ALL THE RAGE (writer: T.M. Frazier)(36)

“I heard about the leg, man. That sucks, bro. We’ve all been routing for you back home,” Pinto said. “Oh, and that f*cking cunt Jessica. I knew she was a f*cking cunt though, brother, because my girl Maria saw her playing Chinese finger cuffs with Tico and his…”

It wasn’t hard to figure out that Jessica was the f*ck buddy.

I cleared my throat.

“And who might this be?” Pinto asked, his eyes darting to me.

“This is Rage,” Nolan said, introducing me. “Rage, this old son of a bitch is Pinto. Pinto makes the best empanadas in all of Southwest Florida. I graduated with his brother.”

Pinto put his hand over his heart. “Very nice to meet you, Rage. I’d thank Goon here for his compliment, but that shit be true, yo. Although, my abuelita might argue with you, because it’s her recipe. So in case she’s looking down from heaven, we’ll just they’re the best in the entire world,” he said. He turned to Nolan and smacked his shoulder. “And I’m two years older than you, homie. So cut the old shit.”

Nolan playfully punched him back.

“You hit like a f*cking girl. You two hitting up Bunch Beach tonight? Heard they got the pulls going on. Scotty’s out there with the ‘Yota. Can you believe he still has that piece of shit running? You should go check it out.”

“People still partying out there?” Nolan asked.

“Yeah man. You should go say hey. Sure there are some katz out there who would love to say hi to the Nolan Archer.”

“Fuck you, man,” Nolan said with a laugh.

Pinto grabbed two Coronas out of a refrigerator with a glass front and a PEPSI logo over the top. He tossed them to Nolan then pointed to one of only two tables in the place. “Why don’t you two take a seat and I’ll bring you out something special,” he said, rubbing his palms together as if he was formulating a plan. Dozens of colorful tattoos decorated the backs of his knuckles as Nolan led me over to the yellow, plastic table by the large front window. He used the concrete windowsill on the sidewall to remove the caps from our beers like he’d done it a million times before. He handed me one.

“Goon?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Hockey thing,” Nolan explained. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna hit the little boys’ room.”

While Nolan was gone, Pinto came and set down two white, Styrofoam plates overflowing with an assortment of amazing smelling food. Not only did they have a golden brown empanada on each one but also some sort of delicious looking shredded pork, and what looked like little fried rounds of banana. “Wow, this looks great,” I said, picking up my plastic fork and digging into the food, which tasted even better than it smelled.

“Holy shit. Who needs f*cking compliments? All I gotta do is stand here and watch you eat. That’s compliment enough,” Pinto said, flashing a smile. It wasn’t until he raised his hand to wipe his face that I noticed the skull tattoo over his middle knuckle on his right hand. One I’ve seen many times before.

Beach Bastard familiar.

Fuck.

“Does he know who you are?” Pinto asked in a threatening whisper, leaning in close with one hand on the back of my chair.

I scooped another mouthful of pork into my mouth. “What’s the seasoning in this? It’s fantastic,” I said through my food. “I mean the cilantro I’ve already figured out. That was the easy one. There’s something else, though, I can’t quite pin-point.”

“Are you after him, or you f*cking him?” Pinto asked, snatching the fork from my hand and plopping it down onto the middle of my plate. He got right up in my face. “Or maybe both?” The fire in my spine started to burn the second he touched my f*cking fork.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deadpanned.

“I caught a glimpse of your tattoo. I know it’s you. I used to run cleanup for the Bastards back in the day. That tattoo was described by a dying man or two left in the wake of the shit I had to take care of because of something you did,” Pinto said, leaning in even closer. “Thought they were delirious. Thought it was all a myth that a girl could cause so much damage. They call you the Angel of Death. Didn’t think you were real until you walked into my place just now.”

“Step back, or you’re gonna learn firsthand why they call me that,” I warned. I was familiar with the moniker. The complete lack of creativity or originality of the nickname was the only thing that bothered me about it.

Pinto ignored my warning, placing a hand on the back of my chair. “You listen up, bitch. That kid’s my friend. Has been since we were in f*cking diapers. Anything happens to him and I’ll call my f*cking brother. He’s a Bastard, and he’ll be coming for you. Him and his whole f*cking club.”

I faked a yawn, his threat just as boring and unoriginal as ‘Angel of Death’.

I pushed away his hand and picked up my fork again. With Pinto watching that hand, I grabbed a handful of Pinto’s balls with the other and squeezed, the veins in my forearms flexing and straining with my the tightness of my grip. He yelped and tried to step back. I only squeezed harder.

I cut off the corner of the empanada and took a huge bite. “Mmmmm, these really are good,” I said in a normal volume before lowering my voice. “Listen motherf*cker, I’ll do what I need to do, just like you’ll do what you need to do,” I said between chews. “You step in my business, though, and I’ll not only cut out your balls and feed them to you, I’ll burn this shit hole to the ground. Then I’ll burn your club to the ground.” I looked him square in the eye where tears had formed in the corners. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, or what you think you know, but trust me, whatever you’ve heard is bullshit…I’m much, much worse. If you don’t believe me, I recommend that since you’re a Bastard familiar, that you ask Chop or Bear about me. They’ll tell you I don’t just threaten, I follow through. I kind of hope you f*ck up. I’m all too happy to end it all. Your club. Your business. Your brother.” I paused and gave him one last hard squeeze. “You.”