Read Part 1 here

“Don’t listen to this sonofabitch, Prez, he’s trying to fuck us.” Possum said as he pulled a handgun from the back of his jean waistband. “Let me ice him right now. Ice for ice.”

“Chill for a second,” Coyote said. “Your old lady knows something about him so let’s hear what she has to say. Who is this guy, Kimberly?”

I hadn’t seen Kimberly Suarez since I graduated high school. I was closer to forty than not these days and I surprised myself with what I remembered after two decades of high functioning alcoholism. I was whatever the teenage equivalent of “in love” was back then. I vaguely recall coming home from school and thinking about her all night as I listened to Luis Miguel love songs for hours on my cheap CD player that skipped like a motherfucker if I didn’t hold it steady.

She and I shared a few classes together. She would occasionally ask me to help her with her algebra and history and chemistry and geography and trigonometry and pre-algebra homework so we’d talk all the time. But she had a boyfriend all throughout our senior year and that dude would constantly bully me. Believe it or not, I wasn’t always the confident, charming, handsome, brown stud I am now. Back when I was a kid I was a shy, nerdy loser and talking to any girl was terrifying. Especially Kimberly.

The longer I sat there with my hands tied behind my back the clearer I remembered that one time Kimberly’s boyfriend shoved me onto the muddy sidewalk just for fun. And I remembered that she broke up with him not long after that. I remembered going alone to prom despite wanting to be anywhere else. And I remembered Kimberly asking me to dance with her to a slow song.

While we danced she told me that she was so mad at her ex-boyfriend because of how he treated me. She told me I didn’t deserve any of that because I was such a nice, smart guy. She gave me a hug at the end of the song that I held for longer than I probably should’ve. Then she told me to take care of myself after graduation. And I said nothing other than “you too.”

Almost twenty years later she was standing in front of me again. And she was probably the only reason I was still alive.

“His name is The Classy Alcoholic and he’s a very popular blogger. I’ve read some of his stuff. He likes drinking heavily, doing drugs and committing crimes. But he also follows Batman rules which means he doesn’t believe in guns or killing.”

“Except I’m even better than Batman because I don’t trust cops,” I chimed in. “Now that you know who I am, who the hell are y’all? You already said you’re with SAMMCOP but that doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“It stands for ‘Sexy Ass Mexican Motorcycle Club – Old Pueblo.’”

“Okay that’s actually kinda fucken rad. And it sounds like you were planning on doing a drug deal which I would never interrupt on principle. I can help y’all figure out what happened to your stash but I need to talk to Kimberly privately.

Possum clearly wasn’t a big fan of that idea. He put the barrel of his gun under my chin.

“Why the fuck are you wanting to talk to my old lady alone, pendejo?”

“Maybe ‘cause she’s the only person in this entire place so far without an itchy trigger finger, dipshit.”

Possum was about to fly into a rage but he stopped and held onto his stomach, nursing the area where I punched the shit out of him. He tried to recover quickly but I knew he was hurt.

“You got a little stummy ache there, bud?” I asked, taunting the guy holding the gun. “Got a widdle boo boo on your tum tum?”

“Enough of this shit,” Coyote cut in. “Possum, take a walk and let him talk to the girl. Classy, you better figure this shit out quick because the other MC will be here in ten minutes. And if we don’t have the drugs by then I’ll feed you to them myself.”

The entire SAMMCOP crew walked to the other end of the bar and left me alone with Kimberly. She pulled a switchblade out of her pocket and cut me loose. Marge was nowhere to be found so I walked behind the bar to pour myself a shitload of whiskey into a tumbler. I had a sinking feeling in my gut that tonight could end badly so I decided to forgo the bar etiquette. Also I was starting to feel uncharacteristically nervous, like that high school kid I left behind a long time ago, and I needed to kill that familiar feeling as fast as possible.

“So you’re a badass biker babe now, huh?”

“Yeah, this crew had a feeling of community I really needed. After high school I felt a bit aimless. I was dating one asshole after another. Mostly dumb-dumbs. I had the worst luck dating, really. All I wanted was to find a nice, laid back guy who was kind of smart. Like, a dude who maybe understood bar etiquette at least. Eventually I ended up with Possum. And I know he’s not perfect. Most people call him a drunken degenerate but we have fun and I’m in my late thirties. At least he doesn’t have a bunch of kids, right? I don’t know, maybe I lowered my standards but there was a long period where I was feeling lonely and I hate to admit that any guy could’ve given me, like, fifty percent effort and I would’ve been good with-”

“HEY, tell me about that drug deal!” I said, desperately trying to change the subject while furiously chugging on that shitty whiskey.

“Oh that! Right. We’re about to put SAMMCOP on the map tonight. Well…we were. Our plan was to sell a stash of meth to McWhiPeePoop.”

“Wait, what? You can’t be serious! To them?!?”

McWhiPeePoop was a well-known abbreviation in town for “Motorcycle Club: White Peeple Power – Old Pueblo.” And yes, they misspelled the word “people” but what can you really expect from the “Master Race”?

“Kimberly, how can y’all make a deal with white supremacists? Hell, forget that even! What makes you think those skinheads will ever agree to do a deal with all of you brown motherfuckers?”

“Because we brought some really good shit back from Mexico, where McWhiPeePoop would never go. We were about to be the best plug in Tucson. And Burrito was in charge of holding the stash before he was murdered.”

“McWhiPeePoop has left a trail of bodies a mile long! You can’t trust them!”

That’s when we all heard the sound of another motorcycle crew approaching from the distance.

“Time’s up Classy,” Possum said, still kinda nursing his stomach and waving his gun toward me. “Hand over the drugs or I shoot you in the face.”

“Nah, you can’t shoot me without Coyote giving the word, right? Look, Coyote, this shit is way more complicated than you thought. I can maybe get you out of this but you need to trust me. I know you don’t know me but you can’t tell me you wouldn’t trust another brown guy over a group of fucking neo-Nazis.”

The room was getting increasingly tense as the motorcycles grew louder. The other SAMMCOP bikers who didn’t talk were clearly nervous.

“Fuck!” Coyote yelled. “Alright fine, Classy. What the hell do we need to do?”

“Kimberly, take my phone and pick a Mexican song for the jukebox. It’ll help me think.”

“Ooooh, I know a good one. I bet you remember this one from high school.”

Kimberly chose “Soy Un Novato” by Intocable. And she was right. I did remember that one quite well. It was the song she and I danced to at prom. My heart was about to beat out of my chest and I honestly had no idea if it was from the nostalgia or the prospect of certain death.

“MARGE!” I yelled. “GET BACK IN HERE!”

The bartender hobbled inside after a long while of chain smoking on the back patio.

“Marge, I’m gonna need you to break out the Fireball. The big one. You know what I’m saying?”

“Aw shit, Classy! Is that really necessary?”

“Yes it is, Marge. I promise. Shots for everyone.”

The motorcycles outside all went quiet. A tall white guy with a bald head and a leather vest walked into the bar flanked by a dozen of his henchmen. They were all carrying guns.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t the sissy ass mexican motorcycle club. Where’s the shit you promised me?”

To Be Concluded…