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“No, he shouldn’t.”
“I’m going to go weld, now,” I say. I ask no more questions because I’m not sure if I could handle the answers. Once I’m ensconced in the safety gear and holding a torch in hand, life feels a little more secure. Then I grab several pieces of metallic scrap and perform several welds, and the pieces, once finished, I set up in a line. Mayhem and Havoc both come over once the welding is finished.
“What’s this?” Havoc says, gesturing to one of the welded pieces. “It looks sloppy.”
“And this one looks smooth as a baby’s ass,” Mayhem says.
“I wanted to show you two what you can buy. That first one is a five-hundred-dollar welding job. It’ll hold, because I know what I’m doing and I’m not a piece of shit, but it’ll be ugly, and every time you look at it, you’ll hate yourself for cheaping out. That smooth one is a thousand-dollar welding job. It’s durable, elegant, and fucking pretty. I like welding those, and I know you’ll both like them, too.”
“So it’s just economics with you? Not art?” Mayhem says. He almost sounds disappointed.
“Where’s your sense of fun? Of wonder?” Havoc adds.
“I got a fucking kid, man,” I say. “A fucking little baby. Look, I love welding shit, I love putting guns on shit, and, if you want explosions, oh fuck, count me in. Except those don’t pay the bills. Those don’t buy his diapers, those don’t pay for doctor’s visits, those don’t even cover the babysitter. I want to work with you guys. I want to be a part of the MC. But there are bigger things I have to worry about.”
“Bigger than Trundle?”
I look at the monstrous man of spikes and steel. “He’s four months old and his name is Charlie. To me, he’s bigger than the world.”
“He must be huge,” Mayhem whispers.
“Fifteen pounds,” I say.
“Oh, cute lil’ guy,” Havoc says. There’s a pause and he and Mayhem exchange a long glance. Then each of them nod, as if some psychic twin conversation has taken place and a decision reached. “Listen, we understand your concerns, and we want to create something really incredible here, so we’ll take the thousand-dollar welding job. Is cash up front OK?”
“Cash’ll be fine.”
* * * * *
Hours later, the abomination only a quarter built, a mess of metal and maniacal contraptions that make me shudder somewhere deep in my soul every time I look at it, and, with every weld I make, my sense of dread grows, when suddenly Havoc taps me on the shoulder just as I’m setting up for another weld.
I pull off the safety glasses and look at him. There’s concern on his face, which only adds to my growing sense of unease, because Havoc is not the type to show concern, or anything other than demented enthusiasm for building things that god or nature would give a wide berth. “What is it?”
“We need to stop.”
“Stop?” My arms and shoulders ache, I’m caked in dirty and sweat, my stomach rumbles at me and I realize I haven’t eaten all day. The sun’s falling in the sky and the entire course of its trek through the sky. I’ve been absorbed in birthing this creation of chrome. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. No more welding, no more building, no more making. It needs to stop.”
I frown. “I was just about to weld the chainsaws on. Then the spikes on the wheels. Are you not happy with the quality of my welding? Because, I can tell you, I know what I’m doing. These welds will hold, no matter how hard you push the motors, no matter what you fucking shoot at it or crash it into, they will hold.”
“It’s not that, Hunter,” Mayhem says, walking towards us while he cleans his hands of oil and blood with a chamois cloth.
I turn to go back to my welding. I’ve put too much time and effort into this thing to stop. But Havoc puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You need to stop. We all need to stop. Put the gear down and back away.”
“But why?” There’s a strange tone in my voice that I don’t recognize. It’s fanaticism. I’ve spent so much time around Havoc and Mayhem that whatever lunacy they have has infected me. I don’t just want to finish creating this thing, I need it down to the depths of my soul. “Why are we stopping when we’re getting so close?”
Even now, I’m drawn back to my equipment. Something about the thing we’re creating is calling to the deepest parts of me. I need to see this through.
But Havoc tightens his grip on my shoulder, and Mayhem does so as well. Gentle but relentless, they pull me away from the equipment.
Still, I fight. “I have to return to my work. It needs to be made. Can’t you see that?”
They pull and I struggle and they pull so more.
“Let me go,” I snarl, shrugging them off and turning. I can see it, now, I’ll finish this thing by myself. It will be made and it will be beautiful and terrible.
Then Mayhem slaps me.
