HARDCORE: Storm MC(63)

“Or because you look like you got picked out of one,” Keith murmured.



Nostril blinked, confused, then brayed out a laugh, slapping his knee. “Picked out of one, ha! That's a good one. I gotta remember that one, ha.”



“So if you knew you owed us, Nostril, why the fuck didn't you just pay up?” Cain asked. He was trying to sound tough, but the unexpectedly cheerful greeting they were receiving had thrown him off a bit, and he was actually curious. “Why did you make us come to you to collect? You had to know we wouldn't be happy about that.”



“Yeah, no, I figured that,” Nostril said, “but what was I gonna do? It's not like you guys got an 800 number I could call or somethin' to introduce myself an' set up a payment. Or a website where I could register, right? 'Click on the boxes indicating which drugs you intend to sell, submit yer email address, an' a representative will follow up with you within one business day,' like that, ha.”



“You could’ve come to the Lost Knife,” Keith growled. Cain could tell Nostril's stupid jokes and weird little chuckles were getting on Keith's nerves, and he couldn't blame him.



“Lost Knife,” Nostril mused. “That bar on the other side'a town? That's yer hideout, is it?”



“It's our clubhouse,” Cain said. “We don't fucking hide from anyone.”



“Well, now that we're properly acquainted, I'll know that fer next time, ha,” Nostril said, nodding. “But guys, you really think I'd try to cheat you outta what's yours? Heh, yeah right! Maybe when my asshole learns to smoke cigarettes, right?”



“Your asshole's gonna learn how to smoke a .357 if you don't hurry up and give us what you owe us,” Cain said. He suddenly wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible. This Nostril clown looked like he'd probably lose a fight against a crippled hamster, but even so, something about this didn't feel right.



“Sure, sure, keep yer cuts on, boys, ha!” Nostril tittered. “Lemme go grab yer cash. I got it stashed in the toilet tank, just in case anyone decided to come by an' rip me off.”



Cain rolled his eyes, knowing that would be the first place anyone would look for the money if they came to steal it.



Nostril disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, calling out to them. “I mean, not that I gotta worry about that shit anymore, right? Now that I'm kickin' up to you, anyone comes to rob me, you'll hunt 'em down an' fuck 'em up to get it back, ain't that how it goes?”



“That's how it goes, all right,” Keith agreed. “You pay your taxes to us, an' we'll be your personal cops. You don't, an' we'll be your fuckin' executioners. Simple as that.”



Nostril emerged from the bathroom carrying a stack of cash. “Fair enough, ha,” he chirped. He handed it to Cain, who jammed it in his pocket without counting it. It looked like a decent amount given Nostril's setup, and if it wasn't, they could always come back and settle up with him later.



“Glad you think so,” Cain said. “Because we'll be expecting you to pay this up to us every week, no excuses. You come to the Lost Knife an' put it on the table in front of me or Keith. If we're not there, give it to the lady behind the bar. You try to duck us, we'll find you no matter where you hide.”



“An' wherever we find you, that's where we'll fuckin' leave you,” Keith added.



“Sure, sure, I gotcha,” Nostril nodded. “No need to worry 'bout me. I'll pay up, no problem. Pleasure doin' business with you, ha.”



“There's one other thing,” Keith said. He glanced over at Cain, smirked, and spoke his next two sentences slowly, enunciating every word. “Before we go, can I hit up yer bathroom for a tinkle? My molars are floating.”



Cain pressed his lips together, trying hard not to laugh. That was Keith all over. Never afraid to chastise other Eagles for spitting or pissing in public, or to use words like “tinkle” with a straight face. After all, no one who knew Keith would ever dare to call him a pussy.



And anyone who did never did it a second time.



Nostril giggled again. “Sure, go ahead,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom door.



“I'll wait outside,” Cain said as Keith headed for the bathroom.



Cain pushed the motel room's door open and stepped out into the fresh air, taking a deep breath. The stink of the place was starting to make his head ache.



The tire iron that connected with the back of his head a moment later made it ache a lot more.



Before Cain could react, a sharp-toed boot kicked the back of his left knee, sending him to the ground. Even through his jeans, the gravel lining the motel's parking lot bit into his knees. He reached for the gun in the holster at his side, but the tire iron smacked his upper arm and he felt the sickening snap of the bone breaking. He let out a sharp cry of pain as a hand yanked the gun away from his belt, tossing it away.