But they were still intruding on my fucking territory, and I would have none of it.
“Then I will let you leave in peace,” I said. “But understand very clearly. We are the Devil’s Patriots. We have never been affiliated with anyone, colored up anyone into our ranks, nor sought to merge with anyone else. That has been the case for over fifteen years, and that will be the case for the next fifteen. I don’t doubt that King will cause trouble, but if King has a suicide wish, he is welcome to come here and try and cause trouble. We will not need anyone’s assistance.”
Midget Man nodded.
“So be it,” he said. “But remember, Satan, it’s always the battle you’re not prepared for that can knock you on your ass. We’ve come to warn you about this battle and have given you the chance to join us. If not, so be it.”
“Are you threatening me?” I sneered.
“No. Warning.”
With that, Midget Man waved the other two away, and the three of them got on their bikes and sped off to some location I didn’t give two fucks about.
I finished my cigar and disposed of it. This was going to be a fucking problem. Not one we couldn’t solve on our own, but I didn’t exactly welcome the fact that my peaceful home was about to get poked and stirred.
I turned around and walked back to Sonny and Spawn.
“Assholes learned just like the rest of them, huh?” Sonny said with a cocky smile on his face.
But the smile faded when I didn’t match his.
“We’re going to have to deal with some shit, gents,” I said. “I suggest we start prepping the club for Hell Mode.”
They knew what that meant. There were two modes in the club—Purgatory and Hell. Purgatory was simple enough: nothing was going on, and so you could do whatever you wanted. Some of the men liked to joke it should’ve been called Heaven, but what sort of fucking look was that if Devil’s Patriots had a mode like that?
Then there was Hell Mode. It said it all. When Hell Mode came, that meant violence or government crackdowns were coming our way. That was not a time to fuck with anything. Parties would become less frequent, men would have to keep an eye on their six, and the clubhouse would require patrols essentially at all times.
“You’re going to take what they said seriously?” Sonny said, half-concerned, half-confused. “We turned King away before! Why the fuck—”
“They knew, Sonny,” I said, sounding more like a father than a club president. “They knew that King had come. They’ve dealt with his hand I assume twice now. They know what they’re facing.”
I looked to Spawn.
“I know none of us are green with military weapons. But that shit isn’t exactly available at Walmart. If King is mass-shipping those out, we need to get ready.”
“I’ll get what I can.”
I nodded.
The three of us headed back inside, looking dazed and confused. We hadn’t given the Black Reapers what they wanted. Fuck if we ever did that. I think we’d sooner just collapse and die than have to change our club name.
But they’d given us something that we needed—a heads up that our time enjoying peace and prosperity was coming to an end. War was coming.
And we were not prepared at the moment.
Hailey
In a cramped office that had about a half-dozen monitors running, three of them showing our current news station, the other three broadcasting our competitor’s reports, I sat with my hands folded in my lap. Mr. Roberts sat by my side. He didn’t look at me, but his mere presence seemed to cast judgment upon me.
Whenever someone at the station got called to sit in with Mr. Roberts, it wasn’t to get praise or good news. The best you could hope for was the encouragement that “I know you can do this,” but the worst was when people got fired on the spot for something so atrocious it was visible even to the average viewer. Mistakes that the bored five o’clock viewer would miss could be forgiven; mistakes that led to phone calls and angry emails resulted in termination.
So far, for the first six minutes, he hadn’t said a word. I almost wondered if he’d forgotten I was there. But then it ran.
My segment.
The one discussing if anything had changed with the Devil’s Patriots in the last three months.
The one without quotes, as close to a deadly sin in journalism besides outright lying or plagiarizing.
