Crash (Evil Dead MC 2)

“Knowing him, he’s probably wrapped around some pussy and doesn’t want to drag his ass out of bed,” Red Dog added.

“We’ll swing by and pick him up. It’s on the way,” Cole said.

“Since when is Green’s place on the way to Sonny’s?” Crash asked.

Cole grinned, his thumb scratching along the scruff on his jaw. “That’s right, you haven’t seen his new place.”

The others laughed.

Crash glanced around at his brothers, wondering what joke he wasn’t being let in on. “Fuck. Every time that fucker moves, it’s to a worse dump than the place before. Where’s he at now?”

Wolf laughed. “Wait ‘till you see it.”

Cole pitched his cigarette and fired his bike up. The others followed suit. They pulled out, the five of them roaring down the street.

Ten minutes later, they were pulling into a ratty trailer park on the east side. Cole rolled slowly down the lane, the rest following. Crash noticed one piece-of-shit trailer after another. The further back into the park they got, the worse the trailers looked, if that were possible.

Cole finally pulled into the dirt and gravel, next to what had to be by far the worst place of all of them. But, sure enough, there was Green’s metallic-orange bobtail chopper parked next to his other two bikes.

Crash parked next to Cole and looked over at him. Cutting off his bike, he said, “You have got to be shitting me.”

Cole laughed.

“There’s no way he’s got pussy in there. No chick would step foot in the place,” Crash insisted as he swung his leg over the bike and stood. “Hell, all he’s missing is a big-headed banjo-playing boy sitting on the front porch.”

The guys collapsed into hysterics.

“You would know. Isn’t that typical of where you grew up?”

“Shut the fuck up, Dog,” Crash snapped.

Cole got off his bike and headed up the porch steps, chuckling. “Well, come on. If it’s good enough for carnival folk, it’s good enough for us.”

“Fuck, carnies live better than this shithole,” Crash declared.

“Maybe some of you should wait outside. Don’t want the place to tilt,” Cole suggested with a grin.

“Hell, maybe we all should,” Wolf advised, laughing.

“Could be worse,” Red Dog mumbled.

“How could this place be worse?” Crash looked at him, dumbfounded.

“Could be parked on a hill.” Another round of laugher burst out.

They all trouped inside, Cole not bothering to knock. “Green!” he yelled. Not receiving an answer, he stomped through the tiny corridor that led from the combination living room/dining room/kitchen, toward the back bedroom.

Crash glanced around the place as he followed. The inside was just as bad as the outside. Ratty gold shag carpeting, wood paneling, empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays and a shit-ton of crap piled around the place.

Red Dog plopped down on a barstool that sat next to the counter, separating the living room from the tiny filthy kitchen. He picked up a bottle of tequila sitting on the counter, unscrewed the cap and took a long pull.

Crash followed Cole down the hall, his shoulders barely clearing the walls.

Cole entered the bedroom, stood next to the bed and kicked it with his boot. “Get your ass up, fucker. We got shit to do today.”

Green groaned and rolled over, flinging the arm

of a woman off him.