Lockdown Day 33: Friday 24th april, 2020

I pit-stopped on the return leg. The beers were working nicely. I loved having a forceful, free-flowing piss when I was on my way up. It just felt so good, so natural, as if I could piss on the ceiling. What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Well, maybe it is a bit weird. I heard the door open behind me and caught the impending reflection of a large troll on the aluminium piss-tray.  

  “On yer own there Trick. Got no buddies then.”

  “Slo-mo. Didn’t see you come in.” I hated having a good piss interrupted by bad karma. “Don’t know about you, but I don’t usually hit the head with my buds. I can shake it out myself.”

  In the cracked mirror he loomed even larger than usual, a bad trip version of the HoneyMonster, an angeldust nightmare distortion of the guy I had known many moons before in Glasgow. But Slo-mo had none of Honey’s humour and personality. He was a big fucker. Towering over me. Six foot four or five and built like the Berlin Wall. Brutal. Solid. Impenetrable. Scarred face, scarred personality. Greasy corkscrew wirehair all black and clinging to uncovered shoulders baring misspelt jail tattoos. God’s gift to the gormless. The name was deserved and he knew it. Thinking was not his strong point. He was slow, so slow, so very slow, so very, very, very slow. So slow there were times he would just give up and lash out at whoever or whatever happened to be in his way. Normally I would have felt sorry for someone like that and taken a bit of time out to get by with him – I’m not a complete arsehole all the time – but he liked to hurt things – animals, people inanimate objects – he enjoyed it. I’d heard the stories, gross and unrepeatable, and I knew they weren’t just gossip. My problem was that he hung on every word Stonk said. I think even he was embarrassed by his own lashing out and figured if he just went along with Stonk he didn’t have to think for himself. Good for him. Not so good for me.

  He thought about the comment as I shook my goodbyes to the latrine and as I was exiting stuttered “Ah don’t come to the john with …”

I left him finishing the sentence.

  Back in the bar, Jay had harried Sal into submission so he had now retired behind the bar where Doc was depressing him to death. When he looked over in mock despair, Jay flipped him the loser sign, the thumb and forefinger ‘L’ on the forehead.

  As I sat down Jay slid across a shot, “I see Stonk and Slo-mo crawled in.”

  “Bumped into Slo-mo in the bog, didn’t see Stonk.” We downed the bourbon then Jay signed to Sal for two more. With a slight up and down shake of his hand Sal signalled back that Jay was a tosser.

  “He’s about. Can ya not tell? Ah woulda thought the hairs on yer neck would bristle whenever he’s near. He hates you, dude.”

  “Tell me about it. I have no idea why. Don’t know the guy too well given he’s a newbie and I’ve been out of town. I out-dragged him over the quarter last year at the St Louis Run’what’ya’brung. But that’s no reason. That was a win for the club. So we’re all sinking some suds afterwards when him and Slow-mo start giving it some and looking to kick-off. They’ve not been around that long, and with all seven of them that prospected together still being so tight I was always going to play it cautious. Now I get on with most of the guys and we’re all bros, but if it was going to blow it was likely to go down party lines. Stonk and Slow-mo with the rest of the savage seven for back-up. Mack, Doc and Randy were having none of it though, so it blew over. But I don’t trust them. I think they’re looking to pick us off one by one till they run the chapter.”

  “Bullshit. Never happen, dude. The guys wouldn’t allow it. You’re paranoid, dude, it’s not like that. Ya gotta keep the faith”

  “Think about it Jay. The club owns the House of Babes. That’s a lot of cash money going through the coffers. As things stand the dough goes into central funds for running the clubhouse, fines, runs and parties, essentials and the like. There’s a lot of cash there. And the joint is clean apart from the odd bit of nose-candy for the eye-candy, but if you started dealing there you could make a mint, so there’s a shitload of money at stake here. I might be paranoid but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.”

  “I still think you’re exaggerating, bud. Chapter’s got rules.”

  “Think about it Jay. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Trick!” A shrill voice shrieked over Janis Joplin praying gravel-throated for a taste of German engineering. Diva beckoned me over to where she held court among the glitter girls. I winked at Jay, “Must be the season of the witch.”

  “She’s scary, dude. That’s for sure. Never takes no for an answer.”

  “And you should know.”

  “Don’t remind me. I was weak. May the good Lord watch over me and save me from such a fate again.”

  Diva was as testy as she was tasty. She was unpredictable, obsessive, possibly psychotic, certainly dangerous. She’d wounded Doc in the leg with a Saturday night special a couple of years back and he still wouldn’t talk about it, not even when mooching for a bad luck beer. I grabbed my glass and wandered over, curious as to what she wanted. We were far from friends. 

  “What was Flick looking for earlier?” she trilled.

  “What?”

  “What was Flick saying?”

  “Nothing much.” I replied slowly. “Wondering where Randy was.”  I stared her straight in the evil eye, “And the reason I’m telling you is …?”

  “No reason. Just wondered. She seemed upset.”

  “Yeah. Thought so too. But nothing to do with me.”

  “Cool. So how you keeping anyway? Looking good, you and that sexy Scottish accent of yours. Why don’t you come in and see me at work sometime? I’ll cream your Twinkie for free.”

  “I’m sure you would. Next time I’m in. Promise.” I lied.

  Not in a million years. I wouldn’t trust her anywhere near me. I’d be checking I still had my wallet with one hand and my balls with the other.

  She made unexpected small talk until a minor blemish emergency demanded her attention in the restroom. As I rose, I noticed Stonk was crowding the corner with Jay. I wondered again, pointlessly, why everyone I ever found myself up against was well over 6 foot and 230 pounds when I checked in a hand shorter and two stones less. Still standing though. Lots were not. I checked out the gloom. I needed to know what Stonk was up to. I wandered back.

  Stonk was insistent, “Come on Jay. Ya beat me at pool last night and darts last week. Howsabout a return match, a quick drag on the short course out to the Hicksted farm an’ back.”

  Jay was in immediately. He just had to try and get good odds. This was his favourite course, straight lines, dirt and a bit of risk, a short drag along the highway, then onto the frontage by the plant and down the portage road, out to the abandoned Hicksted place, about the last farm in Du Page country, through the farmyard, down the dirt road and over the rail lines at the crossing before heading back along the trackside. Jay was the grandmaster at this. His hog was less of a straight-line dragster and more of an all-rounder than most. He had done a lot of work upgrading the suspension, forks and braking so it handled the dirt road, crossing and trackside well. He would fall behind till he hit the farm but then pick off the frontrunners on the way back every time. He had it down to an art. The kick in the tail was that the race was always jump-started just as the evening train whistled its departure from Lombard station. If you didn’t reach the crossing before the Cornbread Commuter you were screwed as you had to wait for it to pass.

  “Ya in Trick? Blast along the mainline before the boys arrive. Losers buy the beers.”

  “Sounds good but not tonight Stonk. I’ve got my drinking head on, the bike’s in bed for the night and I’m going to make sure I follow it. Anyway, I heard they were building condos on that land.”

  “Ya a man or a mouse? What’s the matter with ya? Come on boy. A short blast’ll clear your head.” He turned to Jay, “See ya outside” and stomped off.

  “Jay. You don’t need to do this. You’re pissed. Stonk hasn’t been bevvying in the bar all evening. You’ve been on a Wild Turkey shoot since god knows when this afternoon. Do it some other time. Now is not good for you.”

  “Dude. Don’t be such a downer. Ah’m fine. Ah’ve not drunk that much. I can handle my hog with the best of them.”

  “Jay. I know you can, but you’re too wrecked to be doing this. Come on, man. It’s not worth it.”

  “Trick! We’re gonna race. I’ll kick his ass, dude. I always do.”

  Jay was probably right. He was always opening up a six-pack of butt-kickings to the brethren on this run. Peculiar then that Stonk should choose this route. I couldn’t remember the last time Jay had been beaten. Something wasn’t right.

  I grabbed Doc off his stool and we followed Jay out, “Come on Doc, let’s head out to the preserve for a good view.”

  The hillock at the park provided a great vantage point. It was the only raised ground for miles in these flat Illinois plains except for dusty little-league pitcher’s mounds. Outside Slo-mo stooped over Stonk as he fired up his hog. When he heard we were heading out he piped up, “Ah’ll join ya.”

  Great. Was it all going to kick off tonight? I was now ratty, rattled and ratted. Great combo for a Tuesday. Really not looking for trouble. What the fuck did God have to create fuckers like fucking Stonk and fucking Slo-mo for? One minute life is excellent, the next heinous. Way to go God, way to go.