Fall of the Rebel Angels

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Why I Write  (E) An explanation of why I write as well as what I believe the purpose of writing should be. #1559875 by Matty Zink

“…one by one, they have banded together
with a mindless kind of loyalty and moved outside the
framework [of society], for good or ill. There is nothing particularly
romantic or admirable about it; that's just the way it is…”
- Hunter S. Thompson

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

I hit the kill switch and the 1650cc engine of my Harley Soft-tail Custom dies instantly.  Years of harsh desert sun have dulled a once bright red paint, adding priceless character to the bike.  It was the envy of every week-end biker and wanna be bad-boy on two wheels.  The bike alone commands a level of respect that few people ever gain.  I catch a glimpse of myself in the side-mirror; what a sorrowful sight stares back.  An unfamiliar face sporting a long scraggly amber beard and dull blue eyes reflect back; I feel like Frankenstein’s monster staring into the river.
       
I ease off the bike and head past the motorcycles which are lined up in picturesque angles along the front of the bar.  My leather jacket is open, letting in a much needed cool breeze.  I touch the side of my jacket, ensuring that my piece is still in the holster.  A neon sign blinks out ‘Eagles Lodge’ in irregular bursts.  We were somewhere around Tuscan, and this Arizona heat is sucking the life out of me.  I nod at the two familiar men standing at the entrance who remind me of  school-boys playing soldier; both are eerily sober and focused.  There is much commotion going on inside, as I’m sure the locals up to a mile away would testify to. 

Early today the boys hit a drug-store, not more than 20 miles West, and this was the celebration.  I knew the operation well by now, it was always the same deal.  They would roll up fast on the place - three would go inside – the other two stay put.  One would stand at the front and the other headed round back.  Out of the three inside, one would demand money/drugs/liquor from the underpaid teen or old man working the register - while the second holds a shotgun on them from a distance.  The shotgun is mostly for show as everyone knows the sound of a pump action shotgun preparing to fire. 

While this was happening, the third man works crowd control.  They walk around and take the wallets/purses off whoever is caught in the middle of this nightmare.  What civilians very often failed to realize is that we rarely want to hurt anyone, but we will if we feel it’s necessary.  The exception is when every so often a new recruit comes along with something to prove.  He thinks the only way to accomplish this is by blowing a hole the size of a fist through the chest cavity of a 90 year old woman who took too long handing over her purse.  That sometimes happened once, but we always made sure it never happened twice.  Rebel Angels we are, but senseless murderers we are not.

         The score from a heist like that was usually several hundred dollars, enough money to fill up our bikes, buy some beer, and move on to the next town.  Any other money we need comes from drugs, mostly cocaine.  It is the drug of the rich and most are willing to pay large sums for good blow, which we are always happy to provide.  I never understood why businessmen would come to us for drugs, other than it's safer than buying from some crack dealing junkie. 

         I nod again at Gordy and Giffen; they glance at me and take a step to the side.  The air is heavy inside, and the familiar smells hit me hard.  In my years of living this life I'm now accustomed to the smell of cheap cigars, whiskey, body odor, vomit and urine that accompanies us wherever we travel.  Despite this, walking in from the fresh outside air always takes a moment to adjust to.  Staple bar-games were being played: darts, pool, arm-wrestling,, and fist fights.  I push through the crowd and sit in the only open seat at the bar.  The bartender, a long faced man who looks too scrawny to be working here slides a shot of whiskey towards me. 

         The instant the whiskey hits my throat, my body calms down.  I close my eyes and wait for the foul familiar taste to work its way out of my mouth.  I grab my wallet, and take out some small bills.   

         “How much?”

         “No charge.”

         If this was a joke it would not go over well with the more intoxicated members.  A ‘funny guy’ such as this was likely to end up resetting a broken nose on the side of a high-way in the middle of the night after a good stomping.

         “Huh?”

         “Everything was taken care of by your - - -boss.”

         In all the years I’d known him, Maxwell has never done anything like this.  While the gang works as a team, it was clear that only one man led the pack.  That man was Maxwell, the mother of all bikers.  He towered at around 6’3”, with straight sandy blonde hair that reached past his shoulders.  If I didn't know better, I'd say that Maxwell was the the biker they based our cliché image from. He wore a straight face at all times, which was almost distinguished - similar to the Marlborough man during his hay-day.  It was as if every crease and scar on his face told a separate story, but together they made up this indefinable man.  A legend in his own right, Maxwell undoubtedly struck fear into the hearts of many throughout the years. It’s hard to judge a man like him, someone with no discernible past and no goals for the future.  He was a shadow that constantly lived under the radar of ‘decent’ society. 

         “Where is he?” I ask.

         He points to a door at the back of the bar.  I tip my glass  forward and the barkeep obliges.  The whiskey goes down smooth this time.  Six years, I thought, that’s six more than I needed or wanted.  I grab a full beer sitting on the bar and head for the back.

         It was not necessary that I speak with Maxwell, but I felt I owed him one last visit.  I have a certain respect for him, mostly due to  him being able to control a pack of wild dogs for so long.  When it came down to the edge, any one of the men in this bar will fight and die for Max. I knock twice on the backroom door and enter.

         “Lars!” Maxwell exclaims with a wide grin, “Just the man I wanted to see.”

         He motions for me to sit, which I do.  He has multiple stacks of bills on the desk, separated by denomination.  Maxwell grabs the ¾ full bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the desk and pulls out two shot glasses.  He fills them both to the brim and motions for me to take one.  I gulp down the last swallow of my beer and replace it with the shot.  He raises his shot in the air.

         “To the Rebel's.”

         I nod and we both slam back our shots.  This one goes down like water.  I reach into my pocket and grab my last smoke.  Maxwell follows suit and provides me with a light off his match.

         “What’s going on Max, I hear your buying drinks tonight?”

         Maxwell is silent, his face only bearing a grin while he leans back.

         “What’s the deal?”

         Now turning back and forth in his chair, his smile grows.  He stops and slams his feet down, making me cringe. He reaches down and pulls up a briefcase, spins it so it is facing me, and slides it to the edge.

         “The combination is 1-2-3.”

         I thumb the tiny numbers until they are aligned,  I look up at him and pop open the locks.  The case springs open.

         “Holy fuck,” I mumble.

         The light from a desk lamp dances over the contents, causing them to shine in the most glorious way, as if God himself crafted each piece to perfection.

         “Max...Max...How?”

         “The liquor store job.  Some geezer there had it with him.  Burl grabbed it and brought it back to me after he couldn’t get it open.”

         “Jesus fucking Christ.”

         “This is the big score we’ve been waiting for, and it fell right into our fucking laps.” 

         I nod while pushing the briefcase towards him. I throw my smoke on the floor and extinguish it.  He turns the case around and stares in awe at the contents.  In one movement, I draw my pistol and square it at the briefcase which obscures his view. 

         “To think, we’ve been nickel and diming coke and ripping off mom and pop shops for years.  This is our reward Lars.”

         He shuts the case and looks up.

         “Our rew…”

         I didn’t let him finish his sentence.  I grab the briefcase, holster my gun, and sneak out the door.  I make my way towards the exit, I keep my head down on the way through the crowd, which by now is on the verge of erupting into a violent orgy.  Once outside, I take a deep breath of the warm desert air.   

         “If Maxwell sees you out here like this he’ll kill the both of us,” Griffon says to Gord.

         “Oh come on, the boss man is in a good mood, just ask Lars,” he motions to me, “tell this whiny bitch that everything's gonna be alright.”

         I smile.

         “Don’t worry Griff.  Every thing's going to be just fine.”

         This seems to make Griff content, so I head for my bike.  I put the case in my saddle bag and start the engine; it purrs to life.  I get on the bike and put on my gloves.  I take one last good look at the bar.  A six year stint, ending right now.  I put up the kickstand and crawl out of the parking lot, stopping just before the main back-road.  I let out four quick honks and the bushes  around the bar spring to life.  Many men with full body armor and assault rifles drawn emerge.  Gordy and Griffen are on the ground within seconds.

         My assignment was a success, the Rebel Angels are falling as I ride along the darkened roads. It won't be long before they realize something is wrong, the first flag will be raised when I don't show up in D.C.  It'll take some time before they piece together what happened back there, and before that time comes I need a shave and a haircut.  With nothing but open road in front of me, I crank back the throttle, and speed off further into the fading light.