reading.
‘Hey d’you know why bikes are better than broads?’
‘ Cos they only whine when there’s something really wrong?’ offered Scroat as a punch line .
‘No,’ he said with a wide grin across his face, ‘it’s cos your bike doesn’t bitch about you reading other bike magazines.’
*
Thursday 18 th February 2010
Outside visiting hours we had nothing to do but hide out in the room and kill time as best we could.
And to make things worse, there was no jail visit today, neither Bung nor Scroat would say why, which just left us kicking our heels inside even longer than usual.
Around seven or so that evening, Bung was explaining to me about how he saw the split from the States while Scroat lounged over on his side of the room. There was no furniture other than the mattresses on the floor that we slept o n so we had pushed them up against the walls so we could prop ourselves up when we wanted to sit rather than sprawl.
‘We’ d got tired of kicking up to the States , ’ he said, ‘that’s all. T ired of being told what to do . T ired of getting dragged into their beefs with other clubs . J ust fucking tired of all their Yank bullshit.’
Nothing to do with the fact that Charlie , Wibble and the UK club already had the mselves organised now , I wondered to myself. With their pipeline so long established the UK club didn’t need contacts across the rest of the Brethren w orld now to run their business. They were talk ing straight to the Columbians these days for the gear , and there were enough independent gangsters knocking about if you knew where to look that a quick flight to Tiraspol in Trans-Dniestr with a suitcase full of hard currency could probably sort you out all the ex Warsaw Pact firearms you’d ever need short of a major war.
But that wasn’t Bung’s agenda by the sound of it.
‘Without the Yank s we can get rid of the crap , ’ he was saying, ‘ We can go back to being a proper bike club, not part of some wannabe international gangster mafia.’
‘Is that what you’re looking to do?’ I asked, probably sounding a bit surprised he was talking like this in front of Scroat , ‘ G et out of the business end of it?’
‘ Shit yeah,’ he said . ‘ Just look what happened as soon as we sorted stuff out with the Rebels. All of a sudden we could s top having to look under our cars every time we wanted to g o out, we stopped being a target every time we went out for a ride, and for what? All because of some shitty war over in the US that we’ve got nothing to do with? Sod that for a game of soldiers! Who needs it for fuck ’ s sake? ’
‘So you ’d get the best of both worlds?’
‘Exactly.’
This it seemed was too much for Scroat to put up with, as he butted in .
‘ Oh fucking dream on , it’ll never happen and you know it ,’ he objected. ‘ There’s no fucking way the club’s getting out of the business end of it and that’s that .’
‘Says who?’ demanded Bung .
‘Says me, for one, and says Charlie,’ retorted Scroat.
And that was it, off they went again for round sixty- four of their ongoing needle match about where the club was going and why that lasted for a good half hour before Scroat grumpily called it off with ‘ Fuck i t . P izza time? ’
‘ Yeah ,’ said Bung, ‘ your turn. ’
It was a measure , I thought , of how seriously they were taking the Loki threat that they were going themselves. Normally I’d never expect to see a patch doing something as menial as fetching pizza, that’s what God invented strikers for after all. But out at the safe house there were no strikers at their beck and call.
‘ OK, OK, I’m off, ’ Scroat said, pushing himself up from where he’d been sat on his mattress, leant against the wall . ‘ T he usual? ’
‘ Yeah ,’ said Bung, ‘the works’ .
I didn’t get asked of course , as he headed out of the door . As far as Scroat was concerned I’d take what I was given.
*
Unsurprisingly, i t was
‘Hey d’you know why bikes are better than broads?’
‘ Cos they only whine when there’s something really wrong?’ offered Scroat as a punch line .
‘No,’ he said with a wide grin across his face, ‘it’s cos your bike doesn’t bitch about you reading other bike magazines.’
*
Thursday 18 th February 2010
Outside visiting hours we had nothing to do but hide out in the room and kill time as best we could.
And to make things worse, there was no jail visit today, neither Bung nor Scroat would say why, which just left us kicking our heels inside even longer than usual.
Around seven or so that evening, Bung was explaining to me about how he saw the split from the States while Scroat lounged over on his side of the room. There was no furniture other than the mattresses on the floor that we slept o n so we had pushed them up against the walls so we could prop ourselves up when we wanted to sit rather than sprawl.
‘We’ d got tired of kicking up to the States , ’ he said, ‘that’s all. T ired of being told what to do . T ired of getting dragged into their beefs with other clubs . J ust fucking tired of all their Yank bullshit.’
Nothing to do with the fact that Charlie , Wibble and the UK club already had the mselves organised now , I wondered to myself. With their pipeline so long established the UK club didn’t need contacts across the rest of the Brethren w orld now to run their business. They were talk ing straight to the Columbians these days for the gear , and there were enough independent gangsters knocking about if you knew where to look that a quick flight to Tiraspol in Trans-Dniestr with a suitcase full of hard currency could probably sort you out all the ex Warsaw Pact firearms you’d ever need short of a major war.
But that wasn’t Bung’s agenda by the sound of it.
‘Without the Yank s we can get rid of the crap , ’ he was saying, ‘ We can go back to being a proper bike club, not part of some wannabe international gangster mafia.’
‘Is that what you’re looking to do?’ I asked, probably sounding a bit surprised he was talking like this in front of Scroat , ‘ G et out of the business end of it?’
‘ Shit yeah,’ he said . ‘ Just look what happened as soon as we sorted stuff out with the Rebels. All of a sudden we could s top having to look under our cars every time we wanted to g o out, we stopped being a target every time we went out for a ride, and for what? All because of some shitty war over in the US that we’ve got nothing to do with? Sod that for a game of soldiers! Who needs it for fuck ’ s sake? ’
‘So you ’d get the best of both worlds?’
‘Exactly.’
This it seemed was too much for Scroat to put up with, as he butted in .
‘ Oh fucking dream on , it’ll never happen and you know it ,’ he objected. ‘ There’s no fucking way the club’s getting out of the business end of it and that’s that .’
‘Says who?’ demanded Bung .
‘Says me, for one, and says Charlie,’ retorted Scroat.
And that was it, off they went again for round sixty- four of their ongoing needle match about where the club was going and why that lasted for a good half hour before Scroat grumpily called it off with ‘ Fuck i t . P izza time? ’
‘ Yeah ,’ said Bung, ‘ your turn. ’
It was a measure , I thought , of how seriously they were taking the Loki threat that they were going themselves. Normally I’d never expect to see a patch doing something as menial as fetching pizza, that’s what God invented strikers for after all. But out at the safe house there were no strikers at their beck and call.
‘ OK, OK, I’m off, ’ Scroat said, pushing himself up from where he’d been sat on his mattress, leant against the wall . ‘ T he usual? ’
‘ Yeah ,’ said Bung, ‘the works’ .
I didn’t get asked of course , as he headed out of the door . As far as Scroat was concerned I’d take what I was given.
*
Unsurprisingly, i t was
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