Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 27, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

“So can somebody tell me what the fuck happened? I mean, I know my side of the story, but how did we all end up here?” The three of you are sitting around Oscar’s kitchen table, cold bottles of Heineken in front of you, and the awkward and emotional moment from before safely behind you.
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Oscar tells you about how he became suspicious when you never returned to the house and how, in desperation, he finally approached Detective Blake for help. “I guess I felt bad about hitting you, and about what happened to car, even though like I told ya before it wasn’t me that did it. Oscar here told me that you were a decent guy, deep down, and that you were in the process of getting your shit together.” The detective smiled. “Eventually he made me believe him. Anyway, how could I pass up the chance to finally nail those fucking scumbags?”
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“Did you nail them?” asks Oscar. Leaning back in his chair he lights a join he’s pulled from his cigarette pack. He inhales deeply, then to your surprise he offers the joint to the cop. What’s even more surprising is that Blake takes an even bigger hit than Oscar had and then passes the joint to you before saying, “You bet your sawed-off ass I did. Nailed ‘em to the fucking wall, every last one of ‘em. Kidnapping, attempted murder, plus drug trafficking and a shitload of gun charges. It turns out that the safe in the bike shop was chock full of crystal meth and stolen firearms. Of course, I’m going to need you to testify amigo… Can I count on you?”
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Normally, what the cop is asking you would go against all that you hold dear, but those biker thugs took great pleasure in torturing you and would surely have killed you over what amounted to nothing more than a stupid accident. “Yes sir,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “completely.”
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Oscar fills you in on the rest of the story while you smoke the rest of the joint. He tells you about how Detective Blake was able to lead most of the gang away, disguised as an Aztec Warrior, and how he was then able to take out Roach and Crowbar, using a flash bang grenade Blake had “borrowed” from the local SWAT team, and his own taser.
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“I been dying to try that thing out on some poor bastard ever since I bought it” he said, pulling out and brandishing it at an invisible foe, “strongest one on the market, guaranteed to knock a Rhino flat on it’s ass!”
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“What was up with the dude with the video camera in the car out front?” you ask. “Oh, he was just one of the cameramen from work, I paid him to stake out the place. Figured they might hold off on killing you if they thought there was an investigator or reporter snooping around. Cameras have a tendency to make people nervous.”
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“Probably kept me from taking a bullet or two” said Detective Blake, “good call on having him follow me. You should have seen the way those bastards scattered when I pulled into the lot at the station. Between me and your camera guy, we were able to tell enough lies to finally get a warrant. I rounded up a few of the men from SWAT and we went back to the clubhouse and took ’em down. It was fucking beautiful I’m telling ya!”
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“So what happens now?” you ask. “Now you heal up as best ya can and when it comes time for those jokers to go to trial I’ll let you know. If you have any problems before then, anyone tries to persuade you not to testify, you let me know. In the meantime, I have got to find the sick son of a bitch that’s running around killing kids. Business as usual.”
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He finishes his beer in one long swallow. He’s clearly stoned, looking less like a hard ass now and more like a bear that’s recently awakened from hibernation. “Damn, that is some Primo shit Oscar. I’ll be calling you for a bag of that real soon. On the house of course. “Of course officer” says Oscar. He flips the cop a bird, grinning widely.
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“Be seeing ya” says Detective Randy Blake, saver of your ass and your new buddy. He shakes hands with you both and then he’s out the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 26, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Once again, Oscar’s connections in the adult film industry have proven useful to you. Besides the director who had given your first real job in nearly a year, and the costume designer who made Detective Blake’s Aztec Warrior colors, he also knew a doctor who was willing to make discreet house calls.
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The old sawbones was in his mid seventies, and had the shaky hands and permanently bloodshot eyes of the alcoholic who long ago passed the point of no return. Aside from regularly testing Oscar and his co-workers for sexually transmitted diseases, he would occasionally be called on by certain less than reputable characters to discretely remove a bullet or stitch up a particularly nasty knife wound.
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In spite of his shaky hands he does an excellent job of patching you up and cleaning your many cuts and abrasions. You’d suffered a severe concussion, a pair of cracked ribs; and a cut over your right eye required eleven stitches, ensuring that you would soon have a gnarly looking new scar to add to your collection. As if you weren’t already ugly enough. Four stitches took care of your split lip, and the rest of the damage was just scrapes and bruises. From head to toe, but you still feel extremely lucky to be alive.
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Randy Blake shows up right as the old doctor was finishing up.“Thanks Doc” you say, meaning both thanks for fixing you up and for the bottle of Vicodin he’s just handed you. “Be careful with those” says the doctor. “In the shape you’re in if you take too many and pass out you might never wake up” he says, his tone of voice indicating he could really care less either way. Oscar hands him an envelope, presumably with cash inside, and without another word the drunken doc is gone, nodding curtly to the portly detective on his way out.
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There is a long moment of awkward silence, no one knowing quite what to say, so you do what you always do in these types of situations, you make a bad joke. “If you’re here to break my nose again Detective, do me a huge favor and come back tomorrow okay?”
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No one laughs, and realizing that you sound like an ungrateful asshole and acting on instinct, you cross the room and wrap your arms around the big cop, pulling him into a hug that makes your broken ribs scream. Caught off guard, Detective Blake returns the embrace very briefly and then steps back. To your complete and utter astonishment, he looks a little misty-eyed.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 25, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

It takes a moment for you to realize that the gunshots you just heard are most likely a good thing and not the sound of your impending doom. Understandable considering the fucked up condition you’re in.
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“Sonuvabitch!” you hear someone yell, “It’s one of the fuckin Aztecs! Goddamn Spic shot out the front windows of the shop!”
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“Let’s get the greasy fucker!” shouted someone else, “Keep your weapons put away until we’re out of sight of that dickhead with the camera outside! Roach, Crowbar, you guys keep an eye on our little friend in the chair, the rest of you mount up and let’s ride. Move it!”
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You hear the sound of a bunch of Harleys firing up and taking off. Shit. Looks like the Calvary isn’t here to rescue you after all. What the fuck? Well, maybe someone else heard the shots and the cops are on their way.
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Then again, in this neighborhood it’s more likely they would mind their own business, such business consisting of pimping or selling narcotics. You’re starting to slowly realize that you are going to die without ever seeing your firstborn child. What a shitty way to go.
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Just then there’s a loud bang that makes your ears ring painfully and a flash of light so bright it penetrates the pitch black behind the tape over your eyes. Very slowly, the ringing in your ears subsides and then someone is unwrapping the layers of duct tape that bind you to the chair. Your eyes are uncovered, but they are so full of dried and crusted blood that you can’t see a damn thing.
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“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice a dry croak that you barely recognize as your own. There’s no reply, but a few seconds later a splash of icy cold water hits you in the face, then another. Your vision clears, and standing in front of is Oscar, the midget porn star who may or may not have plowed your virgin ass while you were whacked out of your gourd on magic mushrooms. He’s smiling a little, holding a paper cone from a water cooler in each hand. You have never been happier to see someone in your entire life. Behind him, two men are laid out on the concrete floor of the garage, Roach and Crowbar presumably.
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“Hiya kid!” says Oscar, “man, you look like some dead dogshit! Excuse me for a moment…” One of the guys on the floor has gotten up onto his hands and knees, groaning with the effort. Oscar drops the paper cups, and pulls a stun gun from a pocket then gives the guy an unhealthy blast to the back of the neck, then a zap to the genitals, for good measure.
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“I’d much rather put a bullet in the back of their skulls, but I promised Blake there wouldn’t be any killing, and I’m a man of my word.”
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Blake? As in Detective Blake, the man who’d broken your nose and then shit all over your car after tearing it apart? What the hell did he have to do with any of this, and how the fuck does Oscar know about him?
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It’s all too much to try and wrap your bruised and battered head around at the moment, so you let it go for the moment, and Oscar continues.
“We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge my friend. I got the van outside, can you walk?”
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“Hell yes” you say, and to your surprise it turns out to be true.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 24, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

At first, while sitting behind his desk and listening to the bearded midget explain his plan to free his friend from the bloodthirsty outlaw biker gang, Detective Blake was skeptical, to say the least. But the more the little man talked the more he began to believe it was just crazy enough to work. The charismatic dwarf was nothing if not persuasive.
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Essentially, the plan was for Blake, disguised as a member of a rival gang, to pull up in front of the clubhouse on a motorcycle borrowed from the police impound lot and shoot out a window or two before taking off, leading the bikers away from the clubhouse and giving the midget a chance to slip inside and free his pal in the process.
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“You really think all of ‘em are gonna chase after me, just one guy?” Blake had asked incredulously. “Besides, I don’t look anything like a badass biker type.”
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“Not yet you don’t,” said Oscar with an evil grin. “But I happen to know an excellent costume designer with a lot of free time on her hands. And no, I don’t think they’re going to leave my boy all by his lonesome, they’ll almost certainly post a guard or two to keep an eye on him. You just let me worry about that, I can handle whoever is inside the building.”
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Something about the way he said this, an undercurrent of ice cold confidence in his tone, left the detective with the certainty that the dwarf was speaking the truth. He could, indeed, handle anyone left behind, but Blake hadn’t like the idea of a shitload of pissed off criminals using his ass for target practice, and said as much.
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“Not to worry, I got a man posted outside with a camcorder, they won’t risk taking shots at you with my guy filming them, and they won’t shoot him because they think he’s a cop. Pretty funny considering that you really are a cop. Anyway, they’re crazy, not stupid. Just to be on the safe side though you’ll be wearing a Kevlar vest under your fake biker colors, and you’ll ride straight back here to the police station. My guy will follow you in his car, rolling tape all the way. By the time they figure out that they’ve been tricked, I’ll already have been in and out. We’ll meet up at my place later for a beer and you can take my friend’s statement, provided he’s in good enough shape to talk. You and your cop buddies can go back to the clubhouse with a warrant and bust the whole gang.”
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Somewhat reluctantly, Blake had nodded. “Alright, let’s do it. But what if your boy ain’t there?” “Trust me, he’s there. I’m sure of it.”
TO BE CONTINUED...