Bad To The Bones

CHAPTER ONE

BELLAMY

It’s not difficult to slide into another dimension. There are tons of them. Some are inhabited by lunatics only, some by the misbegotten who have never had any parents to love them. Some realities, like the one I spent much of my time in, was peopled by fellow travelers, seekers who had lost their way. A great many people at Bihari were like that, actually. While the vast majority of them were well-off financially—over half of the seekers who lived with me had college degrees of some kind—I still felt they were stumbling, looking but never finding, just scrambling their way through life.

Like me. Especially now, because I seemed to be running barefoot across a mesa of some kind. I was confused, unable to figure out why I didn’t have my Harley Sportster but was running barefoot. Swami Shakti liked us to check our footwear and attitude at the door.

If I recall correctly, a few of the guards they called daimyo followed us at first, swiping their assault rifles as though we were cockroaches they needed to scatter. They sprayed their bullets just close enough to our flapping hems to scare us, but not cause any bloody damage. That was considerate of them. I looked at my fellow exiles, stumbling with outspread hands like talons. Why had I been thrown in with this bunch?

In the last dimension I remembered, I had been at my place of worship, the bike garage. I was re-jetting the carburetor on a rebuilt 64 HP engine. It was a favor for a new citizen—only upstanding, close and important disciples were allowed to have their own rides. The rest took the shuttle busses or walked to the cafeteria or their places of worship, to remind them they were no more important than the bugs or the snakes.

I thought I’d been in one of Shakti’s inner circles of disciples. He’d taken me in seven years ago, when he was just setting up shop here near Pure and Easy, Arizona. I lived with him in Wang Cho House, the spread he’d had built with the indoor swimming pool for his sensitive skin, climate controlled for his allergies. No doubt this was just a test for us. Or some kind of gruesome mistake.

I’d been shoved into a minivan with eight other homeless men, driven down the canyon to this plateau in the middle of nowhere. Where are we going? we all asked each other. I had been taken from my mechanic’s garage, another man whisked from cleaning a street. Another guy had been yanked from digging a well. Another had been helping to build the dairy barn. A couple of them had just been lying around drinking beer.

They’re going back on their word, one guy kept saying. I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true.

The driver and guards of course wouldn’t say a thing. They were close-lipped. I had been witness to some pretty unbelievable events in my time with the ashram, mostly manifestations of the greatness of The Outlaw Prophet. Nothing of the water-into-wine variety, of course not, that would be absurd. But I had seen healings, and women touched eternally who had taken the leap, as I had when I was seventeen. Shakti was a father, lover, guru. Women were his mediums. I figured I must be the most healed woman in the entire ashram, what with all my private sessions with Shakti, my nonstop surrenderings to his purple whirlpool, my proximity to his vibes.

We’d never go back on our word, I protested to the homeless man. He hadn’t changed his name, hadn’t registered to vote, and was still Brian.

What’s this ‘our’ business? growled Brian. You’re one of the upper echelon just because you fuck that disgusting pervert.

Rage rose in my chest, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I knew it was imperative to protect the Master at all costs. I’m just a disciple like the rest of you.

Brian rolled his eyes. He hadn’t even donned the purple pants and shirt, a kind of universal dashiki that was the great equalizer. No one had a higher status than anyone else when dressed in solid purple clothing. Shakti, however, due to his sensitive skin, wore a velvet shirt and angora cap. We’re no fucking disciples. We were pulled off the street by you whackos. I’m from Oklahoma City. We picked up Ted here in—where was that, Ted?

Aspen. I was a ski instructor, can you believe that? Now he’s got me melting down gold jewelry to smuggle out—like I know anything about gold. I know about powder and ski wax! It just sounded like a good beginning, the way they described it here. Take all your worries away. No pondering about paying your power bill. Everything done for you. All you have to do is give back.

Brian groused. Peace and serenity, everyone in perfect harmony with nature.

Another grizzled man who was not that far into his most recent alcoholic DTs growled too. Two beers a night. I sold out! For two beers a night I sold my right to vote! We have to vote the way they tell us to! What if I wanted to vote for the white party and not the purple?

It was true, disciples had driven all over the country recruiting homeless people to bolster up our voting rolls. These new friends would vote as a bloc for our own choice for state rep and mayor. Why not? We needed to stand up to the constant harassment the whites were giving us, the purples. Shakti had chosen an open-minded corner of Arizona where we thought no one would bother us but we were wrong. The bombardment by residents was daily. We needed our own man in the House of Representatives to stand up for us, to give us a voice.

I frowned at the alcoholic. You’re one of us now. Of course you want to vote for our guy.

Forced sterilization! swore the wino. Some girl who looked like a zombie told me she was forced onto an operating table and knocked out with knockout drops! When she woke she wasn’t able to bear children anymore! He kept saying that, knockout drops, as though we lived in some forties spy film. Someone would come along and put the drops in someone’s Kool-Aid, like at a retreat in the South American jungle.

But I started wondering. Why was I, a chosen one, being herded along with these new friends? I knew we were starting to consider that our experiment with the addicted, unreliable, and unstable friends had in general been a failure. But why had I, one of Shakti’s closest advisors, been rounded up with them?

I tried to ask the daimyo. This minivan had two of them and their assault rifles had never been more terrifying.

Bulsara, I begged of one armed peacekeeper. Where are you taking us? Was it an accident? Was I included in this group by accident?

No accident, was all Bulsara would say. He had been a stockbroker in Cincinnati, handing over his fortune and those of his children’s to come to Bihari.

I started to panic. It’s a mistake! I am Asanga. You know me, Bulsara! I live in Wang Cho House with Swami Shakti, the inner sanctum. Why am I being ejected along with these street people?

So you do admit it? bellowed the juicer. I knew it, I knew it! Typical big business right-winger procedure! Tolerate the little guy as long as he’s useful and when he’s run his course, bam! Toss him into a mass grave with thirty other bodies! It’s the military-industrial complex, I tell you!

It wasn’t exactly a mass grave the daimyo had in mind. But as we pulled off the road, I saw we were converging with two other minivans. They all had a purpose now and drove in tandem as though in a car commercial toward the lip of the canyon. They drove like a formation of slow bombers. Would they drive us over the edge? The whole time the bum kept screaming Knockout drops! and They put it in the beer. They put it in the mashed potatoes!

I was truly starting to become terrified. Emotions in general were not my strong point. I was considered the mellowest of Shakti’s inner sanctum because I did not feel strong emotions. I had been purged of all past trauma through my constant re-living of them. But as the sterno bum screamed about mashed potatoes and the ski instructor Ted bellowed about freestyling, mogul runs, and slaloming, I really began to panic. That was definitely the edge of a cliff out there. This area west of Slide Rock was a beautiful frothy cake of pink and violet layers of sediment.

But by the time the three minivans came to a halt, I was actually beginning to feel groggy. It struck me that the alcoholic might be right. I had been inexplicably groggy off and on lately, usually after drinking a beer someone had poured for me. And right before the daimyo had snatched me from my mechanic’s shop, Rhetta had brought me a hand-poured beer. She lived with me at Wang Cho House.

In fact, I wasn’t really questioning anything by the time Bulsara herded me off the bus. Stumbling, clueless transients came from the other buses, some with their hands held high, as though accustomed to surrendering. This would be a fitting end to my pointless life. It had been too good to be true, finding Shakti after so many years of neglect and abuse by careless parents. I wasn’t good enough for Shakti.

Purple was the color of the rising sun. But right now a wave of purple was rushing toward the direction of the sunset, which happened to be a drop-off steep enough to kill a whole herd of unwanted disciples like us.

The Master is a boat, chanted Bulsara, waving his rifle at us. Once the disciple crosses the river, the boat is unnecessary.

I’m totally out of here! shrilled the street bum. This shit is batshit crazy! And he ran.

He ran toward the road and a couple of daimyo splattered bullets at his heels. This woke up the rest of us bums. Reflexively we ran away from the bullets, toward the cliff. But I was so groggy I ran like a sloth.

The rest of my bus mates seemed to be running in slow motion, too. Our limbs splayed like frogs, arms flapping like crows. We ran toward the edge, taking ridiculously high steps. Dust from bullets stinging the ground buoyed us up like a cloud toward heaven, but nobody was being hit. It was just a game for the daimyo, a brutal video game to pass the time.

Fucking dirtbags! yelled Brian, the only one running near me now. It seemed as though we ran through solid water, we were so slow. My head felt like a bucket of cement, and I even stopped caring that someone was trying to kill me. My wooden beaded necklace that enshrined a photo of Shakti bounced like a close up shot of a coin toss. Shakti used to tell us the picture wasn’t really of him because he was a vast emptiness that can’t be photographed.

They fucking lied, like everything else was a lie, drawled Brian. Suddenly he was drunk as a skunk, too. There’s no fucking eternal bliss. That fucker just rides around in his Hummers drinking his hash milkshakes. There’s no democracy, no dialogues. It’s a dictatorship, and he doesn’t care about us.

For the first time I understood that. As I fell to the ground—out of sheer stupor, not in a hail of bullets—I felt maybe, maybe just a little bit angry at Shakti. He always said he knew all, saw all. He knew everything going on in the ashram. Well, didn’t that mean he knew that I was being rounded up with average street bums and herded into oblivion?

The last thought I had as I sank into happy nothingness on the sand was He knows. He may have even ordered it. I can never live with that thought.

I’d rather die.

CHAPTER TWO

KNOXIE

Knoxie Hammett was buried balls-deep inside the pussy of a well-used sweetbutt.

Courtney—he thought that was her name—was young, and hot when fully made up, but not tight. Knoxie’s mind wandered as he plunged his cock inside her. He knew Courtney had at least one kid, currently watching them round-eyed from a car seat on the other side of the room. And he’d witnessed her being fucked by at least four co-workers and maybe four more members of The Bare Bones club. So yeah, her pussy fit him more like a worn work glove than an extra-large condom.

Still, Knoxie’s long, thick cock pulsated as he reamed the young blonde. He was truly enjoying this, something that couldn’t be said every day. He was fully alive today in every sense of the word, and he was crushing it. He knew that his deltoids shimmered with vitality and power as he bucked the skinny woman up the wall. He knew that the toned muscles of his lumbar undulated and flexed with just the proper precision as he nailed her. He knew that his chest piece—a blend of Asian and biomechanical tattoo styles that he’d labored designing for weeks—would have looked especially striking in this lighting, if only it wasn’t plastered up against the silicone of Courtney’s boobs.

He was killing it today because his divorce papers had been finalized.

Knoxie was imbued with strength and a lust for more than life. The divorce hadn’t really sunk in until today because he’d been numbing the pain with booze and more than his share of pot from the local Leaves of Grass farm. His fortieth birthday had come and gone in a hilarious haze. He’d been living in an apartment above a downtown biker bar and grill for so long he’d forgotten the beauty of the outlying mesas and buttes, the breathtaking inspiration of the Red Rocks area. The messy apartment was a revolving door for his rough-hewn brothers who sometimes crashed there rather than drive drunk back to their clubhouse on Mescal Mountain, out of town five miles. Some mornings it resembled a battlefield with bodies draped in disagreeable positions. Knoxie had thought about getting a dog just to have something to cuddle, but most dogs freaked at the loud rumble of his bike’s pipes.

He had not wanted the divorce from Nicole. In fact, he hadn’t understood it for a long fucking time. Every day he rolled out of bed or someone else’s couch expecting to smell her coffee. Every day was a new punch in the gut, the realization that he’d truly lost his wife and two children. He’d nearly resigned himself to going over the edge. He couldn’t look at himself anymore.

Seeing the final Decree of Dissolution in black and white like that really put the zap into Knoxie’s head. Suddenly he was done with lying around growing moss, coming out of a stupor only long enough to lay down another brilliant ink sleeve on a biker’s arm. He almost felt as though he was done with throat-pumping sweetbutts at this cum factory. Almost.

Oh, yeah, baby, whined Courtney. Oh, yeah, give it to me, big boy. Can you feel my cunt squeezing your dick?

Knoxie couldn’t. But it didn’t matter what she said, because the dialogue at Triple Exposure wasn’t recorded. It was all dubbed in later. He felt more virile and powerful than ever as he speared the tiny woman on his big cock, growling, Tell me how much you like it, Courtney. Tell me how much you like being drilled by my big dick.

Courtney must have been a pretty good actress. Corkscrewing her hips enthusiastically, she burbled, Oh, yeah, Knoxie. Everyone on this crew likes being nailed by your giant fat dick. We’re all so glad you shitcanned that slut Nicole and joined our crew. You’re nice fresh meat, not that stale old Broke Dick or that limp noodle Stash McVeigh. He can’t hold a candle to—

Tearing himself abruptly away, Knoxie gripped the girl by the bicep. A slight fear appeared in her heavily-lined eyes as he shouted. What’d you say, bitch? Did you call my wife a slut?

Courtney was way less sure of herself now. Her pumped-up tits jiggled with her heartbeat. Nicole’s a slut. Why else did you dump her? She was whoring around with some Boners, that sergeant-at-arms guy who smelled, and you already knew about Kneecap.

Of course Knoxie knew about Kneecap. That Ronald McDonald lookalike had been named Elmore before Knoxie had gotten ahold of him. Now Kneecap tottered around with a cane attempting to run one of the club’s fronts, an indoor archery range across the street from The Bum Steer where Knoxie was forced to live. At least if Knoxie was going to have to see the jolly clown in the red afro wig every day, he’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d lamed the guy.

Knoxie poked Courtney in the clavicle with a stiff forefinger. Listen, you used-up pass-around. Nicole was a fucking lady, unlike most of the half-assed Triple Exposure twats who pretend they’re actresses.

Courtney sneered. Oh yeah? You could take some Method acting refresher courses yourself, stud. Why else do you think we need to stick Russ Gollywow’s voice over yours on the final DVDs?

Gollywow’s a professional singer, you gash! Of course he’s got a good voice.

Knoxie was being led astray from the real subject at hand—he knew that. It would take him awhile to pull himself out of the haze brought on by his water pipe that was constantly packed with locally-sourced Young Man Blue indica. He knew Nicole had spread her legs for a few brothers, so he shouldn’t be taking it out on Courtney. Courtney had only been trying to pump Knoxie’s ego. She’d called his penis giant and fat. But he was sort of glad when the director Mel stepped in and put a hand between his two leads.

All right, keep it nice. He slapped Knoxie’s hard-on affectionately, professionally. You’re still up like a steel plate. You can go back in, Rex. He called Knoxie by his stage name, Rex Havox. Mel had chosen it because both real and fake names ended in an X and were therefore easy for everyone to remember.

Suddenly Knoxie didn’t want to dive back in. He suddenly felt finished with being Rex Havox, for some reason. It had served a purpose and now he was ready to move on. He was glad when the heavy door to the soundproofed room banged open and the handsome silhouette of Lytton Driving Hawk appeared. Lytton was the freshly-minted sergeant-at-arms for The Bare Bones MC. Not the smelly one Courtney referred to, Lytton had gone straight from his service as a Prospect and a grunt to take over the valued number three—some called it number two—position in the heavy-hitting club. Lytton was not only owner of the Leaves of Grass pot farm up in the mountains, now he was a big fish in a big pond, the entire Pure and Easy area his backyard.

So everyone stood at attention when Lytton yelled, Knoxie! Drop your cocks and grab your socks. I’ve got an urgent errand for you.

Knoxie did drop his cock and sprang to grab his street clothes as Mel sighed heavily.

Lytton. You can’t just bust in here and grab my best guy. This guy’s so good he doesn’t even need his own fluffer.

Lytton peeled some bills from a roll in his jeans pocket and handed them to Mel. Here. This should make up for your money shot. Knoxie, I saw your cage in the lot. I need you to take me up 89.

Knoxie wasn’t a patched member of The Bare Bones so he wore no cut. He was used to getting dressed and undressed in a snap, so now he just had to throw on his 501s, skintight white wifebeater, and his patch-free black leather jacket. He knew better than to ask Lytton what was up with the whole film crew—all five of them—eavesdropping.

So he made small talk while he dressed. Does Madison still work at that doctor’s office? I was thinking of just going for some bloods. You know, get my cholesterol checked. I feel a sudden health kick coming on.

Lytton snorted. You need a health kick? You’re the studliest stud in the paddock. But if you want to check your bloods, yeah, it’s a cardiologist she works for. She can take your blood up at The Citadel. The Citadel was a massive airplane hangar where the Boners ran their commercial concern, a heavy equipment rental business. It also served as their clubhouse since they’d stopped using The Bum Steer a couple years back. Now the Steer under Knoxie’s apartment was strictly a legitimate biker bar and grill.

Mel said, Okay Misty, you got those billiard balls? We’re gonna move onto the weight training scene next.

Aw, damn, groaned Courtney.

Knoxie was glad to avoid the weight training scene. Some other guy could do it. On the way out Knoxie practically ran into Misty carrying two handfuls of billiard balls. Misty had glossy, straight, blue-black hair, a pert nose, and uplifted boobs. She thought she was getting too old to act in the porn business, so she’d graduated to assisting Mel. They’d talked about her joining Knoxie’s private studio. She had a few years’ experience laying down ink, excelling at tribal, which is where Knoxie lagged.

However, he’d never thought of her as a potential bed warmer until now.

Her eyes twinkled as he passed her by. I was looking at the Hell City website, she started.

Knoxie was already walking backward, Lytton was hotfooting it so fast. Oh yeah? What a moron. That’s all I can think of to say? I’d better brush up on my flirtation.

Misty said, "I think we should book our hotel rooms soon to get the best