Page 38 of All's Fair in Love & Chaos
My phone goes off with a text notification, and I reluctantly pull it from my pocket.
Malice: I’ve got a lead, bringing in a ranked member. 5 mins out
Me: Good work
Sin: We’ll be ready for you. Meet us in the basement
Me: Is this another fucking group chat?
Malice: No…..
Wrath: Why would you think that?
Me: Because it’s literally multiple people in one chat. Group. Chat.
Sin: I don’t think that’s what it means
Me: That’s exactly what it means
Me: We’re a motorcycle club, we don’t need a fucking group chat
Sin: Actually, probably the best reason TO have a group chat
Wrath: He’s not wrong, and that’s saying something cause he usually is
Malice: Here, here!
I closeout of the chat with an eyeroll, pocketing my phone back into my pants just as a truck pulls into the driveway. I watch as Malice and several prospects drag a dumb-looking motherfucker from the backseat. He’s hog-tied, and the four of them carry him together across the gravel driveway and through the outdoor steps that lead to our basement.
I walk through the house, the windows covered with tarp and Duct Tape until our new ones arrive for install, the furniture already replaced out of my own pocket and not the club’s. I want to make sure everyone is always at home here.
I reach the basement just as Malice slaps the ugly fucker on the cheek several times. He’s tied at the waist to a wooden chair, his forearms flat against the armrests and tied down at the wrists. He really is an ugly one, with lopsided eyes that sag at the waterline, a scarred face, and yellow and black rotting teeth. They sure know how to find them over at that club. And this one supposedly has all the brains.
“What up, dumbass? Picked the wrong day for a haircut, huh?” Malice says as he swings on him. His head is pummeled to the side, blood spraying from his mouth onto the concrete below us. “Where’s the clubhouse hiding?”
“Fuck you, I’m no rat!”
“The thing about rats, Knuckles,” I say, flicking his name patch, seeing the wordtreasurerright under it, “is that they all squeal when a fire is under their ass. So, do you want to talk, or do you want to burn?” Malice lights a blowtorch, and the whooshing sound of the lighter fluid releasing and the flame coming to life fills the room. Knuckles’ eyes go wide with fear, but he doesn’t speak. Fine by me.
His screams are immediate as Mal aims the blowtorch over the top of his hand, melting away the first few layers of skin. The smell of burned flesh makes my stomach roll, my subconscious trying to pull me to a time that I wish I could forget.
When Malice pulls back, I squat down on my haunches in front of Knuckles, his mouth leaking a mix of blood and drool, his eyes red with pain.
“Where is your clubhouse? Where is Pestilence hiding?” I wait a beat, and he says nothing. “Okay, then.” I nod at Malice, who focuses on the side of his face this time, slowly melting off the skin like sugar on a dessert.
“Let’s try something else then, huh? You’re clearly the money guy, so if I open up my phone, you’d be able to give me account numbers. You want to do that for me, Knuckles? I can make the pain stop.” Nothing. “Okay, then. Malice, get the shears, let’s see how he likes missing some fingers.”
Malice doesn’t waste any time, using gardening shears to snap off three of his fingers, one by one. The crunching noise of bone as it snaps melds and mixes with the screams from Knuckle’s throat. A symphony of torture.
“Okay! Okay!” Malice stops with the shears open, the fourth finger resting against the blade.
“You gonna give me the numbers or tell me where Pestilence is hiding?” When Knuckles doesn’t answer right away, there’s a sickening pop and crunch as Malice cuts off the next finger, a spray of blood gushing in my direction and painting my cheek and neck. “What the fuck, Mal?”
“Damn, he’s a squirter! Did you see that? That went over two feet! Better cauterize these before they get infected, good sir. You should probably talk soon, this is gonna hurt like a bitch. So I’ve heard. Haven’t had it done to me before. I’m not a knucklehead like you. HA. KNUCKLEhead.” Malice cracks the joke and drops his head back while he laughs like a maniac at himself. I use the back of my sleeve to rub away the rivulets of blood dripping down my face, cursing Malice as I do.
“The accounts. Obsidian Financial Group, first account is three, five, five, five, two, five, five, three, zero, zero.” I bring up the account information, finding it loaded.
“Well, buddy, that’s a fat stack. What the fuck are you all involved in? I know that isn’t all coming from drugs or arms.”
