Stinky Gold
“Ah hell, hell, hell,” I muttered under my breath, gripping the steering wheel, hands slick with sweat. Just a few more miles and we might be in the clear. I whipped the heavy truck around another tight curve in the road, and the load in the back shifted. The truck swayed with the changing weight, and I could barely keep it under control. Just concentrate, I thought. I held the wheel even tighter and gritted my teeth. We had taken enough to set us both up with a new life, a new start. It was worth the risk.
“I think we’re in the clear. I still don’t see anyone following us,” yelled Larry, his head sticking out the passenger side window of the truck. I could barely hear him over the rushing wind. He had almost cracked his head against the side of the mountain we were driving on as I sped on as fast as I dared on the steep switchbacks. It still wasn’t as dangerous as what could be following us. Larry stuck his head back inside the stuck, his face red with excitement. “Woohoo! We’re on easy street, buddy! You smell that wonderful smell! It smells like . . . victory!” He started laughing hysterically and pumping his fist in the air.
“I don’t know pal. We gotta sell this stuff first, and then head for Florida before the Cocks find us. We gotta move fast.”
“Don’t you worry man. The plan is working perfectly.” Larry punched the dashboard in emphasis. “We got the buyers lined up, and you know they’ll keep quiet. They don’t want any Cocks coming after them either.” He grinned gave another rebel yell out the window. “I can smell that sea air now, see all those chicks in bikinis walking by our bar!”
“I hope it smells better than this damn truck,” I said. Larry laughed. Crazy Larry. He and I had been pals since first grade, always egging each other on, getting in trouble, chasing one wild scheme after the other. But this one was the biggest one of all. Larry worked as a bartender in a rough place, filled with a lot of rough customers. The scariest guys to ever frequent the bar were the Raging Cocks, a local biker gang. No one ever messed with them more than once, cause they beat the living hell out of anyone who even looked at them cross eyed. They would throw handfuls of money around town like it was nothing, and no one knew where they came into their fortune. Guns, drugs, prostitution. Rumors floated around town non stop. But Larry found the answer, listening in to a drunken conversation late one night at work. Chicken shit. That’s right. Chicken shit. The Raging Cocks had a farm up in the mountains, and they special chickens they raised had the most powerful chicken shit in the world. Mixed into fertilizer, it grew the most delicious, nutritious, high yield crops, sold to high end whole food grocery stores across the country. The Cocks supplied the fertilizer to the farmers, and everyone was a winner. Larry and I had enough raw material, enough fresh chicken shit, in this stolen truck to set us up with our own beach bar in Florida, the one we dreamed of owning most of our lives.
Our dreams of wealth and bikini clad babes were interrupted by a loud rumble approaching from behind, a continuous peal of thunder. Larry stuck his head out the window to see who was behind us. “It’s Rhode Island Red! How did he know where we were!” I didn’t answer, only pushed the gas pedal to the floor. I caught a quick glimpse in the rear view mirror of the jolting truck. That short red mowhawk, large hooked nose, and the grim expression on his face couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. Rhode Island red, leader of the Raging Cocks. Supremely intelligent, vicious, brutal, and amoral. We were in trouble. He was quickly gaining on us, the loaded truck no match for his bike. I swerved around another corner and right into a massive pothole, throwing the truck into the air. A huge pile of manure flew out the back of the truck, landing right in front of the approaching Red and causing him to spin out of control. I hit the brakes and tried to stop the truck from smashing against the side of the mountain as his bike flipped. He rolled for twenty yards on the asphalt as I brought the truck to a halt, tires smoking.
“Holy shit!” Larry yelled. Breathing heavily, I stared into the rear view mirror.
And the biker slowly rose to his feet, wiped the chicken shit off his boots, and smiled for the first time. I felt the blood drain from my face. He kept smiling, pointing a finger at his nose, then at the back of our truck. How was he still alive? “Let’s get out of here!” Larry screamed. I slammed the truck into gear. Red never moved, just kept pointing as we headed down the road.
Several months later, the sun was shining. It was beautiful here in Florida. It had always beautiful since we arrived. Business was slow at first, but it had been picking up lately, and just like Larry thought, the chicks were amazing. I was hooking up a fresh keg, and Larry chatting up another woman, when a continuous peal of thunder interrupted this beautiful day. Larry’s face paled, and he looked at me nervously. The thunder stopped, and I hoped it was all in my imagination. Until Red and the rest of the Raging Cocks sauntered into the bar, leering at the bathing suits and spreading through the bar like an oil stain on the beach. Red strolled up to the bar and sat down in front of Larry and I.
“Hello, gentleman. How about a nice cold beer? I know it’ll taste great after this long ride,” said Red. His scarred, dirty hands rested on top of the polished wooden bar, cigarette dangling between his fingers. “You understand, gentleman, that some things leave a stink that just doesn’t go away?” He tapped the side of his nose and grinned.