King
Fifteen years old
“Fuck no! I ain’t gonna be nobody’s bitch,” Preppy slurred at Bear. He took another giant swig from the bottle of cheap tequila we were passing around. The three of us sat on overturned milk crates on the floor of the living room of the shitty apartment Preppy and I had just moved into. The crates were the only furniture we had. “That cut is cool as fucking shit, but you ain’t gonna see me announcing to the world that I’m a criminal. I keep my shit on the DL.”
The place was a complete shit hole. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that consisted of a hot plate and a sink that sat on top of two cabinets in the corner of the square living room. One strip of black and white linoleum squares marked off the ‘kitchen’ area.
It was dirty. There was an ant mound growing under one of the baseboards, flies stuck to traps hanging from the ceiling. A fan with two broken blades that didn’t turn on hung uselessly from the living room ceiling. The only window in the main living area was nailed shut so it couldn’t be opened.
It was the greatest fucking place ever.
“Nah man, it’s totally cool. Cops don’t fuck with us cause they’re scared of us. Besides, the MC parties all the fucking time. Pussy and blow everywhere, as far as the eye can fucking see, man.” Bear swayed to one side and kept himself from falling off his milk crate by straightening one of his legs and anchoring the heel of his boot to the floor. “It’s totally tits, man. You gotta join up. Prospect it out like me. Once I’m in, I’ll vouch for you guys. Then after a year, it’s fucking smooth sailing on the SS Tits and Ass. Besides, you’ll love the clubhouse. It has a pool table and a fucking bar.”
Bear had first told us he was going to turn Prospect for his dad’s MC, The Beach Bastards, when he started buying weed from us in the eighth grade. He’d known what his future held for him since the day he was born. Since he spent most of his time with either the MC or us, he’d been trying to get us to Prospect with him since the day he decided that we were all going to be friends.
“Not for us, man. We’re like our own MC of two. We’re like the non-MC, MC,” I said. I’d moved on from the tequila and was lighting the two-foot tall purple glass bong that sat in the middle of the living room on yet another overturned milk crate, this one acting as our coffee table.
“You gotta kill people and shit?” Preppy asked in a lowered voice, like someone was listening in and he didn’t want them to hear. He reached over to take the bottle back from Bear, stretching out his too-long-for-his-body arm.
Where I was fifteen and taller and more built than most adults, looking several years older than I was, Preppy was smack dab in the middle of an awkward phase that made his arms and legs look like a stretched-out Gumby and his face looked as if he’d had a chronic case of the chicken pox.
“Only people that need killing,” Bear answered like he was reciting something he’d heard a million times before, and no doubt he had. “No women or kids, nothing like that. Just people who know the score and understand the consequences, or people who fuck with the MC and us earning.” Bear looked up at Preppy through his messy white hair and brushed it out of his eyes. “Why? You got someone who needs killing?”
He sounded very much like his father, President of The Beach Bastards. Bear’s father was a psychopathic killer, who dealt in drugs and women, but Bear still managed to have the most stable upbringing between the three of us.
“Nah, man,” Preppy said, waving his hand dismissively like the question was ridiculous, but I knew he was lying. I saw it in his eyes. “Just curious is all.”
I also had a very good idea of who he thought ‘needed killin’.
Bear looked around and leaned in close, waving for us to lean in bring it in as well. “We got these guys, specially trained. Pops calls them ‘the janitors. You know what their job is?” he asked pausing dramatically, waiting for Preppy and me to urge him on.
“What?” Preppy asked, totally enthralled. “What do they do?”
Bear smiled, elated that Preppy had taken the bait. “When people need killin’, or get killed, they sweep in and make it so it never happened.”
He made a wiping motion with his hands in the air, extending them out to his sides. He sat back, looking pleased that he could share with us something about the MC. It wasn’t until he turned prospect that he’d finally gotten a glimpse of the inner workings of The Beach Bastards, and he was always excited to tell us more about the club he was raised in but didn’t necessarily know a lot about before he was given a PROSPECT cut.