Page 1 of Fiend
One
Fiend
I make the turn into the alley with Killer right next to me. I see the little shits running. I turn off my bike, slide off, and sprint after the little turds. My Brother, Killer, is right behind me.
I catch one goon, wrapping my hand around his dark, shoulder-length hair. I yank the little shit back, shoving his face against the wall. I searched the punk for any weapons.
“Stupid fucker,” I snarl, pulling out his switchblade from his jacket.
I turn him around, grabbing his throat. I glare at the fucker, squeezing his throat just enough to scare the little shit.
“Got yah,” Killer growls, holding the other little turd by his hair. Killer searches the fucker for weapons. That little shit has a gun.
“You think you’re tough,” Killer growls, shoving the gun into his boot.
“What the fuck are you punks doing,” I growl, holding the little shit against the brick wall.
The little fucker eyes widen, the unmistakable fear in his eyes. The little turd looks to be at least sixteen.
“Just wanna make some scratch,” the fucker says.
I look for any colors, but I don’t see any.
“Fucker, you two are in deep shit! You’re hustling on our turf! Prez is not happy,” I growl, squeezing his throat a little harder.
I then release my hold a little bit, but keep him against the wall.
“We didn’t know,” the other turd says.
“Fuckers, that’s a rookie move,” Killer growls, pushing the kid up the wall.
I know that Killer is enjoying playing with the kids.
“We need scratch,” the punk says.
“What’s your name,” I ask, gathering my brows.
“I’m James, and that’s my buddy Billy,” James says, tilting his head to the side.
“Fuckers! Tell us who you run with,” Killer growls, not taking any shit.
“It’s a small group of us,” Billy says, lifting his head.
Well, he has guts.
“What’s your fucking colors,” I ask, lowering my eyelids.
“We’re a small group, we started the Mad Dogs,” James says, looking at me.
“Fuck! Who’s in charge,” Killer asks, raising his brow.
“Ah, I am,” Billy says.
“You fuckers have some balls! This is the Satan’s Warriors MC turf! We don’t allow any fuckers working our turf,” I growl, glaring at them.
“Could you ask the Prez if we can work for you, maybe as informants, and we could hustle the product,” James says, looking at us.
“You little shit,” Killer growls, furrowing his brow.
