The trophy sat atop a cabinet filled with rusted and poorly organized tools. The whole room looked like it was once a fairly well-kitted-out workshop that had been left to the elements for twenty years, if those elements were mostly spilled beer, cigarette smoke and stray bullets. Had the gang collected the bottles and cans that were piled under every table and on most surfaces, they could probably afford to put a deposit on a bike.

  Four gang members sat around a large steel worktable in the clubhouse’s main room. Like mourners at an open-casket wake, they stared at a disassembled engine of a motorbike that lay on the table and would never be rebuilt. As usual, the chapter president wasn’t there, but at least this time Badeer had made the effort to dial in to the meeting. His voice rattled out the speakers of a phone propped up against a grubby old ice-cream container that had been used to store odd nuts and bolts.

  Murder wanted to see what was going on, so with a small splash, he leapt into position. He found that he could reach the edge of the cup and hook one of his pectoral fins on the rim of the trophy, allowing him to peer over the edge. He had to be careful though; if he leapt just a little too quickly or leaned just a little too far over, he would fall out of the cup and there was no guarantee they would put him back in. The dirty old ice-cream container caught Murder’s eye. Why didn’t they put me in that? he wondered. The container was full of discarded old nuts and bolts that had been tossed into the bucket just in case they would ever be useful one day. Time and dust slowly formed a grimy batter on the worn or misfitting old fixings, and that day had never come. Murder took another look at the four people around the table and understood why Hands hadn’t just tossed the contents of the bucket and plopped him inside. If there were ever a place for misfits and forgotten old nuts, this was it; he couldn’t just toss them out, because they were practically family.

  “The reputation of Hell’s Spawn is at stake. For the image of the whole club, we have to resolve this issue with the utmost rapidity. We’re being laughed at by the other chapters and now people are taking cheap shots at us. That changes today,” said Badeer. Somehow the vibrations from all the junk and oddments on the table actually made his voice more audible than the struggling speakers could manage alone.

  “But I’ve been called that for thirty years, ever since I hurt my knee. It’s what everyone knows me by and I don’t want to change it now,” said Dasher. “I joined this club for a sense of freedom, to look badass on a motorbike and because my disability checks barely cover rent. Now we’re barely bringing in any money because so many people are on GLP-1 that none of them want to buy my crack, and they’re giving up on long-standing traditions.”

  Prancer put an arm on Dasher’s back. “If he’s not Dasher, it doesn’t make any sense me still being called Prancer. I never had a nickname until I started dating Dasher, and I like it. It makes me feel young again.”

  “That’s an issue too,” said Badeer. “Prancer isn’t likely to strike fear into anyone is it? If you show up threatening violence or demanding money and then say that your names are Dasher and Prancer from the Hell’s Spawn then we’re not going to be taken seriously. Take your most recent job. How’s that going for you?”

  “The old jeweler?” asked Dasher. “We didn’t tell him our names.”

  “I wonder fucking why,” said Badeer. “But I didn’t ask you if you gave him a Christmas card, I asked how it’s fucking going!”

  “I smacked his head on the table,” said Derrick, “and he didn’t get back up, so we left after ten minutes or so.”

  “I’m not surprised – the man’s ninety years old. I didn’t ask you to kill him, we just want to give him a little shuffle on. Did he even know why you were there?”

  “Yeah boss,” said Derrick. “I told the old man to take the deal and move. He got the message alright.”

  “Thank God,” said Badeer. “Well, I got a call from our friends at Crust Corp saying we’ve got three days to get him to sign or we don’t get paid. That gives you until Friday. Derrick, Hands, I want you to deal with this personally and leave Santa’s reindeer at home until they come up with better nicknames.”

  “Righto boss,” said Derrick.

  “And don’t kill the guy,” added Badeer. “Killing anyone older than about sixty-five just makes us look bad.”

  “Yes boss,” replied Derrick.

  “Understood,” said Hands, who picked his phone up from the table and looked for the button to end the call. “...Bye,” he said awkwardly after a short silence.

  “We’re not done yet,” said Badeer. “Do you get shot at so often that you’ve already forgotten the attempt on your lives, or is it normal for you to be pelted with fish by a nonce on a pushbike?”

  “No. We’re still looking into it,” replied Hands, putting the phone back on the table to improve the audio.

  “No offense, but I trust you to get to the bottom of it about as much as I trusted my horny bitch of an ex-wife with her Swedish masseur. What have you been able to find out?” asked Badeer.

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  “I think that fish he threw at us is a baby flathead; it’s probably meant as a threat,” replied Hands.

  Dasher and Prancer looked surprised.

  “What fish? You didn’t tell us there was a fish,” asked Dasher.

  “This little guy,” said Hands, retrieving the trophy from the shelf and placing it on the table.

  Dasher and Prancer stood up and walked around the engine that blocked their view.

  “That’s not a flathead,” said Prancer. “That’s a doctor fish. They have them at the salon slash day spa slash cat petting center that’s right near the jewelers.”

  The gang looked at her in surprise.

  “Yeah, definitely a doctor fish,” said Prancer confidently. “You put your feet in the water and they come up and eat all the dead skin. It feels weird, kinda tickles.”

  “Could this be a message from the shop owner? Or the old man?” asked Badeer.

  “There was just one chick working in the salon when I was there. I think one of the younger workers died recently; it made the news,” said Prancer.

  “Sounds fishy,” said Badeer.

  Hands laughed but quickly suppressed it when no one joined in.

  “Do you think this is funny?” demanded Badeer. “’cause I’m not laughing. I don’t think being shot at is very funny.”

  “Sorry,” replied Hands, clearing his throat.

  “Go check it out,” said Badeer. “If it wasn’t them, they still might know something.”

  The phone went silent for a moment.

  “Bye,” said Hands, standing up again to end the call. The line went dead without ceremony before he got a response. The four of them looked at each other for a moment.

  “Come on Derrick,” said Hands, “let’s go see a woman about a fish.”

  ***

  “Do you think we could order a barista to come over and pour an espresso into the tank?” asked Hunger.

  “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. Read me what you have so far,” requested Death.

  Hunger cleared his throat and began reading. “My darling. My queen. My enlightened lady of wisdom and healing. I believe it was fate that we met. With your talent to feel the healing energies in all things, and my distribution network, I know that we can make a real difference in the world. I think it’s time you launch your own line of alternative supplements. Please, do me the honour of meeting me at my warehouse tomorrow. I must also confess to you that my motivations are not purely constrained to our business relationship. I have attached proof of my fully functioning reproductive organs for your ever-discerning verification. Yours in business, and in pleasure, Fernando.”

  “It’s not bad,” said Death. “Billionaires and bondage dungeons are big in popular romance novels. Perhaps you could also mention a yacht, and see if you can find somewhere to include the word ‘moist’ or the term ‘throbbing member’. They’re very big in romance novels too, so there has to be something to it.”

  “Done,” replied Hunger.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” said Death.

  “My darling. My moist queen. Yadda yadda. Please, do me the honour of meeting me at my warehouse sex dungeon tomorrow at ten AM. I must also confess to you that my motivations are not purely constrained to our business relationship. I have attached proof of my throbbing member for your ever-discerning verification. Yours in business, and in moist pleasure, Fernando. I have a yacht.”

  Death nodded and blew an approving bubble. “Double moist. Expertly done. Lose the Yadda yadda, keep the rest. Now, what have you got for our master builder, the young Mr Allister?”

  “Getting him into position will be easy, but we also need him to dress up as a policeman and use the back door if we want to throw feces into the fire at just the right time,” said Hunger.

  “I don’t think that’s an expression, but you may continue,” said Death.

  Hunger cleared his throat again and began to read. “Hi babe. I think I’m finally ready to take our relationship to the next step. I can’t wait any longer, let’s meet in person tomorrow. My dad will be out of town and no one will be at his workshop all day so let’s meet there, 86 Blackcreek Drive. I want you to sneak around the back and surprise me. (Not like that lol). Get ready before ten, then bust in after a few minutes. One more thing, I know it’s a bit weird, but I want my first time to be special, so I was wondering… do you still have that costume we talked about? Could you wear it for me? I can’t wait. Xx”

  “Too long and too complicated,” said Death. “You’re not trying to convince a shy deer to eat from your hand. Get straight to the point, and remind him that the woman we used for the profile picture had large glands.”

  “Okay, how’s this?” asked Hunger. “My place, 86 Blackcreek Drive, ten AM. Wear kinky police uniform. Use the back door. I will bring my large breasts.”

  “Perfect,” said Death. “Now, how were we planning on luring their rival gangs to the same spot at the same time?”

  “For the Kazakhs, we want to convince them that it was the bikers that burned down their meth lab, and not, you know, us. It should be fairly straightforward because we can mention the exact amount of money that was in the safe. For the Mexicans, we were going to make it look like the Kazakhs and the bikers were planning on teaming up against them, and then we were just going to call the Nazis bitches and see if they show up.”

  “That ought to do it for phase two,” said Death. “Now all we have to do is sit back and wait.”

  “What is it that we’re doing?” asked Spots who floated nearby and enjoyed watching the black squiggly lines appear against the white light of the tablet’s screen as Hunger typed.

  “In the great porcelain beyond that awaits most pet fish, there is a sewage treatment facility with giant agitating arms that spin and mix the antibacterial agents with the solid waste.”

  “What are you talking about?” replied Spots, tilting his head and blowing a bubble in confusion.

  “Well,” said Death, who pretended to recline in an imaginary chair and put his fins behind his head. “In just a few quick messages, Hunger and I have stirred more shit than those mechanical arms could in a whole year.”