Page 10 of Minus

“I have CRC.”

“What the hell is that?” Minus asked with a slight drawl. Evidence of his time spent in Savannah.

“Jesus, Minus, you sound like a goddamned hillbilly,” Cutter said with a chuckle.

“Colorectal cancer,” Warthog sang out, in a mock country singer voice, to a cheery tune that did not fit the lyrics.

“Yup. Asshole cancer, stage four,” Cutter said. “It’s bad, I’ve apparently had it for a long time, it’s spread… and it’s gonna kill me pretty damn soon.”

I sat stunned, not knowing what quite to say. My relationship with my uncle was complicated to say the least. Iwas at a bit of a loss as to the appropriate way to act. Plus, I wasn’t quite dealing with a “normal” guy here.

“How long have you known about this?” Minus asked.

“Not long. A couple months. I’ve been keeping this real quiet. Hardly anybody knows,” he replied before adding, “No one outside of my old lady, Big Frank, and of course, Dr. Warthog here.”

“What are you doing about it?” Minus asked.

“Nothin’. Not a goddamned thing Icando about it. It’s aggressive and it’s having a fucking party all over my insides. Besides, it’s not like the club has a health plan to pay for treatment. Hell, before we started getting’ patched up by Doc Eldie, I hadn’t seen a doctor since I was a kid. Probably why I’m in the state I am now. She was the one that spotted somethin’ was wrong with me in the first place, but by then it was too late.”

“Then why the fuck are you telling us?” I asked.

“Because tonight I’m announcing my retirement from the Burning Saints,” he said.

“The hell you are,” Minus replied.

“It’s true.”

Minus stared at Cutter, seemingly unable to process his words.

“It’s not like it’s my choice, it’s the law,” Cutter continued. “If you can’t ride, you can’t wear a patch, and I can barely walk around the block without passing out and pissing myself, let alone ride.”

“You wrote the law and you can change it.”

“If I could then the law wouldn’t be worth jack shit.”

“You started this club.”

“I remember, I was there.” Cutter smiled.

“Let me get this straight,” Minus said. “You’re dying and no one can do anything about it, and the gathering of the tribe out there is because you’re announcing your retirement.”

“That’s right,” Cutter replied.

“So, Big Frank takes up the staff tonight?” Minus asked.

“Nope, can’t do it. Big Frank’s even older than me, hastwo bum knees. In truth, he hasn’t been able to ride for six months. We’ve been letting him slide, but the staff can’t go to him. So, with me kickin’ the fuckin’ bucket, it’s a good time for both of us to retire.”

“Andnotride off into the sunset,” Warthog added, to an approving nod from Cutter.

“Cricket and I could’ve heard about all of this along with the others when you make your big speech or whatever,” Minus said. “Or better yet, we could have heard about it through the grapevine and spared the travel expense, so why the private pow-wow?”

Cutter smiled wide once again, sparked his lighter, and took a huge pull from his bong. He tilted his head back and exhaled slowly, once again filling the small room with a thick, nauseating smoke. He then set his glassy eyed stare directly at us.

“How would the two of you like to run a motorcycle club?”

Minus

“Who the fuckdo you get your weed from, Warthog? Willie Nelson?”

---