Money Doesn't Talk It Swears (every BITCH for HIMSELF Chapter 2)
9:45 PM. Big Jason Gulliver woke up from the sofa all covered in freshly washed t-shirts and socks. He scratched his short silver hair while he watched Allen Wrench walk across the room drinking soda from a straw in huge thermos.
"Fuck! I just don't get it. You play drums, you're a fuckin' mechanic and you're still skinny as fuck. How do you manage not to put on any muscle?"
"Beats me, Jason", Wrench sipped manically from the straw with an intense stare through glassy eyes.
"Ready?"
"Yeah, got the car all warmed up. Called all the guys, we're meeting at the shop".
Jason got up and punched his chest three times like a gorilla. "Solid".
10:00 PM. Three punk guys milled around the front of a garage gate , two smoking and the other kicking cans around the sidewalk as Wrench and Jason pulled up in front. The sign behind the gate read, "MOTOR MAGIC - FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC AUTO REPAIR".
"Hey, hey!" a thin guy in sharkskin pants and brightly painted shoes with a black tank top raised his arms up and smiled.
"Big guy!" a redhead with a floppy horse's mane of hair running down the center of his head flicked his cigarette into the gutter and lifted his leg like a dog trying to pee on Jason.
"Don't pee on me, fucker!" Jason threatened.
Allen Wrench carried his car keys over and unlocked a bog, cartoon padlock which kept the gate locked. He threw open the gate and a German Shepherd bounded out from a sea of sick cars, some old, some new, some dirty, some spotless, the dog barking his head off and charging like a bat out of hell.
"BOWOWOW BOWOWOW BOWOWOWOW!"
"Stand back, you guys. I'll put Turdbreath away in the ladies' room", Allen lead the dog away by the neck, the dog turning his head periodically growing at the boys and belching out a short bark to let them know he means business.
"You hear that, boys? Stay out of the Powder Room or Turdbreath'll bite off your balls".
"Where you been hiding, Jace?" The red head asked. He was known around town as The Fireball Kid and gained his notoriety working the door of Rocket USA, one of the most popular clubs in Hollywood. He usually let girls in free and waved a lot of underage guys through, as long as they promised not to tear shit up.
"Been hiding at your momma's house, ya fuck, and thank God her cooking's better than her-"
"Shut up, asshole!"
"Is that fucking dog gone?" The thin guy craned his head towards the rest rooms behind the garage. "Christ, I hate dogs. Got bit when I was a kid. Hate em!" The thin guy in the sharkskin pants was half-cast with clear blue eyes and had a short cropped head of curly hair dyed platinum blonde, almost white, that made him look like a black Paul Newman. His name was King Steve. Of course his looks drove the girls wild.
His real name was Steve King, but when everybody found out he hated being called King Steve it sort of stuck on him. He also worked at Rocket USA as a bartender. It wasn't a hard job because the club only served beer and wine and didn't want to pay for a full-blown liquor license. All King Steve had to do was pour wine from a jug - cheap generic crap, of course, or pop open bottles of beer. A very easy gig for any young man to handle.
Robotman also had his name messed with, it was really Bobby Mann, revamped to Robert Mann to Robotman, also because of his jerky, twitchy movements. He didn't disappoint, jerking his legs quickly into the garage grounds.
"C'mon, that dog's gotta be gone by now", Robotman scratched his armpits and marched in. The rest of the guys feel in and followed. Jason had The Fireball Kid's head in a Full Nelson headlock and rapped noogies on his skull, laughing like a maniac.
Wrench came around the garage and unlocked the office, turned on the fluorescent light in the garage and pulled out a twelve pack of Budweiser and threw them to his friends. Everybody sat back on stools and barrels and guzzled away. Jason sat in the center of the shop. Their nostrils burned with the strong, pungent odor of motor oil and burned rubber where dead fan belts and water pumps laid on the ground. The cheap florescent light made everyone look like a 3D picture and their faces like skulls.
"Three of you guys work at Rocket USA. How are you guys getting by there?"
King Steve looked down sheepishly. "Well, you know, we get our fair share of beers, scammable chicks, shit like that".
"No, I mean how are you guys really getting by there? Fair share, fuck. Are you getting your fair share of scratch there?"
Robotman laughed. "Fuck no, you know that".
"Jack Sterling pays us every two weeks. Sometimes the checks even bounce", The Fireball Kid banged his beer can against a case of 10w-40 Valvoline oil.
"How about that shit. Steve, what's the take on a weekend at the club?"
"Club capacity's about 1,600 to 2,000 kids on a good night. Cover's about $7.00 on a weekend. Fridays and Saturdays usually sell out, all the Valley and Orange County fucks move in to score. Even Thursday nights do killer business if the bands are happening".
"I'm not big on math but what do you suppose 2,000 times 7 for three nights a week equals?"
"A lot", Robotman belched through his beer.
"And the bands get stiffed a lot, too, so they're not seeing shit, either", Steve added.
Jason chuckled to himself. "Well, how do you like that shit? And you guys are getting bounced checks? Where the fuck's that money going to, any guesses?"
"Not to us".
"You know the layout of the club, right?"
"Of course I do. I'm the fuckin' bouncer there, remember?" Robotman scratched the shaved whiskers of hair under his black thatch of hair on top.
"That's good, that's good. Can you get some guns from your brother?"
"Whoah, whoah, whoah, hold on there a minute. Guns? What the fuck are you telling us. Are we robbing our own club?" Steve blanched nervously.
"Just getting back what's owed to you, that's all. It'll be awesome".
"I don't know, man. I'm no robber".
"Leave it to me. I'll do all the robbing, you guys just stick to your jobs and keep the coast clear while I boost your boss's office".
The room got quiet, and then everybody roared laughing.
"JASON, YOU'RE INSANE!"
"YEAH, YOU'RE CRAZY!"
"No, it's cool, I kind of pulled a few jobs up North just for practice. I'm tanned rested and ready for The Big Job".
"Jack Sterling's bad news, man", The Fireball Kid warned. "I heard he's got some mob shit going on. You don't want to cross him. Really". Jack Sterling was the owner, promoter and manager of Rocket USA.
"I'll make it a five-part split. Twenty percent for all of us. I do all the heavy lifting. You guys just keep doing what you always do at the club. Just watch my ass".
King Steve pointed his beer can at Allen. "What about Wrench? He doesn't work at the club. What's he getting a split for?"
Jason turned to Allen Wrench, still nervously guzzling his soda pop in lieu of a can of beer.
"He's my fuckin' wheel man, what do you think - I'm going to sit at the fuckin' bus stop after knocking off the most popular rock club in Hollywood?"
Steve, Fireball and Robotman burst out laughing. "What, you're going to jet away in that shitty Chevy Vega? The one that smells like rotting bacon?"
"Fuck y'all", Wrench spat, looking hurt, "Got a sweet Mustang here with a rebuilt engine I'm grabbing for the job". This shut everyone up.
Jason smiled. "Don't you have something else to tell the guys, Wrench?"
"Lily told me some deep shit about Sterling, cold, ugly bullshit".
"Yeah, ha ha, it seems your boss is sitting pretty with the Hollywood Fire Marshall. Yeah, when you guys go off blabbing about the hot punk gigs at Baces Hall or Larchmont Hall or some other tinker toy loft he drops the dime on them and the next thing you know the Fire Department's closing the gig faster than you can piss. Sometimes they also bring the pigs, too".
"Fuck!"
"Yeah, you see, all these independent shows are busting into his fucking bread and butter and probably making more dough than his damn club. He's not going to sit by and watch that shit go down. What do you think?"
"Is this straight shit? How does Lily know?"
"Lily knows everything about the club. She hears him on the phone all the time so it's not just bullshit".
"I guess not".
"Sack Face did three days at County for spitting on a cop at the Veterans Hall riot".
"That's right, pals. All because of that dick Jackoff Sterling. Let's do this for Sack Face".
"For Sack Face!" Everyone lifted their beer cans together as a toast like The Three Musketeers.
"Fuck, I gotta go pee", The Fireball Kid excused himself and went outside and walked around to use the rest room. Unfortunately he was too drunk to notice that rather than open the Mens Room door he opened the Ladies Room door. Just in time to catch a huge German Shepherd named Turdbreath lunge right at him.
"BOWOWOW BOWOWOW BOWOW!"
"SHIT!"
The Fireball Kid slammed the door catching the dog's head between the door jamb, booting the dog's face so hard that it stunned the dog and he fell backwards, enabling Fireball to slam the door shut.
"Jesus, that's the last time I'll drink a damn beer around a stupid fuckin' attack dog again". Shaken and momentarily sober by the attempted attack, he ambled over in between an immaculately polished and waxed Cadillac Seville and a Buick Electra 225. He pulled down his zipper, pulled out his pud and let it go all over their newly waxed chassis.
The Fireball Kid burped and mused aloud.
"A dog isn't man's best friend. No way. A car's a man's best friend. Everybody knows that. Shit".
COMING UP: Chapter Three - Goof Proof, the guys all discuss what they're going to do with all that swag once it gets into their hot little hands. Don't miss it!
(c) 2013, Andy Seven. All rights reserved.</>
