Deaths Claws MC

“He looks good.” A hooded figure in the blacked-out van said, referring the man walking his Pitbull down the road. The man seemed happy enough, and the dog was in his glee to be with his master.

The man was a nobody, a stranger on the street, one the Police wouldn’t pay much attention too.

“Yeah he’ll do in the ring.” A second hooded man replied, eyeing the specimen up and down. “He’ll have to take the fall of course.”

“Yeah no shit. Look at him, doesn’t look like he could harm a toddler. When he goes down we’ll make a killing.”

“Can’t go down too fast though. Gotta give the people a show.”

“Will you two shut the fuck up and get on with it?” The driver barked. “It’s bad enough we had a dropout, but I don’t wanna spend all fuckin day in this van looking for a replacement. Contrary to belief I do actually have shit to do.”

“Calm down Mark.” The first hooded man said.

“Shut up, grab him now.” Mark said.

“No, it’s too public. Follow him for a little bit, see if he takes a backroad or something.”

The van roared to life as the man walked his dog thirty feet in front of them. He had no idea he was being followed.

Richard sauntered down the roads of San Bernardino with a smile on his face and happiness in his heart. It was a beautiful day, but he would have to go home soon because poor old Boss’ paws wouldn’t be able to deal with the heat much longer.

Richard walked until the leash in his hand became taught behind him. Richard turned and noticed Boss biting his new nametag.

With a chuckle, Richard walked over and knelt down to get Boss to stop.

“C’mon buddy, it’s not that bad. You’re gonna have to learn to live with it.” Richard said in a soothing tone, but Boss kept thrashing around.

Hate this thing, I hate this thing. Boss thought. The taste of the metal tag filled his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop until the tag was gone.

“Hey, hey, hey, C’mon now. Stop that.” Richard took Boss’ head and held it up so he could see the dog’s eyes. Even angry, Boss’ eyes were full of love.

With a huff, Boss gave up and stared back at his master. Ok, I’ll stop. I love you.

“That’s a good boy. Let’s go home. If you’re good, I’ll get you a treat! How does that sound?”

Oh yes treats are good thank you. Boss thought while looking up to his master. There was a newfound pep in his step at the promise of treats, but what he needed more than anything was something to drink. It was so hot! Boss’ tongue was almost touching the ground.

Richard turned into an alley he used as shortcut every time he took Boss out for a walk. A million times he used this route with no issue, but today would be the last.

Richard barley had time register the Van pulling up behind him in the alley before he felt the sting of a bare-knuckle punch in the back of the skull. He instantly fell to the ground and suffered a beating from two men cloaked in black hoods. They kicked him repeatedly, breaking a few ribs, but Richard didn’t let go of Boss’ leash.

Boss jumped and barked in dismay but didn’t know what to do.

Hey! Leave my master alone! He thought.

“Get him before he draws attention.” One of the assailants said. The second man stomped on Richard’s hand, breaking the wrist. Richard cried in agony, and despite his best efforts, Boss’ leash slipped through his grip.

The man yelled “Got him! Come on, the fight starts soon!” as he picked up Boss. The two men jumped into the van with Boss and slammed the door shut.

“BOSS!” Richard screamed.

MASTER! Boss barked back.

Richard staggered to his knees and tried to run after the van, but the beating he took left him disoriented and damn near unconscious.

“BOSS! NO! HELP!” he screamed. Richard was so stupefied he didn’t realize he ran into the street rather than running on the sidewalk. There were a few other pedestrians around, but none of them asked Richard what was wrong, they just thought he was going crazy.

Richard heard the sharp sound of tires screeching on the blacktop as the brakes were applied too hard. He turned and when the smoke cleared, saw a tall man clad in leather on a Harley Davidson Motorcycle. The man parked the bike, hopped off and screamed at the crazy idiot who just ran out into the road.

“What the fuck is wrong with you man!? You nearly killed us both Goddamnit!” The biker shouted. His gravely voice boomed throughout the streets. It wasn’t until Richard came closer he noticed the blood, and his whole demeanor changed.

“Please! Please you have to help me!”

“Woah, woah, woah. Calm down, what happened?”

“They—they beat me and stole my dog. Please you have to help. He’s my little puppy!”

Richard’s chin stuttered as he fought to hold back tears.

“Who took your dog?” The biker asked. Richard turned and pointed to the blacked-out van going straight down the road.

“They said the fight starts soon. Please you have to get my Boss back.” Richard fell to his knees and biker crouched with him.

“Listen, I’m going to get him back. You wait here for me, no matter how long it takes. Got it?” The biker said. Richard nodded in understanding and saw through his tears the man wasn’t just wearing a leather jacket, but a cut as well, decked out in red and black colored patches. On the right, one read MONGREL, underneath that was one saying LIFER. And the one above his left breast read WHISKEY, with another saying SGT. AT ARMS underneath. Near the bottom of his cut were two more patches, but Richard didn’t get a good look at them.

The biker nicknamed Whiskey hopped back on his hog, a 2013 Softail Slim and shouted one last thing before blasting off in pursuit of the dognappers.

“And whatever you do don’t call the cops!” The black Harley zoomed down the road, cutting off cars and splitting lanes like a monster was after him.

Richard saw Whiskey’s cut held a large three-piece patch on the back.

The bottom patch was a state rocker which read CALIFORNIA

The centerpiece patch was of a large Dire Wolf’s head with jaws wide open, ready to attack, and had a small cube on the side with MC (short for Motorcycle Club) beside it.

And the top rocker held the Club’s name: DEATHS CLAWS.

As Whiskey dangerously sped down the road, he pulled out an old flip phone, dialed a number and held it to his ear while weaving in and out of traffic to keep up with the van.

“Hey, it’s Whisk! Church will have to wait. I know it’s important but listen, I got a lead on that dog fighting ring! Yeah, I’m following them now! We’re heading down Tippecanoe Avenue towards the abandoned warehouses, get the pack together, I’ll call when we stop!”

Whiskey hung up the phone, stuck it in his pocket, then pulled in the clutch, upshifted, and cranked back the throttle. If he had read his speedometer, he would’ve seen he was going 100 miles per hour on city streets. He was lucky there were no cops around at the moment, but even if there were, he wouldn’t have stopped.

Whiskey saw the van turn into a parking lot a few blocks ahead. He did the same only farther back so as to not be spotted. Whiskey threw down his kickstand, hopped off and crouched by his bike. He could see the hooded men getting out of van with a little Pitbull in their arms.

“Get in there!” One of them yelled as he threw the dog to the ground, then kicked it to move. Whiskey ground his teeth together in pure hatred.

Motherfucker’s gonna pay.

Whiskey, sweating to death from the heat radiating from his pipes combined with the already blistering day, hit redial on his phone and gave the person on the other end of the line his location. It wasn’t two minutes later when he heard the encroaching rumble of Harley Davidson’s ripping up the road. His Club brothers made good time.

Whiskey went out to the road and waved them down, then returned to his viewing post.

Seven bikes and a van pulled into the lot in order of their riding formation. At the front was the Chapter President Marcus Ball, a tough, war grizzled man with a beard damn near down to his knees. Most people thought him a feeble old man until they felt how hard he could punch, and those who showed him respect would have seen the nicest man they’d ever met.

Next was the VP (Vice President) JJ, who was beside the President to the left. JJ stood for Just Johnathon. John was orphaned as a baby, and never knew his real parents. He spent all his life bouncing around the foster care system until he was old enough to join the military. Once he did his tour for Desert Storm, Johnathon returned in search of a home once more. It wasn’t until he found the Club did he understand the meaning of family. Never having a permanent traditional home however, he never took a last name (using Smith as a last name on official documents), which led to everyone calling him Just Johnathon.

To JJ’s left, was the Road Captain, Dominic “Road” Marsh. The nickname Road was purely ironic rather than given to him because of his position in the club. Road was probably the most careless of the whole chapter, maybe even the Club as a whole! If he saw someone doing something exciting, no matter how stupid, he had to try it. He called himself an adrenaline junkie, others called him an idiot. The name Road was given to him when a former member of the Club saw Road without his shirt and saw his whole body was covered in patches of road rash from crashes over the years. Having Road as Road Captain was ideal since he knew all of the shortcuts from his racing days (usually to avoid the cops) and he always kept up on where road construction was happening so it wouldn’t impact any Club rides. He may be an adrenaline junkie, but at least he’s a prepared one.

Behind Road was the Club Secretary, Colin” The Librarian” Martin. Colin was a detailed oriented man, he liked knowing everything and everyone. Sometimes it could get annoying being asked a million questions about one thing, but this made him the perfect fit for the Secretary position in the Club. If anyone wanted any bit of information from past meetings or what have you, The Librarian was the man to ask.

Adam “Lazarus” Daniels was next to Colin. Laz was the Clubs Treasurer, handling Club dues and making sure payments were made to whoever needed them. The name Lazarus stems from Jesus’ friend Lazarus in the bible, who came back from the dead at Jesus’ command. Adam was given the name after a horrible Motorcycle crash caused him to flatline for two minutes. Luckily the doctors were able to revive him, a resurrection of sorts. He was just happy he was still able to ride afterwards.

Behind all the officers of the Club were the patched members (often called enforcers).

There was Cain “Ops” Kensington, who was an ex-military Black Ops member (hence the name Ops). He was a good man to anyone who treated him well and was always smiling, which was odd for a Claws member, but it did help people approach the Club which could eventually turn them into hangarounds and then prospects. But the one thing which unnerved most people, was Ops smile seemed to grow bigger when he was looking through a sniper scope. Maybe it reminded him of his military days, maybe he just liked killing. No one really bothered to ask.

Next to Ops was David “Thor” Taylor, who was a blonde giant of a man. It wasn’t hard to see where the nickname came from. His biceps were so big he could barely fit through doors. However, despite his massive, stone-cold demeanor, Thor was a family man at heart with a loving wife and two little girls at home. Thor always held his family tight and made sure he’d be there every night to tuck in his little girls. Some people didn’t like his division between the Club and family life, but he explained before becoming a prospect those little girls were his life and if the Club didn’t like it, he’d walk away. He was voted in as a full patch two months before his year-long probation was up.

In the van were the two current prospects, Brandon Little and Michael Hernandez. Brandon and Michael weren’t given the privilege of nicknames. For now, they were only called “Prospects”, and did as the Club asked, whether it was cleaning bikes, the clubhouse, or getting beers ready for Church meetings.

Brandon was a supporter from way back, eventually becoming a hangaround, and now prospect, as most people did. Michael was having a bit of a harder time with his prospect-ship than Brandon as his older brother was a Claw years before Michael joined up. Having blood in the club always set a man to a higher standard to make sure he wasn’t receiving or asking for special treatment. So far he was doing great, but he had a rough time a few months ago when his brother was killed during a Club war. The Clubs called a ceasefire shortly after which struck Michael the wrong way, he wanted revenge, but was denied it. He stopped answering his phone, stopped going to the clubhouse, but after the funeral, he returned in stride, realizing revenge was only going to shed more blood on both sides. He was six months away from his vote in, and things were looking good for the kid so far.

“Whisk. What do we got?” Marcus asked as everyone dismounted their iron steeds. The prospects in the van got out and took point to cover the Club’s six, just in case of any drivers who might give them some unwanted attention.

Whisk turned to his President, extended a hand and the two embraced each other. They may have looked old, but when the two brothers smacked the others back, the force could be felt by all the members around them.

“I found that dog fighting ring we’ve been looking for. I was on my way to get some breakfast before Church when this dude runs up on me in the middle of the road. He was beaten and bloody, saying the guys driving that van stole his dog and that a fight was starting soon. I followed them here, and sure enough they had the dog.”

“How many people inside?”

“I’m gonna estimate between twenty and twenty-five, judging by the cars.”

Marcus nodded and growled. He could smell the Dog blood from here.

The Deaths Claws, for all their faults and intimidating appearance were animal lovers, donating thousands of dollars a year to local shelters and adopting as many Dogs as they could. So, when word of a dogfighting ring opening up in their own backyard reached the Club, they began hunting it down immediately. Nothing happened in a Red and Black state without their blessing.

“Alright, this ends now. JJ, call the Busa Boys. We’re gonna need backup on this.” JJ pulled out his phone and was about to dial up the Busa Boys MC President when Whisk halted him.

“We don’t have time. I promised the owner of that pup I get him his dog back. By the time they get here, it could be too late.”

Marcus sighed and said “Goddamnit Whiskey. We need to be smart about this.”

“I know Marcus, I know. But I have a plan, and if anyone goes down, it’s on me.”

Marcus turned to the rest of the Club, looked each member in the eye and asked, “Are you guys good with that?” He hated making rash decisions, but Whisk was right, time was of the essence, and he couldn’t stand to have another dog killed while they sat around with their dicks in their hands. Not that he’d ever tell Whiskey that of course, the two had known each other long enough to know he’d never hear the end of it.

The rest of the guys nodded eagerly, they were dying to go in.

“Alright brother, your smooth-talkin-ex-lawyer-ass got what you wanted. What’s your plan?”

“Simple: We’re gonna show those fuckers a real dog fight.”

Once the details of the plan were hashed out, everyone sprang into action.

Step one was to neutralize the guards out front. It was the easiest part of the plan since the “guards” were too busy smoking and dicking around on their phones to notice the bikers sneaking up on them.

Using their combat knives, Ops and Laz stabbed the two guards’ throats simultaneously, destroying the vocal cords so there were no screams. Once the guards were down and dragged away into a nearby ditch, Whisk, Marcus, and JJ ran to the front door with Ops and Laz close behind, while the two prospects, Thor, Colin and Road secured the rest of the perimeter and staked out the back door.

“Ready?” Whisk asked. Everyone nodded sharply and entered the warehouse.

The inside of the warehouse had seen better days. The walls were rusted and run down, covered in graffiti, dried blood, and other substances no one wished to speak of. The metal walls were bouncing with the sounds of screaming degenerates and meth-heads as they cried for more bloodshed. Some threw in their bets while others snorted bumps off their thumbs.

Boss was terrified of the noise and strangers screaming at him. He tried to shy away but was being kicked towards the ring by his kidnapper.

Master, I just want my Master. Please Master find me.

“A new contender!” The kidnapper shouted as he forced Boss further on. The crowd cheered as Boss was thrown down into the ring. Boss hit the floor hard and cried in pain. He got up, shook the dirt off himself, and looked around. He was in a deep pit, and the only way out was a barred door leading to some stairs.

Boss wandered around in circles of confusion, trying to hide from the people above who were screaming and throwing things at him until the steel gate leading to the exit was hauled up a couple feet. Being so scared, Boss jumped away from it to the other side of the ring and relaxed slightly when he saw another dog walk through. The dog was a big black Pitbull, covered in scars from previous fights.

The other puppy’s Boss had met over the years were all nice ones, and thinking this one was no different, he approached the Pitbull and tried to sniff him.

Hello friend! What are we doing here? I’m scared. I want my Mas—Before Boss could finish his innocent thought, the Pitbull attacked him, biting into his front right paw, and shaking violently. Boss yelped in agony as blood poured from the wound. Boss smacked the dog on the head to get away.

Fortunately, the crazed Pitbull let up for a moment, letting Boss back away.

Why did you do that!? Boss cried. Tears fell from his little eyes as he shook in pain. He had never known such a thing before. The worst thing to happen to him was Master accidently stepping on his paw, but that didn’t even hurt much.

The Pitbull, not bothering to answer Boss’ questions, growled and barked savagely at Boss as he circled him. When he had had enough, the Pitbull braced itself to pounce and go in for the kill. Boss turned away, afraid of what was going to happen, picturing his Master’s face to ease him through these next moments. But then a loud noise echoed through this puppy murder house, sending the mean Pitbull and all the spectators into a silent standstill.

A gunshot rang out in the metal warehouse. Everyone ducked instinctively and turned in the direction of the shot. Standing in the door they saw a group of leather clad men, all wearing cuts, with the one in front holding his snub nose .500 Magnum in the air.

“Who the fuck are you!?” A Hispanic man in a dirt covered suit asked as he came from the backroom.

“What?” Marcus asked.

“I said who the fuck are you whiteboy? Ruiz, get the champion back in his cage while I deal with this.” The dirty suit ordered as he marched towards Marcus.

“Oh, my apologies, hearing’s not so great these days. Umm who the fuck am I? I’m the guy who wants to know who the fuck thought they could open up a dogfighting ring in DC territory. You the leader of this shitstained operation?”

“Yeah that’s right homes. This is my operation. And I do as I please, I don’t ask no permission from anyone. Especially no biker boy faggots like you.” The dirty suit smacked Marcus’ cut and laughed in his face. Marcus chuckled too, he had to admit, this little shit had balls.

“Well first off, the Claws run this state, and we don’t condone the murder of innocent animals. And secondly, don’t you dare touch me again. The fuck is your name?”

“You can call me Tito biker boy. And you in my house son.” Tito said as he smacked Marcus’ cut again. “What you gonna do about it huh? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we outnumber you.” At that, everyone who was packing drew their guns and trained them on the Marcus, Whisk, and the others.

Marcus took a deep breath, acting like he was defeated, and said, “Whiskey, I guess we have no choice but to go with your plan.”

“And what plan is that bitch?” Tito asked.

Marcus leaned in close and whispered. “We’re gonna show you a real dog fight.” Marcus straightened up and groaned in pain. Everyone in the warehouse watched in horror as the Club members in front of them turned from normal looking folks, into seven-foot-tall snarling Wolves, similar to the one on their patch. Each member felt their bodies grow in size and rip apart their shirts. Their jeans and cuts remained unscathed, however.

The transformation from human to wolf was always a painful one. Their muscles and bones had to break, snap, grow, and reform to support the larger form, and growing so much fur was always itchy as it grew out at an accelerated rate.

Once the men were fully transformed, everyone stared in shock and awe, even Tito, who for all his shit seemed fearless.

Whiskey stepped forward and grabbed Tito by the collar bone, hoisted him in the air with one hand, bringing him eye level with the Werewolf.

“Please. . . Don’t.” Tito whimpered to the snarling and drooling wolf. Whiskey let out a mighty roar and grasped Tito’s head in his jaws. Whisk dropped on all fours and shook Tito’s head around like it was a dog toy. Tito screamed until Whiskey snapped his neck. It was a bit faster than he would’ve liked, but the point was made.

With blood and brains dripping from his snout, Whiskey looked at everyone else in the room and barked violently at them. The other wolves rushed in for the kill and it was only then the gang bangers and meth heads all seemed to remember their weapons. Shots rang out, but none found their targets. The spectators were too afraid or high to aim properly, but in the end it didn’t matter. They all died screaming at the hands of monsters.

Some had the smarts to run away from the danger. A few rushed to the back door, but found themselves surrounded by more Wolves. They were ripped apart in seconds, barely even registering what hit them.

Once the potential escapees were dealt with, the Wolves stalked inside and joined the party.

The party was over mere minutes after it started. Once the screaming and gunshots died down, all that could be heard was the barking of the caged dogs in the back room.

Whiskey stood tall, holding the head of some junkie and bleeding from the stomach. It seems a bullet had found its mark after all. Whisk roared and pushed the bullet out of his system until it hit the floor.

Normal bullets could kill a Werewolf if there was enough of them. But one measly 9mm wasn’t shit. If the bullet had been silver however, it would’ve been a different story.

Marcus stomped up to Whiskey, placed a paw on his shoulder and only removed it when Whisk nodded, signaling he was ok. Marcus turned to the rest of the Werewolves, still sporting their club cuts, raised his head up, and howled. The others joined in unison as they celebrated victory.

Whiskey dropped the head in his paw and jumped into the fighting ring, where Boss was cowering into himself while the others returned to human form.

“Good work everyone!” Marcus exclaimed. “But unfortunately, the fun part is over. Ops, I want you to call the Cleaner, he’ll have a fuckin field day with this.” Ops nodded, pulled out his flip phone and made the call. Marcus continued giving orders.

“The rest of you, I want all those dogs released and put in the van. It’s time they got a good home. Move out! Whiskey! Which dog belongs to your buddy?”

Whisk, still transformed, looked back, and huffed at the tiny dog in the ring. Marcus got the message and helped the others load up the pups.

Whisk approached the scared puppy on all fours, creeping his way towards Boss. As he got closer, Whiskey could hear what Boss was thinking. Telepathy with canines was another gift that came with being a Werewolf.

Boss looked at the massive snout of sharp fangs coming at him and cried. Please no, no, no, go away scary monster please, where is my Master, I want my Master. Boss cried over and over again.

Whisk was now inches from Boss’s face, he could smell the blood on Whiskey’s teeth. Just as Boss closed his eyes, thinking of his master one last time before the lights went out, the monster stopped, made a low growl, and spoke to him telepathically.

Don’t be scared Boss, we’re here to help.

Boss looked at the monster with astonishment. He’d never experienced anything like this before.

You’re here to help? Me?

Yes, I’m here to bring you back to your Master. You want to see your Master right?

Yes! I want my Master. I miss him so bad.

That’s what I thought. My name is Whiskey, if you come with me, I’ll patch up your paw and take you to him.

Boss looked at his injured paw, then back to Whiskey.

Those mean people took me away from my Master. You promise you’ll take me back to him?

Promise. With all my heart.

Whisk slowly returned to his human form and held out a hand for Boss to put his paw in. Boss sniffed the hand for a minute and deduced this wolf person could be trusted. Boss limped over to Whiskey and fell into his hands. He could barley walk on the paw.

Whisk hefted Boss up, he was heavier than expected.

“Good boy, c’mon over here and we’ll get you patched up. Hey! Anyone see a first aid kit anywhere?” Whiskey shouted.

Thank you. Boss said.

“You’re welcome Boss.”

On the street corner, Richard sat with his head between his knees, freaking out. It had been almost two hours since he talked to that biker, and the pain in his wrist was worsening. How much longer was he gonna wait? Was the biker even bothering going after Boss? These thoughts ran around Richards head no matter how hard he tried to banish them.

But he clearly had some faith left, otherwise he would’ve left and called the cops. Just as the clock hit the two-hour mark, the thunderous sound of a Harley could be heard coming down the road. Richard shot up despite feeling lightheaded from his wound.

There were thousands of Harleys in this town, but this was the Harley he wanted to see. Cruising down the road was a black 2013 Softail with a dog sitting in the rider’s lap.

“Boss!” Richard shouted. Whisk pulled over, hopped off the bike, and slowly put Boss on the ground, trying not to irritate his paw.

Boss seemed to forget about the pain as he jumped into Richard’s face, licking him mercilessly.

Master, Master I missed you I was so scared I love you!

“Oh Boss, You’re ok buddy, you’re ok.” Richard said. He noticed the paw but didn’t bother to bring it up.

“Thank you so much, I don’t know what to say. I’m just—Oh thank God.” Richard began breaking down in tears of joy. He knelt down and let Boss continue the onslaught of kisses. “What happened?”

“To be honest you don’t wanna know. You didn’t call the cops, right?” Whisk asked.

“No, no, no. I didn’t call anyone just like you said.”

“Good. Boss here is a tough puppy, I’m glad he has someone to love him as much you do. Make sure you take him to a vet. Me and my boys did the best we could, but he may need some shots.”

“I’ll take him there right now. Oh God, thank you, I don’t know what I’d do without him.” Richard squeaked.

Whiskey smiled, knelt down, and patted Boss on the head.

Take care of your Master little man. He loves you a lot.

I know. Thank you Whiskey.

Whiskey smiled and gave one last pat before making his depart. Richard and Boss limped over to the bike to see their hero off.

“I don’t know how I can repay you. Please, if there’s anything—”

“You just take care of Boss, and we’ll call it even, deal?”

“Deal.” Richard held out his other hand to shake and Whiskey grasped it with respectable strength. Whiskey then put up the kickstand, fired up the engine, and went down the road towards the Deaths Claws MC clubhouse.

Richard and Boss watched Whiskey ride until he turned off onto a street they couldn’t see. When Whisk was gone, Richard noticed something in his hand, it felt like glossy paper. He opened his palm and saw a sticker was there, Whiskey must’ve given it to him during the handshake.

Richard turned the sticker around. It said: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL 43 MOTHER CHAPTER