The kid was a born biker, but as much as he tried to get us to join, it wasn’t for us.
Preppy and I never strayed from our plan.
Ever.
“You guys ever need a cleaning up, you call me. I can put a word in. Problem is, you’d owe us a favor. That’s how it works. No matter when we call in that favor or no matter what that favor is, you gotta do it.” Bear lit a cigarette and waved the smoke away from his face. “Nuff of that shit, boys. Preppy, you got the goods or what?”
“Goods?” I asked. I wasn’t aware that we were selling to Bear today, or any other day for that matter. Since he turned Prospect, he bought his weed from the MC.
Preppy hopped up and walked over to the hall closet. He came back holding something covered with a ripped sheet. “What the fuck is that?” I asked.
“This—” Preppy waved his hand over the sheet. “—is your birthday gift, you ungrateful fuck.” He set it on the floor and grabbed the sheet in the middle, lifting it off like a magician. “Voila!” He stepped back, and my eyes focused on what was in front of me. It was a cardboard box and inside of it were bits and pieces of something.
Not just something. It was a tattoo gun.
“Happy birthday, you fucking fuck! Now, let’s figure out how to put this thing together, because Bear and I already picked out which tattoos we want from your sketchbook.” I stared at the equipment in front of me, not believing my eyes.
“If you take any longer to get started putting it together, I’m going to request mine be put on my taint,” Bear said, knocking me out of my stunned state.
“Thanks, boys.” I lifted the box onto my lap and started tinkering with the parts. “And Bear?”
“Yeah, Man?”
“There is no fucking way in hell I’m ever going anywhere near your taint.”
“Noted.”
That day, I tattooed for the very first time. I didn’t do the ones the boys had picked from my sketchbook. They were too elaborate and although I could draw, I’d never used a tattoo gun before so the full back piece Bear wanted with intertwining snakes, The Beach Bastards logo, would have to wait until I knew what the fuck I was doing.
Instead, Bear got a small shamrock behind his ear, although I’m not quite sure if he was any sort of Irish. Preppy settled for PREP on his knuckles. The lettering was thin and crooked. They were the worst tattoos in the world. Blown out edges, a bloody fucking mess. But the boys loved them, and I couldn’t wait to practice on them some more.
“I’m so gangsta.” Preppy said, admiring his newly tatted up knuckles.
“You’re about as gangsta as my ninety-year-old Grandma,” Bear said.
“Bear, doesn’t your grandma have a full chest tattoo and purple hair?” I asked.
“Sure does,” he replied.
“Then, I actually think she’s way more gangsta then ole Preppy here,” I said.
“You guys laugh now, but you’ll see. King here is gonna tattoo my neck next. I’m gonna look real mean.”
“Are you still gonna still wear button down shirts, bow ties and suspenders?” I asked.
“Fuck yeah. Always. That’s my style.”
Bear chuckled. “You may not look tough, or mean, but you might confuse the fuck out of people.”
“Fuck this shit man,” Preppy said, standing up. “I gotta go get the last of my shit from my stepdad’s. I’ll be back. Feel free to laugh at my fucking expense while I’m gone, shitheads.”
“You want me to go with you?” I asked.
“Nah, I got this shit. It’s past nine. Fucker’s either at the bar or passed out on the couch. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Preppy never talked about it, but I was sure that his stepdad was still beating him up until the day he moved out. He was always slightly limping or clutching his ribs. When I asked him if he was okay, he usually told me he was working out. “Nah man, did chest today, hurts like a bitch when you do it right.” He was a shit liar, but his pride was all he had besides me and Bear. Although we joked around with him, the last thing we wanted was for Preppy to be hurting at the hands of some drunken asshole.
When I hadn’t heard from Preppy for two hours, I got on my bike and peddled over to the trailer park his stepdad wasted his life away in. As soon as I parked my bike, I heard a commotion inside.
“Prep?” I called out. No response.
“FUCK YOU!” I heard Prep roar from inside. His high-pitched voice cracking with his strained scream. With one kick, I knocked in the flimsy door.
What I saw beyond it would haunt my dreams for years to come.
His stepdad, Tim, had Prep bent over the end of the old corduroy couch, thrusting furiously into him while holding a pistol to his temple. When I sent the door flying into the room, he turned his attention my way, along with his pistol. Preppy turned and knocked him on his side, the gun slid across the floor. Preppy lunged for it but his jeans, which were still wrapped around his ankles, caused him to trip and fall forward against the wall.