A Sexy Thing

I said, “Their philosophy is better to be feared than admired. Nine-tenths of them are Filthy Few members.” The Filthy Few was an extra patch any one percenter was allowed to add to his cut once he’d murdered someone in cold blood. Hey. I guess I’ll get to wear one soon.

“Yeah,” said Crosley. He hadn’t stopped eyeballing the lesbians since we’d arrived there. He kept wiggling his eyebrows at them, as though they were about to sit on his lap. Fact, quite a few of them frowned at him with disgust.

Most of them were of the suspendered variety, like Pinky, manly to the point of having a few facial hair growths. Many wore lumberjack shirts buttoned to the chin, some adorned with ties. A couple of wives appeared cisgender at first, their slim bods tucked into pleated dresses. But upon closer inspection, one of these women had hairy legs and balls.

So no, Crosley was barking up the wrong tree, his radar off the track. “Yeah,” he said, “the only one who hasn’t killed anyone is George Zip.”

Pinky shook her head with sorrow. “George Zip,” she pronounced, as if his name was synonymous with “chump.” “He was knocked unconscious in the Lion’s Club mens’ room with a silver buffet tray.”

“Yeah,” said Crosley, reminiscing fondly. “It was still full of cocktail sauce. Looked like a spree killing in there. Hey, what happened to your arms, Van the Man? Looks like you’ve got cat scratch fever.”

He referred to the foot-long scratches that Maine Coon had given me at the fish fry when I tried to embrace it. I ignored him, putting the finger back on Society’s Baggers. Their actions created an amazing body count. “Don’t forget that couple they shot to death last week in the movie theater.”

Pinky got heated. “Yeah, because they wouldn’t stop texting. Tyrone and Jackie were trying to watch that Borat movie.”

I said, “The part with Guiliani and his pants zipper. Tyrone said ‘You fuck with one, you fuck with all of us.’” I mumbled, “People have been flipping me off on the road, jamming past me because of the colors I sport.”

Pinky turned to Crosley. “Speaking of zippers, how’s it coming on the, you know, the sting? I’m like an ant under a magnifying glass here, bartending for them. Fried to a crisp.”

Crosley abruptly turned into the wannabe serial killer right before our very eyes. He crunched neatly on a potato fry—never a sweet potato fry after his run-in with Jackie Daytona—and clipped, “I’m-a tellin’ you, we’re gettin’ them all on murder charges. Don’t worry, Van—we’re ignoring the gun running stuff because it’s small change.”

“Oh, good,” I said. I’d been wondering about that. “I was even thinking of taking some of the iron with me to the Zealots, as sort of a peace offering.”

Crosley shrugged. “Be my guest. You’re in charge of all of it. But don’t take it before tonight.”

“Why?” I asked, feeling ominous.

Again, Crosley looked from side to side as we all leaned in. “There’s an event tonight. Red wings.”

“What’s that?” spat Pinky.

“How come I wasn’t told?” I whined. I’d been feeling left out of a few things lately, a few runs where they’d told me to stay put and clean the kitchen or whatever. Then I’d wondered why I felt left out of a club that needed to be wiped off the face of the earth.

“Here,” said Crosley, lifting up a couple fingers to get someone’s attention. “Let’s just hear what Marcel has to say about red wings. Oh, Marcel!” he trilled.

She was a slender dyke wearing a dress coming forward with a curly smile. I could tell she wore a wig, as the shiny curls were too perfect to believed, and she slopped the makeup on with a trowel. She put a hand on Crosley’s shoulder.

He said, “Tell my friends what red wings are.”

Marcel recited, “Red wings is cunnilingus with menstruating women. It’s done in some MCs as a rite of passage for Prospects to become fully patched.”

Now that Crosley didn’t need her, he waved her away. I saw by the softening of his features he was turning back into a doofus. He got in a slap on Marcel’s butt as she tiptoed off in her heels. “So there you have it.”

Pinky gazed at me with a horrified lifted lip. “Eating out women on the rag? I’m a lesbian. And even I’ve never done that.”

I splayed my hand on my chest. “I’ve never heard of it.” Something struck me. “Wait a minute, Crosley. Prospects?  Prospects means me and you.”[1]

Crosley folded his hands together behind his neck as though waiting for the Niners to come onto the field. “It sure does, buddy. It sure does.”