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All posts for the month June, 2012
Commandant Oliver Hazard Perry
My Father’s father’s family name is Siverling. They originated in the state of Baden, Germany, and the family history has been traced to around 300 B.C. The branches that are known have historically been farmers and tradesmen. Two families migrated to North Americain the 18th Century, one line in 1741, and my direct ancestor Christopher, in 1753. Both sailed into Philadelphia and took up residence in the regions surrounding that city. My 7th great-grandfather Christopher moved his family west to a region of southwest Pennsylvania north and east of Pittsburgh, and a few years later, decided to move them to a new territory that had opened up in the northwest part of the state. The land was wild and untamed, and for a farmer, it offered an opportunity to settle in a region unencumbered by the complexities of society.
Crawford County is a mountainous area, abundant with deer, bear, rabbit, trout, and at that time, Indians. Christopher had actually obtained the rights to 400 acres of land in 1794, but had delayed moving his wife and children there until the Army could bring the Iroquois Indians under control a bit. The land was fed by two creeks, the French and the Conneaut, and several small tributaries, which flow southeasterly through sloping gullies fifty to a hundred feet deep. Above these the land is comparatively level. It is roughest in the northwestern part, and in the northeast, along the banks of Conneaut Creek, it is somewhat marshy. The soil is a gravelly and in a few places sandy loam, except in the northwest where clay predominates. The timber is hemlock, white oak, black oak, butternut, and on higher ground hickory, chestnut, sugar, and beech.
David Mead, a hearty frontiersman of the time, had come upon the region with eight of his fellows in 1788, and had stayed to carve out an existence there. His company endured incredible hardship and several were killed or captured by hostile indians. One of those captured was Cornelius VanHorn, who managed to escape and travel toCanada, and hence to his home inPittsburgh. In 1794, an Army company was formed, and VanHorn was chosen as Captain. It was he who travelled back to Crawford Countyand tamed the Indians, making it safe enough to settle.
The Siverlings had scant provisions to sustain themselves through the first hard winter. A couple bushels of corn, a little beef and some turnips constituted their entire stock of provisions, besides what they could wrestle from the forest and rivers. Pittsburgh was the nearest trading point, roads were non-existent, and wild animals abounded. Bears were ever ready to pounce on the few pigs the settlers and brought with them, and wolves were abundant and eager to dispose of any sheep that grew unwary. Bounties were soon offered on wolf hides, and ridding the forest of these dangerous predators afforded sport and extra cash to any who sought them out.
It was a simple, if dangerous life, and the Siverlings, like their neighbors, only wished to live in peace. Their wish, however, was set aside by events set in motion by a nation that had grown angry and bitter in defeat. The following is a brief accounting of the causes of the War of 1812, the Battle of Lake Erie, and the role that Christopher’s sons, Christopher Jr., Daniel, and John Christopher Siverling had in that battle, while serving in Captain Christian Blystone’s Company, 137th Regiment, 16th Pennsylvania Militia.
After the United States had defeated England in the Revolutionary War, the British had agreed to withdraw from their fortifications near the Great Lakes region; however, it took years for them to do so. They also continued to sell supplies to Indian tribes in the Northwest Territories, who were still at war with the United States. The British Navy, constantly at odds with the problem of manning their vast flotilla of ships, began thoroughly searching every neutral ship they came upon for British deserters. If they encountered sailors of foreign navies (including the United States) during these searches, the unfortunate sailors were impressed into service in His Majesty King George’s Navy. Meanwhile, France and Great Britain had implemented embargoes that made international trade precarious, and when President Jefferson responded with the Embargo act of 1807, trade into and from theUnited States was almost at a standstill. British ships also continued to blockade American ports at every turn.
In the U.S. presidential election of 1812, U.S. President James Madison argued for war against Britain. The War of 1812 was thus the first war “sold” to the American public via popular appeal. The Congressional House was called to vote, and approved war on June 4th, 1812, the vote standing at 79 to 49. The Senate concurred, voting for war on June 17, 1812, by a vote of 19 to 13. The conflict formally began with the American declaration of war on June 18, 1812. This was the first time that the United States had declared war on another nation.
When the war broke out, the British immediately seized control of Lake Erie. They already had a small force of warships there: the sloop of war “Queen Charlotte” and the brig “General Hunter”. The brig “Lady Prevost” was under construction and was put into service a few weeks after the outbreak of war. By August of 1812, Detroit had fallen under their might. This victory gave them full sway over Lake Erie and its shipping channels. Therefore, it was of paramount importance that control of the Great Lakes was wrestled from the British, in order to free up the shipping lanes for military supplies.
In an effort to regain naval superiority back from the British in this territory, a plan was devised to construct two war vessels at Presque Isle near Erie. Designed by New York ship builder Noah Brown, these vessels were intended to be the foundation of the new American fleet. In March 1813, the new commander of American naval forces on Lake Erie, Master Commandant Oliver H. Perry, arrived at Presque Isle. Assessing his command, he found that there was a general shortage of supplies and men.
While two brigs, the USS Lawrence and USS Niagara, were being built, Perry traveled to Lake Ontario in May 1813, to obtain additional seamen from Commodore Isaac Chauncey. While there, he took part in the Battle of Fort George (May 25-27), and was able to acquire several gunboats for use on Lake Erie. Upon his departure from Fort George, he was nearly captured by the new British commandant on Lake Erie, Commander Robert H. Barclay.
On July 19, 1813, the British fleet appeared off Presque Isle, evincing a determination on their part to not only bring about the destruction of the half-finished American fleet, but to invade the state itself. Commodore Perry, immediately grasping the gravity of the situation and the necessity for prompt resistance, sent a courier to General Mead (the same David Mead who had settled the area) of Meadville, the Commandant of the 16th Division of the Pennsylvania Militia, asking for reinforcements. The next day, General Mead sent the following circular into every settlement within the Sixteenth Militia district:
CITIZENS TO ARMS
Your State is invaded. The enemy has arrived at Erie, threatening to destroy our navy and the town. His course, hitherto marked with rapine and fire wherever he touched our shore, must be arrested. The cries of infants and women, of the aged and infirm, the devoted victims of the enemy and his savage allies, call on you for defense and protection. Your home, your property, your all, require you to march immediately to the course of action. Arms and ammunition will be furnished to those who have none, at the place of rendezvous near to Erie, and every exertion will be made for your subsistence and accommodations. Your service to be useful must be rendered immediately. The delay of an hour may be fatal to your country, in securing the enemy in his plunder and favoring his escape.
David MEAD, Maj. Gen. 19th D. P. M.
The response was immediate. The men of the 16th Pennsylvania Militia under General Mead’s command came from the four corners of Crawford and Venango County, and bivouacked outside of Meadville, until it was determined that the full complement of troops had arrived. On July 23rd (proudly, my birthday), they began the march to Erie, travelling overnight and arriving on the 24th. They joined the encampment at Erie, and the militia, along with regular troops, began the task of guarding the ships under construction until they could be made ready for battle.
By mid-July, the American squadron was almost complete, although not yet fully manned (Perry claimed to have only 120 men fit for duty). The British squadron maintained a blockade of Presque Isle for ten days from 20 July to 29 July. The harbor had a sandbar across its mouth, with only 5 feet of water over it, which prevented Barclay from sailing in to attack the American ships (although Barclay briefly skirmished with the defending batteries on 21 July), but also prevented the Americans from leaving in fighting order. Barclay had to lift the blockade on 29 July because of shortage of supplies and bad weather. On the 3d of August the squadron moved down the bay, and the work of getting the vessels over the bar began. This was an exhausting task. The guns had to be removed from all the boats, and the largest ships had to be raised between “camels” (ballast tanks which were filled with water, placed under the ships, and then emptied, making them buoyant). When Barclay returned four days later, he found that Perry had nearly completed the task. Perry’s two largest brigs were not ready for action, but the gunboats and smaller brigs formed a line so confidently that Barclay withdrew to await the completion of his flagship, the Detroit.
With his two brigs now ready for service, Perry took control of the lake. From this position, he was able to prevent supplies from reaching Commander Barclay’s encampment at Amherstburg. As a result, Barclay was forced to seek battle in early September. Sailing from his base, he flew his flag from the recently completed Detroit, and was joined by HMS Queen Charlotte, HMS Lady Prevost , HMS Hunter , HMS Little Belt , and HMS Chippawa .
Perry countered with Lawrence, Niagara , USS Ariel , USS Caledonia , USS Scorpion , USS Somers , USS Porcupine , USS Tigress , and USS Trippe . Commanding from Lawrence, Perry’s ships sailed under a blue battle flag emblazoned with Captain James Lawrence’s immortal command, “Don’t Give up the Ship.” Departing Put-in-Bay (Ohio) harbor at 7:00 a.m. on September 10, 1813, Perry placed Ariel and Scorpion at the head of his line, followed by Lawrence, Caledonia, and Niagara. The remaining gunboats trailed to the rear.
When the smoke settled, Perry had captured the entire British squadron and secured American control of Lake Erie. Writing to General William Henry Harrison, in a dispatch that became the most-quoted phrase of the war, Commodore Perry related:
Dear General:
We have met the enemy and they are ours. Two ships, two brigs, one schooner and one sloop.
Yours with great respect and esteem,
O.H. Perry
American casualties in the battle were 27 dead and 96 wounded. British losses numbered 41 dead, 93 wounded, and 306 captured. Following the victory, the British abandoned their fortifications at Amherstburg, and withdraw to the Thames Valley. Perry ferried General Harrison’s Army of the Northwest to Detroit where it began its advance into Canada. This campaign culminated in the American victory at the Battle of the Thames on October 5, 1813, and ultimately, to a victory for the United States in the war. It was also the first time in history that an American Commander had captured an entire British fleet.
On January 1, 1814 Captain Blystone’s men were called again to the defence of Erie by General Mead, in anticipation of an attack on the fleet. Erie had become a naval station, and the British were once again collecting troops and ships on the opposite shore. Nothing of interest transpired, however; the troops were only employed in guard duty and drill. They were relieved of their duties on February 6th, and returned to their homes. Thus ended my family’s involvement; farmers and settlers who had dropped their ploughshares and come to the defence of their new home in America.
(February 1998) Matthew and his friends were sliding down a Mammoth Mountain ski run on a foam pad at 3am, when he crashed into a lift tower and died. His makeshift sledge of yellow foam had been stolen from the legs of a lift tower on Stump Alley. The cushion is meant to protect skiers who hit the tower, and the tower Matthew ran into was the one from which he had created his sledge. There’s a moral in there somewhere.
Yours Truly
I’m a rookie – let me just get that out of the way first. I’ve put out my first novel, was fortunate (lucky?) enough to have my manuscript picked up by a publisher, and it’s now in the editing process. And that is exactly where my real education in writing begins.
My whole start in writing had a bit of a herky-jerky start; I didn’t know if my manuscript would get picked up, what if it didn’t, should I just go independent, etc, etc. So, I decided to start reading up on what to do, in order to publish my book indie. Anyone interested enough to be reading this up to this point knows most if not all the ingredients to publishing. What I want to comment on is the editing.
Every article, blog, tweet, website and post I read said emphatically “If you do nothing else, have your work edited by a professional.” Period, end of story. One article I read went so far as to say his finished work was almost unrecognizable. Reading that, I wondered, “Well, did the story suck to start off? What’s the big deal? I edited the spelling, typo’s, punctuation, and all. What else could there be?”
All of you see what’s coming. Boy, did I have a lesson to learn.
My publisher put me in touch with the young lady who was to do my editing, and she received my manuscript. I got the first chapter back in about a week. She wanted to pay particular attention to the first one, because that’s the hook, and we want to make sure it’s a close to perfect as we can get.
After I staunched the flow of blood from my many wounds, I sat down to really read her comments. They all made sense, and I would (HAD) never given a thought to any of them. In the days and weeks to come, I’m going to relate what she told me, subject by subject. I’ll go over what I did wrong, included the passage in which I did it, and show how she told me it should be corrected. Hopefully, it will prevent some others from making the same mistakes.
One thing is certainly clear to me, at this junction. Without my friendly neighborhood Red Pen Nazi, my work would not (NOT, do you hear?) be the same book as it’s about to be, and now, I’m even more excited to see how it turns out. I’ll echo the others who have gone before. Professional editor, if nothing else. Period, end of story.
I’m a rookie – let me just get that out of the way first. I’ve put out my first novel, was fortunate (lucky?) enough to have my manuscript picked up by a publisher, and it’s now in the editing process. And that is exactly where my real education in writing begins.
My whole start in writing had a bit of a herky-jerky start; I didn’t know if my manuscript would get picked up, what if it didn’t, should I just go independent, etc, etc. So, I decided to start reading up on what to do, in order to publish my book indie. Anyone interested enough to be reading this up to this point knows most if not all the ingredients to publishing. What I want to comment on is the editing.
Every article, blog, tweet, website and post I read said emphatically “If you do nothing else, have your work edited by a professional.” Period, end of story. One article I read went so far as to say his finished work was almost unrecognizable. Reading that, I wondered, “Well, did the story suck to start off? What’s the big deal? I edited the spelling, typo’s, punctuation, and all. What else could there be?”
All of you see what’s coming. Boy, did I have a lesson to learn.
My publisher put me in touch with the young lady who was to do my editing, and she received my manuscript. I got the first chapter back in about a week. She wanted to pay particular attention to the first one, because that’s the hook, and we want to make sure it’s a close to perfect as we can get.
After I staunched the flow of blood from my many wounds, I sat down to really read her comments. They all made sense, and I would (HAD) never given a thought to any of them. In the days and weeks to come, I’m going to relate what she told me, subject by subject. I’ll go over what I did wrong, included the passage in which I did it, and show how she told me it should be corrected. Hopefully, it will prevent some others from making the same mistakes.
One thing is certainly clear to me, at this junction. Without my friendly neighborhood Red Pen Nazi, my work would not (NOT, do you hear?) be the same book as it’s about to be, and now, I’m even more excited to see how it turns out. I’ll echo the others who have gone before. Professional editor, if nothing else. Period, end of story.
Fatal Flashers
| 21 December 1997, Texas A Dallas man who was exposing himself to passing traffic died Friday night. Police were alerted by a motorist who had spotted Richard Hollis, 47, standing naked on a railroad trestle. When officers arrived, Hollis was standing under the trestle, still naked. As officers approached, he grabbed his clothes and ran back onto the railroad trestle. He leapt from the trestle, apparently aiming for a concrete support underneath, but missed and fell 35 feet to the ground. He died at Parkland hospital an hour later.Reference: Dallas Morning News |
15 July 1999, San Francisco A drunken 20-year old woman was standing next to the railroad tracks intending to flash her breasts at the engineer. As the train swept past, the draft swept her off her feet and under the train, breaking her elbows. She was charged with a misdemeanor, and died several days later in the hospital. |
| (Fairfield, Ca. 1997)
Alan Hall, 48, was found collapsed on the front lawn of his brother’s Fairfield home on December 5, 8 hours after his penis had been cut off at the base. Paramedics rushed Hall to North Bay Medical Center, where surgeons were unsuccessful in their attempts to reattach his severed organ. Hall blamed the maiming on a woman named Brenda, whom he met at a local gas station the previous night. He brought Brenda to his trailer, parked in the driveway of his brother’s Fairfield home, and had sex. Around 3AM, the woman mentioned revenge and cut off his penis with a razor-sharp hobby knife, then fled the trailer on foot. Details of the attack were sketchy, and police were unsure why Hall could not defend himself. Fairfield police Lieutenant William Gresham said Hall may have been using drugs. A heated manhunt for Brenda ensued. She was described as a 42-year-old white female, 5′ 7″ and 135 pounds, dressed in a white blouse, navy blue jacket and blue slacks, and possibly driving a brown Ford F350 pickup truck. Meanwhile, after being discharged from the hospital on Monday, Hall drove off in a pickup hitched to his trailer and disappeared. Detectives were eager to interview him again, but were unable to locate him due to his transient lifestyle. More intriguing details began to emerge. Hall was arrested during the 1970’s for drug possession and drunk driving. In 1982 he was arrested for taking his young daughter out of state. Psychological tests suggested that he suffered permanent mental trauma while serving with the U.S. Navy in Vietnam, causing blackouts and alcoholism. His ex-wife described him as a packrat who enjoyed taking trips in his mobile trailer home. |
In 1983 Hall was convicted of voluntary manslaughter of a 23-year-old Suisun City woman found strangled in a car parked at a local Denny’s restaurant on 17 February. Hall confessed to the murder, saying that she taunted him about his inability to achieve an erection when he tried to have sex with her. His statement was ruled inadmissible because of improper police interrogation techniques, and prosecutors agreed to let Hall plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter. He served half of a six-year prison term.
Police speculated that the woman who cut off his penis may have been carrying out a 14-year-old vendetta for the slaying of her friend. But the truth was even stranger. When Hall was finally located and interviewed on Thursday, he admitted that he cut off his own penis. A voice stress analyzer indicated that he was telling the truth. “At this point, there is no evidence that a crime occurred,” police Lieutenant William Gresham said in a press release. “The case is being reclassified as an injured person report.” Hall may face misdemeanor charges for filing a false police report. Ironically, Alan Hall works as a pipe-fitter, according to court records. |
Goodreads
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Along with the cover artist, book reviewers are folks who authors – and readers – simply can’t do without. They are the ones who take it on the chin by reading something which might be senseless, bordering on the illiterate, confusing, or just downright lousy. Regardless, they plow through it, so the author can get more publicity, and the reader can tell which way to run.
These are some of the friends who I’ve been fortunate to make on Goodreads. The ones that take that hit, and furnish us with the Review.
1. Soma Rostam – http://insomnia-of-books.blogspot.com/
2. Lisa Boggs – http://modokkerbookpicks.blogspot.com/?zx=def5311d2987966f
“Get the hell outa here!” and a boot sailed across the room, bouncing off the wall when the scraggly tabby cat dodged hastily. “Bloody hell. Man can’t even grab a few winks without you wailing for something.” He ran a grimy hand through his greasy, sleep-do hair and staggered over to the mirror to squint at his reflection in the foggy glass.
“Jesus. Jeremy, how could it possibly get any better than this?” Scratching under his arm, he reached for the baggy dungarees hanging over the chair and pulled them over his bony legs, yanked on the socks from last night, and cursed when he realized he’d have to chase his boot over to its resting place against the wall. A few handsful of water from the stained sink, a hasty straight-back comb through the sleep-do and a thin, threadbare shirt over the thin, stooped shoulders.
The yellowed, buzzing fridge grudgingly offered green bread, a bag of potatoes, and an apple with one brown spot. Teeth sank into the apple while eyes swept over his kingdom. A sagging mattress and box spring sans frame, one floor lamp with a crooked shade, a dresser with one drawer missing, and three books: Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven”, John Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men”, and a King James version of the Holy Bible. The last was a nuisance. He hadn’t read a page of it, but it had been a gift from mum, and every time his hand had poised over the dumpster out back, a vision of her pitiful face during his last visit to her hospital room came to mind. So it stayed and gathered dust. Even had a couple nibbles out of one corner from a scuttling tenant who lived in that hole behind the fridge.
He yanked open the top drawer of the dresser. A wallet, two watches, a purse, and best of all, an Ipod he’d managed to snatch from some brat at the mall. The kid had sounded like an air-raid siren as he pelted away, and he had been so scared he’d not stopped running for 3 blocks. Damn near killed him, but it would be worth it. Ernie would pay good money for this baby – ohhhhh yeah. Going to hold that one for awhile, though. Save it for when he needed some smack real bad. The wallet held a Master Card and 15 bucks. Not much, and the Master Card was useless, but he’d eat today. Use the MC and get your mug on a camera…can’t have that. Needed to get a fix, though, so what’s in the purse? Yeaaaaaahhhhhhh. A whopping 37 bucks grinned back at him, might as well be saying ‘shoot that stuff in, baby’.
“Come to papa, my lovelies,” and he stuffed the bills into the front pocket of his trousers, thought better of it, removed the ID from the wallet, and loaded it up instead. He slid on a watch and something about it yanked him back. Jesus. He’d scored a Rolex. A genuine, honest to God Rolly. He’d almost decided not to fleece the pudgy guy on 45th, but it had been a slow night, and one stinking purse wasn’t gonna pay the rent. So, he’d stuck his .22 in the guy’s ribs and told him to give everything over or he’d be decorating the sidewalk with his supper. The guy was shakin’ so bad he could barely get his wallet out. Damned slick. Not one of them had the sack to live like Jeremy did, but they got all the breaks. So now he had a Rolly too – and that would pay the rent.
He pulled the door closed behind him, ducked into the common bathroom down the hall and took a quick whiz, stomping a roach or two in pure joy.
<>
Shuffling down the sidewalk, well-dressed folks kinda circling him warily, some turning their noses up, others just looking the other way. Better that way – easier to snatch stuff or pick it out of loose pockets. Freakin’ snobs. So comfy cozy in their little worlds. He ducked into a dark door, “Tri-County Pawn and Gold” sign hanging crooked over it. Ernie was in the back, coming out when he heard the jing-a-ling of the bell. “Again? Hell, you were just here. I can’t keep buying your junk, Jeremy. None of it sells, and I had to throw some of it out. I’m in business to make money, not support your damned habits.”
“Calm down, my man. Got a nice watch here for ya. A gen-u-ine Rolex, yeaaaaaah. Whacha think of this baby?”
Warily taking the timepiece, Ernie eyeballed it with a frown. “Where’d you get this?”
“I inherited it.”
“Sure you did. Some cop comes in here looking for it, I’m up the creek and my doors get closed. Not interested.”
“What the hell you mean? That’s a Rolex. First you gripe ‘cause I bring in junk, I tote in a Rolex, and you bitch at me some more. What’s your deal?”
“I’ll tell you what my deal is, you lame-brain. You snatch someone’s Timex, they shrug and go to Wal-Mart. You yank someone’s Rolly and they start lookin’. Guess where they start?”
“So keep it under the counter for awhile until you’re sure no one is looking. Ernie, you can make a load on this thing.”
“I can end up in the can, too.”
“Fuck, you know what? I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
“Door’s that way.”
Emerging back out on the street, he spotted a phone booth and started checking the listings for pawn shops. On the second page. John’s Pawn and Jewelry – we give a Fair price for your merchandise. Specializing in fine jewelry and blah blah fucking blah. Ripping the page out, Jeremy checked out the address. Twelve blocks. Crap. Well, time to start hoofin’ it. Cab would cost more than he had.
<>
The sign wasn’t any of the neon stuff every other shyster on the street used to suck someone in. It was wood and stained and beautiful. He kinda slid inside because it was almost like he shouldn’t be here, it was so spotless and shiny. Those other holes – the ones with the neon – everyone expected you to be a little ragged. That was life on the street. Here was different – here was class.
He sidled up to the counter, and immediately a guy comes over, white shirt, silk tie and tasseled loafers striding oh so confident. “May I help you, sir?”
Okay. Time to bring out the big guns. “Yes, I believe you may,” he started in a perfect Cornish accent, “I have here a watch that I inherited from my father, and it’s really of no use to me. I wonder if you might be interested.”
Guy looked a little stunned at that one, and Jeremy smiled to himself. Betcha didn’t think a street dog could talk right up there with ya, didja slick? He handed the Rolly over the counter and watched as even more disbelief registered on the guy’s face. Glancing up doubtfully, the slick frowned for a second and went to examining the piece. Looking up again now. “Would you excuse me for a moment, sir?”
“Certainly.”
The slick disappeared behind a door, and a few moments later, another even bigger slick came out. Tall, razor-cut hair, three-piece, and shoes that could buy 50 Big Mac’s. “Good morning, sir. How may we be of assistance?”
“Good morning. As I told your man there, I inherited this watch, and I’d like to sell it. Are you interested?”
“Well, it’s a fine Rolex, indeed, but not one of the more expensive lines. It’s an Air King, and it has a few small scratches and such. Do you mind if I take off the back?”
“Not at all.”
The king slick had the back off in seconds, “See, this serial number inside tells me this watch is a bit old. Rolex stopped doing this in 1970. In fact…let me see…this Arabic number is…69. Yes, this watch was manufactured in 1969. May I ask how much you had in mind?”
“I thought perhaps one thousand dollars would suffice.”
Nodding his head slowly now, the slick’s eyes got hard as a sly grin came over his smoothly shaven face. Leaning over the counter, waggling one finger to draw Jeremy close. “Look. Let’s get this straight, and no mistake. You’re a street hood and your name is Jeremy, a.k.a. ‘The Limey’. You think I do business in this piss hole without knowing every rat that scurries around out there? I’m just surprised you came in here. A little out of your league, aren’t you? So, let’s see – what’s the deal– ahhhhh, I know. The thugs that normally take your merchandise are scared to handle a Rolly – they figure someone will come looking, right? I’ll bet this little pretty is still a bit warm from the heat of the real owner’s skin. I run a reputable place here, but I’ll tell you what. It’s rough out there, and I’ll give you a break. Two hundred bucks.”
Done with the accent now, fuck me. “Two hundred? Are you serious? That thing probably lists for 2 grand!”
“List price is hardly a concern. What concerns me is what I can sell it for. What concerns you is how much you can sell it for. Out there,” and he nodded toward the door, “you can get 50 bucks, max. In here you can get 200. Your choice.”
Staring hard now, taking in the asshole’s cocky stance, the smirky half grin, and then deciding. Deciding more than one thing.
The rest will be available soon on Amazon
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<1968>
The double line of Harleys seemed to go on forever, the thunder of their exhausts thrumming the air, a V-twin operetta. Meek residents stood and gawked or scuttled inside as the first of the column passed by, the leader looking neither left nor right, sure in his power, unmindful of the cowering town folk who wished him gone. It was a scene reminiscent of the old west, when the outlaws rode into some dusty little cow town and women hurried their children off the board sidewalk and into the shelter of stores and homes. The lead bike was out of site on the flat, straight road when the last of the scoots passed, and it was quite a while before the lessening rumble finally faded and the air of Delta, Utah was still once more.
A few miles outside of town, the column steered into the yard of an old farmhouse and one by one, the riders quieted their bikes. Their boss was on the top porch step and looked out over his pack. He was tall and lean and his skin from elbow to finger and hairline to shoulder was bronzed brown from hours spent riding in the sun. “Boys, we have some business to attend to. I want to know what’s been going on while we were gone, and we have some collections that are past due. Spider, you take four or five men with you and ride around a bit. See what’s been going on, particularly anything concerning the Knights. If they’ve been in town, if anyone has heard anything. Understood?”
“Sure, Duke, got it.”
“Truck, who’s behind in payments?”
Pulling out a notebook, the big biker consulted it quickly, “Vargas Hardware, Kelly’s Inn, and Connors Café.”
“Good. Worm, you pick out three of our big fellows and go collecting. Everybody gets brought up current today. And while you’re at it, pay a visit to that new garage out on the east end, what’s his name, Peterson. He needs to be brought into the fold, too. Same terms as everyone else. Except I want a down payment from him. He’s been in town almost 2 months by now. Get 500 from him, and if he gives you grief, take extra measures to convince him.”
“They’ll pay one way or another, boss.”
<>
That evening, several of the Children were relaxing boots-up on the porch when Worm and his procession rolled up.
“How did you do?” Duke asked when they had walked up, “did anyone give you grief?”
“Nah. It’s all good. I even got next month’s from the Connors guy. Said he’s going on vacation and he didn’t want to miss a payment.”
“That’s what I love – thoughtful customers.”
“I did hear some stuff that ain’t so good, though.”
“Go on.”
“I heard the Knights are planning a move. Kelly’s son even told me a couple Knights came in their place the other day, and were asking about us. The word around town is they’re going to make a play, and soon.”
“Is that right? Funny, Stitch didn’t hear anything like that.”
“I have my own connections, boss.”
Slowly, Duke unfolded his lanky body from his rocker to face the speaker. His glasses were off, and his cool gray eyes studied for a moment before he turned his head slightly to regard Mountain, his third in command. Wordlessly, the huge man lumbered over and grabbed Worm by the lapels, lifting him off the ground and pinning him to the wall. His feet kicked at air, fruitlessly seeking purchase. When Duke started ambling over his way, the kicking ceased and wide-open eyes regarded the lead biker with open terror.
“You know, Worm, “ Duke began quietly, his serene voice doing nothing to assuage the levitating man’s discomfort, “it’s come to my attention that you haven’t exactly been up front lately. Some have even said they think you might be considering a move over to the Knights. Any truth to that?”
“Come on, Duke…you know me. I’ve ridden with you for 3 years. I’m one of the Children, and always will be. Lighten up, will ya? I was just sayin’ – “
“You’re saying too much. Wolf?”
Wolf separated himself from the crowd and stepped forward, “Yeah, Duke.”
“Tell me again, for Mr. Worm’s sake.”
“I was in town the other day, picking up supplies, like you told me to do. Saw Worm here walk into Harmon’s Drug, so I slipped in behind him. I was watching him, like you said, right? So he’s on the pay phone in there, and I get in behind the counter and hunker down. Old man Harmon is looking all pale, but I just grinned at him and gave him the finger up on my lips so he knows to hush. I hear Worm talking and he’s actually listenin’ more than talkin’. Whoever was on the other end was being pretty demanding, ‘cause Worm is like ‘yeah’, ‘I understand’, and ‘no problem’. Last thing is said was ‘Saturday – eight o’clock. I’ll be there.’ So he gets off the phone and goes back outside. I slip out the back way and meet up with him and the boys and we get outa town. That’s it.”
Nodding, Duke looked out over the land and thoughtfully spoke, “Worm? Care to tell me what’s happening Saturday night?”
“Nothin’, man, nothin’. That was just a friend of mine from Salt Lake. Said he was comin’ down to pay me a visit Saturday, and he was askin’ if we could ride awhile, that’s all.”
“What’s his name?”
“Luke…his name is Luke. Call him and ask him yourself.”
“Very well…that’s fair…what’s his number?”
“I…uh…don’t remember.”
“How did you call him, then?”
“I’ve got it written down in a book.”
Grinning a little now, Duke sidled up next to him and looked up into his face. “Lower him down a bit, Mountain.” His eyes never leaving Worms, he withdrew a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. “This book?”
“You lookin’ through my stuff, now? Is that all the trust I’ve earned fr – “
Duke’s hand shot out and his palm cracked across Worm’s cheek, snapping his head sideways and slamming his head against the wall.
“You fucking idiot. I know everything that goes on around here. The boys have been watching you for weeks, and reporting back to me. I know you’ve been at the Knight camp, I know you’ve met with Adrian, that shitbag that calls himself their leader, and I know you’re feeding them info about our business. Let him go.”
As Worm’s feet hit the floor, Duke gestured, and two of the gang came forward and held Worm’s arms. “Give me his jacket.” Tossing the colors to Mountain, he said, “Take back our property.” Mountain flipped the jacket over, got two fingers under the emblem on the back and with one great heave, ripped it from the back.
“Rocker, tie this piece of shit up and put him in your sidecar. You and Jethro take him out into the desert and get rid of him. Take a shovel, put two into his head, and put him where no one will ever find him.”
The rest will be on Amazon soon…
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Thomas Rydder 
