Page 454 of Devil’s Disciples

We laughed about his poor reconnaissance skills and my poor bank robbing skills. Afterward, we had a few beers while discussing our futures. As fate would have it, he rode in an outlaw motorcycle club that specialized in robbing banks.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Committing crimes with the Devil’s Disciples proved to be exactly what I needed to keep my adrenaline level elevated. The men became my brothers. A decade quickly passed. The criminal activities of the six-man club satisfied my urge for a rush, but we weren’t a conventional motorcycle club. I felt the desire to ride with an MC that was more focused on riding than committing crimes.

So, I began weekend rides with Navarro’s MC, the Filthy Fuckers. Through my involvement with both groups, my needs were met, entirely.

Now, with two dead bodies to get rid of, I was pleased that I had the Filthy Fuckers’ clubhouse at my disposal.

Everyone else had gone, leaving Crip, Pee Bee, and me to get rid of the bodies. A few months earlier, Crip purchased a large kiln for the sole purpose of turning bodies to ash. His repeated run-ins with local factions of the MS-13 gang produced numerous dead bodies, and it was the best way he’d found to eliminate the evidence, entirely.

I peeled off my rubber gloves and tossed them into the kiln. “Good thing those two fuckers were short. If they were regular-sized, they’d have never fit in there at the same time.”

“We’ve fit a couple normal-sized people in there at once,” Pee Bee said, closing the lid of the kiln. “But you’ve got to chunk ‘em up.”

I gave him a look. “Chunk ‘em up?”

“Yeah.” He made a motion like he was swinging an axe. “Cut ‘em in pieces that you can stack on top of one another.”

“I don’t mind burning these two assholes, but hacking ‘em into pieces?” I shook my head. “I’d have left that to you.”

“They don’t give a fuck,” he said. “They’re dead.”

“You don’t think their soul’s give a fuck?” I asked.

Crip folded his arms across his chest. He alternated glances between us. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?” I asked.

“Don’t get into a philosophical conversation with that idiot right now,” he growled. “It’s three in the fucking morning. I’m ready to call it a night.”

Pee Bee folded his arms over his chest, mimicking Crip. “Fuck you. I’m not an idiot.”

I looked at Crip. “I was just asking. In my opinion, cutting a guy up into chunks is crossing a line.”

Crip’s eyes narrowed in opposition of my claim. “What line?”

“Unacceptable behavior,” I responded.

He looked me up and down. “Killing a man is acceptable behavior?”

“Yep.”

“But cutting him up isn’t?”

“Nope.”

“I’d like to hear this.” He laughed a dry laugh. “Explain it to me.”

Crip was a good leader of men. His MC was a testament to that fact. He was, however, a little on the arrogant side. His opinion was right and anyone who opposed his thoughts was wrong.

Opinions were nothing more than that. Opinions. Not fact. Not specific knowledge. Just a personal view. Every man is entitled to his opinion, including me.

“If killing a man is justified, it’s justified,” I explained. “There’s no need to dwell on it, think about it, or try and understand it. It is what it is. But, once they’re dead, there needs to be a little decency. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

“Killing the man in the first place isn’t crossing a line?” Crip asked.

“If I was just walking around town shooting random fuckers in the face, it’d be wrong. Shooting a man in self-defense isn’t.”