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A Stripper and Wannabe Bikers
In These Parts #2
© 2023 James LaFond
At Kelley’s home.
Clint was here today. We’re watchin’ the game and he asks me to turn it off cause the government is watchin’ through the TV. So I do. But I tell him, you know, this is a computer, they can watch us even when the thing is off. So, he asks for a shot, which is a different thing for Clint. Clint never did drugs and he only drank to hang out with me. It’s a real good thing—don’t you think—that Clint doesn’t get high!”
So, I tell him, we got a whole spread in on the counter—hell, its rediculous, you bring a bottle every time you come! So, Clint gets to washing dishes and he sees the water spinning in a little whirlpool, and figures it’s the government fuggin’ with his blood. He’s havin’ coffee and it’s whirling in the cup, and he makes a connection, that since their is iron in our blood, that the government is using magnetic forces to fuck with his blood.
He lives in a trailer packed so full of shit you can’t turn around. Well, I dealt in junk and antiques my whole life and got pretty much two of everything. I’m downsizing, getting rid of all the extras. There’s a little boy up the street, he gets a present every week. I’m old and just wanna enjoy a few more years. So I bought some game cameras so I can find out who the motherfugger is who’s breakin’ into my truck. I’d hate to run over the wrong person.
So that is a little Clint in a so-called nut shell.
[Where did you meet Clint? Were your high school friends?]
No, no—Portland. I’d say late 80s, cause I was dealin’ drugs to his roommate and Clint, you know he can fix anything. So he is hangin’ out with bikers to fix their bikes for cash. Clint has always been paranoid of the government—and I can’t blame them since they did abduct him one time on mistaken cause—which is another story. I got so many stories, people have said I should write a book. Then I meet you—a book writer?
[raises hands and eye brows to heaven]
So, I believe this was before, or could have been after, the Chenault Indians abducting Clint to fix their truck—holding him rather until he finished the agreed upon job. I had bought this house, had a few strippers livin’ here. They’re nice to look at and good for bed—but crazy is always part of the situation. So, this bitch is screwing this other guy. Well, free is free. But if you are living with me and screwin’ me, you aren’t screwin’ another guy. You go live with that guy.
I told her to leave and she sends a couple guys over to get her stuff, and she even wants the washer and dryer, so I let her take it—let bygones be bygones. So, she wants something else too, want me to come to where she is living and have a talk. I’m figuring her and her new man want some coke, or are looking to shake me down for money.
So, Clint has got my back. He just did—you need Clint, he is there and he’s fuggin’ crazy. I give Clint my nine [9 mm] and he waits outside in the yard of this place. We have another friend drivin’ my truck. This is smellin’ like a bad situation. I have my 0.45 under my jacket in the clamshell holster, nice, nice rig.
I go inside and there are these three motherfuggers, wanna be bikers. These are not Gypsy Jokers, but prospects for a feeder club that the Jokers select people from—kind of like walk-ons at a Minor League tryout who are acting like they’ve been to the World Series.
I walk in, she is there, lookin’ hot as brass, right, and I address her—it seemed at first like she was puttin’ on a show that I was abusing her or some shit—which is something I never do. I don’t hit a woman. I figure right there by the lay, with these three guys sittin’ around and my back to the door, that she has been telling stories that I hit her and that since I was dealin’ coke, probably suggesting I have this or that—three idiots feeding on a bad idea suggested by some stripper.
I begin to ask her why I am here and one opens up and says, “You ain’t leavin’ here in one piece.”
Now that pissed me off. I boxed, arm wrestled, even won a belly bounce contest, usually took care of fools like this with an open hand—not gonna show the respect of a closed fist to some piece of shit coward who breaks out in beer balls.
One of these guys backs that dumb shit up and they start to rise and I said, “The motherfugger that lays a hand on me ain’t leavin’ here alive.”
They froze and I told them, “I don’t know what this dumb bitch said, but I don’t fight women or packs of cowards. Where I come from, feral dogs get put down, not entertained in a tug. Now, if you all wanna come outside, where I have guaranteed fair play, then y’all can line up one at a time and I’ll drop you in the order you stand. But you will not be puttin’ the boots to this man,” and I slid my jacket a little as a suggestion, and they got the hint of what the fuck was up.
So, no takers, we leave. I made a call to the man that guaranteed my pickup of Clint with the Gypsy Joker Indians. Those three wanna be bikers, they got a good workin’ over by some real badass bikers. The stripper, well, I guess she was turned whore to them all. That’s what she gets. I was good to her, even in the end and afterward—but, stupid is stupid, especially in a woman, and you can’t fuck no sense into it!
harm city
‘Being One of Eight’
the combat space
the first boxers
song of the secret gardener
america the brutal
into leviathan’s maw
honor among men
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