Page 1 of Kings Have No Mercy
PROLOGUE - MASON
August 2001
Being a kid sucks.
You don’t get to do none of the cool stuff. You’re supposed to run and play like some dog. The same dumb games are supposed to be fun. Meanwhile, all you wanna do is what the grownups are doing—ride.
Bicycles don’t count. My best friend Blake Cash says they do, but he’s kidding himself. Riding in circles around the block doesn’t compare to the open road.
I just know it.
My old man said he’ll teach me someday when my beard starts coming in and I grow my first strand of hair on my face. That’s gonna be years from now… which means I’m stuck like a lame ass, playing MC with the other kids in the neighborhood.
I scowl as Johnny Flanagan pedals toward me alongside Blake. He volunteered himself as president, saying it made sense for it to be him—his dad, Johnny Flanagan Senior, is in the real deal with my old man.
We fist fought over it. But then Johnny cried and the guys felt like jerks and gave it to him.
“Hey, Cutler! We’re gonna have a meeting!” Johnny shouts. He can’t even pedal his bike right; as he shoots toward me, his foot slips off the pedal and he goes flying into a bush.
The others laugh. I don’t find nothing funny.
It’s just more proof we’re faking. We’re a group of bored kids on a hot summer afternoon, playing around ’til the streetlights come on and our moms call for us.
That’s how it goes in a small town like Pulsboro—everybody lives in the same neighborhood, and everybody knows each other. If you’re not from a family associated with the MC, you’re familiar enough to know about it.
“Will you stop fooling around?” I say. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Who says it’s a joke?” Johnny pants, straightening himself up.
I shake my head. “You’ve got grass in your hair, jackass.”
“If your mama heard you!”
“I don’t give a damn what she hears, you pimple-faced buttmuncher!”
“HEY!” Blake shouts. He’s in between us, his blue eyes and gold hair making him look a lot more angelic than us. “You two keep screaming your lungs off, and our moms really will hear! Then we’re all getting chewed out. Shut up!”
He’s got a point.
That’s what Blake is usually around to do—be the reasonable one and pull me back from my short temper. It’s what makes us good best friends. I do my fighting with my temper and fists. He does his fighting with his words. Usually ones too big and fancy for most kids our age to understand.
We assemble like Johnny’s requested. Most of the guys park their bikes in a semi-circle surrounding him. A dumb gang filled with the sons of real Steel Kings, like we’re tough as nails, not just playing pretend.
I hover in the background, disgruntled and unsatisfied.
Johnny’s yammering on about nothing. Just talking to hear himself talk, like my old man says.
I glance around the rest of the block. It really is a boring summer afternoon. Nothing’s fun about it. Nothing exciting or unusual.
Three houses away, the McPherson twins sit on their front porch combing through their Barbie’s knotted hair. The Bible-thumper kids are off in their own corner of the block skipping rope and playing catch. Some middle schoolers walk down the street, too cool for kiddy games.
I wipe sweat from my brow and pat down my pocket. I’ve got plenty of firework poppers. It’d be funny watching them scream and run off…
Before I can make up my mind, a car turns down the empty road. The street we live on is a dead end. Anybody who comes down our way either lives here or knows somebody that does.
The others are too busy with the fake club meeting to notice.
But I do. I stare it down as it bumbles down the road and then parks against the curb in front of my house.