Flash Fiction: No Name



The story you are about to read is based on a true story. The names and events are changed to protect those involved.


The fire on the bar lit with an explosion that rocked the clubhouse—“No Name” backed away from the bar holding the assault rifle in a low sweeping position ready to fire.
“I`m done with the club,” a low growl in his voice.
“I know where all you assholes live and I will kill every one of you and your family if you so much as think about hunting me. Just leave me alone!”
The men in the room, the top leaders of the Jackals Motorcycle Club and all their security men, stood silent and stoic—all of them knew what “No Name” was capable of and they took his threat to heart. Moments earlier No Name walked into a called meeting of the club`s high officers. He was their most secret and deadly assassin. Men like him were all called “No Name” because no one, except the International President and his inner circle, ever knew the names of these men.
No Name walked into the clubhouse that night like an arrow headed for the bull’s-eye, and he went straight into the bar. He had only one mission that night and that was to let these men know that he was done killing, done stealing, and done with the lifestyle of an outlaw biker. As he walked to the bar, the smoke filled room was ablaze with boisterous laughter and the clanking of bear bottles. The men in the room sat gathered around the scattered tables, drinking, smoking pot, and playing cards while they waited for the last important member to show so they could call the meeting to order.
Each man began to notice as No Name headed straight through the crowd toward the bar. They all began to quiet down and watch as he sauntered into the room with a look of steely determination. As he approached the bar he lifted up his club colors and slammed them down on the bar. Some of the men shot straight up out of their chairs in anticipation of trouble—others just hunker in to watch the events unfold.
No Name pulled a can of lighter fluid out of a sack he had over his shoulder, he squirted the fiery liquid across the bar and onto the colors he slammed down, and then he struck his zippo and—POOF! The bar exploded into a fireball. Everyone scattered.
Years earlier
 
Jim had grown up around the Jackals MC because his older brother Angel was a long time member. Angel had been an enforcer for the big boss in Chicago for years and finally settled into a regional officer position. Angel never wanted Jim to patch out with the club but he knew his little brother was hypnotized from an early age with the power and prestige of the lifestyle. Angel was 15 years older than his brother Jim and never spent much time at home because he was always on the road with the club. Jim looked up to Angel and knew if he wanted to be with his brother, he had to follow the club. Angel got his name from his reputation. Angel was short for “Angel of death.” He had done some time in “no man`s land” waiting for the statute of limitations to pan out after he did some business for the club. Every big 1% club had a “no man`s land.” This was a place, usually in another country, where members could disappear while they waited for the heat to drop off. While Angel was gone for a few years Jim did his probate time and became a full patch member.
The thing that was different about Jimmy, as Angel liked to call him, was that he had no conscience—he had no mercy or compassion. Hell, anyone who gets beat by their father the way these two did ends up screwed in the head—no way around that fact.
Jim rose quickly in the ranks and soon the big boss in Chicago knew he had a man that could really take care of business. Jim had a reputation for knockin` a man on his ass in a New York second. Everyone in the club around Cook County knew that Jim was like a damn volcano that could erupt any minute. Members just stayed the hell outta his way.
At first the boss used Jim to take care of collections for the club. Then, he became the Regional Sargent at Arms. That was the first step toward the pits of hell that would become Jim`s life.
The Boss called Jim to Chicago one night for a private meeting, so Jim packed his bike and hit the road. He got to the club house late that night, went through security, and headed into the bar. Chains was the International President of the Jackals MC. He was a ruthless outlaw who`s heart was black and cold. The Jackals had been at war with a local club for about a year. The Jackals wanted this club to patch over and they refused—this is pure disrespect in the outlaw biker subculture. This local cub—“The Disciples”—had never shot or killed any Jackals members but they had a nasty habit of ambushing them and beating them up. Chains wanted to send a message that would end this shit—for the last time—and Jim was just the man he wanted for the job.
Chains was sitting at the bar when Jim walked in the room.
“What`s happenin little brother?” Chains barked across the bar as Jim entered the room.
“Not much Boss…what`s up?
“Have a sit down bro. I need to talk some business with ya. What-a-ya-have?”
“I`ll take a Bud”
Jim felt a real sense of honor. Here he was, sitting with the International President, man, he thought to himself, I`m finally in the inner circle. All those years Jim had watched Angel and the club. This was it, he had dreamed of this moment.
Chains slid a beer across the bar to Jim, lit a smoke, and stared at him dead in the eyes for quite some time. Jim didn`t rattle easy but he was getting a bit uncomfortable when chains finally spoke.
“Jim, you know we been havin trouble with the Disciples—right?”
“Yeah Boss.” Jim answered with a smooth confident look on his face.
“I been watchin you Jim, I trust ya like your brother Angel. I need you to take care of this situation and put an end to it. I mean an end—you get what I`m sayin?”
Jim knew this was it. This was the big one. This was a moment most bikers fear. You either answer this question right or you don`t leave the bar alive. Jim had no problem with the question, and he knew his answer, but he also knew you don`t get this question unless they know you will say yes—you have to say yes—your life depends on it. Jim began to look around the bar a bit better than he had when he came in. Sure enough, in the dark corners on three sides of the bar sat the crew, the No Names, the ones who make sure you never talk if you don`t answer the question right.
“Well! What the hell you gonna do?” fired Chains impatiently.
“I`m in Boss…it`s an honor.”
Chains grabbed Jim in a big bear hug—
“Come on out boy`s…let`s have a drink!” shouted Chains to the crew.
Chains told Jim that from that day forward he was a “No Name.” Jim had to disappear for a while to throw the other members of the club off and any feds who might be doing surveillance on the club. Jim came back six months later. He had a new look, a new beard, a new hair color, a new bike, and no name.
Over the next year Jim killed over 10 members of the Disciples MC. Some he shot while they rode down the Hwy, others he killed with car bombs. He didn`t give a damn. They deserved it.
Late one summer night, Jim was waiting on a Disciples member to get home. He had been watching this member for a week. He was a high ranking officer of their club—this was a good catch. A truck came up the road and Jim started sweating as the adrenalin pumped through his veins. This was it man, this was his best target yet, this would make the Boss happy for sure. The truck pulled up into the driveway and the lights shut off. Just as the driver stepped out Jim jumped out of his car and opened fire with an AK-47. He had two banana clips taped back to back and he unloaded. As the smoke of death filled the air, Jim sped off into the night—high on blood.
The next day all the papers headlined the shooting. Jim went to the local news stand to pick up a paper and check out his work. The headlines read: “Local mother and child killed in apparent drive by shooting.” Jim stood staring at the paper in disbelief. How could this be, he thought to himself. He had watched this guy for days—how did the woman and the kid get into the truck…where…this can`t be true!
Jim knew he was done. His cold heart of stone melted like an ice cube on a hot stove top. He hid for days. He cried. How could he ever live with this? He knew the Boss would kill him. The other No Names would be looking for him and probably already were. There was only one way out—walk right in and tell `em how it`s gonna be. He called the Boss and told him to meet him at the clubhouse. Jim made it out alive that night at the club house. No one had the guts to follow him out after he lit the fire on the bar. No one has seen or heard from Jim since—not even Angel who told me this story.
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S.W. Biddulph

Scott Biddulph is a published writer, author, and poet from North Georgia. He began writing as a youngster and followed his lifelong dream of reaching people through the written word when he returned to The University of North Georgia in 2013 to finish earning his BA/English with a concentration on publication and creative writing. His publications include the following: an eBook, Apples of Gold: A collection of inspirational short stories and poems (Smashwords, 2010) and a paperback, Voices from the Heart, (Createspace, 2012). His poetry is published in Papers and Publications Undergraduate Research Journal. Vol 3 (2014) and the award-winning Chestatee Review (Spring, 2015), among other places (Check his LinkedIn profile for a full list of his publications). He is currently working on publishing poetry, creative non-fiction, academic essays, and his memoir. ******** Scott has also worked as an intern editor for the University of North Georgia Press. As a freelance editor, he has done the layout and design of several books and magazines. He is currently working with several authors on various publication projects in which he is either ghostwriting, editing manuscripts, or doing the layout and design of their books. ******** Finally, and most importantly, he is a father, grandfather, husband, and dedicated Harley Davidson rider. He and his family enjoy the beauty of the North Georgia Mountains where they live—especially their screened in back porch where they love to bird watch. ******** ~ "I love realism. I love writing about the raw, down-to-Earth, heartfelt realities of life. I love to write in a way that reaches into the human soul—to take the greatest pains and struggles in life, and make them a blessing to others. Fantasy is a wonderful, interesting thing—but real-life situations, feelings, fears, and dreams are an unexplored ocean of stories that need to be told." ~ ~Scott Biddulph~

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