Page 42 of 12 Months of Mayhem

“I’ve called the cops,” yells a young female.

I glance at her. “Fucking great.”

Sonny swings again, hitting me in the jaw, sending me flying. I scramble to my feet, let out a war cry, and tackle Sonny around the waist, forcing him outside.

“Did you hear her, Sonny? Cops are coming. Neither of us needs the heat.”

He swings again, but I dodge his fist.

“Are you listening?”

“I don’t fucking answer to you, Whiskey!”

The man charges me, but he’s slow, and I kick him in the ass as he stumbles by. Sonny trips and lands on his butt. The Outlaws and the Razorbacks are brawling in the street, and I can hear the sirens of the approaching police.

A few of the regulars are out on the street cheering on the fights surrounding me. Sonny gets to his feet, hands raised into fists, and begins to circle me.

“I hear sirens, Sonny.”

“Yeah, I don’t care. You moved into our turf. We had an understanding, and you fucking broke it!”

He swings, and I dodge the punch.

“We didn’t, or if we did, it wasn’t me. I’ve honored our deal.”

“Liar!”

Sonny roars and swings. I block it and slam my fist into his face. He staggers, his eyes roll back in his head, and he hits the ground.

The next thing I know, I’m being hit in the back of the head, and everything goes black.

I come to slowly, groggy and disoriented. My head throbs with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. I try to stand, but my legs feel like Jell-O, and I stumble, catching myself on a nearby car. I glance around the street. It’s a mess with shards of glass, overturned trash cans, and even some barstools from inside the bar are strewn across the street.

The wail of sirens grows louder, and soon enough, the police arrive on the scene. The Razorbacks scatter like roaches do when you flip on the light. My head hurts too much to give chase, so I lean against the car, waiting for the dust to settle and trying not to throw up.

I rub the back of my head, wincing as my fingers press against a knot that’s swelling faster than I can blink. When I pull my hand back, it’s streaked with blood pooling in my palm like some twisted badge of honor. My vision blurs, dark edges creeping in as I fight to stay upright, biting down on the rising nausea.

“You okay, Prez?” Gamble’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Who… or what the hell hit me?” I rasp, blinking away the stars still dancing in my line of sight.

Gamble shrugs, his lips pressing into a grim line. “Didn’t see it, sorry.”

“Sonny?” I ask, half spitting the name, that bastard’s smug face flashing in my mind.

“Ran off,” Gamble mutters, shaking his head. “For a fat fucker, he sure can move.”

“He accused us of muscling in on their territory,” I say, my voice low, irritation scraping with each word.

“Bullshit,” Gamble replies, fists clenching.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him. Look into it,” I say, but before I can finish, a uniform sidles up next to me.

“Whiskey,” the cop says, eyeing the blood smeared across my fingers.

“Hey, man, we didn’t start it,” I mutter, sounding more defensive than I’d like.

“Wanna tell me who did?” He looks between Gamble and me, suspicion thick in his gaze.

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