The Demon in the Doll

Chapter 8

Hello. My name is Ned Chaisson, and I used to be the president of the Notorious Bandits Motorcycle Club. I still don't know how I got mixed up in all this shit. I guess it was my failure to mind my own fucking business. So I figured I'd stop by and tell you assholes exactly what happened. According to me, anyway. Maybe you can make heads or tails of it. God knows I can't.

Anyway, it was a Monday night in the middle of August. And I was at my joint watching preseason football with my biker brothers and the customers. The Saints were playing the Bengals. It was televised on ABC.

The club's master-at-arms sidled up to the bar and took a seat on one of the stools. I gave him a bottle of Bud and a shot of bourbon. Jack Daniels, to be exact.

For all you square-headed civilians out there, the master-at-arms is usually the baddest motherfucker in the gang. That doesn't mean he's in charge. Far from it. We all had people we had to answer to. Including me. And I was the motherfucking chapter president. But you would never want to fuck with the master-at-arms. He was the enforcer when dickheads got out of line.

Anyway, our enforcer was called Monster. He was a large man with a buzzcut and a big bushy mustache. His huge arms were covered with tattoos, and he sported a goatee and sideburns. We called him Monster because he was a big bad son of a bitch who didn't take no crap from strangers. However, his real name was John Clark. John was a big fan of science fiction. In fact, his favorite writer was a cat named Phillip K. Dick. I wasn't much of a book enthusiast. But Monster loved the guy. He talked about Mr. Dick all the time, and tonight was no different.

He said, "What would happen if I replaced your memories?"

I said, "What?"

"Think about it. If I inserted the memories of an accountant in your head, who would you be?"

"Fuck, John. Leave me alone with that bullshit. You and Phillip K. Dick are giving me a headache."

He flashed a goofy grin. "Let's look at it another way. Suppose I were to take your memories and put them in the head of a mild-mannered accountant. Who would he be? An accountant or a biker?"

"I dunno. I've got other stuff to worry about."

"You should read more. It will help expand your mind."

"Who's got the time?"

"I picked the habit up in the joint. It took me places beyond the walls. I even attended a creative-writing workshop while I was serving my time."

"Are you any good?"

He shook his head. "No. I've literally got zero talent. The only thing I'm good at is busting heads."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. We all have our destiny."

"That sounds like more bullshit."

"You don't believe in destiny?"

"Of course not. Look at all those poor kids suffering from cancer. Was that their destiny?"

"I couldn't tell you. We see through a glass darkly. But I will say this. Destiny led me to this club. It's in my blood."

I nodded and pretended to agree. As you can tell, I was dubious when it came to the notion of fate. But the majority of my biker brothers believed that supernatural forces had led them to become Notorious Bandits. And the last thing I wanted to do was hurt their feelings. To that end, I always showed them respect by keeping my ideas to myself. Their superstitions didn't hurt me or the club, so it was no big deal.