Iron Jaws Motorcycle Club by Lucas Domme

“Dad, is America too big to fail?” 
    “ No, son. The cliche is the bigger they are the harder they fall.”
    His old man kept a hand on his shoulder as Scales, then Mason Hoil, drifted to sleep broken by seizures.
    He remembered the night clearly. His father laid the lantern on the ground, a bit wet from morning rain, and stopped the clocks with warnings that someday everything will meet its end. "One day you will need to know how to make a fire from what little you may find lying around. We'll work on it in the morning."
    Scales, née Mason Hoil, said, "Okay, Dad."
    "What you have to remember, always, is that when dealing with any other human you are not dealing with a creature like yourself. Our manners, our hungers, our delusions are independent and unique. What looks sane is a mask for that person's true nature. Don't be fooled by anyone," his dad told him.
    And Scales never looked at his father the same way again.
    *     *     *
    The guy's knuckles came up from the floor to catch Scales under the chin—fisty thunk. It knocked his head back on his shoulders and his neck bones cracked. He blinked:  Rose—her slender fingers, both hands holding the bundle of fettuccine at each end, his hands on the stove as he leaned in over her, the thick crack of the dry pasta over the boiling water. Steam condensing on her hands and making them rain slick. He snuck in and kissed her under the ear. Her eyes closed above a smile. He opened his eyes. The blink—for how long?
    Another boney fist cracked his collarbone. Tap out. Fight over.
    There was a horrendous wrench of metal. Thick, rusted, beaten by weather. Then silence.
    The man on his feet stood over, forcing his shadow on the unconscious sack of shit he’d made of Scales, held him down with just a look. Sweat fell over Scales’ eyes and the scene blurred. A blow to the ear disoriented him further. He was hearing in mono. He remembered how he got there; to that big, empty store; chased off the highway by the monster. He hadn’t seen one up close and ugly before. The foot came up, and it would have broken Scales’ knee if he hadn't somehow pulled the bone-handled switchblade out of his boot and stuck the blade in the man's other calf. Dropped him like a bomb. He slid it out screaming from the force on his collarbone and stabbed the man quick and clean under his right ear, behind the jaw.
    They lay atop their own shadows with the only sign of life the small, quick bloodfog spitting out of his mouth. Scales tried to figure out how he'd get his shoulder fixed, if his neck was broken. A motorcycle approached across the dark. He knew it wouldn't be just one. Knew they'd all come looking for their brother. "Fuck with one, fuck with all," the dead son of a bitch said as he looked down on him in his fleeting moment of power, just before the blade severed his calf.
    *     *     *
    “That was the first time I saw an Iron Jaw.” His fever was growing in this place. Scales drooped on the stool in the food stand.
    His mind was split by the fumes of a refueling *: materials – empty tank, rubber hose, full tank, lips, lungs, and desperation. 
    Step one – uncap both tanks. 
    Step two – insert rubber hose into full tank. 
    Step three – insert rubber hose into stupid asshole’s mouth. 
    Step four – suck it like a dick. 
    Step five – insert wet, sucked end into empty tank, wait for complete transfer. 
    Step six – if you’re not puking yet, put two fingers in throat and induce vomiting. 
    Warning: smell of gasoline will never, under any circumstances, leave your nose. 
    *Smoking is strongly discouraged while employing this refueling technique. 
    Side effects:  convulsions, depression, dizziness, drowsiness, feeling of being drunk (euphoria), headache, loss of alertness, staggering, seizures, weakness.
    *     *     *
    “... ,you know?” Scales heard and found himself sideways to the world. A yellow Formica counter rimmed with ribbed chrome