Down Swingin’


The Scorpions have the best parties; you just have to know who not to fuck with. I’ll tell you who that is … nobody. As long as you’re cool with the MC they’re mostly cool with you. I’ve never been a club member, never wanted to be.  I’ve always been independent, making my own rules, my own choices. I like my freedom.

The night started out great. The liquor flowed like water and the pussy was plentiful. A prospect called Tank started giving me some shit over a piece of ass I had been dancing with. She wasn’t anyone’s old lady and wore no patches. It being an MC party I decided to make an early exit. If you fight one of these fuckers, you fight them all.

Tank followed me outside. He was alone, which seemed odd. They’d go to war for one of their own. They’re brothers in the truest sense of the word. We had words and words led to fists. He didn’t fare so well. I guess all shit he was talking was just that, shit. I’d boxed when I was younger and trained MMA for a while. He was tough but not tough enough. I made quick work of him then split. I left him lying in the parking lot with a smashed nose, and a broken jaw.

I’m sitting at a bar two days later, when I see Butch, Bobby and a few others walk in. Butch made a beeline for me. I’d seen him around and thought we were cool, but today all pleasantries were put aside.

‘Blackjack wants to see you,’ Butch said.

‘What for?’ I asked.

‘He just said to bring you, let’s go,’ he replied seriously.

Blackjack was President of the Scorpions. I didn’t know him very well, but I knew enough about him to know that one way or another he always got what he wanted, he didn’t take no for an answer. I downed my beer in two quick swallows and we left.

When we arrived at the clubhouse Butch followed me inside. He motioned me toward the Chapel. Not being a member, I’d never been in there. It’s for official club business, members only. I had a bad feeling. I walked inside and knew it was gonna be worse than bad. Every local patched member was there and a few from the other chapters.  None of them looked happy.

Blackjack sat alone at the head of the table. The others were outlining the room, like sharks circling prey.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Blackjack said.

‘Did I have a choice?’

‘There’s always a choice, ’ he replied in a calm tone, ‘people make choices every day, good ones, bad ones, and sometimes ones that get them dead.’

I kept silent; it seemed like the smartest thing to do. I saw no sense in aggravating him.

‘I heard you had a problem with our prospect. You fucked him up pretty good.’

I heard knuckles cracking. I had a feeling this could get very bad.

‘A prospect does what he’s told,’ he continued, ‘ whether it’s detailing bikes…or picking a fight. They follow my orders, no questions asked.’

Now I knew why I’d been brought in, the fucking prospect. I wished I’d beaten him more now.

‘He was following orders?’ I asked puzzled.

‘You were supposed to be a tune up for the bare knuckles match Saturday. I told him to fuck up the meanest looking prick he could find. He found you. He made a bad decision’

‘That’s why no one jumped in,’ I said.

‘That’s why no one jumped in…but we’re all here now.’

I looked around the room and counted fifteen in all. I saw half a dozen I thought I could easily handle and a couple that I gave myself a 50/50 shot with, but all together there’s no way. I wasn’t going out soft.

‘Is this all you brought,’ I said smiling, ‘I’m gonna have me some fun.’

That bold statement put a smile on Blackjack’s face. The fucker was really enjoying himself.

‘You’re cocky…another time, another place and I probably wouldn’t like you,’ he paused and then said, ‘I hear you’re a good mechanic and you can handle yourself when the shit hits the fan, Tank’s face is proof of that. More importantly we have no one to represent the club Saturday, and we have a substantial amount riding on our fighter.’

‘What exactly are you saying?’ but I already knew what he wanted.

He reached over to the chair next to him and picked up the Cut that had been hanging there. He tossed it on the table. My colors, a center patch and lower rocker… a fucking prospect’s cut. There was only one thing that went through my mind.

What’s gonna happen when I try to walk outta here?

~ fin ~

Don Glass lives and writes in Central PA, Altoona. He's had stories published in The Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle and Yellow Mama. He writes mostly crime and horror but will write anything if the urge strikes. he's currently working on "a lot of stuff".