently.
I prize my brain. It’s where I keep my thoughts and stuff. So I’m unwilling to have it scrambled. I look over my assailant. Tall white dude. unnaturally pale. blond insolent hair. AB Ink in various spots. Dressed all in black. One earring. And my nose tells me, entirely deceased.

Great. Now it’s an embassy problem. I can’t whack him and he can’t whack me without our various groups getting into it and promises that things will get handled “In-House” are about as trustworthy as a fart after Taco Bell.

“Ah. I see you’re doing the math. Good. It means you’re not stupid. Who the fuck ARE you?
“Name is Butch McCullough”
“The Bounty hunter?”
“The same.”
“Oh. This is about Marty isn’t it?”
“ Yes. He’s coming with me.”
“I don’t think so.” And then he shoots me in the eye.

I fall down of course. There are very few things in the whole world that can ring your chimes like a shot in the eye. I bleed. Quite a lot. As my lights go out, I see the blond guy leave and shut the door behind him.

When I wake up. Frankie is standing over me and MAN is she pissed. She’s had to extract a bullet from my braincase while listening to Julia cry and carry on about it. Andrew and Jax are there too it appears from my vantage on the now ruined leather couch, that someone needed to break down my door.
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR LINT PICKING MIND? “
I remember how to swallow, and croak out, “Possibly. Look under the bed and see if it’s under there.”
She can’t help herself. She smiles despite how upset she is with me. and then turns to Jax.
“You keep an eye on him. do you hear me? You’re responsible for him from this point until this is all resolved. If he goes to take a piss, Your leg gets wet. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
Jax knows better than to be flip simply nods and hands her her bag. She and Andrew depart.

Later, I apologize to Jax for getting him involved even if indirectly. he looks at me as If I’m talking gibberish. Which, at this point, I may be doing. I wouldn’t even know. I explain the gig to him and he’s all like, “Well shit brother if you needed back-up you could have called.”
“Didn’t know I needed it until I was in over my head.”
“Ain’t that always the way?”
“Seems like. I’ve got to get better about spotting traps. It’s starting to be a running gag. A painful one.”
“So. Can you get me a line on Date bait Hitler?”
“I can ask around.”

Turns out that Hitler Youth Ken Doll is some vampire aristocrat called an Invictus or some shit. I don’t know vampire political stuff. A lot of that shit is like walking into the middle of a long-running ongoing soap opera and expecting to know who’s doing what to who. It just isn’t likely without a LOT of context. Apparently, he’s already raised some kind of stink at the embassy and they really would like me to come and answer a number of questions that essentially add up to what Frankie asked me when I first came to. I’m not exactly one hundred percent. I have weird tremors and my motor skills have taken a serious hit. They’re coming back, but not as fast as I’d like and If it weren’t for Jax.I’d be a sitting duck. If Ken returns with silver ammo we’re both toast. and at this point, he can claim self-defense.
I roll off the couch.  It needs to happen tonight.

I wait. until late. If I do this right, it’ll be late enough that the vampire will need to go to ground while the main assault is happening. Jax and I go to Wal-mart and purchase 2 20 pound sledgehammers. We make our way back to the area where I could smell the meth cooking and this time I spot the camera I hadn’t seen before. Which cued the sentry. I smash the camera, the sentry pops out of a nearby apartment and before he can do much. Jax has him in a choke hold that takes him to the floor for a nice long sleep.

I take a moment. steady myself and breath in. I use some essence to heal the last bits of nerve damage and I shift to Gauru form before ripping my way through the wall. I find a sleep-deprived Marty on the other side of the wall and scare the living fuck out of him. I snatch him up like an errant puppy and carry him out of the room. 
Jax and I have kicked the hornet's nest. Laying about ourselves with the sledgehammers keeps everyone at a nice respectful distance. All the gunfire has set something in the lab ablaze and I am shouting myself hoarse telling people as we exit that there is a fire. Jax carries passed out Marty while I clear our path. Marty is no good to me dead so Jax has to be more careful than he wants to be.  Then, Jax catches a clip of automatic fire in the back and falls down. I look up and see Ken fade into view holding his Luger. The one he shot me with.

One of the things that tend to set me off is when one of my pack mates is hurt badly in battle. Mostly I tend to worry for Frankie or Kurt. Normally the wolves can take care of themselves. But this special little nuisance just set me right the fuck off. All of my gifts flow into my rage suffused mind. and before I know what’s happening. I am ripping the vampire to pieces. Don’t even know how I got up on this landing exactly. think I jumped. it clears off long enough for me to toss his ripped carcass into the lab fire and then get back to business. Jax is fine. and we carry Marty out of the fire and into the arms of the local police who have been looking for him. 

I cut Jax a nice check for his efforts.  I cut another for Frankie which she promptly tears up and throws in my face. and then I go back to relaxing.  But now I have to wait and see if the other shoe is going to drop about the Ken doll. Maybe I’ll be lucky and no one really likes him and no one will go full court press on finding out how he was destroyed. But there’s nothing for it but to wait.

The readiness is all.