Free Helmet Head by Mike Baron Page B

Krueger. When it was Fagan’s turn he ordered three hot dogs and two root beers from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. As he returned to the car he saw Mullet-head Myron and his evil sidekick Claude Owens leaning over Josh’s windshield shaking a can of spray paint.
    Outraged, Josh burst from the driver’s door and reached for the can of paint.
    “Stop it!” he howled.
    Myron slammed his fist into the big boy’s gut doubling him over and causing him to go to his knees. Claude Owens, who wrestled varsity and looked like a big pink boar laughed and kicked Josh in the ass sending him sprawling.
    “Help me,” Josh cried pathetically.
    Fagan threw a hot dog. It hit Myron on the back of the head, startling him into turning, looking at Fagan, then down at his feet where the hot dog lay.
    “Did you just throw a hot dog at me?”
    Fagan dropped the food and ran. He ran through the parking lot, across the alley, behind the feed store, and didn’t stop until he lay gasping with pain lancing through his side behind the Piggly Wiggly, a bolus of self-loathing lying in his gut like concrete.
    Myron and Claude didn’t bother to pursue but the next day the tale of his hot dog and subsequent flight earned him a new nickname. Hot Dog.
    Fagan and Josh drifted apart.
    Years later Fagan heard from a friend that Josh had died of AIDS in New York.
    ***

CHAPTER 17
Motor
    Storm clouds turned Milton’s Hollow chiaroscuro as the five bikes cruised in tight formation. Wild Bill led followed by Chainsaw, Mad Dog, Doc and Curtis. Chainsaw frequently rode side-by-side with Wild Bill oblivious to the threat of oncoming traffic.
    Doc and Curtis hung thirty yards back, also riding side by side. Each carried a first aid kit and Doc also carried a medical bag. He wondered what the fuck he was doing there. Wild Bill had told him that it was just a beer run, hang out with Fred for a few days maybe run over to the river and do a little gambling.
    Then when they got there, they had to wait for Larry who was bringing down a couple ounces to tide Wild Bill, Chainsaw and Mad Dog over until Curtis’ friend Terrell from the Aces of Spade showed with two keys.
    Neither Doc nor Curtis did hard drugs. They smoked a little reefer and drank a lot of Jack. When Doc asked Curtis how the fuck he could sanction a two key deal, Curtis shrugged and said he had nothing to do with it. Wild Bill went over his head.
    The Road Dogs met the Aces of Spade in Biloxi the previous year. Curtis had gone to school with several of the Aces in Memphis where he’d grown up. By the time he reconnected with them he was already a Road Dog.
    Doc and Curtis met in Nam where they were both medics. After they got back Doc went to medical school on the GI Bill and worked a series of small hospitals in the Upper Midwest until he found a secure berth at Our Lady of the Redeemer Hospital in Vermillion, SD. It was a good fit. Doc was raised Catholic. Those nuns used to kick the shit out of him. They were some tough babes but he learned reading, math, and science. He may have learned critical thinking. The jury was still out.
    Nothing like a six-foot Nunzilla with buffalo breath and a steel ruler to inculcate young minds in the sciences.
    Doc hadn’t been to confession in fifteen years. He didn’t miss it. Bikers had zero sympathy for whiners or hand wringers. If you couldn’t put the past behind you you had no business riding with the pack.
    He’d done bad things in Nam. So had Curtis. But they’d changed. They weren’t the crazy young studs they used to be. An Army priest brought Doc through one of his blackest times. If it hadn’t been for Father Darby he probably would have eaten his gun.
    Doc’s first wife was certifiable. He had the worst luck with women. The better looking they were the crazier they were. The break-up with Astrid was brutal and dragged on for months. His lawyer was bleeding him dry and still he could not come to a settlement. She thought she’d married a lifetime