Vic Vaughn is Vicious by J.A. Huss

CHAPTER THREE - VIC

His actual, real-life name is Jeeves. No shit. His parents actually named him Jeeves.

Of course, I can’t really fuck with him about this because my parents named me Vicious. So.

Princess and I are currently in his truck winding our way around Horsetooth Reservoir, heading up towards the private campground his buddy, Sketch, runs with his old lady, Mouse.

They are… colorful people. Biker people. Good people, for sure. But I’m not talking downtown biker people like Spencer. I’m not even talking my kind of biker people. I’m talking campground biker people. The kind who live up in the hills.

“Thanks so much for doing this, Vic,” Jeeves says. He takes the turn around the hill a little tight, so the conversation pauses while we all tilt to the left and then straighten out. “Seriously,” he continues. “It’s the Moran family reunion this weekend. And you know how those Morans like their tats at the reunion. Fuckin’ Ratty got the listeria from a bad cantaloupe a couple months back, and he’s just never been the same. And all the other inkers are fucking busy this weekend with other shit.”

“They’re probably at the tattoo art show,” Princess says.

“Yeah.” I yawn. “Probably.” I thought the all-nighter was catching up with me an hour ago. This long drive up a winding mountain in the sunshine isn’t doing me any favors. I’m about to pass out. “I get it, Jeeves. It’s cool. I like those guys. They’re pretty fun. And it’s been a while since I saw Angel Moran. How’s she doing?”

“Married. Four kids.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s hitched to Robby Fiorucci.”

“OK then.” I laugh. “I’ll stay away from her.”

Robby Fiorucci is a bona fide maniac. Like… he’s what you think of when you picture a biker in your head. Bearded, tatted, low, growly voice, bandanas, black leather, and boots that thud when you walk. I mean, I’m all those things too, but I don’t live off-grid in the fucking mountains. He comes from a make-my-day kind of family.

So yeah, I’m gonna stay far, far away from Angel Moran today.

Again, the Fioruccis are not bad people. For the most part. Despite decades of trying, the sheriff has never uncovered a single dead body up on their land. So I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m a live-and-let-live kind of man. Until someone fucks with me and mine, it’s all good.

“Here we are,” Jeeves says. We pull onto a dirt track that barely qualifies as a road. It’s been at least ten years since I spent any time up here, but it hasn’t changed much. The pine trees encroach on the road so that the branches almost form a canopy overhead. It’s a little bit creepy. And for a minute I’m wondering if this place is kid-friendly.

But then we come out into a clearing with at least a hundred tents and there are literally packs of children running around. Wild kids. Heathen kids. Hill kids.

“Ohhh,” Princess says. “Pony rides!”

They’re not ponies. They’re donkeys. And I’m giving that whole operation the side-eye when Jeeves cuts in. “Don’t worry. They’re tame. The Morans use them for packing in the mountains. And it’s all free.” Jeeves glances at me. “So you can let her run while you work.”

I turn in my seat and look at the niece. “What do ya think, princess? You gonna be OK while I ink some people up?” She nods, not even looking at me. Just staring out at all the activity. And boy, is it busy up here. There are hundreds of people. And it smells wonderful.

Jeeves must notice me sniffing the air as he parks his truck in a field of knee-high grass. “This family takes their meat serious. They got it all, princess,” Jeeves says, picking up on my nickname for her. “You like venison? Moose? They even have jackalope hotdogs.” He winks at her in the mirror.

Princess giggles. Then she actually sighs. Like this is the best day of her life. And when we get out of the truck, she’s already trying to gravitate towards a pack of kids waiting in line by the donkeys. But I grab her hand real quick before she can escape.

“Hey.” Jeeves nudges me. “They really are tame.”

“I’m not worried. My nieces all ride. She’s got her own pony at home. So… fuck it. She’ll be OK.”

Jeeves kinda gives me a weird look, but then he smiles and says, “Cool. Let’s go this way. The tat tent is over here.”

I pause and look down at the princess. “You gonna be OK?”

She’s barely looking at me. Her attention is all focused on the other little kids her age who are running around like savage heathens. Then she mutters, “Jackalope hotdog?”

“Oh. That’s just, you know, a mythical animal of the plains. Or something. I’m sure it’s just a regular hotdog.”

“No, sir,” Jeeves says. He winks at my niece. “Don’t let this old fucker steal your innocence. A jackalope is half jackrabbit and half antelope. You want to hear the whole story?”

Princess says, “Yes!” with way too much enthusiasm for seven AM.

But I say, “No, Jeeves. Let’s go. You have no idea how fucking tired I am. If I don’t get started in the next five minutes, I’m gonna go crawl into one of those tents and fall asleep.”

Jeeves frowns. Princess follows suit. “All right. That story is gonna have to wait until the ride home.”

“Which will commence promptly at ten-thirty AM,” I interject. “I’m not getting stuck here all day.”

“I got it, I got it.” He rolls his eyes at the niece and she giggles. Then she looks up at me, smiles, and wriggles her hand free from my grip and takes off towards the donkeys.

Jeeves takes me towards a large tent on the far side of the campground. We pass dozens of people and I’m just wondering, how can one fucking family be so big? This Moran clan. They must breed like crazy. And they all look like they just came down the mountain after a long winter holed up in a ten-by-ten cabin on the side of Longs Peak.

When Jeeves came up to us on the street outside the art building and asked if I wanted to tat up the Morans, I was one hundred percent sure that was not something I was interested in. But then he explained that it was just a commemorative tat. For attending the reunion or something. Everyone was getting one. And it would be a simple thing, he said. Something very small. Something I could do in a few seconds. If I was quick, I could get the whole adult clan done by ten-thirty and be back home by eleven-fifteen.

They are gonna pay me five thousand dollars.

I’m a working man. And even though our family was mostly dirt poor all growing up, we’ve made a name for ourselves over the past decade or so. Some of that is due to Spencer and Ronnie. But Sick Boyz is no joke in the industry, so it earns out. And I’m a saver, so I’ve got a nice cushion. But every cent of that money is earmarked for something I’ve had my eye on for years now. I’m certainly not going to use it on the mansion. So fuck it. I’ll tat up two hundred Moran people in a morning for five thousand bucks. That will pay half of what I need to repave the mansion’s driveway.

Inside the tent there are already about forty people lined up for their tattoo. They’ve got piles of sterile needles, almost a dozen machines, hundreds of pre-filled cups of ink… all of it is ready for me on a long makeshift counter. There is no chair, because they won’t be sitting. I just walk up, take the machine a pretty assistant hands me, drag the needle around in a little cup of ink, and get to work.

Jeeves wasn’t lying when he said each tat would take seconds. You can’t even call what I draw a tattoo. It’s a tick mark. That’s it. They are counting up the number of times they’ve been to the reunion since they turned eighteen. Some of them have thirty tick marks on their bodies. For some, this one is their first. They all have them in different places. Back of the neck, down the ribs, tramp stamp is popular with the Moran ladies. A few even have them on their hands.

Every time they get five tick marks, they get the tattoo artist’s signature. They are all famous inkers, some from as far away as Australia, and there is even one girl from Germany who had her own reality show a few years back. I guess that’s why they needed me and didn’t just have one of these assistants draw the lines. I sign my name Vicious in my trademark style, but it’s all quick as fuck. Assembly-line tattooing, who knew? My pretty assistants take care of the machines, the needles, and the ink, so all I have to do is hand one of them my used one and take the clean one, draw the tick mark, sign my name if necessary, and hand it back to grab another machine.

It’s fucking weird, but whatever.

At nineteen minutes past ten AM, I am done. Every single adult in the camp has paid me a visit and every single one of them has a new tat.

After I collect my money, I go looking for the princess. She’s standing in front of the donkeys with a pack of kids her age holding a corn dog. Excuse me, jackalope dog.

I smile at that. I’m feeling pretty good about this day. It’s actually kind of awesome. First, I scored us free Anna Ameci’s donuts, then I got paid five grand to pretty much do nothing, and now I’m gonna go home to sleep so that later we can hit up the swap meet and maybe I’ll buy myself a little somethin’ with my new windfall.

I whistle for the niece to get her ass over here and she pouts a little as she says goodbye to her new savage friends. They all smile and wave as she trots over to me, taking another bite of her jackalope dog.

“It’s too early for that kind of crap food, sis.”

“We had donuts for breakfast.”

I think about this for a sec. “I guess you’re right. What’s it taste like?”

She offers me her corndog. And I have to admit, it doesn’t really look like a corn dog when you see it up close. I can’t resist. I take a bite. “Tastes like chicken.”

Jeeves comes up to me jingling his truck keys and leans in to my ear as he passes, whispering, “Snowshoe hare and pronghorn. I told ya what it was.”

“How do they mix it together?” I picture sausage-making and grimace.

“I like it.” Princess takes the corndog back and resumes chomping. “Now where are we going?”

“Home.” I open up the back-cab door to the truck and motion for her to get in. “And then sleep. I gotta get some fuckin’ sleep, sis. I’ve been up for like thirty-six hours now.”

“You can sleep on the way,” Jeeves says. “While I tell the niece the story of the jackalope.”

We get in and when I lean against the door and fold my arms across my chest, my eyes are already closing.

“And that’s the story of the jackalope.”

I open my eyes and yawn as I look over at Jeeves. “What’d I miss?”

“The best story ever!” Niece exclaims. “Did you know jackalopes drink whiskey? And breed like rabbits? And you have to wear stovepipes on your legs when you go hunting them because they will gore you to pieces!”

“Dude.” I shoot Jeeves a look. “Is she gonna have nightmares? Because her mom will kick my ass if she has nightmares.”

“I’m not gonna have nightmares! What do you think I am? A child?”

“Anyway,” Jeeves says—he’s smiling, so I’m pretty sure whatever story he told her, it will definitely give her nightmares—“you’re home. Thanks a lot, Vic. I really do appreciate this.”

I flip the handle on the door, open it up, but then turn back to him. “What’d you get out of it?”

“Finder’s fee.”

“What’s a finder’s fee?” Princess asks.

“How much?” I ask.

“Fifteen hundred.”

I whistle. “Not bad.”

“That Moran clan. Say what you want about how they make their money, but they’re generous with it when you’re on the team. And now”—he pushes my shoulder and then points to himself, then me, then himself again—“we’re both part of the clan.”

“I’m not,” I say, getting out of the truck. “I’ve already got a clan.” Then I look over at the mansion across the street and see my gramps putting his lady friend into an Uber.

“Whatever you say,” Jeeves says.

Princess and I get out, wave to Jeeves as he pulls off, and then cross the street to the mansion. Gramps is waiting for us in the cracked and crumbling driveway.

“Who do we have here?” Gramps says, taking the niece’s hand. I’m still not sure what her name is, but I don’t feel bad about this. Gramps doesn’t know either. He’s like a hundred and fifty-seven, so maybe it’s not a fair comparison, but fuck it.

I refuse to feel bad about getting Ronnie’s kids mixed up. She shouldn’t have so many.

“Hey, princess? You tired?”

She shakes her head, suddenly quiet.

“No nap?”

She shakes her head again.

“Well, I gotta hit the sack. Who’s home, Gramps? Anyone?”

“Some’s around, but sleepin’. Big party last night.”

That’s when I notice that Vonn is passed out on the front porch. His head might even be stuck between two railings and one arm is flopped over the side. Another quick look around and I find Vinn passed out on the grass between the house and the garage. There are too many beer cans to count, about a half a dozen empty Jack bottles, and there are no fewer than four bongs on the porch railing.

Must’ve been a rager last night.

I look around a little more, but that’s it. Just Vinn and Vonn. “Where’s Vann and Belinda?”

“Took off on the bike. Said they’d be back tonight.”

“Where’s Pops?”

“He didn’t come home last night. I think he’s with his lady friend out in Agate.”

“Hmm. Well, that sucks. I need to sleep.”

“If you’re looking for a sitter, I’ll take her off your hands.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You will?”

“Sure. I’ve never seen this one. We gotta get to know each other better.”

Is that a weird thing to say? Or is it just typical crazy Gramps? Speaking of… “No fires, Gramps. Hear me?”

“I ain’t gonna set no fire.”

“Don’t ask her to set a fire, either. And no shooting.” He makes to protest, but I put up a hand. “Not even BBs. That spying asshole next door will call the cops again. And the last thing you need is another court date for illegal discharge of a firearm. They’re gonna throw you in jail the next time that happens, Gramps. They’re not fucking around anymore. This town is tired of your shit.”

They’re actually tired of all of us. But mostly Gramps. He’s been terrorizing Fort Collins since 1932.

He salutes me. “Cross my heart.”

I don’t believe him. Not entirely. But I’m too fucking tired to care. So I take this problem to the princess. I point at her. “Don’t let him do anything stupid, got me?”

She nods. “I got you.”

“No matches, no guns, no arrows, no axes.”

“What?” Gramps complains. “You’re no fun.”

“No pets,” I continue. “No wild animals. No knives. No whiskey, no beer, no pot. No porn and no tattooing.” I point at Gramps with a stern face for this last one. “Oh. And no motorcycles. Just… maybe go watch some TV or something.”

“We’ll be fine,” Princess says. “Go sleep.”

I sigh, so fucking tired. “OK. But if he gets out of hand, you come wake me up. Deal?”

“Who’s the babysitter here?” Gramps asks.

Good question. One I should seriously consider. And I will. Later. After I catch a few hours of z’s.

I head inside, pick my way past a passed-out dude on the floor, and head for the stairs. My room is actually an old drawing room. Or maybe it was a parlor? Something weird like that. It’s on the second floor, but it was never meant to be a bedroom. Maybe a ballroom? I dunno. The point is, it’s fucking huge. And it’s got two turrets in it. When you look at the mansion from the street it looks a lot like the house the Munsters lived in. And for many years it didn’t even have paint. That chipped off decades back. And the cost of repainting this thing? Way out of our budget. But I’ve been working on it for several years now. I’ve had to replace most of the siding. And all of the windows. When you’ve got ninety-six windows in your house, that’s not a small thing.

Good thing I have that side job. Because while I do make decent money as an inker, you can only do so many tattoos in a day. This other gig is much easier to scale. I’ve got big plans for the future and none of them include spending my life savings on this mansion.

I yawn cavernously as I take off my shirt, kick my boots into a corner, and then strip off my jeans and socks and crawl under the covers.

I’m asleep before my head even touches the pillow.

The revving of a small engine combined with the squeal of a young girl wakes me from my slumber.

I put the pillow over my head and moan. “No. Noooooo.”

Fucking Gramps.

I didn’t say no go-karts, though, did I?

Do I need to care about this?

I fall back asleep wondering that.

The next time I wake up, little fingers are poking me. “Vicious?”

I peek open one eye and find the niece standing at the edge of my bed. “Hmm?”

“You want some SpaghettiOs and toast?”

“Gross. No.”

“I liked it. First, we had beef ravioli. Then the kind with the tiny meatballs. You know the ones?”

I nod. Gramps has been eating Chef Boyardee since 1935. He’s got a whole story about this disgusting canned food. My pops grew up on it too. Thankfully, by the time me and my brothers and sister rolled around, it was going out of style. I cannot believe people have been eating that crap for almost a hundred years.

“I liked it all.” She sighs. “It’s almost as good as the jackalope dog. You sure you don’t want some?”

This is when I notice she’s holding a bowl of it out for me. “Nah. What time is it?” I’m still tired.

“Three-thirty.”

Now I do open my eyes. “Fuck. Is it really?”

“Yep.”

“I wanted to go to the swap meet. Should we go? There’s still time.”

“Hmm. I dunno. I like hanging out with Gramps. He let me do the go-karts.”

“Did you wear a helmet?”

She nods. “He said I didn’t have to, but I know better.”

I chuckle a little. “Good girl. But listen, your mom didn’t call, did she?” Princess shakes her head. “Hand me my phone. It’s in my pants pocket. I just wanna check.” She grabs the phone and hands it over. But nope. Ronnie did not call. “All right then. I guess they’re still busy. But if we go up to the swap meet”—I make my eyebrows go up so she knows this is gonna be exciting—“we’ll be closer to home. And then you can go to the farm from there.”

“The farm?”

“Yeah. We can go to the farm from there.” She looks confused, so I add, “They have rides, sis. It’s like a carnival.” Because maybe she’s not sure what a biker swap meet is.

She should be. She has to have gone to hundreds of them with Spencer and Ronnie over her short life.

“I can look at all the bike parts and you can go on rides and… I’ll win you a teddy bear from the midway. And we can watch the band from Grand Lake. That sounds fun, right?”

“Hmm.” She considers this new offer. “A big teddy bear?”

“Sure. Why not. Anything you want.”

“OK. I’ll go to the swap meet with you.”

“Perfect. Take that bowl downstairs while I jump in the shower. And then…” I have a new idea. “Then… we’ll take the Gramps bike to the meet and you can ride in the sidecar.”

“I can?”

I should’ve opened with this offer. Now I’m stuck winning her a fucking teddy bear. It’s probably gonna cost me a hundred bucks. “Sure. Why not. It’s a Shrike Bike, after all. Totally legit for kids.”

“Cool!” She runs out of my room with her SpaghettiOs bowl, and I sigh, then swing my legs out of bed and head for the shower.