wouldn't be able to hit a weaving target at this range but I wanted them to know I was close on their asses.
The two Death Merchants split up and I trailed the one that hit the dirt road. My bike bounced up and down over the bumps, the dust hitting my face from the motorcycle ahead of me. I shot a few more times, hoping for a miracle.
His back tire burst with my last shot and he went fishtailing, crashing into the bushes. My bike came to a skid at the Mexican's motorcycle but he was nowhere to be found. He couldn't have gotten far. I got off my hog and checked the magazine in my Remington—only three bullets left. More than enough to end this fucking wetback.
Before I could pop the magazine back in, the Mexican charged at me from the brush. The collision knocked me to the ground, sending my pistol and loose magazine soaring far away. I balled my hand into a fist and pummeled into his ribs, crunching bone. The motherfucker cursed at me in Spanish, holding his side. I kicked him off me and quickly got to my feet. I connected my boot to his face and he instantly shut up.
I went through his pockets as he writhed on the ground. Just a few dollars and change. He didn't even have a gun on him which reaffirmed our thoughts that The Death Merchants didn't even have the money for weapons. They weren't ready to play with the big boys yet.
I lifted the bloody wetback up and put him on his knees. His leather cut had the name Garcia and the symbol of Death with a scythe was on the back. “You boys dare come into our town and don't even bring guns. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The Mexican looked back at me with furious eyes. He spat at me, his spit narrowly missing my face and hitting my cut. Now he had really done it. Nobody disrespects me and gets away with it.
I brought out my switchblade and the blade sprang out in front of his eyes. “I think I'm going to have a little fun with you before I send you off to meet your maker.”
He cursed at me with some more Spanish. I couldn't understand but I got the gist of it.
“You fuckers can't even speak English?” I grabbed a hold of his leather cut and began slicing. I took off his nameplate and member patch. “Your kind don't deserve to be a motorcycle club.”
The wetback tried to get up and grab me but I kicked him in the ribs and he doubled over, howling in pain.
“I'm going to leave you a gift to remember me by. Whenever you look in the mirror, you'll know that Sacks County is off-limits to your kind.”
I squeezed his face between my fingers and let my blade run down his forehead and across his left eye. His screams were lost in the wind as I carved up his face. He passed out as soon as I finished, falling over into the dirt. I stepped on his chest with my boot for good measure. I wiped my bloody hands on his jeans and safely stowed my switchblade in my back pocket. It would be a waste to kill him now. He was a work of art. The Mexicans would think twice about coming back into Sacks when they saw his fucked-up face.
Police sirens wailed off in the distance. My gunshots from earlier must have tipped them off. Didn't matter much. I was already done here. I collected my Remington from the dirt and put it in the back of my waistband. The Mexican lay in the desert, the sun baking him. He was going to be a sunburnt bean in an hour. I spit on him before going back to my motorcycle.
I swung my leg over my bike and strapped my helmet on. I wished I could take a picture of this scene and put it up on the wall. There was so much blood and dirt that had mixed into mud. I stepped down on the ignition and my bike came to life under me. The law was getting closer but they'd never find me. I knew this town better than the cops.
I returned to the MC to find Coal and Tank's bikes already parked outside along with the rest. Good thing they got back safe. A few of the prospects were working in the repair shop as I walked
The two Death Merchants split up and I trailed the one that hit the dirt road. My bike bounced up and down over the bumps, the dust hitting my face from the motorcycle ahead of me. I shot a few more times, hoping for a miracle.
His back tire burst with my last shot and he went fishtailing, crashing into the bushes. My bike came to a skid at the Mexican's motorcycle but he was nowhere to be found. He couldn't have gotten far. I got off my hog and checked the magazine in my Remington—only three bullets left. More than enough to end this fucking wetback.
Before I could pop the magazine back in, the Mexican charged at me from the brush. The collision knocked me to the ground, sending my pistol and loose magazine soaring far away. I balled my hand into a fist and pummeled into his ribs, crunching bone. The motherfucker cursed at me in Spanish, holding his side. I kicked him off me and quickly got to my feet. I connected my boot to his face and he instantly shut up.
I went through his pockets as he writhed on the ground. Just a few dollars and change. He didn't even have a gun on him which reaffirmed our thoughts that The Death Merchants didn't even have the money for weapons. They weren't ready to play with the big boys yet.
I lifted the bloody wetback up and put him on his knees. His leather cut had the name Garcia and the symbol of Death with a scythe was on the back. “You boys dare come into our town and don't even bring guns. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The Mexican looked back at me with furious eyes. He spat at me, his spit narrowly missing my face and hitting my cut. Now he had really done it. Nobody disrespects me and gets away with it.
I brought out my switchblade and the blade sprang out in front of his eyes. “I think I'm going to have a little fun with you before I send you off to meet your maker.”
He cursed at me with some more Spanish. I couldn't understand but I got the gist of it.
“You fuckers can't even speak English?” I grabbed a hold of his leather cut and began slicing. I took off his nameplate and member patch. “Your kind don't deserve to be a motorcycle club.”
The wetback tried to get up and grab me but I kicked him in the ribs and he doubled over, howling in pain.
“I'm going to leave you a gift to remember me by. Whenever you look in the mirror, you'll know that Sacks County is off-limits to your kind.”
I squeezed his face between my fingers and let my blade run down his forehead and across his left eye. His screams were lost in the wind as I carved up his face. He passed out as soon as I finished, falling over into the dirt. I stepped on his chest with my boot for good measure. I wiped my bloody hands on his jeans and safely stowed my switchblade in my back pocket. It would be a waste to kill him now. He was a work of art. The Mexicans would think twice about coming back into Sacks when they saw his fucked-up face.
Police sirens wailed off in the distance. My gunshots from earlier must have tipped them off. Didn't matter much. I was already done here. I collected my Remington from the dirt and put it in the back of my waistband. The Mexican lay in the desert, the sun baking him. He was going to be a sunburnt bean in an hour. I spit on him before going back to my motorcycle.
I swung my leg over my bike and strapped my helmet on. I wished I could take a picture of this scene and put it up on the wall. There was so much blood and dirt that had mixed into mud. I stepped down on the ignition and my bike came to life under me. The law was getting closer but they'd never find me. I knew this town better than the cops.
I returned to the MC to find Coal and Tank's bikes already parked outside along with the rest. Good thing they got back safe. A few of the prospects were working in the repair shop as I walked
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