Making the Cut (6 page)

AXTON

I’ve had a few occasions in my life where I ended up in a situation I wasn’t sure I would ever get myself out of. I’ve had yet other situations where I participated in something willfully I later wished I had the common sense to walk away from. Sometimes
promising
to do something and
actually
doing it when the time came were two very different things altogether. But, as any good man would agree, if I gave my word on something, you could count on me to follow through. Committing to place myself in a situation that later turned out to be a terrible idea made me feel as if sometimes I was all too eager to volunteer in the first place.
Carefully
selecting the events I wanted to participate in seemed to be at least a little more common now that I had a few years under my belt. As an
old timer
in the club, my participation in criminal acts was carefully chosen, and this
particular
event was proving to provide me great satisfaction. 

“What did I do? I don’t understand what’s going on,” the fat fucker blubbered.

“You sick piece of shit. Shut the fuck up. Say one more God damned word, and I’ll cut off your fucking cock and feed it to you,” Toad shouted as he wedged himself between us.

Duct taped to the tree and exhausted from being Tased repeatedly during the ten mile trip to the river, the fat child molester cried and blubbered, but he didn’t speak. A second meeting with Frank provided me enough information to allow me to assure myself what we were doing was all for the right reasons.

I stepped between Toad and the molester, “Listen up. I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer me. You need to think really hard before you lie to me, tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, or deny any involvement whatsoever. If you do any of those things, this is going to get really bloody really quick. If you understand me, a simple yes or no will be fucking fine. Do you understand me?”

He continued to cry and slobber, and finally blubbered an almost inaudible
yes.

It was all I could do to make eye contact with him. The more I looked at him, the more I wanted to just get this over with and just kill him. But, I needed him to admit it first. I got about two feet from him and stared into his eyes. Tears ran down his face as I inhaled a slow breath.

“Alright. I need you to tell me the name of the little boy you molested who had bright red hair. It was pretty recent. All I need is the first name.”

“Why, was he related or something?” he cried.

“I’m…”

“I’m sorry…”

I pulled my knife, flicked it open, and shoved it into his stomach as far as I could. As I pulled it out, his eyes widened and he began to scream. I’d seen enough of my fat biker buddies stabbed that I knew a fat fucker like him wouldn’t see any
real
damage from a 3” deep puncture wound to his stomach. It was more to let him know I didn’t want to have a conversation with his fat ass. I simply wanted a name.

“I told you. I want a name, you fat bastard. The red-headed kid. What was his name? The next one will be in your eye,” I growled as I raised the knife to his face.

“Stick his fat ass again,” Toad hollered.

I raised my hand in the air, “Let him speak, Toad. Now, tell me the name.”

“Timmy, his name was,” he inhaled and attempted to look down at his bleeding stomach.

“Timmy.”

After some thought, I decided I needed a little more information from Frank, and he provided enough for me to confirm the man we were going to kill was who they believed him to be. Timothy was the name Frank reluctantly provided me. The ChoMo providing me confirmation was all I needed to hear. As much as I wanted to make him pay for his crimes, killing him would end my suffering of looking at him. The more I thought about what he had done to the little boys, the more I wanted to rid the earth of his existence.

“It’s him, ain’t it Slice? Fat fucker’s the one, ain’t he?” Toad asked as he stepped between us.

“I didn’t …” fatty began.

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll stick you again,” I bellowed.

I wiped my knife on the fat man’s pants and folded it. I swallowed hard and nodded my head, “Yep, it’s him.”

“Let me do him, Slice. I need my patch. Come on. Killin’ this fat whale ain’t shit. Let me do it,” Toad begged.

“But…” fatty blubbered.

I flicked my knife open and stared at the fat bastard. As he began to cry and spit, I closed my eyes and shook my head, “Hand me the tape, Otis.”

Otis handed me the roll of duct tape we had used to secure him to the tree. I ripped off a twelve inch strip and pressed it over his mouth and stretched it to the sides of his fat face. After three more strips, he was muffled and as quiet as he was going to get.

A skull and crossbones patch on the lower right hand side of a member’s cut indicated he had killed for the club. Otis and I had patches to confirm our participation in such situations. Tater didn’t, and at his age, asking him to do something like kill a man wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I turned toward Otis and Tater. Otis shrugged as Tater quietly stood holding the lantern.

Otis swallowed hard and raised his hands to his face, “Let him get his patch, Slice. Hell, killin’ fuckers is all he’s done for the last ten years. But I’m done looking at this fucker, really.”

Otis rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. He was as ready for this to end as I was. I turned toward Toad and nodded my head. As I folded my knife closed, Toad pulled a long straight bladed knife from a sheath on his belt.

“God damn, Toad,” I said through my teeth as he raised the large blade in front of his chest.

“Gunshot would be too risky out here in the dark. Someone might hear it,” he nodded.

As the fat man began to cry and grunt through the tape, Toad stepped between the blubbering molester and me.

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” Toad demanded.

The fat prick attempted to stop crying. Between the molester’s sobbing and blowing snot out his nose, Toad spoke clearly and as if he’d actually prepared a speech for the occasion.

“Now listen. This world is full of all types of men. Good ones, not so good ones, and bad ones. I believe, and I may be wrong, that I’m one of the good ones. I ain’t never hurt a man without having a damned good reason. Never. I killed some fuckers in the war, and I’d do it all over if they’d let me. So, my opinion’s this, and you ain’t gonna agree for damned sure, but I’ll tell you anyway,” Toad paused and calmly glanced at each of us before turning to face the fat man again.

“God controls the good on this earth, and Satan controls the bad. In men, sometimes there’s a fight between God and the Devil to see who gets control. Sometimes good men do bad things. And sometimes bad men do good things. But what you did? That’s not Satan stepping into a man’s life and causing him to do something wrong. No sir, it’s not. You can’t be fixed.  That’s my justification for what I plan to do to you.
You can’t be healed.
I Googled the shit, and I
know
. You’re four times more likely to hurt a kid again than any other criminal is to recommit any other crime. So, what I’m gonna do to you, it’ll make sure you don’t do what you did to those little boys to anyone else. And I’m gonna guess if I gave Timmy’s mom this knife, she’d do a lot more to you than I’m goin’ to.”

Toad reached down, grabbed the man’s hand in his, and as he held it, sliced his wrist. After releasing his hand, he sliced the man’s other wrist the same way. After dropping his hand, he reached between the man’s legs with the knife. With a deep grunt and a tug of the blade, he sliced through the man’s pants and deeply into each of his thighs. Quickly, his pant legs began to discolor from the blood he lost.

“Damn, Toad. I thought you’d cut his throat,” Otis said under his breath.

“Read it on the internet. The article said it’d take up to thirty minutes from cuttin’ the wrists alone. Said maybe he’d last 5 minutes if I cut the femoral in the thighs. I’ve seen Marines die from having a femoral artery cut, even with a tourniquet. Thought this would give him a few minutes to think about what he’d done,” Toad said as he leaned over and wiped the blade on the man’s shirt.

Toad was right. If a parent had seen the videos the man had taken while he abused their children, and later been handed the knife, the killing would have been far more brutal. As difficult as it was to allow myself to believe what I watched was real, it was not something I would ever wish a parent to participate in.

Without speaking, we stood and watched the man slowly die. I’d seen several stabbings, and been involved in several shootings where men had died. I had never, however, calmly stood and watched a man die. I’m thoroughly convinced each time I see a man die it takes a little piece of my own soul, bringing me that much closer to death. It must be the price we are required to pay for witnessing the final deterioration of one of God’s greatest creations; mankind.

As I crossed my arms and blankly stared until he finally went completely limp, I thought of all the children and what he’d done to them. I silently wondered if God was watching as we kidnapped the man, or as Toad cut him. And, as the man bled until his last breath escaped him, I wondered if God witnessed the entire event; and if so, why he didn’t intervene.

As he peacefully drew his last shallow breath, I came to a conclusion. God
did
witness it. And he, not unlike me, had no place in his heart for a man who sexually molested helpless children.

And, God was using the
Selected Sinners
to do what he wasn’t able to do.

Because God is forgiving.

And the
Sinners
are not.

AVERY

Saturday nights at the bar were a pain in the ass. Although I made more in tips during the night than I made the entire rest of the work week combined, at the time I’m working the shift, I always felt like I wanted to quit my job and become a librarian. Today had been a little more busy than usual. A local poker run ended, and bikers filtered in and out all afternoon starting about four o’clock. As Sloan and her
2 added cups
worked the dining area, I tried to keep everyone happy from behind the bar.

“I’ll take another Budweiser,” the man at the end of the bar said as he raised his hand.

I reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Bud. I grabbed my opener, popped off the lid, and held it in my hand as I handed him the bottle. After he grinned and accepted the beer, I turned toward the trash can, which was roughly fifteen feet away, and tossed the lid in the air. As the lid hit the back side of the can and fell inside, I pumped my fist in victory.

“Nice shot,” Budweiser bottle said from behind me.

“I know, right?” I said over my shoulder.

I grabbed my bar rag and began to wipe the bar as I scanned the dining area for Sloan. She stood talking to a table of three college aged guys who were all focused on her tits as she spoke. One of them had ears the size of the palm of my hand. I rolled my eyes and grinned at the three guys as they slobbered on themselves.

Add the Bud to his tab, Avery.

I shook my head and turned to the register. As I added the Budweiser bottle to the man at the end of the bar’s tab, I wondered how many drinks I forgot over the course of a busy night. I’d like to think I remembered them all, but it seemed I always wondered how many I just might forget, totally. It wasn’t my liquor, and it wasn’t any money out of my pocket, but I wanted to do my job and do it well. Still staring at the register in deep thought, Sloan’s heavy whispering brought me back to reality.

“Did you see the three guys sitting at number eight?” 

I turned around and faced Sloan, who was leaning over between two men who were sitting at the bar. Her boobs were smashed all over the place.

“Yeah, I saw ‘em. I’m gonna guess they didn’t see you, though,” I chuckled as I stepped toward the bar.

She was bent over completely, now resting her chin on the bar. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure her boobs were spread all over the bar. Surprised the men on either side of her weren’t staring at the sides of her tits, I rolled my eyes and leaned closer to her.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the high top where they were seated. After a long pause of filling her eyes with their disgusting stares, she turned my direction, “Huh? What are you talking about? I talked to them for like ten minutes. The one with the blue tee shirt is hot.”

“No, actually he’s not. He looks like he’s getting ready to fly somewhere with those huge assed ears. And when I looked over there,
you
were talking and
they
were staring at your tits; all three of them,” I said quietly.

“Whatever. I like this shirt though,” she said as she stood up.

She was wearing a
Southwestern College
tee shirt, and she had cut a slice in the front of it about ten inches long; from the center of the neck opening to the center of her boobs. Her new bra was working overtime to shove her boobs out the top of the oversized opening she had created.

“Yeah, looks great. Looks like your new BF liked it too,” I said as I tossed my head toward the big eared weirdo.

After a single finger salute, she rolled her eyes, and turned away. I loved Sloan, but I envied her a little nonetheless. And, within all of the envy, I despised her at times. She was all too eager to allow a guy to hit on her, pick her up, use her, and break another small piece of her heart. She acted like it was all a part of her plan each time a guy used her, but I knew better. No one wants to feel as if they’re being used, and Sloan was no exception. Her frequent excuse of
I just wanted some dick, I got what I wanted
was sheer bullshit.

As she walked into the dining area and made her rounds, I stared at her butt and wished it was mine. I turned toward the register and checked to make sure I added the Budweiser before Sloan walked up. As I swiped the screens and got to his tab, I smiled at the fact I had added it. Maybe I never forgot anything. Hell, who knows.

“So, you ever date the customers?” a voice from behind me asked.

I turned around to face Heineken bottle. I smiled as I pushed the bar rag into the corner of my jeans pocket.

“No, I’m taken. And I’m gay. She’s my girlfriend,” I nodded into the open dining area.

“The girl with the, uhhm,” he turned and looked over his shoulder.

“The uhhm black hair?” he said as he turned around.

“Yeah, the black hair and the huge tits. We’re lesbians,” I smiled.

“That’s hot,” he said under his breath.

“Uh yeah, not so much really. She’s got herpes, she’s dyslexic, and she’s a fucking vegan. Her huge tits make for some interesting times, but we’re always eating really weird shit, she never pronounces my name right, and can’t balance a checkbook for shit,” I sighed.

“Oh fuck, seriously?” he gasped.

I scrunched my nose, looked down at him, and whispered, “Yeah, and we’re roommates. I remember once the checkbook said we had $2,102.00. I went shopping. They denied my card after the second pair of jeans. Ends up we had a $122.00. It’s kind of a pain in the ass sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah. I meant the herpes, that sucks,” he whispered.

I shrugged, “Not so much. Hell now that I’ve got ‘em too, at least I don’t have to worry about catching it anymore. But the itching is a motherfucker.”

I bent down slightly and started rubbing my inner thigh with my left hand as I waited for him to respond.

He looked like he was going to barf. As he pushed himself away from the bar, I smiled and pulled my hand from between my thighs. 

“I was joking. She doesn’t have herpes,” I smiled.

“She don’t?” he said as he leaned toward the bar.

“Nope,” I responded as I shook my head lightly.

“Dyslexic vegan?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Nope. Actually she’s a stripper. She dances at Jezebel’s on Sunday nights. You should go see her tomorrow. Her stage name is The Portuguese Princess.”

“She’s Portuguese?” he asked.

“Yeah, half,” I nodded.

As much as I tried to hold it together, I began to laugh. He sat and stared at me as if my head was on fire. Giggling at the thought of Sloan stripping, and the guys tossing dollar bills at her, I attempted to stop and apologize for bullshitting him. At least he was a pretty good sport about listening to it all. As I started to tell him I was joking about
everything
, I hear
d
a
thunderous roar from the parking lot, and it seemed as if the walls were vibrating. At the same time as everyone else in the bar, I turned to face the door.

Immediately after the noise and vibration stopped, I turned toward Heineken bottle and blinked my eyes, “What the fuck was that, a tornado?”

He raised his eyebrows slightly, “Sounded like a bunch of bikes; a whole hell of a lot of ‘em.”

As I noticed the front door open out of my peripheral vision, I turned toward the end of the bar. A guy who appeared to be no less than seven feet tall stood in the opening. Tanned from what I suspected was a lifetime of riding, he stood in the opening and quickly scanned the bar. As he turned and looked over his shoulder, I swallowed heavily at the sight of what appeared to be the three dozen bikes in the parking lot. Something about seeing that many bikes and bikers together was oddly exciting.

The panty scorching kind of exciting.

Bikers are fucking hot.

“There ain’t anywhere to sit, but there’s plenty of places to stand,” he shouted into the parking lot.

“I’ll take my check,” Heineken bottle sighed.

“Ditto,” the guy beside him said.

“Yeah, time to get,” Budweiser bottle whispered as he tossed a bill onto the bar.

My eyes widened as the men started walking into the bar. They kept coming, and kept coming, and kept coming. All of them were wearing biker vests with patches all over them. Some had patches on the front the others didn’t. The backs of the vests all had the same logo;
Selected Sinners
on the top,
Kansas
on the bottom
,
with a skull and two crossed guns in the middle. The bar was beginning to look like a scene from a movie. One where the bikers walk in and everyone else stands up and leaves.

As the huge biker stood beside the door with his arms crossed, another man walked in and stepped beside him. He was tall, but not as tall as the giant. There was a certain presence about him as he stood and talked, as if he was the one everyone should be paying attention to. He had a few days growth of beard, and short wavy hair with slight specks of grey. Under his vest was a black sleeveless tee shirt with some writing on the front of it which was mostly obstructed by his vest. As he turned and quietly talked to the taller man, I squinted and walked to the end of the bar closest to them. Although a steady stream of bikers continued to stroll into the bar, I couldn’t shift my focus from the shorter man who was doing the talking. Now standing amongst a sea of other bikers, I had to get a closer look at him. Something about him commanded my attention.

Everything
about him commanded my attention.

The muscles on his biceps flared as he raised his left hand to his face and spoke to the tall man. With his head turned and his mouth partially covered by his cupped hand, I looked down at his boots, and slowly up his body until I focused on his leather vest. He was the type of man a girl fantasized about but was afraid to ever admit it to anyone. A small black rectangular patch with red embroidery was over the chest of his vest. I narrowed my gaze and stared. When I finally reached the end of the bar, the writing on it was clear.

President.

Well,
Mr. President
, you’re hot as fuck.

This could be one wild assed night.