Transformation (20 page)

“Thanks for the audience, sir. I do appreciate your time.” But it was too late, the damage had been done. Weed simply came across like he was mocking him. He also realized that without his brothers by his side and his outlaw vest on he was just an old man with a pet coon. He tried to move on, acting like nothing had happened.

“I am traveling point A to point B with this here prize.” He jabbed his thumb back towards Ron. “My brother Acid spoke mighty fond of this place, and you. Thought I’d pop in to seek refuge.”

“Point A to Point B?” The face impassive, the tone flat.

Yeah motherfucker, A to fucking B.
Weed was getting frustrated with the Nazi and wanted to kick him in the balls, but with all the guns pointed his way he exercised restraint. Besides he was wearing some sensible tennis shoes and not the steel toed boots designed for a good nut cracking.

“Yes sir. Point A being our LA clubhouse to Point B which is Seattle. We were all dispatched to check on our brother charters. Down in LA I found this chimp amongst the ruins of the clubhouse. Our prez wants all useful survivors brought back to him. This fellow has good teeth and a strong back.”

Odin shot a glance at Ron who was still looking at his feet. “You brought him here?” Odin looked more confused than angry.

“I knew it was a big gamble, but he’s cargo not company. I can’t risk his escape or injury. Sun was setting so I thought I’d give this a shot. I’m too old to stay awake for three days watching him and keep an eye out for all the dead fuckers. I’m about dead myself.”

Weed kept up the act. He swayed on his feet and stood hunched over. He didn’t appear to be a threat at all.

“If you could lock my negra’ up for the night, I’d find a corner to sleep in and we’d be gone by sunrise.”

Odin looked Weed over. He started nodding his head. He addressed the two men closest to Ron.

“Take him to a cell.” And as an afterthought that was music to Ron’s ears. “And not a scratch. He’s someone else’s property.”

So far so good
, Weed thought but then Odin spoke to the two men.

“Falcon. Jake. Take our guest here inside and make sure he’s comfortable.”

I don’t feel like a fucking guest,
Weed thought, as he was led into the cinderblock building flanked by two armed giants. The cinderblock building was sparse; concrete floors, plywood covered windows, and bare bulbs mounted on the ceiling. It smelled of moisture and mold. Odin followed them in.

The four men walked into a sparsely furnished room with a smattering of the prerequisite embellishments; portrait of Hitler, Nazi flag, etc. Odin sat on a ratty old sofa. Weed sat across from him on a folding chair. The two armed men stood by the door. Weed knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to wander free, but now he suspected he was a prisoner.

“I won’t keep you too long,” Odin said as he offered Weed a warm beer. “The last of them. Enjoy.”

Weed nodded and twisted the cap off. It was piss warm but good. He took a few sips and listened as Odin told his story of escaping Sacramento and making his way to the compound with a few men. He picked up the rest of the guys on the way. They were kids that escaped from a juvenile detention center and were traveling alone. Kids, but still armed little assholes.

Even better,
Weed thought,
untrained kids.
He was offered a plate of egg noodles and sucked them down as he listened to Odin ramble on about his theory of how the Jews started the plague that killed everyone. He somehow “knew” the Jews were in hiding somewhere and would come out and try to finish everyone off so they could have the world to themselves. Odin planned to be ready for the coming war with his army of race warriors.

Yeah all sixteen of them, you dickhead.
Weed thought. Outwardly he seemed to be listening as he smiled and nodded, but in actuality he was responding to the conversation in his head. Odin finally got around to asking Weed about himself. Weed spun a yarn close to the truth but still far enough away from it that it fit what Odin needed to hear.

After an hour or so Weed excused himself. Odin motioned to his men who produced his knife and belt buckle. They were going to hold onto his gun.

Weed was taken to a room on the third level next to Odin’s. The armed men slept on the second level. There had to be a man or two on Ron and the rest was just kids.

Weed was ready for a nap and yawned as he hobbled to his room. He smiled and patted his pocket. His stash was gone. His smile faded instantly.
Well that just makes the fires of hell burn hotter don’t it.

His room was just like every other place in the building; cinderblocks and concrete. The only light was a dim bulb in the ceiling. He couldn’t find the switch so he unscrewed it. The smell of wet cement and mold gave way to the pungent smell of the piss-stained mattress and yellowed sheets when he lay down.

Weed lay in the dark just looking at the stars framed in the small window and found himself missing the structure. For the first time in a long time, he felt regret. He regretted tearing off on this half-baked adventure. Actually, it was an unbaked adventure for the sake of getting baked. Instead of kicking back in Casa de Weed he was roughing it with the Nazis in Hotel Hitler.

Back in the day, literally just a few days back when the rules were completely different, he could’ve hopped on his bike and tore off anywhere and just did as he pleased. Now he had no club, no cut, and a world full of assholes (dead and alive) around every corner.
The rules they were different
, he thought again and again. He felt like real dumb shit as more and more became clear. The rules are different, there ain’t no rules. It just took a while to soak into his thick skull. Well, the pig kept up the whole cops and robbers routine until he died. How was Weed supposed to see how different the rules was with a cop on his ass all the time, just like the old days.

Well now his situation was clear. He was in a new world where a black fella can be a friend and you won’t have a club looking at you sideways for it. A cut got you no respect or fear these days. And any comfort of any kind was to be treasured. A pull of sweet liquor, a cup of coffee, a shower, even the laughter of a black woman were all riches beyond measure.
Or even a clean fucking sheet!
He thought.

Things were all in perspective now. What was really important, what was worth defending, and what was worth killing for. He had been amused at the aftermath of the bomb, now he just felt like a big asshole for it.

Damn, he realized he lost the negress and Guido—and Tits! They all got caught up in the blast and they were useful in many ways. Mostly he realized he had grown fond of them, especially the black lady. His throat tightened at the thought of her absence from his life and his sorrow for the black fellow grew. Guido was good for swinging a hammer and a nice fellow to chat with too. With the cop gone, things would be downright delightful.

Well,
he thought,
I guess it took this little journey to open my eyes. Thanks for that Jesus, but now you have to help me get the fuck outta here… oh and lest I forget, amen.
Shit, he was amused, even energized, by the realization that he was going to walk out of this adventure-gone-sideways in the morn and get his old ass back to the garage.

He lay there thinking about negroes. He’d never liked them but he’d only ever met them in prison or during a brawl. Shit, he was raised to hate them, told they were animals from day one and never saw any evidence to the contrary. Or no evidence he couldn’t easily dismiss. Blacks hated him so he hated them, simple as pie. But this Ron and his woman, he was puzzled at his sadness at her loss,
they’re almost like white folks,
he thought.

He’d often heard, and probably used, the phrase “not if you were the last man, woman, or what-ever-the-fuck on earth.” But now shit, now he had to actually make that choice. Would he rather tilt a bottle, sleep in the same room, and break bread with the Nazis or the negroes? Well before the end of the world, he would’ve said Nazis hands down, but now . . . now he’d had the chance to experience a bit of both and the Nazis hosted a terrible shindig. The folks at the garage were living right. He lay on the ratty cot, springs jabbing his ass and back in odd places, and thought of just how damn comfortable that memory foam mattress was they lugged up there for him. Guido even asked him to sign for the delivery and that was good for a chuckle.

He’d eaten a plate of cold overcooked noodles that were doused in some oil that was churning in his guts like two dogs fucking in a sleeping bag. It was so much like all the prisons and clubhouses he’d spent his life in; bad food, bad company, and never a moments peace. His gut flipped, and he thought he may just have to purge himself.
What the fuck
? Weed stuck his finger down his throat and a hot column of masticated noodles poured forth and onto the floor next to the cot. He didn’t plan on staying too long, so why not puke all over the floor? He’d just have to remember not to slip on it when he left.

“Fuck.” Weed spat out noodles and pulled a few chunks from his beard. He wiped his mouth on the sheet and dropped it on the puke. He felt better for the purge. He wondered what the folks at the garage had eaten for diner. They always ate well. Those squares were making a place full of creature comforts to live in while these dickheads were still waiting for the race war to happen.
Shit gay Hitler, there ain’t no more races to be warring. Just a bunch of lost souls.

As Weed lay there in the dark wide awake, he realized that he fell right to sleep at the garage and slept deep. Made sense as he wasn’t worried about getting knifed the moment he closed his eyes.

He waited a little longer and unable to sleep he got up and paced about his room. He took a look out of the window and was startled by what he saw. It sure as fuck wasn’t there earlier. There was a wooden crossbeam erected with two ropes hanging from it, each ending in a noose. Weed was pretty sure what two necks them nooses were going to stretch but he certainly wasn’t going to wait around just to be sure.

He reached for his stash and withdrew his hand. He growled low and let the aggravation flow into his old bones. He was just about ready to checkout of Hotel Hitler.

§

Ron was led to a dark room in another smaller cinderblock building across the compound. It was about thirty yards from the main building. The smaller building had one door and no windows. Inside there was a hall with eight doors. The interior walls were bare cinderblock and each of the doors were made of heavy wooden planks and was attached to a heavy wooden frame. The doors were secured closed by a latch and padlock. Ron was led to the last room and shoved through the door. The slamming of the door was a jarring sound that sent a wash of cold across his body as he got the message, you are indeed screwed. He heard the shackle of the lock as it was dropped back into the hasp and pushed until it clicked. He was a prisoner.

Except for the light coming from between the planks and under the door it was black. Ron lay on the floor next to the door and prayed quietly as he listened to the voices down the hall. It sounded like three or four young men were discussing the things Odin had said. They discussed the coming of the final war of the races. His plan to root out the Jews under the mountain using his massing army. They were all told they would be generals in Odin’s army. Ron waited for the voices outside the door to die down. He wasn’t sure of the time but guessed that an hour had passed when the light went out and he was left in complete darkness.

Ron was in the darkness for no more than twenty minutes when he heard the outer door open and the light click on. Someone clumped down the hall and then put something down on the floor, dropping it the last few inches so it made a clatter. Keys jangled, the lock was fumbled with, and the door opened. By now Ron was across the room and sitting against the wall.

“You in here?” It was one of the young men. “Smile so I can see you.”

Ron heard another kid chuckle out of sight. He must’ve been by the door. Ron smelled cigarette smoke.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He was scared, but couldn’t help bristling at the stupidity of the question and the comment.
Am I in here? Where else would I be? Idiot. And smile so you can see me? How original.

The kid dropped a plastic tray with a warm soda on its side and a paper plate of cold egg noodles swimming in oil. There was a metal fork on the tray Ron hadn’t even noticed.

“You have two minutes to eat. I’m coming back for that fork.” The young man slammed the door and dropped the lock back into the latch. Ron noticed he didn’t bother locking the lock but thought nothing of it. The kids blocking the door were well armed.

Ron drank the soda and crushed the can. He didn’t touch the noodles. A few minutes later the door opened and the kid took the tray and left. After he slammed the door shut, he put the tray down with a clatter to deal with the lock. He spoke to the other person.

“Thanks for the help,” he spoke with bitter sarcasm. “You just keep smoking. I got this.” He dropped the lock into the latch while still sniping at the other kid who was telling him to shut up and fuck off and the like. The lights clicked off and the outer door shut.

Ron was afraid to move. He wondered if the kid had really just left the lock open? He was scared that if he managed to get out of his cell the kid would return and catch him. He waited as long as he could. An hour, ten minutes, he couldn’t tell but then he started worrying if he waited too long he would lose his opportunity to break out.