BEATING THE BELL RINGER
A herd of bikers roared by the park just after midnight and I woke up to the rumbling roar thinking I was back on the road trying to sleep in a Bunkie trailer. Took a minute or two to get my wits about myself as the thunder receded down the road. I’m sure they’re all tough guys, but the racket they make doesn’t add an ounce of muscle, so it must be just their way of pissin’ people off.
Of course, at my age, things that piss me off now, remind me of things that pissed me off a long time ago.
That’s where the biker and the bellringer came back to life on that little movie screen inside my head.
It was some little town out on Long Island around the time that Kennedy was elected. We were part of a three-town event for the Elks, or Moose, or whatever. I don’t remember exactly where, out there a lot of the town names are Indian words like Quogue or Speonk or Aquebogue. Pronounce them wrong and the locals delight in correcting you. The backlot had six rides, a dozen games, a couple of flat stores, and typical grab joint concessions: fried dough, spun sugar, dogs on a stick, frozen everything on a stick.
The usual.
A Saturday night crowd, which is always a half-step closer to crazy than Friday-nighters. The Friday night people, most of them anyway, get here after they leave work so they’re more or less clean, sane, and somewhat sober. Your Saturday night crowd includes people who’ve been off all day, probably riled up a bit, and possibly been drinking since noon, so you gotta expect some heat. Roland was in his 60s then but still working as a mender to keep the lot from going redline. He was griping about wanting to retire and I knew he was good and tired of just babysitting the stand.
Back to the biker bit. All’s well up until a local biker club rolled in. They looked like Hells Angels, but they had some other name on the back of their jackets; something like Marauders and one of those Long Island town names underneath. I figured they were a bunch of blue-collar guys trying to put on a hard front so I had a gazoonie run and tell Roland we had VIPs headed to the lot.
I’ve worked barnstormer gigs in the off-season and the bikers were as easy-going as you might like. If the crowd is peaceable and respectful there’s not much to worry about. But then again, that Saturday night crowd always contains a couple of fueled idiots who want to throw their weight around and get nasty. That was the situation I’m talking about.
Roland met with a couple of the bikers and won them over pretty quick, then talked to the leaders who I saw smiling and nodding shaking hands and all that. I’m sure Roland fit the description of an outlaw at heart, what with his appearance and confidence. I took it off my mind and went back to managing the midway.
Everything was smooth until I heard the High Striker bell ring a little too often. Usually, you hear the big thump as the sledgehammer hits the rubber pad maybe half a dozen times before a bell ringer. If the crowd is small, the operator gives the sledge to a puny sap or gal for a free hit and they ring the bell the first time. As a crowd forms, he’d hand the hammer to some beefy guy in his 20s and, no matter how hard the mark tries, he can’t bang the bell. That’s when humiliation, bragging, and competition begins among the men. A crowd forms and nearly every guy will want to try to ring the bell. The gag is, that it’s impossible to ring the bell unless the operator wants you to ring it. So ringing the bell is just the attraction and not a test of strength.
A perfect gimmick.
The tower itself was designed to humiliate the strong. Standing around fifteen feet tall it was marked from bottom to top with different colored sections that indicated height, but also printed strength descriptions: Weakling, Cream Puff, Puppy, Big Dog, Muscle Guy, He-Man, Superman. This was like catnip to guys wanting to impress a girl.
The device is gaffed, that is to say, rigged to only work properly when the operator steps on a hidden treadle built into the platform where he stands. The tower end of that lever controlled the guidewire that carries the metal puck as it climbs up to the bell. When the wire is tight a moderate sledge hit sends the puck up to strike the bell. When the wire is slack, the puck doesn’t climb smoothly and friction against the markerboard keeps it from reaching the top. The operator can step on the treadle to tighten the wire or step off it to let it go slack. It’s a play-the-crowd con. Let them get worked up and feed the kitty.
When a burly biker and his little slip-of-a-thing girlfriend stepped up to the shift, things took a turn south. The woman must’ve known about the gaff and, when her boyfriend picked up the hammer, she sat on the platform and the wire tightened. The operator, a kid named Downs, was a First-of-May hire-on who wasn’t seasoned enough to handle the situation. I don’t blame him, since the biker was 300 pounds on the hoof and looked pretty nasty.
The High Striker can be a hank-pank; giving away prizes worth less than what it cost to play the game. But it can also initiate crowds of competing males who win nothing. Some operators push it so far as to hand the hammer to a young woman who he lets ring the bell. That can be playing with fire.
When the biker rang the bell the operator new exactly what the girlfriend had done. He tells the biker he’s a winner and tries to hand him a small plush dog. The biker lifts the hammer again and rings the bell. Now Downs has a problem. He asks the girlfriend to step off the platform, but she glares at him, makes eye contact with the boyfriend, and then looks back at Downs. The biker rings the bell again, and again, and again.
I call out “Hey, Rube!” so’s the showfolk around catch s drift of what might be about to spoil the night.
I saw a greenhorn picking up trash in the backyard and tell him. “Kid! Rubes. Go tell the wagon,” and sent him on his way double-time. I was stumped. Where the hell is Roland? I figured I’d have to wrangle, so I reached into my pocket and pushed my fingers through the holes in my brass knuckles. I hated the damned thing, but after getting clocked by a farmboy full of piss and vinegar, I was determined to avoid another lump on my noggin.
Heading toward the crowd, I heard the bell ring, ring, ring. Bad, bad, bad.
A fight in a crowd is about as close as anyone ever gets to see what a chain reaction is. One guy slugs another who falls back into some other guy’s girlfriend and then all hell breaks loose. Most of the bikers were crowded around the High Striker platform grabbing at the hammer to get their chance to ring the bell. Downs was petrified and, like they say, when it’s on the front burner, we’ve got the four “F”s; Fight, Freeze, Flee, or Fawn response. The first three are instinctual choices. The Fawn is trying to please the attacker.
Downs handed prizes – plush animals and Chinese finger puzzles and propeller hats – to everyone on the platform. The bikers tossed them into the crowd which started scuffles between the townies and the Marauders. Other girlfriends climbed up on the platform and egged them on.
Now that is a half-dozen fistfights going on and some women are screaming. Where the hell is Roland? I saw him talk to these guys so I figured he had it handled, but no good. Some of my strong-arm green help pushed into the crowd to separate sluggers and wound up getting stomped. The marks stampeded and, in a flash, there were as many people on the ground as standing up.
One of the Marauders pulled the hammer away from another and it swung out into the crowd behind him and struck a woman in her back as she ran. She screamed as she fell to the ground and several men ran to protect her while a couple of women clambered up and started shoving the biker girlfriends. We were well beyond out of control and fast approaching a riot.
That’s when I looked down the midway and saw Roland walking alongside a small man in a gray suit. They weren’t running. They walked quickly but did not seem rushed or excited. As they drew closer I was probably the only one who noticed them, since everyone else engaged in some kind of fight or sideline agitation. I waved to Roland and he nodded but his pace remained the same; deliberate. The bikers were enjoying the skirmish, you know, making goonie memories and taking out their anger on plain folks.
Downs snuck off the platform and scurried away like a rabbit and I never saw him again.
Then Roland stepped up to the edge of the brawl and reached in his pocket. I didn’t know him to carry a piece, but looking around, I feared the worst. He took out something small and held it to the side of his mask. A long, loud whistle shriek brought everyone to a halt and Roland said, in a calm voice, “Stop.” And as the crowd and bikers stared at him, they stopped. It was impossible, but they all just cut short whatever they were doing and stared at him.
“I will blow this whistle again in a moment and you will have the choice of continuing this pointless activity or doing something different to help yourself,” then, turning to the small man, added, “Am I correct in that?” The man looked from Roland to the bikers and said, “Pay attention,” and he walked to the sledgehammer on the ground, picked it up, and handed it to the girl standing on the treadle. “Dolores, is it?” The girl reacted in surprise to hear her name spoken by a stranger. The man turned to her enraged boyfriend, “And you, Wayne, who spent a year or so in Riker’s with a guy named Bendar, right? He promised to kill you?” His voice was cool as anything you’ve ever heard, “He’s out in three weeks. Think you want to head inside again? For safety’s sake?”
He looked from one biker to the next, “And Roger the firestarter? Jess, the dope runner? Evan, the stolen motorcycle, am I right, Boy?” he turned back to Wayne, “Quite a knitting circle you’ve got here, Wayne… the uh,” the man looked up and thought a moment, ”Wayne, the, uh, let’s say bar brawler. You broke a man’s neck, didn’t you. It was Bendar’s buddy, who’s now in a wheelchair. I’m sure you and he will have a lot to reminisce about when he’s released,” the man looked at his watch, “Hm… not three weeks after all. He’s out in nineteen days.’
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. The bikers were startled but held their ground.
When the wallet flipped open, they could see the badge and looked around frantically for any cops that might be closing in.
“My name is Gerald Frankle, United States Marshal. I’m a Deputy Investigator for the Congressional Taskforce on Street Crime. Your file is right here in the county and I live not thirty miles from here. I know all about you, keep my eye on you, and view you as small fish. I have the authority to put you in the big tank with big fish, but you wouldn’t survive a week.” He turned to the girlfriends, “No visitation rights for women with arrest records, you know that. Right? Lonely days.”
Frankle pointed to Roland. “This is a fair man. He believes in second chances. But he also believes that rowdies need to be swept off his lot.” Roland nods and holds up the whistle. “He was concerned when you fellows rolled in, so he gave me a call. He also called some other locals.”
The Marauders had no idea where this was headed and neither did I. Roland waved the whistle. “So here is my deal for you motorcycle boys. When Roland blows that whistle, two things will happen – one here, and one in the parking lot. You have two choices: choice one, you may continue to fight and take your lumps. You know, scars are better than tattoos. They have better stories. Or, your other choice, you can go out to the parking lot.”
They looked at each other in confusion.
Frankle continued, “There you will see County Sheriff’s deputies and tow trucks loading your bikes onto a flatbed trailer. It seems there are title, registration, serial number, and illegal modification problems. If you can’t explain away these issues, the vehicles will be impounded. Do you understand me?” One of the bikers raised his damn hand like a kid in Sunday school, “Excuse me… we have rights.”
Frankle pointed to Roland and he blew another shrill blast on the whistle. The Marauders sprinted across the lot toward the parking area.
It was unlike any shut-down I’d ever seen. Roland made it his business to know every important local in every place we played. He’d take a pocketful of tickets to hand out and start at the police stations, hit the county offices, and spread a bunch at veteran and fraternal organizations. No one forgot him and everyone respected him. And everyone who met him told others about him and the show. I’d hazard a guess that Roland knew more than ten thousand important people. Charisma it’s called, but it’s the heart of what Carny is all about.
Out in the parking lot, The Marauders were reduced to whining kids trying to keep their motorcycles from being impounded. The hooligans asked Roland to intervene and he thought a long time before he called out to Frankle.
“Gerry! Can you give these boys a break here?”
Frankle shrugged and one of the Marauders stepped up to him.
“Sir, you have us dead to rights. I’m the chapter Sergeant-at-Arms and I understand you know everything about us. Yes, we have rap sheets, and yes, we were out of line here. We got out of line and we’re guilty of whatever you want to call what we did.”
“Inciting a riot? Battery? Assault?” Frankle said, “You know, even Disorderly Conduct begins at a second-degree misdemeanor and means a large fine or, in your case, jail time. You may need some time in the county lock-up to think over,” he added a mocking repetition of the Sargeant-at-Arms, “whatever you want to call what we did”?
“No, Sir. I do not.” The biker said. “Roland? Can you help out here?”
Roland walked to Frankle and whispered in his ear. Frankle frowned and looked at each of the bikers who watched him closely, then whispered to Roland.
“I asked him for a favor,” Roland said, “and he asked me what I could promise him. What can I promise him?”
The Marauders looked at each other, at a loss for what to say.
“Can you keep your nose clean,” Roland asked, “for three months?”
Frankle pulled on Roland’s sleeve to bring his ear closer.
“Six months, he says,” Roland added. “one screw-up and you lose everything, bikes, clubhouse, parole privileges, and go under the microscope. Squeaky clean, you read me?’
Frankle signaled the Sheriff’s deputies who told the tow truck operators to hold off.
“We’ll look like rats to other clubs,” said Wayne.
“Maybe. The alternative is becoming the Marauders Bicycle Club. Use your head.” Frankle said, then added, “We will be taking complaints from the injured here, so you’re not out of the woods. I can’t help with that. People have rights.”
Well, the bikers made their promises and got to keep their motorcycles and that was it for the rest of our run. No trouble at all. But I heard that a couple months after, they all got caught with a load of dope during a night run and wound up doing time anyway. I’m sure Roland knew what was happening from the get-go; just applying the right amount of muscle to keep us clear of the psychos and not so much that we get any after-action problems.
That’s the key; the correct application of force for the situation. Staying cool and letting the pieces fall in place.
It takes a life on the road to get that.
From Freakish - 10 in 1 America
(c) 2025 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
Characters
Elle Fairbank - daughter
Boz Fairbank - orphan
Roland Brimmer – veteran
Dr. Bernhardt - family Dr.
Talia Napoli - daughter of Galeoto Napoli
Galeoto Napoli - lobster boy
Noel Grist - editorial helper
Anna Coleman Ladd - mask designer
Winslow Chalmers - tragic veteran
Travis Nichol - carny punk
Jimbo Kohler - strongman
Rowena Jimson - strongman’s wife
Marion Grayson - world’s fair nurse
Walter Kidman - mentalist
Petey Huggins - rowdy
Spence Spivak - card sharp
Lana Merola - mentalist
Bobbianne Patch - half man/half woman
Jess Heimendinger - mule Man
Johan Chichester - shooting gallery
Mr. Ried - shooter
Of course, at my age, things that piss me off now, remind me of things that pissed me off a long time ago.
That’s where the biker and the bellringer came back to life on that little movie screen inside my head.
It was some little town out on Long Island around the time that Kennedy was elected. We were part of a three-town event for the Elks, or Moose, or whatever. I don’t remember exactly where, out there a lot of the town names are Indian words like Quogue or Speonk or Aquebogue. Pronounce them wrong and the locals delight in correcting you. The backlot had six rides, a dozen games, a couple of flat stores, and typical grab joint concessions: fried dough, spun sugar, dogs on a stick, frozen everything on a stick.
The usual.
A Saturday night crowd, which is always a half-step closer to crazy than Friday-nighters. The Friday night people, most of them anyway, get here after they leave work so they’re more or less clean, sane, and somewhat sober. Your Saturday night crowd includes people who’ve been off all day, probably riled up a bit, and possibly been drinking since noon, so you gotta expect some heat. Roland was in his 60s then but still working as a mender to keep the lot from going redline. He was griping about wanting to retire and I knew he was good and tired of just babysitting the stand.
Back to the biker bit. All’s well up until a local biker club rolled in. They looked like Hells Angels, but they had some other name on the back of their jackets; something like Marauders and one of those Long Island town names underneath. I figured they were a bunch of blue-collar guys trying to put on a hard front so I had a gazoonie run and tell Roland we had VIPs headed to the lot.
I’ve worked barnstormer gigs in the off-season and the bikers were as easy-going as you might like. If the crowd is peaceable and respectful there’s not much to worry about. But then again, that Saturday night crowd always contains a couple of fueled idiots who want to throw their weight around and get nasty. That was the situation I’m talking about.
Roland met with a couple of the bikers and won them over pretty quick, then talked to the leaders who I saw smiling and nodding shaking hands and all that. I’m sure Roland fit the description of an outlaw at heart, what with his appearance and confidence. I took it off my mind and went back to managing the midway.
Everything was smooth until I heard the High Striker bell ring a little too often. Usually, you hear the big thump as the sledgehammer hits the rubber pad maybe half a dozen times before a bell ringer. If the crowd is small, the operator gives the sledge to a puny sap or gal for a free hit and they ring the bell the first time. As a crowd forms, he’d hand the hammer to some beefy guy in his 20s and, no matter how hard the mark tries, he can’t bang the bell. That’s when humiliation, bragging, and competition begins among the men. A crowd forms and nearly every guy will want to try to ring the bell. The gag is, that it’s impossible to ring the bell unless the operator wants you to ring it. So ringing the bell is just the attraction and not a test of strength.
A perfect gimmick.
The tower itself was designed to humiliate the strong. Standing around fifteen feet tall it was marked from bottom to top with different colored sections that indicated height, but also printed strength descriptions: Weakling, Cream Puff, Puppy, Big Dog, Muscle Guy, He-Man, Superman. This was like catnip to guys wanting to impress a girl.
The device is gaffed, that is to say, rigged to only work properly when the operator steps on a hidden treadle built into the platform where he stands. The tower end of that lever controlled the guidewire that carries the metal puck as it climbs up to the bell. When the wire is tight a moderate sledge hit sends the puck up to strike the bell. When the wire is slack, the puck doesn’t climb smoothly and friction against the markerboard keeps it from reaching the top. The operator can step on the treadle to tighten the wire or step off it to let it go slack. It’s a play-the-crowd con. Let them get worked up and feed the kitty.
When a burly biker and his little slip-of-a-thing girlfriend stepped up to the shift, things took a turn south. The woman must’ve known about the gaff and, when her boyfriend picked up the hammer, she sat on the platform and the wire tightened. The operator, a kid named Downs, was a First-of-May hire-on who wasn’t seasoned enough to handle the situation. I don’t blame him, since the biker was 300 pounds on the hoof and looked pretty nasty.
The High Striker can be a hank-pank; giving away prizes worth less than what it cost to play the game. But it can also initiate crowds of competing males who win nothing. Some operators push it so far as to hand the hammer to a young woman who he lets ring the bell. That can be playing with fire.
When the biker rang the bell the operator new exactly what the girlfriend had done. He tells the biker he’s a winner and tries to hand him a small plush dog. The biker lifts the hammer again and rings the bell. Now Downs has a problem. He asks the girlfriend to step off the platform, but she glares at him, makes eye contact with the boyfriend, and then looks back at Downs. The biker rings the bell again, and again, and again.
I call out “Hey, Rube!” so’s the showfolk around catch s drift of what might be about to spoil the night.
I saw a greenhorn picking up trash in the backyard and tell him. “Kid! Rubes. Go tell the wagon,” and sent him on his way double-time. I was stumped. Where the hell is Roland? I figured I’d have to wrangle, so I reached into my pocket and pushed my fingers through the holes in my brass knuckles. I hated the damned thing, but after getting clocked by a farmboy full of piss and vinegar, I was determined to avoid another lump on my noggin.
Heading toward the crowd, I heard the bell ring, ring, ring. Bad, bad, bad.
A fight in a crowd is about as close as anyone ever gets to see what a chain reaction is. One guy slugs another who falls back into some other guy’s girlfriend and then all hell breaks loose. Most of the bikers were crowded around the High Striker platform grabbing at the hammer to get their chance to ring the bell. Downs was petrified and, like they say, when it’s on the front burner, we’ve got the four “F”s; Fight, Freeze, Flee, or Fawn response. The first three are instinctual choices. The Fawn is trying to please the attacker.
Downs handed prizes – plush animals and Chinese finger puzzles and propeller hats – to everyone on the platform. The bikers tossed them into the crowd which started scuffles between the townies and the Marauders. Other girlfriends climbed up on the platform and egged them on.
Now that is a half-dozen fistfights going on and some women are screaming. Where the hell is Roland? I saw him talk to these guys so I figured he had it handled, but no good. Some of my strong-arm green help pushed into the crowd to separate sluggers and wound up getting stomped. The marks stampeded and, in a flash, there were as many people on the ground as standing up.
One of the Marauders pulled the hammer away from another and it swung out into the crowd behind him and struck a woman in her back as she ran. She screamed as she fell to the ground and several men ran to protect her while a couple of women clambered up and started shoving the biker girlfriends. We were well beyond out of control and fast approaching a riot.
That’s when I looked down the midway and saw Roland walking alongside a small man in a gray suit. They weren’t running. They walked quickly but did not seem rushed or excited. As they drew closer I was probably the only one who noticed them, since everyone else engaged in some kind of fight or sideline agitation. I waved to Roland and he nodded but his pace remained the same; deliberate. The bikers were enjoying the skirmish, you know, making goonie memories and taking out their anger on plain folks.
Downs snuck off the platform and scurried away like a rabbit and I never saw him again.
Then Roland stepped up to the edge of the brawl and reached in his pocket. I didn’t know him to carry a piece, but looking around, I feared the worst. He took out something small and held it to the side of his mask. A long, loud whistle shriek brought everyone to a halt and Roland said, in a calm voice, “Stop.” And as the crowd and bikers stared at him, they stopped. It was impossible, but they all just cut short whatever they were doing and stared at him.
“I will blow this whistle again in a moment and you will have the choice of continuing this pointless activity or doing something different to help yourself,” then, turning to the small man, added, “Am I correct in that?” The man looked from Roland to the bikers and said, “Pay attention,” and he walked to the sledgehammer on the ground, picked it up, and handed it to the girl standing on the treadle. “Dolores, is it?” The girl reacted in surprise to hear her name spoken by a stranger. The man turned to her enraged boyfriend, “And you, Wayne, who spent a year or so in Riker’s with a guy named Bendar, right? He promised to kill you?” His voice was cool as anything you’ve ever heard, “He’s out in three weeks. Think you want to head inside again? For safety’s sake?”
He looked from one biker to the next, “And Roger the firestarter? Jess, the dope runner? Evan, the stolen motorcycle, am I right, Boy?” he turned back to Wayne, “Quite a knitting circle you’ve got here, Wayne… the uh,” the man looked up and thought a moment, ”Wayne, the, uh, let’s say bar brawler. You broke a man’s neck, didn’t you. It was Bendar’s buddy, who’s now in a wheelchair. I’m sure you and he will have a lot to reminisce about when he’s released,” the man looked at his watch, “Hm… not three weeks after all. He’s out in nineteen days.’
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. The bikers were startled but held their ground.
When the wallet flipped open, they could see the badge and looked around frantically for any cops that might be closing in.
“My name is Gerald Frankle, United States Marshal. I’m a Deputy Investigator for the Congressional Taskforce on Street Crime. Your file is right here in the county and I live not thirty miles from here. I know all about you, keep my eye on you, and view you as small fish. I have the authority to put you in the big tank with big fish, but you wouldn’t survive a week.” He turned to the girlfriends, “No visitation rights for women with arrest records, you know that. Right? Lonely days.”
Frankle pointed to Roland. “This is a fair man. He believes in second chances. But he also believes that rowdies need to be swept off his lot.” Roland nods and holds up the whistle. “He was concerned when you fellows rolled in, so he gave me a call. He also called some other locals.”
The Marauders had no idea where this was headed and neither did I. Roland waved the whistle. “So here is my deal for you motorcycle boys. When Roland blows that whistle, two things will happen – one here, and one in the parking lot. You have two choices: choice one, you may continue to fight and take your lumps. You know, scars are better than tattoos. They have better stories. Or, your other choice, you can go out to the parking lot.”
They looked at each other in confusion.
Frankle continued, “There you will see County Sheriff’s deputies and tow trucks loading your bikes onto a flatbed trailer. It seems there are title, registration, serial number, and illegal modification problems. If you can’t explain away these issues, the vehicles will be impounded. Do you understand me?” One of the bikers raised his damn hand like a kid in Sunday school, “Excuse me… we have rights.”
Frankle pointed to Roland and he blew another shrill blast on the whistle. The Marauders sprinted across the lot toward the parking area.
It was unlike any shut-down I’d ever seen. Roland made it his business to know every important local in every place we played. He’d take a pocketful of tickets to hand out and start at the police stations, hit the county offices, and spread a bunch at veteran and fraternal organizations. No one forgot him and everyone respected him. And everyone who met him told others about him and the show. I’d hazard a guess that Roland knew more than ten thousand important people. Charisma it’s called, but it’s the heart of what Carny is all about.
Out in the parking lot, The Marauders were reduced to whining kids trying to keep their motorcycles from being impounded. The hooligans asked Roland to intervene and he thought a long time before he called out to Frankle.
“Gerry! Can you give these boys a break here?”
Frankle shrugged and one of the Marauders stepped up to him.
“Sir, you have us dead to rights. I’m the chapter Sergeant-at-Arms and I understand you know everything about us. Yes, we have rap sheets, and yes, we were out of line here. We got out of line and we’re guilty of whatever you want to call what we did.”
“Inciting a riot? Battery? Assault?” Frankle said, “You know, even Disorderly Conduct begins at a second-degree misdemeanor and means a large fine or, in your case, jail time. You may need some time in the county lock-up to think over,” he added a mocking repetition of the Sargeant-at-Arms, “whatever you want to call what we did”?
“No, Sir. I do not.” The biker said. “Roland? Can you help out here?”
Roland walked to Frankle and whispered in his ear. Frankle frowned and looked at each of the bikers who watched him closely, then whispered to Roland.
“I asked him for a favor,” Roland said, “and he asked me what I could promise him. What can I promise him?”
The Marauders looked at each other, at a loss for what to say.
“Can you keep your nose clean,” Roland asked, “for three months?”
Frankle pulled on Roland’s sleeve to bring his ear closer.
“Six months, he says,” Roland added. “one screw-up and you lose everything, bikes, clubhouse, parole privileges, and go under the microscope. Squeaky clean, you read me?’
Frankle signaled the Sheriff’s deputies who told the tow truck operators to hold off.
“We’ll look like rats to other clubs,” said Wayne.
“Maybe. The alternative is becoming the Marauders Bicycle Club. Use your head.” Frankle said, then added, “We will be taking complaints from the injured here, so you’re not out of the woods. I can’t help with that. People have rights.”
Well, the bikers made their promises and got to keep their motorcycles and that was it for the rest of our run. No trouble at all. But I heard that a couple months after, they all got caught with a load of dope during a night run and wound up doing time anyway. I’m sure Roland knew what was happening from the get-go; just applying the right amount of muscle to keep us clear of the psychos and not so much that we get any after-action problems.
That’s the key; the correct application of force for the situation. Staying cool and letting the pieces fall in place.
It takes a life on the road to get that.
From Freakish - 10 in 1 America
(c) 2025 Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
Characters
Elle Fairbank - daughter
Boz Fairbank - orphan
Roland Brimmer – veteran
Dr. Bernhardt - family Dr.
Talia Napoli - daughter of Galeoto Napoli
Galeoto Napoli - lobster boy
Noel Grist - editorial helper
Anna Coleman Ladd - mask designer
Winslow Chalmers - tragic veteran
Travis Nichol - carny punk
Jimbo Kohler - strongman
Rowena Jimson - strongman’s wife
Marion Grayson - world’s fair nurse
Walter Kidman - mentalist
Petey Huggins - rowdy
Spence Spivak - card sharp
Lana Merola - mentalist
Bobbianne Patch - half man/half woman
Jess Heimendinger - mule Man
Johan Chichester - shooting gallery
Mr. Ried - shooter