6 - Revenge

~Punch’s Point of View~

Thankfully, Grouch doesn’t say anything or question me. If he did, I wasn’t totally sure what I’d say. He’s Dozer’s right hand man, he knows literally everything about everything. He wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t. But he also knows when to keep his mouth shut. The secrets that male has could probably take down anyone important in a ten hour radius.

He’s never married and doesn’t have kids. The Flyers are his entire life. You’d never, ever know by looking at him he’s a millionaire many times over. He’s only 38 but looks weathered, rough and borderline homeless. He more than likes it that way.

“I’m happy for you kid. Getting this closure, Mick needs to do this for you,” he says, once we were back at the packhouse. He pats my shoulder and I nod.

I draw a deep breath as the roar of several motorcycles fills the lot, my brothers are rallying around me. It nearly makes me emotional but there is no time for that.

*We’ll shift right away, let me do it. I failed you all those years ago,* Mick says, matter of fact.

He’s always blamed himself for not shifting sooner, as if he could have controlled it. But on this, he’s right. I’m too emotional about it when I shouldn’t be, I can already feel my hands shaking. 

As we grab the male out of the back I realize he’d pissed himself. Fucking great. Good thing we own a garage that does detailing.

“Please, please Travis. I’ll do anything. I’m clean, I just… can’t stop gambling,” he whines.

We were way past begging time and he had to know that.

“You’ll do anything huh? Like tying me up and forcing me to watch you rape Nina? Taking pictures of it that you probably sold,” I snap, as we march him down to the dungeon. 

By the time we had him lay out, naked on a table, I’d already rattled off a dozen other things. Reasons his time was up. Someone had duct tapes his mouth, and I’m relieved. I don’t want to hear any of his bullshit, ever again.

Dozer is suddenly behind me, putting one hand on my shoulder and with the other, handing me my Blood Card.

There isn’t a Flyer that hadn’t had a card on the Blood board. Someone who has deeply wronged us. Someone who doesn’t deserve mercy. An enemy of one, is an enemy of all. 

I may not have been a fly on the radar of any of the men standing next to me when I knew this piece of shit on the table, but they’ve all heard my nightmares. The ones I still have to this day a few times a month. There’s no shaking the fear of that little boy that still lives in my head. He’s ingrained into my very soul, if I have one.

I thought that maybe getting Mick would stop them. Surely my brain would know that now this piece of shit human couldn’t hurt me. He was absolutely no match for my wolf. Not to mention the muscle I now had behind me. My brothers for life.

“I uhm, didn’t know if you’d want me to tell Mags. I didn’t. But I can if you want,” Dozer offers. 

Mags had pretty much written Nina off when she found out about me. Found out that her own daughter managed to hide her grandson from her for well over a decade. They’d likely seen each other dozens of times over that period and yet somehow the subject of me never came up. 

Not once. And Nina knew fully well that all Mags ever wanted was to be a grandmother. Just how many times did Nina selfishly break her own mother’s heart?

“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” I say, as I bend over to remove my boots.

Mags knows full well what goes on here. She always looks the other way. Doze made it more than clear to her when she came that what happens here, stays here. But we still shield her from a lot. Sometimes the guys treat her like a priest who is taking their confession but I know they tone it down. They just need someone good, someone who isn’t tainted to help them believe they’re good males. 

By the time I’m down to my boxers, I accept a lighter from Missile, a Flyer about five years older than me. He was a solid guy, someone you’d never want to fight. He got his nickname because he can easily fly off the handle with his temper. Like a rocket ready to blow at times. He just got promoted to manage the garage and is a brother to me already.

I know the routine. I know the symbolism that comes from getting to fulfill a Blood Card. 

“Stephen Mitchell. You know fully well why you’re here,” I say, accepting a folder from Shock, our resident computer nerd.

One by one, I hold up pictures of those he’d wronged. Women we found out he raped, some that he even knocked up. He had at least four children out there in the world, none of whom he ever saw or helped in any fashion.

He was also currently over $50k in debt to various gambling houses. They’d each have to get a part of him to know the debts were as good as dead. Some polaroids are taken of him still alive, they will accompany his “parts”.

*If there’s anything left,* Mick snickers.

He was a complete waste of space that nobody would miss. I was doing the world a favor. With the evidence of his crimes laid out over his body, I pick up a pair of gloves from the table and began to put them on.

“I hereby sentence you to death for being a sick fuck and sorry excuse for a human being,” I seethe, ripping off the tape. 

He immediately begins to beg as I quickly grab a butcher knife. His eyes follow it and I grab his needle dick and cut it off. My wolf roars at the blood.

The sound of tape ripping nearby reminded me my family was here. Ready to help me in any way I needed.

I quickly stuff the flesh in his mouth then Missile covers it back up with tape. Someone hands me a cigar and I slowly burn his body with dozens of stabs. An extension cord is put in my hand next, and I whip him repeatedly, as he attempts to scream but only keeps gagging, choking on his own dick. I don’t know what to think or feel, I just move. I just want to see his skin split. 

Next, Dozer hands me a bowl of whiskey and a paintbrush. I spend the next half an hour or so carefully painting it over his wounds. His shrieks of pain and his desperation to be able to breathe through this nose calm me. All those nights he tortured me, tortured Nina. He can dish it out, but he can’t take it.

Really, we should drag this out. Keep him alive for a couple weeks and starve him. But I’m not sure I can sleep knowing he’s under the same roof.

Then, my switchblade is in my hands as I recall one night I finished the last frozen dinner we had in the fridge. The only food we had, and it was supposed to have been his dinner. He took a steak knife and made a giant X between my shoulder blades. I was eight. 

When I give the nod, the table is then kicked out from under him as growls, snarls and howls filled the air. Missile tosses the already lifeless sack of shit so he’s on his belly. I stand over him, carving a giant “P” for Punch. 

When I’m satisfied, I back away. Mick tells me his heart is slowing, his pulse is weak. The room full of animals decedends, taking their pound of flesh. Mick pushes forward, taking over control of our body.

He stands watching, seething. Trying to convince me to call them off so he could torture the fuck on his own.  

*He’s not so big and bad now,* Mick says, seeing the blood and skin all over. 

They carefully pile up some fingers to send to the gambling dens until Mick growls, signaling everyone to back off.

I wasn’t sure how the bastard was still alive, his heart was barely recognizable.

Mick trots to him, staring down into his bleak eyes. He’s on his back now, his guts exposed. A quick swipe across his face with a claw draws blood, coating Mick’s paw. 

I had no idea what I thought I’d feel at this moment. But I just feel dead. Because there are so many more Stephen Millers in the world. It’ll never be enough. 

Mick growls so loud, it practically shakes the room. He bares his canines, wanting them to be the last thing this piece of shit sees.