In the end it had taken four thousand volts of electricity and fourteen minutes to kill Beast.
With finality, the curtains closed, and a voice came over the speaker; it declared that the legal execution of Billy Bob McKenna had been carried out. After that, it was only a matter of seconds before P.J.’s head exploded in blinding pain. Well, that’s a fucking understatement P.J thought, while a scene from the Wizard of Oz flashed through his mind. P.J. could just see the coroner of Munchkin Land proclaiming to all the citizens of Oz that the Wicked Witch is not just dead, she’s really quite sincerely dead.”
To everyone’s profound relief the guard opened the exit door. P.J. found himself being rushed through by the pressure of the people who had filled the room just moments before. Once out into the cool night air they collectively bend down with hands on their knees and breathed out their relief. The female reporter in row three dropped straight to the ground, while other members of the press leaned against the cool, chain link fence for a moment to steady their shattered nerves.
On P.J.’s part, he walked straight to his bike and revved up the engine. With his body tense and his heart racing, P.J. rode at full throttle until he had cleared the corn fields that surrounded the prison, then he just kept going. Stopping only for caffeine, nicotine, gas or to take a piss, P.J drove for three straight days until exhaustion finally overtook him, and he found himself losing the battle against white line fever and rumble lines. Feeling despondent with the realization that he could never run far enough or long enough to escape the memory of Beast’s final fourteen minutes, P.J. gave up.
After registering himself into a hotel room, the first thing he did was take a very long, very hot shower. Then he put in a call to his V.P. Jet Mathison. The conversation with Jet was quick, to the point, and one sided.
P.J. told Jet that he would not be coming home, and that Jet was now in charge. Then he gave Jet instructions to call Reno and fill him in. After that P.J. opened the sliders to the balcony, sat in the deep cushioned chair, had himself a smoke, and waited for his father to call him.
That conversation had not been an easy one.
Reno had arranged a conference call that included P.J.’s uncles, all of whom were dangerous, intelligent, and morally compromised HSMC royalty. P.J.’s family was comprised of a rare breed of badasses whose roots in the club ran deep. It had been a long, loud conversation filled with violent outbursts (those mostly from P.J.’s hot- headed, stubborn, irretractable Uncle Diego). There had been demands for an explanation and the answers had satisfied no one. After a very long fifty-eight minutes, the conversation was over. The exchange had left P.J. exhausted and made him glad that he was hundreds of miles away.
The next thing P.J. did was take out the switchblade from his pocket and carefully remove the HSMC president patch from his leather cut. He reverently folded the leather jacket and secured it in the bottom of his duffle bag. Then he placed the patch in an envelope provided by the hotel and left it on the desk. Tomorrow he would go down to the concierge desk and have them mail it.
After consulting the room service menu, P.J. called in an order of king cut prime rib, a Caesar salad, fresh green beans and a fifth of bourbon. After finishing his meal, P.J pulled the heavy burgundy curtains of the room closed and hung the laminated do not disturb sign on the door. He piled the fluffy, down pillows high on the bed and laid his sore body on the deeply cushioned mattress. Then P.J. downed several shots of the liquor and watched a movie on Netflix until his mind was clear enough to rest.
P.J. put in a solid fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep before he woke. When he did, he felt better. The steamy shower, nutritious meal, comfortable bed, and large bourbon consumption had given way to a much mellower version of himself. When P.J. thought back to his decision of the day before, he readied himself for an onslaught of regret. But instead a wave of relief flooded his senses, and P.J. felt a tremendous weight lift off his shoulders. The decision to pass the gavel on to his cousin Jet had not been an easy one, but it had been the right one. Jet was solid. He was confident in his ability and had a good sense about people. He was cool, even tempered, and capable of making quick and sometimes brutal decisions. Jet was a natural leader, the men respected him, and their enemies feared him.
Feeling good, P.J. took a walk around the corner to the local market where he bought himself a carton of cigarettes, a bunch of lottery tickets, a twelve pack of beer, and two massive Italian cold cut grinders— light on the lettuce and heavy on the oil. He went back up to his room, turned on the game, ate the sandwiches, drank the beer
