Page 27 of Nuts

Fucking feds.

My asshole puckered.

I looked at the traffic signal, pulled in the clutch lever, and prepared to run the red light. As I watched for a break in cross traffic, a third – identical – SUV swerved out of the intersection’s traffic and came to a screeching stop in front of me.

Fuck.

Twelve doors swung open, and no less than a dozen armed men jumped into the street. As soon as the heels of their boots hit the asphalt, the screaming started.

A burly bastard wearing a helmet and some ridiculous goggles over his eyes stepped in front of my bike. The barrel of his rifle was fixed on my chest the entire time.

“Don’t fucking move!” he demanded.

“Keep your hands where we can see them!” someone on my left said.

“Don’t move!” another shouted from behind me.

Dressed in military-style garb and fitted bulletproof vests, the yellow letters stitched to the front of their gear left no doubt as to who I was dealing with.

The ATF.

Fuck.

With the barrels of a dozen rifles pointed at me, my choices were few. I flipped the run switch to off and swept the kickstand down with the toe of my boot.

The last thing I was going to have happen was to see my bike tipped over when they tried to pull me off it.

“Evening, fellas,” I said with a broad grin. “Kinda late to be starting a party, isn’t it?”

The one with the goggles moved the barrel of his rifle within a few feet of my chest. “Percy L. Welsh?”

“You askin’, or tellin’?”

“Are you Percy L. Welsh?” he growled.

“If I say no, are you pricks going to get back in your cages and roll out of here?”

“With. Your. Hands. Fixed. On. The. Handlebars,” he shouted, annunciating each word. “Lift your right leg over the rear fender and stand beside your motorcycle.”

“Right leg, rear fender. Let me see what I can do.”

I stepped off the bike, locked eyes with him, and crossed my arms.

“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” someone shouted.

I unfolded my arms and turned my palms up.

My goggles wearing compadre spread his legs, pointed the barrel of his rifle at my chest, and cocked his head to the side.

“Search him,” he said dryly.

One of the many dip-shits behind me began to pat my body down. I was promptly relieved of my wallet, cigarettes, and knife.

“It’s him,” he said.

Mr. Goggles nodded toward my feet. “You can make this easy, or you can make it tough. Take a knee.”

I wasn’t in the mood to get tuned up by a dozen of the federal government’s finest thugs. I lowered myself to one knee, and then the other.