Mako: Kings of Carnage MC: Prospects

Chelsea Camaron
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/mako-kings-of-carnage-mc-prospects-chelsea-camar
on/
 Mako
Kings of Carnage MC Prospects
Chelsea Camaron
 Contents

Mako
Content Warning
Acknowledgments
Stay up to date
Also in this series:
Playlist Repeats
Mako

Bonus Scene
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
You made it to the end!
About the Author
Also by Chelsea Camaron
Excerpt from Almanza Crime Family Duet

Present Day
 Mako

Kings of Carnage MC Prospects

Written By
USA Today and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author
Chelsea Camaron
 Copyright © 2023 Chelsea Camaron

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a
database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Chelsea Camaron, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act
of 1976.

This is a work of fiction. All character, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
1st edition published: January 2023

Thank you for purchasing this book. This book and its contents are the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced,
copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Created with Vellum

 Content Warning

This book contains mature content not suitable for those under the age of 18. Content involves
strong language, violence, and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are
over the age of 18. All characters are a work of fiction.

This book is a work of fiction meant to entertain.

*** Warning: This book contains graphic situations that may be a trigger for some readers. Please
understand this is a work of fiction and not meant to offend or misrepresent any situations. This is
not a true depiction of life in a motorcycle club but rather a work of fiction meant to entertain.
There is quite a bit of violence, so if that’s not what you’re looking for, then please don’t read. ***
 Acknowledgments

Editing by: Mandy Smith from Raw Book Editing

Author Lifesaving Critique Partner: Ryan Michele
Beta Readers: Jenn, Cola, Suzanne, Jessie Lane and Aunt Jan, thank you for cleaning up my crazy.
Author M.N. Forgy: Thank you for asking me to join you in this project. You truly are amazing and so
talented; I devour your words. I am honored to be part of this with you and the others participating.
Jay: Thank you for reaching out, thank you for guiding me in fixing any inaccuracies to your culture. I
am beyond honored to know you.
Cover Design: CT Cover Creations
God, thank you for the gift of words, the power in the pen, and the heart inside of me.
 Stay up to date

Do you want to get bonus scenes, sale updates, new release information and more?
Click here to sign up for my newsletter!

Want to get an email direct to you with every new release or sale?
Follow me on Bookbub!

Connect directly with me anytime at:

www.authorchelseacamaron.com
Facebook
Twitter
Instagram
Also in this series:

Ruin by Hilary Storm

Sterling by Sapphire Knight
Saint by Nicole James
Bear by Carmen Jenner
Crow by M.N. Forgy
 Dedication

To Tracie: Ride or die, you give me hope, faith, and unconditional support when I need it most.
Thank you, T-dawg for friendship, faith, and foul-mouthed conversations lol.
To Jay: You are a Samoan Warrior, and I am beyond honored to have your input in correcting Jinx
and in writing Mako. Thank you for your roots and your kindness.
To all the readers who have been waiting for Mako: Thank you for your grace and understanding
in my delay in releasing this book. I wanted to give this the time and energy to accurately portray
this Samoan-American hero.
To Ryan Michele: I couldn’t get through this one without your encouragement and support. Thank
you for getting me, accepting me, even when I couldn’t accept myself.
 Playlist Repeats

Find me on Spotify for the full playlist I used while working on this project!
Hands down the theme song for this book is:
Yelawolf (featuring Kid Rock) Get Mine

Key artists on repeat:

Papa Roach (as always)
Eminem (as always)
Memphis May Fire
Shinedown
Falling in Reverse
Samoan Playlist on Spotify (Ryan Hiraoka is a fav)
 Mako

One focus.
One drive.
Earn my place with the Kings of Carnage.
No distractions. My father, Jinx, paved the way, and as his legacy, I will not get lost or side-lined.
Brothers before all others.
Except five-feet-seven-inches of wild abandon crashes into my world by the name of Indigo
Knight. In an instant, everything shifts. Unwilling to deny the urge to claim her, I’ll risk it all just to
keep her as my own.

*Samoan proverbs may not make sense when you translate it in English. But the logic is there, the
minds of the people is there. The metaphor is so deep, it’s deeper than the Pacific Ocean. The
wisdom of the Samoan ancestors is still burning and locked up in these words.
Bonus Scene
 Jinx

“E LEAI SE MEA E SILI ATU I LO LO ’ U AIGA.” S AMOAN P ROVERB –

NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR FAMILY.

T he surrounding air is warm, crisp, and clean. The humidity isn’t what I’m used to in the Georgia
heat at all. This is different… nice, even. It feels almost as if the sun is kissing my skin.
Inhaling, I breathe deeply. A stirring I never noticed before suddenly settles inside me.
Home.
No. This isn’t home, but my very soul seems to find a unique peace here.
Samoa.
The land in which my mother was born and has since returned. Here she is, and here I am with a
family of my own. My emotions are a mix of hesitation and excitement. As a grown man with
children, I can’t imagine being apart from them for even a day, much less to give them away for their
lifetime.
I understand she was just a teen, and after speaking to her over the course of time; she was victim
of an assault. Being a young girl in Hawaii, she fell in line with the wrong people. She trusted her
friends, who had a unique way of taking her into their gang.
The details are haunting.
Once her parents realized she had gone so far as to end up pregnant after her rape initiation, they
were as lost as the young mother. Granted, she did not disclose what had occurred until I was born in
their home without any medical supervision, but still, they felt the confusion and chaos as deeply as
their daughter. Feeling like they weren’t safe on the island there, they made a family decision to take
their daughter home to Samoa, where she would be protected.
They simply did the very best they could in an uncomfortable situation. She left me in the care of a
couple she trusted and knew. It was a gift because I had the most amazing life.
Still, my son is my world. I can’t imagine being apart from him. Yet, my father, whoever he was,
never even knew she was pregnant because, frankly, my father could have been one of eight men that
night. Had the family stayed in Samoa, none of this would have ever happened. That had been her
parents' thought, and in her young emotional state, she understood.
There would have been no gang.
No initiation.
 No Koa.
And for me, no Kalini or Arthur, and that would mean no Talia, no James, and no Kalia. It would
mean no Kings.
All in all, I have come to terms with her reasons behind leaving me on a doorstep and, more than
that; I have made peace with it. She is my life giver, my Tina (mother in Samoan). She is my
beginning, my center. I will honor, respect, and treasure her for her role in my life.
Things are different for me now. As a man, I’ve matured to understand her situation. For a long
time, I never cared to know her, but in denying her, I was denying a part of my soul.
Samoa is a part of me, even if I wasn’t raised here. In getting to know my Tina, I have come to
know myself far deeper than I would have if I had never taken the chance and come here. Now, I want
to give this to my kids.
I want, no, I need them, to feel their roots. The very depths of who we are beyond our day-to-day
life is one with this culture.
His hand in mine, he squeezes tightly, getting my attention. I look down at my son, my little mini-
me. My pride and joy, a dark-haired boy with a will as strong as the ocean.
“Vasa, what is wrong?” I question, giving my full attention to him.
“How will we talk to her? To all of them? I don’t understand their words. Penina and I won’t
know what to do.”
Oh, the innocence and fears of a child.
That’s James. He wants to fully immerse himself into everything he does. Every detail matters,
and talking seems to be his favorite thing since he began forming words. Since we landed in Samoa,
he has heard the people around us speaking, but he is unable to comprehend their words.
Smiling, I find pride in my boy wanting to connect with his roots. Part of this trip is for that, but
also for her.
My biological mom.
We have come a very long way, she and I. The bitterness that once fueled me to press on in life is
gone. In its place is a different feeling, but a peace nonetheless.
Amataga is her Samoan name. Ama is what she introduced herself to me that very first trip to meet
her. It was awkward, and possibly one of the most difficult moments of my life, aside from when I
buried the mother who raised me and watched helplessly as my father’s health declined and, slowly,
his life was taken from me. Meeting her, though, it gave me closure to the questions and insecurities I
didn’t realize I had. It has made me a softer and better man.
The dying wish of a woman, who never once forgot the baby boy she carried and gave away,
brought me here.
Seven years ago, Talia and I made the trip to Samoa to meet my beginning, my Amataga. Three
months we spent here getting to know her and my extended family. All while supporting her through
an illness she wasn’t sure she would survive. It changed things between us. Truly, it changed me.
Something in the air here, in the atmosphere, draws me closer with an undeniable allure that
speaks to the raw beauty of this land. I’m full of gratitude for the entire experience with both the land
and people.
In Samoa, medicine is not what it is in the States. Even recently, due to a measles outbreak, we
had to postpone our current trip. We had to push it back for a year to allow our daughter to be older
and vaccinated as a precaution.
I never imagined I would be the man longing to leave my home in Georgia to connect with a place
that gives me roots. So much of my adulthood has been about the Kings and my family in the club, but
the part of me attached to Samoa desires to have more time in my homeland.
Seven years ago, Ama came down with the flu, which kills many Samoans each year. She thought
it was the time she would not see tomorrow, and through a series of phone calls, I decided to make
the trip with Talia at my side. I can be a ruthless bastard, but to deny a woman who truly thought she
would die, I just couldn’t find it inside me.
As my father Arthur’s dementia took over, he made it clear I needed to connect with her. I needed
to connect with who I was. He couldn’t leave this earth without knowing I had people, I had family.
That was when I reached out to Ama with a letter at first, then I shipped her a phone, and we began to
talk. We took things slow.
I’m ashamed to say I was hesitant to come to Samoa originally, but with Talia’s encouragement
and the fear that once again one of my parents would be leaving this earth, I took a chance. Getting to
know Ama has filled a part of me I never realized was actually empty. With Talia’s support, I learned
to speak Samoan to make talking with Ama easier for her. While she and many Samoans do speak
English, her native tongue is easier. I find the more I learn about my culture from afar, the more I
crave.
I didn’t know how much I desired to see Samoa until she asked me to come. She longed to hold
her only son once more. That’s the thing about all of this. She has many daughters, but I have been her
one and only son. After having me, she returned to Samoa with her parents, who decided she needed
to be home with the support of all of their family once again. It took her some time, but she met and
fell in love with a village man. Together, she gave him nine daughters.
Nine daughters.
My mother has ten children.
I was raised as an only child. To this day, I struggle with having such a large extended family.
Every time we visit. though, they all accept me with arms and hearts wide open. It’s the Samoan way.
Family is truly everything to them.
After spending time here seven years ago, Talia and I returned to Uprising, Georgia with a special
gift, our own family beginning. That following year, my wife gave me our firstborn, a son, James Vasa
Kalini. Then, she blessed my life with our daughter Kalia Penina Kalini, when James was six years
old.
Our original time in Samoa had my wife inspired, as well as determined, to give our children a
blended name of their American and Samoan heritage. James, after Arthur because that was his
middle name, and Vasa, meaning ocean in Samoan because she said he kicked with such a force he
was as strong as the ocean. Our daughter is named Kalia as a joining of our names, and Penina means
pearl in Samoan because she is truly a gem. I take zero credit for any of it. Talia came up with it all.
For Talia and I, family means everything. I look forward to growing old with her and having as
many children as she is willing to carry for me. Even if that means nine daughters more.
While I find honor in where I come from, if Talia wants to name our kids “hey you”, I will oblige.
My wife—given her childhood—is intent on giving our children these pieces of us.
Fuck, the way she is as a mom only makes me fall more for her every day. Thinking about her
growing with my child again and again, well, if my son wasn’t holding my hand right now, I would
consider taking my wife in a bathroom to plant another seed inside her womb.
She is everything— beautiful, powerful, resilient, and good through and through. I don’t deserve
her love. I’m a man who has done and will continue to do things outside of the law. I will never walk
the lines of what society calls right. And for my family, for the Kings, I will shed blood without a
second thought. How I ended up with a woman like Talia will remain a mystery to me. She is a gift,
and I don’t want to question it or do anything to lose her.
Never in a million years did I imagine this would be my life.
A wife.
Two kids, and more in our future, I hope. Even if this is how it is, I’ll spend every second of
every day with gratitude for my blessings.
A family to lift me up.
I never expected that for me, and yet, now, I can’t imagine life without her, without our kids. After
Arthur passed, I didn’t know if I would be able to feel the security of family again. I was wrong.
Ama returned to me at just the time when I needed my mother again. My life is good, and now my
kids get to see what Samoa is really like.
The green of the trees.
The heat of the sun looking down over the marvelous island creations.
The people who work together to take care of one another through everything.
Maybe this is why I find so much of myself wrapped up in the Kings of Carnage MC. My culture
is rooted in family, and Kings are my family. We work together to thrive, not as individuals but as a
club completely.
I hope one day James will find his place in the family, in Samoa, and with the Kings of Carnage.
“E leai se mea e sili atu I lo lo’u aiga,” I say to my son in Samoan. “Nothing is more important
than family, Vasa. They will be sure to understand your heart, son. Language only goes so far; the
heart, the soul, is everything. "
As he smiles up at me, I relax. This is exactly where I am meant to be right now, and my life, my
story, has unfolded exactly as it should have to bring me to now.
The power of the ocean, the love of the sun, with the heart of a warrior, I am one with my people,
my origin, and my family.
Prologue
 Faith

“T ell me a story, sissy. Tell me a story so I can go to sleep,” Cecilia whispers into the dark space
between us as she snuggles closer to me in my twin size bed, her head resting on my shoulder.
“Tell me a story of Indigo Knight. And tonight, tell me about when she was a kid before she was a
superhero!”
This isn’t unusual. In the darkness, it’s hard to escape the thoughts and fears swirling inside,
always there, threatening to take me under. Escaping to the fictional world only found in a make-
believe story is the only reprieve both of us find in the day-to-day turmoil that is our life.
I wish things were different. Life was different.
Wish as I may, it simply isn’t going to be our reality. There is no magic wand or a money tree
growing in our backyard. Maybe when I’m older, I can make a better life for my sister. That right
there would be the best gift I could give her.
Our mom tries to a certain extent, but the woman is blind to whichever man she sets her sights on,
forgetting she has kids. Her failure leaves so much to fall on me when it comes to my sister and even
taking care of myself.
As a five year old, Cecelia doesn’t understand the things we do without. The bills that get put off
to the next month, the disconnect notices left on the front door, or dinners that don’t come from some
kind of box.
She will be six next month, and I’m racking my brain with something to do to for her to make it
special. To her, this is what everyone lives like. Everyone stays in a dirty trailer. Everyone’s mother
is hardly around. She’s never been on a sleepover and seen someone else have a nicer house and food
in the fridge. To my sister, this is all normal. I’ll shelter her from the reality of life for as long as I can
in hopes that one day, I can change it for her.
Our mother isn’t present on a consistent schedule. When she is in front of us, I don’t know how
she can’t see how much her daughters crave her attention, especially CC. Except she doesn’t. She
seems to look right through us. Her only worry is the current companionship she’s in. Some people
can’t be alone, and unfortunately, our mother is one of them. Ditch the daughters and love the lovers.
Or whatever goes through her head.
Guess I’ll be the one to give Cecilia the mom, the attention, and the childhood life I certainly
won’t ever have.
“Once upon a time,” I begin in a whisper as CC wiggles. “There was a house on a hill.”
“Not too big,” she adds excitedly.
I smile to myself, loving how much this makes her happy as I continue on. “Inside the house was a
little old lady. Everyone in the town loved Ms. Bonnie Faye. Children from all over came to visit her
house.”
“Was Indigo one of the children?” Cecilia inquires, and I fight back my laugh.
These bedtime stories began a year ago as a way to drown out the noise from our mom and
Damian fighting. The walls in this place are thin as paper, and CC didn’t need to hear every vulgar
thing that came from their lips. The story was a simple thing at the beginning, but it means so much to
us both now.
No matter the day, good or bad, this is how every night ends for her. Happy. Excited for the next
day. Loved.
I don’t know what it is about after dark that our mom and step-dad have to fight. Especially
Damian, the loudest of them all.
All in all, it doesn’t matter which man it is, and there have been many. The nights always end in
screaming, hitting, and things breaking just one room over.
Each man she brings home is considered our “dad”. Which she wants us to call them, not that I
like it but, it’s better than learning their names. Regardless, it seems every night, rather than watch
television or have a talk, our mother and her mister have to argue.
Loudly.
Sometimes violently.
The thing that stands out to me after dealing with this my entire life is the common denominator in
the situation. Our mother; she will disagree, but I beg to differ. With each relationship, it’s a repeat of
the last. She has a type. The bigger asshole the better type. The one who won’t settle down with her.
No, they take what they want, usually sex, and then drift away in the wind. This cycle needs to be
broken.
Personally, I will not continue the pattern. I want more for myself and my sister. This is our
temporary, not our forever.
As for my mother, if the shoe fits, she should wear it. Therefore, night after night, my sister ends
up beside me in bed as I whisper a made-up story to distract her from the chaos that is our life into
sleep.
“Ms. Bonnie Faye loved all the kids coming to see her. She always kept the softest cookies in her
ceramic jar, just for a special few. Indigo Knight was one of those few.”
Cecilia adjusts beside me, settling in. “I bet they were oatmeal cream pies.”
I smile because my sister loves oatmeal cream pies. Except, she doesn’t understand they aren’t
homemade. They come in a box. Everything comes in a box.
Our mom empties the pies into a container for us to pull from. If it can’t be made in the
microwave, then it isn’t being cooked in this house. The only time Mom turns on the oven is to heat
the house in the cold. I have never had a homemade cookie, or a homemade anything.
“Well, what do you know, those happen to be Indigo’s favorite cookies,” I add exuberantly, “and
Ms. Bonnie Faye kept them just for her. Every day after school, Indigo made the walk from school and
up the hill to Ms. Bonnie’s house.”
“Why didn’t she just ride the bus?”
“Silly, the bus can’t take her to Ms. Bonnie’s. The bus only takes you to school and home to your
momma’s. Ms. Bonnie, well, she ain’t Indi’s momma, so the bus won’t go there.”
Satisfied, she nods against me, lifting her feet high and grabbing them before straightening back
out. The bed space is tight, and it takes her a bit each night to settle. She’s a little wiggle worm until
she does.
“Even on weekends, Indigo makes the trip to Ms. Bonnie’s. The walk can be tiring, but Indi loves
time with Ms. Bonnie. Not just for the cookies, either. She cares for the woman.” I sigh dramatically.
“The town doesn’t know it, but Indi, she doesn’t have anyone. She lives in an abandoned house in the
woods not far from Ms. Bonnie.”
“Indigo is so strong,” Cecilia says with a yawn.
“Life made her that way. Sometimes, Cecilia, we have to be strong, even when we don’t think we
can.” A teacher told me that once last year, and it’s stuck with me.
If only those words weren’t so true. I no longer remember what it feels like to be a kid. My every
thought is protecting my sister. My future is filled with keeping her sheltered from our mother’s poor
decisions in men. I’ve lost count of how many “step-dads” I have had in my twelve years alive. It’s
sad to say, I don’t even remember which one was Cecilia’s dad. He was gone before she was born. I
was six, and that particular year, I think I had three, maybe even four, “dads” during that time.
Making up stories night after night is taxing. Trying to find something happy, some piece of hope
to give my sister, or even to give myself is hard. No matter what, for CC, I press on.
“Indigo has a special bond with Ms. Bonnie. She takes out the trash, checks the mail, and even
cooks alongside Ms. Bonnie. What Ms. Bonnie doesn’t know is those are the only meals, actual
meals, Indigo gets.”
“This is a sad story, sissy. I want a happy one!”
Closing my eyes, I breathe deep. Life is a sad story, but I can’t tell my sister that. She needs to
have hope for better ahead.
“Indigo makes her way to Ms. Bonnie’s this particular morning. She knows she needs to get to
school, but something tells her to go check on her friend. Oh, what a special word. This warm feeling
comes over young Indi thinking about Ms. Bonnie—her friend. See, Indi doesn’t have friends. She
knows better than to let anyone know her home life. She trusted someone once, and she ended up in
foster care.”
“What’s foster care?” Cecilia interrupts.
“Foster care is a place they send unwanted children. They become wards of the state, and they
don’t get to see their family ever again.”
The fear of foster care overtakes me simply at the thought. Once a social worker came to the
house; this was when we lived in Ohio. They told Momma if she didn’t take better care of me, they
would have no choice but to take me as a ward of the state. Something about being malnourished. It
was so long ago, I can’t remember the specifics, just that word and the fear.
I’ll never forget worrying I would be taken from home … and where would I go? What would
happen to my mom? And now, what would happen to CC? I don’t want to be separated from my sister.
I didn’t sleep well until we moved down to Tennessee. Being out of Ohio gives me more security.
It wasn’t long after the social worker came when Mom had Cecilia. From the moment she came
home from the hospital wrapped in a pink and white blanket, she has been my very best friend.
Momma used to tell everyone CC was more my baby than hers. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’ll
tell the world she is mine. My sister came along and I had someone who really stayed with me, cared
for me, and I for her in return. There is nothing I won’t do for her, and no way I’m letting us end up in
foster care!
Getting back to the story, I silently hope CC falls asleep soon. I’m a little tired myself tonight.
“Indigo Knight had been to foster care before, and she didn’t like it. Living on her own, checking in
with Ms. Bonnie Faye, that was what mattered. She would do anything to protect it.”
“Would she lie?” Cecilia asks, ever the curious one. “You tell me never to lie, sissy.”
Sighing, she is not wrong. I do tell her never to lie … to me. I can’t protect her if I don’t know
everything that goes on when I’m not here. Sometimes, Mom leaves us with our “step-father of the
time” when she goes out. When it happens, my thoughts don’t ease up, my fears only grow until I am
back with my sister again. I can’t protect her when I’m not here.
Before Cecilia started school, it used to worry me leaving her every day. I didn’t know what
would happen in my absence. Some of the men in our mother’s past have really given me the creeps. I
can’t explain it, but some of them simply weren’t to be trusted. I could see it in their eyes.
“She didn’t have to lie. No one stopped to ask. But in the story, you have to know that Indi would
do anything to be able to see Ms. Bonnie every day.”
Cecilia shifts again, and I continue. “It was a chilly morning as Indigo made her way up the hill.
The wind blew, and it only made Indigo realize she needed to layer her clothing better this morning.
Too bad her only sweatshirt was still hanging to dry on a tree by the riverbed. Ms. Bonnie taught her
many things, including washing clothes. Granted, it started with her washing Indigo’s clothes for her,
but Indi, she’s independent. So, she made sure to learn.”
Cecilia’s breathing evens out, and I know she’s beginning to drift off, but she’s not quite there yet.
“As Indigo approaches Ms. Bonnie’s house, she notices all the lights are off. Ms. Bonnie turns on
the porch light every night, and in the morning when she turns it off, she always turns on the living
room light. Only this morning, the lights … none of them are on.”
Cecilia yawns. “I hope Ms. Bonnie is okay.”
“Curiously, but cautiously, Indigo approaches. Reaching the front door, she turns the knob to find
it unlocked. Opening it, she gasps in shock as she finds Ms. Bonnie on the floor unconscious. Rushing
to action, Indigo gets a pillow from the nearby couch and puts it under Ms. Bonnie’s head as she grabs
the phone from its base and dials 911. She learned about calling for emergency services at school and
never once thought she would need it. ‘Come on, Ms. Bonnie, hang in there,’ Indi whispers before
spouting off the address to the operator. Indigo holds Ms. Bonnie’s hand, silently begging for her to be
okay.”
Cecilia twists to her side. “I really hope Ms. Bonnie is okay. This is making me worry.”
“Indigo drops the phone to the floor as the fear sets in. She leans over Ms. Bonnie, and a tear falls
from her face to the woman beneath her. Indigo can’t lose her only friend. The liquid hits the older
woman’s face, and her eyes begin to blink open. Indigo gasps in surprise.” I take a breath as my own
fatigue begins to win. Blinking, I struggle to keep my eyes open.
“‘Indigo,’ Ms. Bonnie whispers, ‘you saved me. I fell down, and you are the angel who came and
saved me.’”
Cecilia sighs happily. “Indigo always saves the day. Indigo Knight is the best hero in any book,”
she whispers, falling sound asleep beside me.
If only my life could be that of Indigo Knight’s; where, even when it’s bad, somehow it always
ends up good.
If only Indigo Knight was real and able to save the day over and over again. Alas, it’s all just
make-believe.
For the last year, the tales I make up featuring Indigo seem to give my sister exactly what she
needs to fall asleep and stay asleep until the dawn of a new day comes to battle our happiness once
again.
If only my life could be fiction where a happily ever after was bound to happen.
Indigo Knight, she’s going to be just fine. Me, Faith Frisco, well, I don’t know what it is to be
fine, and I can’t say I ever will.
One
 Present Day

“O LE TELE O SULU E MAUA AI FIGOTA E MAMA SE AVEGA PE A TA AMO FA’ ATASI .”S AMOAN P ROVERB –
MY STRENGTH DOES NOT COME FROM ME ALONE, BUT FROM MANY.
mako
“G rind down,” I whisper as I press firmly into the chick riding my dick and straddling my hips,
pushing her hard against me. “Rock it,” I try to coach her. “Find the rhythm.” I nip her ear while
whispering the words, hoping she’ll get with the program. This isn’t rocket science.
She’s not steady. I don’t know if this bitch thinks this is a seventies flick where she needs to be
high on love yelling and moaning, or she is really just feeling shit that good. This one flaps around on
me like a fish pulled straight from the ocean onto a boat, unable to breathe. She’s out of control,
begging for release.
Well, sweets, I plan on the release of a lifetime for you, but damn, bitch, work with me, I think to
myself, wishing like hell she’d at least give me something to work with.
Pussy is pussy, so I can’t say this is bad. I’ve never had bad. As a man, a wet canal to slide in is
heaven, no matter the face, the name, or the body— a cunt is a cunt. Tight, loose, wet, and sometimes
even dry, my dick is an equal opportunity rod.
What can be defined at this moment? Well, I can say she is far from the best fuck, though it will
make some money for those flailing fish lovers out there. Definitely not going to be one I wish to
repeat.
The woman is another nameless bitch willing to do anything to fuck a King. She probably thinks
being in this video means she’ll have proof she fucked a King. It was what many of the women
wanted.
I had to laugh at her only request. When we opened a casting call, she only wanted one thing, a
copy. Frankly, this bitch is desperate. Well, if one could call it a casting call. Really, we just let a few
club whores know they could invite their friends and, well, boom, here I am fucking a bitch, and I
don’t even know her name. There is the kicker in her response to the call: she didn’t want the cash
payout or royalty claim either. Signed all her shit away on the spot. Said she just wanted a copy of the
video when we finished.
Weird request, considering the money that could be made. Then again, the erotic entertainment
industry has many ins and outs. Maybe her request isn’t different in this world. But to me, it seems
odd. I’ve never fucked for the sheer concept of entertaining someone else on some website and not
gotten some kind of compensation for it. The tape, though. Maybe she thought…
Do porn stars sometimes want to fuck for free? Not me. Is this protocol? Again, not me. Does it
fucking matter? Not a bit. She signed the contract, and it’s done. If only she could do her job.
Although, I don’t consider myself a porn star. We simply provide a show. Entertainment, if you
will. Sensual, yup, sexual, fuck yes, but this isn’t some big budget scripted shit that goes through a ton
of editors before getting the perfect shot. No, we fuck on tape as is, upload, and the money from the
app rolls in. We watch that shit from our phones as the dollars keep rising.
Insane?
Absolutely. I thought the same thing when the fellas told me about the plan, not thinking this would
work, or at least not make as much as our other ventures, but damn, this shit pays more than the
fucking guns and drugs we run in the club. Yes, both. Who would have thought a legal venture would
be so lucrative? Sure as shit, not me.
My prospect brother, Ruin, damn dude is the son of Kings of Carnage Club President, Chaos. He
came up with this kickass idea.
Chaos, well, he’s a no-bullshit kind of guy. One who doesn’t give a fuck that Ruin is his son. In
fact, I think he tries to make shit harder for Ruin than the rest of us. So, Ruin hasn’t had a fair lick at
this patch shit.
Chaos runs everything for Kings, as he should. The thing is the Kings of Carnage Motorcycle Club
controls all of Georgia. Based in Uprising, we have a reach through the entire state. We have an
enterprise of drugs, guns, protection, and business investments. It’s not enough for Chaos. It’s never
enough for him. He challenged Ruin to find a new revenue stream for the club, and Ruin was up for it
to prove himself. That’s how this porn shit started.
We are young men.
Men in our early twenties.
Our minds are on three things: Kings, pussy, and money.
Ruin is a fucking genius and put our two favorite things together. An ever-growing internet fan
base that pays to watch us fuck around. It’s a win-win situation, for sure. Who knew people actually
paid a lot to watch porn online?
The first post was bullshit. So rough cut, even for us, but we put it up, anyway. What the hell? We
had nothing to lose. Honest to fuck, never thought that shit was going to go viral. But when it took off,
then the next video, and the next one, only climbed higher and higher, both in revenue and following.
Ruin, he’s smart. First shot, first video, he didn’t prepare. Threw that shit out too quick. We didn’t
think it through. Didn’t give ourselves enough identity protection, and that was a downfall.
We all have ink. Serious body art covers each of us. Tattoos tell a story. For me, part of them is
truly a story to my very soul. Can’t be having that shit out like that. Learned quick after Ruin’s first
upload. Thank fuck, it was realized in a timely manner because my ink, it’s personal.
We deleted the first one and had to comb the internet for any copies. We got them down.
Now, though, we are concealed. No trace back to who we really are. Faces always hidden in
some way, and ink is fully covered.
Yes, Ruin found a way and thought through everything. Got a woman, Tyra, to come do makeup
that covers our tattoos. All of them. Took a while for her to work her magic, but once done, no one
would know who we were.
Now that I really think about it, this broad, this new piece riding my dick that answered an open
call to be a feature, more than likely thinks she will have video evidence she got fucked by a King.
That had to be her reason for no money. Too bad she didn’t know about the cover up we go through
before filming and other measures put in place. Sucks for her, most definitely works for me.
Tyra is a master at her craft. That happens to be makeup. I didn’t even know that shit was an art,
but I’ll be damned if she hasn’t proved me wrong. Ruin is an artist, does tattoos. Tyra, she’s an artist
matching skin tones, knowing ways to cover dark with light and accentuating the things the make-up
covers. Same canvas, different applications, but both have completely outdone themselves.
My sister, Kalia, loves all those makeup tutorials online, trying to recreate it on herself, but half
the time she comes out looking like a mermaid shit glitter on her eyelashes instead of this colorful
wing eyeliner she swears it is, whatever in the hell a winged eyeliner is. When I have to ask what the
fuck is on her eyelids and I can’t just “see”, then baby sister did something wrong. Only I won’t tell
her that because she loves that colorful bright eye shit, especially the damn glitter. Whatever.
Tyra, though, she blends and covers like a damn magician. Considering the amount of ink
permanently etched on my body, it’s a shit ton of work, and thank fuck, Tyra has the patience to deal
with it.
 The traditional Samoan Tataus that cover the middle of my back down to my knees are no longer
visible in the videos. My pe’a (Samoan tattoo) came when I was nineteen on a trip to the homeland
with my father. The lines, arrows, it all has meaning, and it’s part of my heritage. And when I say
coverage, it is detailed and full coverage. All done in painstaking sessions, personally tapped in, not
like going to a tattoo shop in the States. It was the hardest two weeks of my entire fucking life and
worth every second of it.
For Tyra to blend this away, well, it takes time and knowledge.
While my father was raised in America by an American father and Hawaiian mother, his
biological mother was Samoan. His adopted mom died before I was born. Polynesian culture, or
simply who raised him—either way, family is everything in our house. This meant frequent trips to
see his birth mother in Samoa. Over the years, connecting to my culture, the passion to take part in this
passage to manhood mattered to me. The ink took time to prepare for, and even my dad was
impressed at my ability to withstand the pain.
A traditional Samoan Tafuga (tattoo artist in Samoa) agreed to take me on. The schedule was set.
We boarded a plane, and my grandmother had everything prepared. She hosted the Tafuga during the
two-week span, feeding him, providing for breaks, and caring for me. The first day, I ran on pure
adrenaline, managing to withstand over eight hours of “tapping”. Yes, literally, the ink was tapped
into my skin using tortoiseshell fragments and a mallet.
I was given breaks to soak in the ocean water to help prevent infection and to eat. Apparently,
many get sick during the process from not eating and staying hydrated. Day two and three were pure
hell. The pain of my skin being stretched and the constant, intense prickles of the tapping on my
sensitive flesh were a special brand of torture and respect. It took twelve days to complete. The
design was one-hundred percent my Tafuga’s concept, but by the end, I felt a sense of pride in my
culture like never before.
From the beginning to the end, I went from a boy to a man. The sheer willpower and patience to
keep going when yes, at times I wanted to cry or hold my mother’s hand, taught me what it is to endure
for family. This is my heritage, my culture, and I am proud. The waves of pain gave me humility. The
boy inside me was not prepared, but as the man inside me emerged, I learned my mind controls what I
can take. Pushing myself beyond the limits of what I thought gave me the courage to never again doubt
who I am.
For I am James Vasa Kalini. I have a warrior’s heart and spirit. My loyalty will not break because
I did not break under intense pain.
As Ruin began to apprentice under Poe, another brother in the club, he gave me my first American
tattoo. In honor of my “tina matua”, my grandmother, I had a mako shark inked in a way that wraps
around my back and torso with the tail fin coming to a top point at my nipple and the head facing up to
me with his mouth wide open, teeth on display. She said I had the power of the ocean, the speed of the
mako, and the heart of a tiger shark.
Mako stuck.
It’s even my road-name now as a grown man.
She was not wrong. I’m strong, quick, and focused. Driven much like a mako shark.
All this ink, though, makes me recognizable in something like a porn video. While the idea is
epic, none of us wanted to be identified in the videos. Not that we gave a fuck who we fucked. It was
more of a King respect in preventing anything falling back on them. The interwebs are a crazy place,
and just about anyone can see everything.
With our business, we have to be cautious. We have enemies. Ones who look for anything to fuck
us on.
That’s was why masking our appearance was so important.
Sure, I can’t help but laugh as I watch the makeup go down the shower drain after every shoot,
revealing my ink, but I’m glad for the coverage, even if I have to sit for hours while she paints the shit
on me before each film.
The chick riding me trembles as she slides up and down on my shaft, clearly getting off with her
wetness coating me. I glide my hand between us and rub my thumb over her clit to which her breath
hitches. She tries leaning over and kissing me, to which I bite her lip instead.
Kissing is a no go for me on film.
Rubbing circles on her nub, she flaps up and down, lost in sensations, making sounds that are
supposed to be sexy but seriously aren’t. Her hands come up from where she had them on my
stomach, wildly she almost pulls my beanie off my head as I stop her in just the nick of time.
No way. My hair is long, black, and curly in a frizzy way.
Wild.
Nope, my hair isn’t on display for this shit either. “Hands down,” I whisper in her ear. “Touch
yourself. Feel what I feel.” Timidly, she does so, even though her eyes keep straying back to my
beanie. Next time won’t be so nice if she even tries.
“Fuckin’ wet, dripping down my finger.” I take her hand in mine and show her how to work
herself. “Come on, woman, feel it.” She rocks her hips, getting into it even more, obviously liking my
gruff words.
Sterling, a fellow prospect and the camera man, moves from his angle taping us from behind her,
shifting to in front so he can see my thumb working her as she continues to grind up and down my
shaft. She’s like jelly on top of me. The sensations of sex overtaking her and giving her a euphoria
better than any drug high she has probably ever experienced.
I thrust up using the power of my legs. She cries out in pleasure. This time it doesn’t sound fake or
overdone.
Removing my thumb from her pussy, I go back to holding her hips. Effortlessly, I lift her up,
sliding her almost all the way off my dick. With just the tip at her entrance, I pull her down on me, fast
and hard. In the same swift motion, I move her up and down, riding me… furiously. There is power in
passion, and while I’m not fucking her in the way I would a woman I was in a relationship with, she’s
definitely feeling every inch of me and will continue to do so into the next day.
Leaning forward, I take her nipple in my mouth. I lap it, circling her areola with my tongue before
I use my teeth to graze her protruding nipple before I suck, and I suck like a man in the desert thirsting
for a drop of water. She comes alive over me, her body getting stiff before she cries out her pleasure
once again and her pussy tightens around my cock like a vise grip sucking the orgasm straight from me
into the condom between us.
I fall back as a slight sheen of sweat covers us both and my abs flex and relax with each breath I
take. The chick falls back, sliding off my cock as aftershocks work through her entire body and liquid
squirts from her pussy. She lays there, awkwardly straddling me, her body bent back, laying out over
the top of my legs. If I shift, I’m going to kick her in the head.
That wouldn’t exactly be post-orgasmic bliss for her.
But, damn, chick needs to catch her breath and move on. Sterling laughs as he cuts off the camera
and moves from the room to go review before uploading, just to make sure nothing recognizable came
to life in it.
It’s an easy system we have going. Since we all get along, have shared partners in the past, and
we are making this shit work and work well, our focus is continued content.
And I must say my dick is not the least bit unhappy with the request to fuck for a show.
When the bitch got a copy of the tape, she’d be sorely disappointed that nothing with the Kings
would be in sight.

“Remember you love me,” Kalia tells me from the table in our parents’ kitchen.
I pull my long hair back with a rubber band to get it out of my way and then put my beanie back on
before washing my hands, as my mother stands by the stove and my father sits at the table beside
Kalia.
“What do you want, child?” our mother asks, never skipping a beat and continuing to cook A
skilled she is damn good at.
My sister beams, hope gleaming in her eye as she explains, “There is a concert in Atlanta.
Everyone who is anyone at school will be there.”
“No,” our father barks without lifting his sunglasses. Yes, he wears them indoors. It’s something
he’s always done. I don’t remember a time when he hasn’t. Now, it’s normal.
“Papa, come on. Live a little. You’re a biker. You can’t tell me that what you do is safer than
going to a public venue. They have security and cops and everything.”
I swear our father growls. Legit, the man doesn’t play around when it comes to his women, that
being his wife and daughter. He protects them to the point of obsession.
“I say yes,” my mother states, turning around to watch my sister’s face beam with excitement. I
almost laugh wondering if my mom just loves to get a rise from my dad. She has to know he’s going to
flip shit, at least in his head, over this.
“Yes!” Kalia screams from her seat. “Thank you, Momma, thank you, Papa.”
“What do you mean thank you?” Pops asks. “I said no.”
Kalia boldly laughs at him. “Mom said yes. There ain’t a thing you’ll ever deny her. Face it.”
This time it’s our mother who laughs. “I have stipulations, Kali.”
“Name it. Anything.” My sister practically jumps out of her seat so thrilled she can go.
My mother looks to me, looks to my sister, and then back to me with a proud smirk. I raise my
eyebrow wondering what the clever lady is up to here.
“James goes with you.”
The silence that overtakes the space is maddening. My sister slumps down in her seat. “Mom,”
she whispers, “how can you do that to me? He’s the fun killer of fun killers. Everyone in my school is
either afraid of him or in love with him. I can’t spend the night thinking no one will talk to me and the
people who do are only trying to have sex with my brother! Plus, you don’t want that either. He’s a
dude. A dude who will most definitely have sex with my friends. Or strangers! He could make you a
grandmother, and you are far too young for that, Mom!”
“Ew, what the fuck, Penina?” I call her by her middle name, which means pearl, trying not to lose
my shit on my baby sister. “I’m not fucking jail-bait, first of all, and second of all, I have standards.
The top of which has to be no friendships with my baby sister. Seeing as you’re under age and all
your friends too, that shit ain’t happenin’. Bottom line, if a bitch ain’t legal, she’s not getting near my
dragon.”
“Dragon,” she laughs, “that’s a new one.”
 “Yeah, because my cock is fire,” I tease while my family laughs. It’s just who we are. “But
seriously, Kali, I’m not going to the concert, and I’m not even entertaining the idea of it because I
don’t need some teenage girl to get her feelings hurt when I tell her to fuck off, which is what I will
most certainly be doing.”
“More like your cock is on fire because you have an STD, you perv,” Kali snaps back. “Does it
burn when you pee, bruh?”
Oh, baby sister, if only you knew. I’ve been tested. Ruin made sure we all went into this clean,
and we all plan to remain clean, so every scene we use protection, along with regular testing. So little
Penina need not worry about my dragon at all.
Regardless, I’m not going to this damn concert.
No way.
No how.
I don’t give a fuck what baby sister tries to pull.
Only, she’s relentless. The stubborn streak is something we both inherited honestly. So, Penina
being Penina she presses on. “My whole life is, take James with you. Let Vasa lead the way,” Kalia
mumbles as I help our mother with the plates. Yup, she’s pissed. She never uses my middle name
unless she’s mad, hurt, or scared. “You don’t even know where I’m wanting to go. You might like it.”
“Yes, and it will be that way until the last breath leaves your body, Penina. Vasa will protect
you,” our father says. “Family is everything.”
“Kings are everything,” Kali chimes in, interrupting him on a grumble.
She’s not wrong, but damn, baby sister needs to pipe down the sass. Thank fuck, it’s here at home
because if she was like this at the clubhouse, our father would quickly be stone-cold Jinx. He’s not
big on conversation, but if my sister were to step out of line in front of the club, he wouldn’t hesitate
to put her in her place. Respect is crucial to our father and every brother in the Kings of Carnage MC.
Penina knows this, yet being a female and unable to join the club aggravates her. So, she tests the
limits of his patience every chance she gets.
His face tightens before he explains, “There are things you do not understand. I know you are
fifteen and think you know it all, but young girl, you do not. The world is ugly. It is dangerous. Even
more so for a young woman with your beauty and curves. It’s enticing to men. And Kali, you should
know, your papa will kill any motherfucker who touches you. But alas, if Vasa and I are not around,
we can only hold someone accountable after the fact. Your brother in your presence prevents you any
danger, any pain. So, understand Kings above all others, and family before everything. The Kings are
your family, too. You want to go to this concert … you take James or you take another prospect. But
you do not go alone, Kalia. It’s not negotiable, debatable, and I won’t continue this conversation.”
She shifts and lifts her head to speak; our father raises his hand stopping her.
“My word is final.”
And it is. As the man, the head of the house, what he says goes. Sure, it’s true, he denies our
mother nothing, but if he says Kalia can’t go without me or a prospect, it stands. Either my sister is
missing this concert or I’m going to have one very long night bored out of my mind.
My sister, she’s determined. As much as I don’t want to do this, I might be left without a choice. I
need to find something else for her to do. Something that will take her mind off this.
Settling down to eat my mom’s chicken Alfredo, I relax my mind. I’ll deal with it when it comes.
For now, I have a great family, great food, and one fucking great life.
Two
 Faith

“YOU MUST TELL YOURSELF NO MATTER HOW HARD IT IS OR HOW HARD IT GETS , I’ M GOING TO MAKE
IT .” LES BROWN
I’ M PRETTY SURE I CAN ’ T SURVIVE LOSING HER . F AITH

“A nything else I can get you guys?” I ask my table while wiggling my toes, feeling my feet ache
from my double shift. My arches would kill for a rub down. I desperately need to get some new
shoes, or at least some insoles that support me better. At the shoe store last year, the salesman
recommended I buy new shoes every six months. Who knew shoes weren’t meant to last a year?
As a kid, Mom would always sign up for the Angel Tree Christmas to get new shoes for us. She
always said they would make it the whole year because she always requested a size larger than we
wore so we had room to grow into them. My whole life, I thought this was normal.
At twenty-two almost twenty-three, it turns out shoes should be replaced every six months if you
wear them regularly. Apparently, buying a size bigger isn’t good either, but that window of growth is
closed for me, so it’s irrelevant. Chalk it up to another failure my mother had in a long line of many.
These shoes are almost a year and a half old.
I bought them when I first got this job. Extra anything isn’t for me, not even new shoes for me.
Other priorities are so much bigger.
Learning all of this, I have made sure CC gets a new pair for school every six months. I don’t buy
her the knock offs either. She might not get some Air Force Ones, but she gets a solid pair of shoes.
Her feet won’t be hurting if I can do anything about it.
“To go coffee with sugar for me,” the truck driver to my left requests, while the one on my right
just lifts his hand with a slight wave, signaling he’s fine.
Putting on a smile, I reply, “Comin’ right up.”
Twenty-four-hour diners are great for these truckers, but the shifts are hell for me. I don’t mind my
job. Lately though, I have been working my ass off trying to stash some money away. But burnout is
coming on hard and coming fast. I can literally feel it in my toes.
No one wants to work anymore, that’s the bottom line. The other waitresses call out, leaving us
short pretty much daily, and old “Faithful”, that’s what my manager calls me, well, I cover everything.
Any time they need me, I’m there.
Hour after hour, tip after tip, I try squirreling away every extra penny I can, so when Cecilia is
eighteen, we can live on our own. Sure, I could make ends meet right now, but Mom won’t let CC go.
She gets this money for food and housing from the government, so Mom’s not going to let me have
custody of my sister, no matter how much I beg. Our mother’s way to support herself comes from the
fact she is a single mom. No job like me.
Patience is a virtue.
Truly, I struggle with it, but this is what is best for the long term. Just get by until CC’s a legal
adult, and then, be ready to move out. I can work while she goes to college. One way or another, I’ll
get us through.
And my sister, she will go to college. I’m determined to see her with a degree in her hand.
Cecilia is so smart. When she was only in seventh grade, she was doing high school level classes.
Now in high school, she takes college level course work as a freshman. She’s on the honor roll and
principal’s lists and all those awards every grading period. I am just thankful she can tune out our
home life and get shit done at school. I know she will do well, even if we can only manage
community college at first. The best thing, she’s focused.
I struggled throughout school. Our mother’s continual rendezvous with this man or that man kept
me distracted daily. I allowed home life to deter me from making the most of my time in school.
Trying classes to see what interested me, I didn’t have the forward thinking for that. My mother
certainly didn’t care, so I simply chose the classes I thought would give me the easiest grade to pass. I
want Cecilia to do better, to be better. I want her to have a direction. I want her to be anything better
than me.
Not to just ‘get by’.
That’s my motto. Do what I have to do in order to survive this moment, while keeping my eye on
the prize of a life with my sister out of the chaos.
Everything I do is for the long-term benefit of my sister. Like these repeated shifts.
I hate being away from home. It’s a helpless feeling to be unsure of who our mother may expose
CC to. The kind of men our mother brings home… they are weak. A strong man protects the woman
and children in their home; the ones my mother picks don’t protect anyone but themselves. They aren’t
kind. And most of them give me the creeps. That feeling that crawls up my spine and tingles all the
way through my body happens more and more the older I get.
Cecilia is beautiful. We both have luscious, curly, dark hair that falls down the rich, dusky almond
tone of our skin. Deep mahogany eyes with full lashes. She is my mini-me. Regardless of our different
fathers, she looks exactly as I did at her age. Just as I did, my sister doesn’t look her age. No, she
looks like a grown woman. Which can cause serious problems.
Our mother has a type: dark, dangerous, and delicious—her words, not mine. She likes her men
with dark skin to match her own. I’m not sure her ancestry, since we have never met any family
outside of the many ‘step-fathers’ she brings home. We have never discussed ethnic backgrounds,
other than to check the “other” box on any paperwork asking for our race. We aren’t Hispanic because
she checks no on that box, but she has never discussed our family history at all. Nor does she actually
tell my sister or me who our fathers actually are.
For a time, I considered one of those online DNA testing kits, but the cost isn’t something I can
swing. And what purpose would it serve? Obviously, my father never cared to stick around to know
me, so why put myself through the punishment of some computer system telling me I have some long
lost relative? This life, my goals, there is no room for frivolous spending of any kind. Plus, there is
something about those tests that just screams Pandora’s Box to me. I’ve read online about those things
helping cops track down criminals in cold cases and where adopted people find relatives. To some,
this might be a good thing, but to me, I don’t know that I want to meet any “family,” since the family I
do have is unreliable at best … other than my sister that is.
Our mother, she may enjoy her life with this revolving door of men, but I don’t. I want roots. I
crave the concept of family, not the current reality of it. And soon enough, Cecilia and I will be able
to have a life for ourselves. At that point, Mom can have whichever man whenever she wants, without
my sister or I being subjected to the weirdos.
My shift ends, and I’m utterly grateful Jessica shows up on time. She’s inconsistent, so when she
is my shift relief, I always tell myself there is a strong possibility it could be a double, or a triple.
Making my way to my car, I sigh as I open the door and settle into the seat.
Situating the takeout container so nothing can spill, I finally let myself relax. My legs tingle,
finally finding consolation that they aren’t carrying my weight for another eight hours. I can’t feel the
tips of my toes as I try to wiggle them.
“This little piggy,” I whisper to the empty car as I try to relieve the pressure in the tips of my toes.
Starting the car, I let it run for a moment before putting the Toyota Tercel into gear and backing out of
the parking space. I make it to the stop sign, and the knocking of the engine gets louder. The noise is
not new, but the timing simply sucks.
“Come on, Tawny,” I talk to the car, and yes, that’s her name, Tawny. “Gotta get home to sissy. I’m
sure CC’s hungry and needs help with her homework.”
When the lane is clear, I give it gas and make the short drive home.
I need to check the oil as she usually knocks a little louder when it’s low. Maybe this time it’s
something different. Then again, adding oil is easy, so I don’t want more problems.
Don’t borrow trouble, I mentally remind myself. Thinking things like the car having more issues is
a complication and expense I don’t need.
Thankfully, the few times Tawny has left me stranded, the weather has been nice and my job isn’t
far so I can walk. The trailer park isn’t anything to brag about, but it keeps us from living in my car,
even if I’m the one helping cover the cost that Mom’s subsidy from the government doesn’t. She tells
me it’s the least I can do to help her out for putting a roof over my head.
Parking half in the street and half on the grass in front of our trailer, I shut the car off. My legs
burn, and just the thought of standing again reminds me that my feet literally feel like they are on fire.
I’ve seen nail salons and wondered what a pedicure would feel like. I remember in high school
before formal dances the girls would show off their new acrylic sets and talk about how amazing the
pedicures felt. I didn’t go to prom or homecoming as those were extras that cost money, and who
would have wanted to take me anyway? But I did always wonder what it would be like to have my
feet looked after, just once.
Alas, there is no reprieve for the weary. Mustering the strength, I grab my stuff and climb out of
the car. I fumble with my keys, trying to lock the car door. The Styrofoam container slips from my
hands, and ever so ungracefully, the Salisbury steak special from the day falls to the ground.
One of the benefits of my job is one full free meal per shift. Since I worked a double, I stretched
one out over the time at work for myself and have this second plate as a good dinner for Cecilia.
Mom does keep food in the house, still even to this day the kind that goes in the microwave.
Normally, I get my meal for the day and only eat half, bringing the rest home for my sister, but today I
had the opportunity to give her a full plate. Well, until it just toppled to the ground.
“Fuck, can someone please cut me a break?” I cry out, knowing no one cares to hear me. The
neighbors are more than likely passed out or high on something. Looking down, I fight back tears as I
struggle with my purse and try to salvage what I can. My key gets stuck in the lock of my car door, and
I simply don’t have the fight left in me.
Fuck it all!
At the end of the day, there isn’t anything of value in the little Toyota. If someone wants to steal
the damn thing or take parts, I guess I’ll just have to deal. For now, I need to just get in, give CC
what’s left of the food, and be done with this day.
My shirt is still stiff where a patron of the diner ever so kindly spilled their tea on me as they
tried to assist me in refilling their glass. It didn’t matter that I told them I had it and didn’t need help.
They insisted, hence the large brown stain on me.
Just mark this down as a day I am more than ready to put behind me. I’m trying to hold it together
as I approach our door. I want nothing more than to strip down, take a shower, slide into my old
sweatpants and t-shirt, and lie down. Not that it would probably happen like that, but small dreams
are key when putting one foot in front of another.
Looking up, I’m startled to find the door swinging freely and the chain lock hanging in a manner
that both surprises me and scares me. My sister never has the chain unlatched when she is home. And
she has nowhere to be today but here.
Immediately, the fatigue from seconds ago vanishes, and I’m wide-eyed and alert. The stress of
the day washes away in an instant as if it never existed in the first place.
In its place, sheer unbridled terror engulfs me, wrapping me in a vice.
Fear turns to adrenaline. My pulse quickens as shock takes over. Blood pumps through my veins
rapidly, and my head throbs in beat with my heart. Every part of my body screams at me that
something is terribly wrong.
The slide part I screwed to the wall beside the door is connected to the chain with the screws
clearly still attached, as if it has been ripped from its place. This isn’t right, this isn’t normal. The
only way for this to happen is for my sister to have had the door locked and chained from the inside
and someone yanked and pulled, ripping the screws from the wall. The door freely rocks open and
closed and back open again, barely on its hinges.
Anticipation and trepidation climb from the tips of my toes to the top of my head as my skin
tingles and goosebumps cover my skin. How can I be so hot, yet the coldness of fear coiling me at the
same time?
“Cecilia,” I call out, silently begging this to be a nightmare and I’m hallucinating from exhaustion.
“Mom,” I state, making my way up the two steps and inside timidly. None of this feels safe, and my
gut screams at me to flee. To get as far away from this place as possible. Yet, I can’t go. Not without
my sister.
It’s like time simply stands still as my feet get rooted to the top of the stairs just inside the door.
I’m frozen as my gaze falls over the space. Is this an out of body experience? That’s what it feels
like in a way. Like I’m watching my life fall apart one millisecond at a time. I should stop and call for
help. I should run. I should do something. Only, like watching a train wreck, I’m pulled to get closer,
to see what is going on.
I need to get to my sister.
The carnal need of a wolf to her pups, I need to save my sister.
The silence is deafening and maddening.
Nothing moves.
This isn’t right.
The couch is turned to its side as I enter the living room. The lawn chairs we sit in when in the
kitchen are laid over, and every single drawer in the kitchen is open, what little food we had in the
place on the floor.
“Mom,” I yell, wondering who got in the fight because literally everything is everywhere. That’s
what this had to be. My mother and one of her assholes having it out and destroying the only home we
know. That’s what it has to be.
My mother is far from a stellar housekeeper, but this is not her way to live. “MOM!” I step further
inside, seeing no one, and my heart picks up pace, threatening to jump from my chest.
Where is my sister? Why isn’t she greeting me at the door like always?
Everything inside of me seems to know something is seriously wrong. It’s all a blur, and I’m filled
with confusion, agitation, and absolute panic.
“CC,” I mutter as my lips tremble and my body breaks into a cold sweat. I drop my purse and the
busted Styrofoam container in the entryway and head toward the hall. Like a magnet, I’m drawn
deeper in to the chaos.
It’s all wrong. My instincts scream to get away.
I fight the urge to run and make it to the hallway.
I stand still in shock as I take in the scene in front of me.
My mother, my beautiful dark-haired, tan-skinned, brown-eyed mother, lies contorted with her
legs under her, bent at the knees as if she simply fell backward on top of herself. Blood pools around
her head and under her torso. The excrements of her lifeless body around her hips and legs. The air
smells putrid, and bile churns like a raging sea in my stomach, threatening to come up.
No, no no!! “CC!” I scream. “CC, where are you?”
I gag. I choke. My entire body trembles as I try to move around my mother’s dead body. The very
shoes upon my feet step into the blood of my mother as I maneuver beyond her and toward the back
bedroom. My feet slosh in my mother’s blood with each frantic step I take.
My only focus is my sister. I continue through the slickness under my shoes as if I am walking in
front of the fryer at work and someone spilled the peanut oil. Nevertheless, I can’t stop and do
anything for my mother. There’s no life there. My sister, though, I have to get to her.
Going from the small bedroom CC and I share, to the bathroom, and then to our mother’s
bedroom, I find the entire trailer to be void of life except my own. Where is my sister? Who came in
here? What happened?
There is nothing here but the building fright inside of me.
I hurl. The contents of my earlier meal spill out onto the floor, little splatters hitting my shoes. I
fight back tears and push myself to upright from my hunched over position. I have to be strong. I have
to find CC.
My heart beats wildly. All I hear is a whooshing sound in my head as the emotions, terror, and
disbelief wash over me. Never in all my years of living in this life have I ever been this terrified. I
hate to think it but, did someone take my sister? Please, God, no. Please watch over her.
Moving back around my mother’s lifeless body, I get back to my purse, grabbing it. Suddenly, the
smell assaults my nose in a second whiff that consumes my every sense in a way that grips me to
remain paused in place. The stench was bad from the moment I entered the space, but having all my
senses heightened by adrenaline, it is more defined.
It’s a smell I will never forget.
Death. It’s a sickly-sweet mix of blood, feces, urine, and something altogether uniquely death.
I have to get outside. The adrenaline presses me on, but my body is shutting down. Rushing with
my purse, I manage to stumble down the front steps and outside where I vomit once again, this time in
the yard.
 With trembling hands, I struggle to get my phone. Trying to dial for help, I scan the area, looking
for any signs of my sister.
Nothing. No one.
Even the neighbors seem to be gone in my time of need. There isn’t even the faint smell of weed
in the air to signify anyone being home.
Why can nothing ever be okay for me?
Hastily, I call 911 and tell the dispatcher my location and that my sister is missing and my mother
is dead. I’m choking as my body continues to dry heave, having nothing left inside me. My insides
cramp with each movement and tears well in my eyes.
Where is my sister? That’s all I can think as the operator asks me to remain on the line while help
comes my way.
Cecilia, hang on. Wherever you are, whatever has happened, you gotta fight. Wherever you are,
I’m coming. I know we aren’t twins. We don’t have that kind of connection where she can sense my
thoughts, but my mind just wants to talk to her. My heart needs to feel her.
If she was dead, I would know. Right? My heart would know? I have to have hope. I have to find
my sister.
No matter what happens to me, I have to find Cecilia. I’ll make a deal with the devil himself to
know she’s okay once more.
Three
 Mako

“E PALA LE MA’ A, A LE PALA LE UPU.” S AMOAN P ROVERB –

EVEN STONES DECAY, BUT WORDS ENDURE.

T he pavement passes under us as the night air wraps us in her warmth. The cool air by hits my
skin, and I relish the contact. This is what my very soul craves. Twisting the throttle, I press on,
staying in line to the right of my father, Koa “Jinx” Kalini.
There isn’t a time in my life where he hasn’t been my hero. Some people have ups and downs
with their families. I can honestly say, though, it isn’t like that in ours. My parents have been these
amazing people who are nothing but a place of support, full of love, and always giving my sister and I
the freedom, to a point with my sister, to grow. There truly isn’t anything my sister and I could share
with them that they would turn us away for.
Tonight isn’t about our family, as in the four of us. Nope, this is the Kings and our family
obligations to the club. As close as we are—Mom, Dad, Penina, and I—the Kings are family too. Just
the kind of family that is chosen, and each person earns their place in the brotherhood.
Currently, we are making a run. A delivery of dope to our contact just over the Florida-Georgia
line. Running drugs from cocaine to heroine, meth, x, and anything else is not uncommon. Same for
guns. If there is a market for it and a way to make a dollar, legal or otherwise, Chaos is on it. The
personal transport ride is a little different.
Normally, we use the rail system. It’s been a foolproof method for the Kings of Carnage MC.
According to my Pops, it’s a system they have used longer than I’ve been alive. In fact, he bought the
property and house we live in simply because of its proximity to an active railway.
No one could have ever imagined that very railroad system would have such an impact on my
father’s life. Not because of the Kings and the ease of running our products, but because of how he
met my mother.
He met my mom when she was traveling as a modern-day hobo. To this day, I still can’t picture it.
We have seen some of the people who live that rail life and I don’t know why, but it doesn’t seem to
fit my mother. Obviously, people change, and she’s found a place where she has laid out roots. Back
then, though, all my mom knew how to do was run. From leaving home to running from the station to
avoid a gang, straight into my dad’s backyard where she stole his truck, Talia is a runner. The rest is
history. Boxcar life is something I don’t have experience with, but listening to the people who travel
in and out at the station, it’s apparently a decent life for someone who is homeless.
I can see it.
Safety from the elements. Depending on the cargo, it’s a resource supply. If one needs a ticket out
of town without a paper trail, riding the rails illegally is the way to go.
For us, it’s an easy way to transport guns and drugs. There is nothing the Kings don’t have their
hands in. We move so much shit, the ATF and the DEA are certainly scratching their heads with a way
to shut us down. Prison doesn’t scare any of us. They may lock some of us up, but Chaos has made
sure our asses are covered in a way we won’t all go down. To the feds I say, “bring it on,
motherfuckers, because you may slow us, but you’ll never stop us.”
While the majority of the club’s revenue stream is outside the lines of legal income flow, not
everything is part of the one-percenter lifestyle. We do own and operate a strip club, as well as our
new endeavor in the internet explicit lifestyle market of porn. I almost have to laugh at the insane
amount of money we have brought in so rapidly from giving and receiving orgasms.
Sex sells.
No truer statement has ever been made. The balance in my bank account is proof. Unfortunately,
the government will tax the shit out of it, but still, I make more than most businessmen in suits, all for
giving a chick the orgasm of her lifetime on film.
Twisting the throttle, I press my bike on, taking my mind back to the job at hand.
This particular contact is a new buyer. He wants a decent supply, but the rails don’t have any
paths through the area he happens to be in. This is the one pitfall in our system. The downside to train
life—it’s a dying enterprise.
Once upon a time, the most economical way to travel across the United States was via the
railway. Before planes, the most efficient way to transfer cargo was a train. Since the development of
the automobile, trains are quickly fading into history. Not a good thing for us, and we’d need to start
planning for the future if the railcars happen to stop for good.
Sly and Saint follow behind us as we make our way to the drop point. We begin to slow. I scan the
visible area to look for anything suspicious or out of place. I touched base with Stone, the President
of the Sinister Sons MC in Florida, to let him know we would be running into his territory and to get
the scoop on the buyer.
This is the way of our world.
Respect.
It’s everything.
Life.
Death.
Pain.
Freedom.
You name it, we live it to some degree. And territory is everything.
When a man needs to roll through another club’s spot, we give them the respect and acknowledge
their territory … well, if they’re on our good side. For the fucks who have crossed us, well, they can
rot in Hell, and I’ll happily give them the one-way ticket in the name of the Kings. Sinister Sons has
been around decades according to Chaos and the others. We’re on good terms and plan to keep it that
way.
According to Stone, this group of guys recently emerged in South Florida trying to make a name
for themselves in narcotics distribution. The Sons focus their revenue stream on pushing guns and
pedaling parts from their garage, or as some might call it, a chop shop. The bit of dope they move
through is mostly purchased from us for personal consumption within the club.
The Kings and Sons get along for the most part. We stay out of their way, and they stay out of ours.
When the need arises for one of them to cross over to our area, they touch base, and in return, we do
the same. We aren’t friends, but we aren’t enemies. I consider us business associates, since from time
to time, we have sold them some drugs and they have in turn sold us some weapons.
As for the client today, he’s part of a cartel in the works. While Stone and the Sons aren’t thrilled
to have this go down in their neck of the woods, they agreed to look the other way for the history with
the Kings. As for this chump buying, Stone didn’t care to forge a connection between him and the
Sons. I guess their world and the biker world don’t align, other than needing the product from us. Ruiz
and his crew certainly have made a name for themselves among some cartels, and it's not a good one.
Ernesto Ruiz doesn’t seem to care that he’s going to start a war with Javier Almanza if he takes
this order and tries to press his territory north. That is the information Stone shared with me. Ernesto
Ruiz has connections in the Miami area simply for moving things in cargo ships. His true residence
and power are in northern Mississippi. Rumor has it, he would like to gain some contacts across the
country. His goal, from the word on the streets, is, Ruiz wants to end the Almanza cartel’s control
over the drugs coming in from Mexico.
Considering I have met the one-eyed motherfucker known as Javier Almanza, I can only say
Ernesto Ruiz is either bat-shit crazy or certifiably insane. As one of Almanza’s occasional suppliers, I
can attest that man is someone with a reach far and wide. He has ended organizations much larger
than the small time Ruiz Familia.
Shit isn’t my problem, though.
We supply Almanza, but it’s not some exclusive deal. He uses us on the occasion he can’t get his
shit from his home country of Mexico. Therefore, whatever trouble Ruiz borrows with Almanza isn’t
on me or the Kings.
Kings of Carnage is simply a business partner to any and all clients with enough cash to cover the
order they place. We don’t give a fuck where you come from, what your name is, and what territory
you claim, as long as you don’t interfere with Kings’ dealings.
Period.
It’s not complicated. Even a kid can understand. We provide a product, and we are paid for said
goods.
The rest of what happens next is inconsequential to us, as long as it doesn’t include us.
Saint turns off before we reach the final destination. Bear should be waiting just around the corner
for Saint. Unlike myself and Saint, Bear and Sly are fully patched to the Kings. Sly is one of my dad’s
closest friends, and he happens to be Saint’s sponsor as a prospect.
Bear is a nomad who my dad hopes will settle down and stay with the Uprising chapter. He’s one
blunt bastard, but definitely the kind of brother I want at my back.
Saint and I are prospecting, along with Sterling and Crow. Chaos, the club President, recently
patched over Ruin. Sterling, Ruin, and I have lived our entire lives together working toward this
opportunity right now. None of us will fuck it up. Everything rides on getting that final rocker to be a
King all the way.
Ruin probably has it, or shall I say, had it harder than all of us as far as prospecting goes. Hell,
Chaos didn’t even sponsor him, so it wouldn’t be biased in any way when it came to his son getting
that final patch in. Poe, who has been in the club as long as my dad, stood up for Ruin. Now, he’s a
fully patched brother, getting a full share of the Kings cut. I’m happy for him and can’t wait for my day
to come.
 As a prospect, I’m not getting a full cut of the club revenue. I make enough from the videos Ruin
got us doing, so money is far from a problem. It’s about the honor for me. To have my full rockers, to
truly be a brother in the Uprising Chapter of the Kings of Carnage, it’s everything.
Bottom line, my life is the club.
Brothers before all others.
No other way to live.
Sliding into the empty parking lot, I roll to a stop to the right of my father as Sly moves in to the
left. None of us shut our bikes off. We all look around, taking in every little detail.
To the left is an abandoned warehouse building. The kind made from top to bottom with those
cement cinder blocks and painted white once the building was complete. The windows have those
individual panes that long ago were busted out. Art covers the space randomly from local graffiti
artists, some of which have a true talent. As a teen, I would find reasons to go to the railyard just to
tag the cargo cars with my mark. I understand the passion for it. Most people see it as rude and trash, I
find the beauty in it.
Two of five security lights over the blacktop work, giving an odd yellow glow to the pitch-black
sky. The air feels thick. Humidity in the south is a motherfucker like that. My stomach is tight. My gut
tells me something is amiss.
I’m a prospect.
No one gives a fuck about my instincts, so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes wide open. My dad
drops his kickstand, and I follow suit. For a moment, he sits in place on the bike, taking in every
detail behind the lenses of his shades. Day or night, he’s always in sunglasses. Eyes are the window
to the soul. Only the people close to him get the honor. With a barely noticeable nod, he and Sly begin
to shut off their machines. I follow in line. In a matter of moments and with practiced ease, we stand
beside our bikes. Since Florida has no helmet law, the lids are tucked away in our saddle bags.
Out in the open like this has a different level of vulnerability. Each of us stand close to our steel
horses knowing we have weapons beyond the side piece each of us wears. There is a rotten smell in
the air. I scan the space, trying to find the origin, and notice a movement in the office style trailer to
our right. The shadow came through in a blink on the window. Unsure that it is of importance, I
continue to watch and listen. We remain firmly in place.
Everything remains quiet.
After a moment, a black Cadillac Escalade rolls to a stop sideways in front of us. I swallow back
my laugh. This chump wants to be a baller.
The driver gets out in an all-black tailored suit. He opens the back door, and Ernesto Ruiz
emerges.
The man is a sight to take in.
Flashy.
That is the first word to come to mind.
After years of dealing with Javier Almanza and his style of doing business, this is altogether
different.
The man in front of us wears a red three-piece suit with a black button up shirt under his vest, no
tie. His boots glisten in the night lights, making the snakeskin stand out, leaving me to wonder if they
are actually that clean or fake. Immediately upon his freedom from the car, he reaches down to adjust
himself. I’m not sure I would give a fuck about my junk when coming to a meeting with the Kings. One
would think he’d have his eyes around him and not worrying about his cock.
He begins to walk toward us. He holds his head high as he assesses us. His toes turn outward as
his walks, so his feet don’t remain straight. Interesting. He has a sway that makes it seem as if his junk
is so large, he has trouble walking regularly. There is something seriously amiss with this guy.
Hmmm.
My mother taught my sister and I to watch people.
Study them.
The subtle ways someone carries themselves will be the tell of who you are dealing with. My
mother survived by reading people and reading situations. She gave us the same gift.
The arrogance this man tries to present is nothing more than a ruse. The persona is just that…fake.
A fraud. Why though? We are simply here to process a transaction.
Money for heroin.
Clean and simple.
Business.
So why the need to walk in a manner as if he has an elephant cock in his pants? Men who have
such bravado are either egotistical pricks, dumb fucks, or absolutely bold because they can back it up.
I was guessing the latter in this situation.
As he gets closer, his short stature is revealed.
Myself being six-feet-two-inches of Samoan-American beast, I would gauge the man to be five
feet, and that’s giving him an inch for the heel on the snakeskin boots. Tiny man. Overcompensating
for something? Or just wanting to show his muscle to the bad bikers?
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stand still, continuing to study.
He comes to a stop in front of us. Without missing a beat, his hand moves down to adjust himself
again.
Now, I’m not a guy to concern myself with another man’s junk, however, this man is something
different. There is no bulge, yet, he walks in a way that one can surmise, his cock is stuck down his
leg because it’s so huge, or he’s packing something else down his pants.
Why? What the fuck is going on here?
We have the drugs. There shouldn’t be any issues here. It only puts me on higher alert.
“Mister Jinx,” he greets, to which my dad doesn’t make a move to even acknowledge the man.
“It’s a pleasure to do business with the Kings.” There is a glimmer on his bottom teeth that draws my
attention to a gold tooth.
My father doesn’t reply, just stares at the man.
“I hope your trip was an easy one,” the man continues to attempt small talk in a Spanish accent.
We weren’t into small talk. Fuck that shit.
Sly steps forward. “Cash?” He reaches his hand out expectantly.
The man laughs loudly into the night. “Now, now, we are friends. Let us take a moment to enjoy
each other’s company.”
This man has a death wish.
“Not here to talk. And Ruiz, you are not a friend to the Kings,” Sly corrects him.
Once again, he reaches down to adjust his junk. A noise in the abandoned building gets my
attention. I keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but give a peripheral glance to that direction. I see
a small light that wasn’t there before.
“Mister Jinx,” the man again tries to engage my dad. “I know we made arrangements on the price
—”
My father’s hand flies up, silencing the man. “Ruiz, I’m not one to waste words, so listen
carefully. We do not negotiate. If you don’t have our fuckin’ money, you don’t get shit. I’m not your
fuckin’ friend, but I damn sure am about to be your foe. Pay up, motherfucker, before I cut your cock
off, so you got no shit left to keep adjusting and playing with.”
The man smiles, and I want to beat the smirk right off his face. “Mister Jinx, you are a charming
man. I’m not looking for a negotiation. I simply wanted to tell you with the quality of your product,
maybe we could strike a long-term deal.”
“No deal,” Sly states, still holding his hand out for payment.
“Come now, you must see the benefit in a long-term agreement. Rather than a lump sum, the Kings
could have a percentage. As my territory grows, so will your income,” Ernesto Ruiz casually explains
before once again adjusting himself.
That’s when I notice a laser light hit the glass of the Escalade before the driver opens the door
and folds out, along with two others from the passenger side.
“I see. The bigger picture is missing for you all. I know it’s a lot for you to have faith in. You have
to understand, as Kings, in my world, you are either with me or you are against me. Since I have all
things aligned to remove Javier Almanza from power and take over his American territories, I am
giving the Kings an opportunity to align with me now, rather than be taken out in the wash.”
To this, my father laughs. “And let me guess, this is where you think you have us outnumbered?
Ruiz, you are starting war with the wrong motherfuckers, and I’m not referring to Almanza. This
transaction is done. If you want to live to see all your dreams fall apart, because rest assured, they
will, you need to turn your ass right around and get back in that car and forget tonight ever happened.”
“And if I don’t?” Ernesto challenges, adjusting himself once again. I sense people approaching
from behind us.
My patience is done, but as a prospect, I can’t simply rush this man and put my hands around his
throat to take the life from his body because it’s not my place.
“Outnumbered, never outwitted,” my dad mutters before giving Sly and I the subtle nod to be
ready for the battle.
In a swift swoop, my dad makes the strides straight at Ruiz as Sly and I grab our guns. Shots ring
out all around us. We are surrounded and in the wide open. I hear the shots hit the metal of our bikes
as my dad takes his knife while grabbing a hold of Ruiz and turning him in front of his body with the
knife at his throat. Sly and I maneuver back-to-back to shoot the fuckers behind us and in front as we
hear the sound of Bear firing the rocket launcher straight into the Escalade, blowing it to bits along
with the fuckers standing near it.
“Told you, we don’t fucking negotiate,” I hear my dad mutter as he slices Ruiz’s neck from ear to
ear and allows him to bleed out over his arm.
Saint catches the ones in the concrete building from behind, easily getting them as Sly and I finish
the few behind us. One by one, the men go down.
Only I can’t shake the shadow in the trailer. I make my way there with my father at my back.
Inside, we find shell casings covering the floor. Someone was firing at us from inside here. It’s not
long in the small space before a young woman appears. Her gun aimed right at me, as is mine to her.
“Not fuckin’ with you, bitch. This ain’t the wild west. Drop the weapon and maybe you can suck
my cock to live,” I tell her.
She laughs, and I have to admit her bravery, albeit it’s not going to save her, is a turn on. “You
Kings, you think you have it all. You think you know it all. Ruiz is just the beginning. This battle is
lost, but the war is just beginning. He’s coming for you. Lozano doesn’t give up, and he’s going to rip
you all apart from the outside in.”
Her words don’t make sense.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 BENGAL CURRIE POWDER.

No. 1.
Mix thoroughly the following ingredients after they have been
separately reduced to the finest powder and passed through a fine
hair or lawn sieve:—

6 oz. coriander seed.

3 oz. black pepper.
1 oz. cummin-seed.
1-1/2 oz. fenugreek-seed.
3/4 oz. cayenne pepper.
3 oz. best pale turmeric.

Set the powder before the fire to dry, and turn it often; then
withdraw it, let it become cold, and bottle it immediately. Keep it
closely corked.
Obs.—We cannot think a large proportion of black pepper a
desirable addition to currie powder, as it gives a strong coarse
flavour: but as it may be liked by persons who are accustomed to it,
we give the preceding and the following receipt without varying
either: the second appears to us the best.
Coriander- 8 oz.
seed
Chinese 4 oz.
turmeric
Black 2 oz.
pepper
Cassia 1/2
oz.
White ginger 1 oz.
Cayenne 1/2
pepper oz.
 RISOTTO À LA MILANAISE.

Slice a large onion very thin, and divide it into shreds; then fry it
slowly until it is equally but not too deeply browned; take it out and
strain the butter, and fry in it about three ounces of rice for every
person who is to partake of it. As the grain easily burns, it should be
put into the butter when it begins to simmer, and be very gently
coloured to a bright yellow tint over a slow fire. Add it to some good
boiling broth lightly tinged with saffron, and stew it softly in a copper
pan for fifteen or twenty minutes. Stir to it two or three ounces of
butter mixed with a small portion of flour, a moderate seasoning of
pepper or cayenne, and as much grated Parmesan cheese as will
flavour it thoroughly. Boil the whole gently for ten minutes, and serve
it very hot, at the commencement of dinner as a potage.
Obs.—The reader should bear in mind what we have so often
repeated in this volume, that rice should always be perfectly cooked,
and that it will not become tender with less than three times its bulk
of liquid.
 STUFATO.

(A Neapolitan Receipt.)
“Take about six pounds of the silver side of the round, and make
several deep incisions in the inside, nearly through to the skin; stuff
these with all kinds of savoury herbs, a good slice of lean ham, and
half a small clove of garlic, all finely minced, and well mingled
together; then bind and tie the meat closely round, so that the
stuffing may not escape. Put four pounds of butter into a stewpan
sufficiently large to contain something more than that quantity, and
the beef in addition; so soon as it boils lay in the meat, let it just
simmer for five or six hours, and turn it every half hour at least, that it
may be equally done. Boil for twenty-five minutes three pounds of
pipe maccaroni, drain it perfectly dry, and mix it with the gravy of the
beef, without the butter, half a pint of very pure salad oil, and a pot of
paste tomatas; mix these to amalgamation, without breaking the
maccaroni; before serving up, sprinkle Parmesan cheese thickly on
the maccaroni.”
We insert this receipt exactly as it was given to us by a friend, at
whose table the dish was served with great success to some Italian
diplomatists. From our own slight experience of it, we should
suppose that the excellence of the beef is quite a secondary
consideration, as all its juices are drawn out by the mode of cooking,
and appropriated to the maccaroni, of which we must observe that
three pounds would make too gigantic a dish to enter well, on
ordinary occasions, into an English service.
We have somewhere seen directions for making the stufato with
the upper part of the sirloin, thickly larded with large, well-seasoned
lardoons of bacon, and then stewed in equal parts of rich gravy, and
of red or of white wine.
 BROILED EELS WITH SAGE. (ENTRÉE.)

(German Receipt.) Good.

Skin, open, and cleanse one fine eel (or more), cut it into finger-
lengths, rub it with a mixed seasoning of salt and white pepper, and
leave it for half an hour. Wipe it dry, wrap each length in sage leaves,
fasten them round it with coarse thread, roll the eel in good salad oil
or clarified butter, lay it on the gridiron, squeeze lemon-juice over,
and broil it gently until it is browned in every part. Send it to table
with a sauce made of two or three ounces of butter, a tablespoonful
of chili, tarragon, or common vinegar, and one of water, with a little
salt; to keep this smooth, proceed as for the Norfolk sauce of
Chapter V. Broiled fish is frequently served without any sauce. A
quite simple one may supply the place of that which we have
indicated above: eels being of so rich a nature, require no other.
 A SWISS MAYONNAISE.

Beat half a pound of butter to a cream, and then add it very

gradually to the hard-boiled yolks of six fresh eggs which have been
cut into quarters, separated carefully from the whites, and pounded
to a perfect paste; when these are blended into a smooth sauce add,
a few drops at a time, some of the finest salad oil that can be
procured, and work the mixture in the same manner as the
mayonnaise of Chapter VI. until no particle of it remains visible: a
small quantity of salt also must be thrown in, and sufficient good
vinegar in very small portions, to give an agreeable acidity to the
preparation. (Fresh lemon-juice might be substituted in part for this,
and a little fine cayenne used with it; but though we suggest this, we
adhere to our original Swiss receipt for this excellent dish, even
when we think it might be slightly improved in flavour.)
Carve very neatly two delicate boiled fowls, and trim the joints into
handsome form. Lay the inferior parts upon a large plate, and spread
a portion of the sauce, which should be very thick, upon them;
arrange them in a flat layer in the dish in which they are to be
served; then sauce in the same way more of the joints, and arrange
them symmetrically over the others. Proceed thus to build a sort of
pyramid with the whole; and decorate it with the whites of the eggs,
and the hearts of small lettuces cut in halves. Place these last round
the base alternately with whole bantams’ or plovers’ eggs, boiled
hard, a small slice must be cut from the large end of each of these to
admit of their being placed upright. A slight branch of parsley, or
other foliage, may be stuck in the tops. Roast chickens divested
entirely of the skin, can always be substituted for boiled ones in a
mayonnaise: they should all be separated into single joints with the
exception of the wings. The quite inferior parts need not be used at
all.
The same sauce rather highly flavoured with cayenne, and other
condiments, and more or less, to the taste, with essence of
anchovies or anchovy butter, and coloured with lobster-coral, will
make an excellent fish-salad, with alternate slices of lobster,—cut
obliquely to increase their size,—and of cold turbot or large soles.
These can be raised into a high border or chain round a dish when
more convenient, and the centre filled with young fresh salad,
sauced at the instant it is sent to table.
A French mayonnaise does not vary much from the preceding,
except in the composition of the sauce, for which see Chapter VI. It
should always be kept very thick. A little rich cold white sauce is
sometimes mixed with it.
 TENDRONS DE VEAU.

The tendrons (or gristles) which lie under the flesh of the brisket of
a breast of veal are much used in foreign countries, and frequently
now in this, to supply a variety of the dishes called entrées. When
long stewed they become perfectly tender, and yield a large amount
of gelatine; but they are quite devoid of flavour, and require therefore
to be cooked and served with such additions as shall render them
palatable.
With a very sharp knife detach the flesh from them without
separating it from the joint, and turn it back, so as to allow the
gristles to be divided easily from the long bones. Cut away the chine-
bone from their outer edge, and then proceed first to soak them, that
they may be very white, and to boil them gently for several hours,
[191] either quite simply, in good broth, or with additions of bacon,
spice, and vegetables. Foreign cooks braise them somewhat
expensively, and then serve them in many different forms; but as
they make, after all, but a rather unpretending entrée, some
economy in their preparation would generally be desirable. They
may be divided at the joints, and cut obliquely into thin slices before
they are stewed, when they will require but four hours simmering; or
they may be left entire and braised, when they will require, while still
warm, to be pressed between two dishes with a heavy weight on the
top, to bring them into good shape before they are divided for table.
They are then sometimes dipped into egg and bread-crumbs, and
fried in thin slices of uniform size; or stewed tender, then well
drained, and glazed, dished in a circle, and served with peas à la
Française in the centre, or with a thick purée of tomatas, or of other
vegetables. They are also often used to fill vol-au-vents, for which
purpose they must be kept very white, and mixed with a good
béchamel-sauce. We recommend their being highly curried, either in
conjunction with plenty of vegetables, or with a portion of other meat,
after they have been baked or stewed as tender as possible.
191. We think that in the pasted jar which we have described in Chapter IX., in the
section of Baking, they might be well and easily cooked, but we have not
tried it.
 POITRINE DE VEAU GLACÉE.

(Breast of Veal Stewed and Glazed.)

When the gristles have been removed from a breast of veal, the
joint will still make an excellent roast, or serve to stew or braise. Take
out the long-bones,[192] beat the veal with the flat side of a cleaver,
or with a cutlet-bat, and when it is quite even, cut it square, and
sprinkle over it a moderate seasoning of fine salt, cayenne, and
mace. Make some forcemeat by either of the receipts Nos. 1, 2, 3, or
7, of Chapter VIII., but increase the ingredients to three or four times
the quantity, according to the size of the joint. Lay over the veal, or
not, as is most convenient, thin slices of half-boiled bacon, or of
ham; press the forcemeat into the form of a short compact rouleau
and lay it in the centre of one side of the breast; then roll it up and
skewer the ends closely with small skewers, and bind the joint firmly
into good form with tape or twine. When thus prepared, it may be
slowly stewed in very good veal stock until it is tender quite through,
and which should be hot when it is laid in; or embedded in the usual
ingredients for braising (see Chapter IX., page 180), and sent to
table glazed, sauced with an Espagnole, or other rich gravy, and
garnished with carrots à la Windsor (see page 335), or with
sweetbread cutlets, also glazed.
192. This is very easily done by cutting through the skin down the centre of each.
 BREAST OF VEAL. SIMPLY STEWED.[193]
193. We give here the English receipt of an excellent practical cook for “Stewed
Breast of veal,” as it may be acceptable to some of our readers, After it has
been boned, flattened, and trimmed, season it well, and let it lie for an hour
or two (this, we do not consider essential); then prepare some good veal
forcemeat, to which let a little minced shalot be added, and spread it over the
veal If you have any cold tongue or lean of ham, cut it in square strips, and
lay them the short way of the meat that they may be shewn when it is carved.
Roll it up very tight, and keep it in good shape; enclose it in a cloth as you
would a jam-pudding, and lace it up well, then lay it into a braising-pan with
three onions, as many large carrots thickly sliced, some spice, sweet herbs,
and sufficient fresh second-stock or strong veal broth to more than half cover
it, and stew it very gently over a slow fire for three hours: turn it occasionally
without disturbing the braise which surrounds it. Glaze it before it is sent to
table, and serve it with Spanish sauce, or with rich English brown gravy,
flavoured with a glass of sherry; and garnish it with stewed mushrooms in
small heaps, and fried forcemeat balls.

Omit the forcemeat from the preceding receipt, and stew the joint
tender in good veal broth, or shin of beef stock. Drain, and dish it.
Pour a little rich gravy round it, and garnish it with nicely fried balls of
the forcemeat No. 1, Chapter VIII., or with mushroom-forcemeat (No.
7). Mushroom-sauce is always an excellent accompaniment to a joint
of veal. The liquor in which the breast is stewed or braised is too fat
to serve as sauce until it has been cooled and cleared. The veal can
be cooked without boning, but will have but an indifferent
appearance. It should in that case be slowly brought to boil, and very
gently simmered: about two hours and a half will stew it tender. The
sweetbread, after being scalded, may be stewed with it for half the
time, and served upon it.
Obs.—The breast without the gristles, boned and filled with
forcemeat, makes a superior roast. It may also be boiled on
occasion, and served with balls of oyster-forcemeat in the dish; or
with white mushroom-sauce instead.
 COMPOTE DE PIGEONS (STEWED PIGEONS.)

The French in much of their cookery use more bacon than would
generally be suited to a very delicate taste, we think. This bacon,
from being cured without saltpetre, and from not being smoked,
rather resembles salt pork in flavour: we explain this that the reader
may, when so disposed, adapt the receipts we give here to an
English table by omitting it. Cut into dice from half to three quarters
of a pound of streaked bacon, and fry it gently in a large stewpan
with a morsel of butter until it is very lightly browned; lift it out, and
put in three or four young pigeons trussed as for boiling. When they
have become firm, and lightly coloured, lift them out, and stir a large
tablespoonful of flour to the fat. When this thickening (roux) is also
slightly browned, add gradually to it a pint, or something more, of
boiling veal-stock or strong broth; put back the birds and the bacon,
with a few small button-onions when their flavour is liked, and stew
the whole very gently for three quarters of an hour. Dish the pigeons
neatly with the bacon and onions laid between them; skim all the fat
from the sauce, reduce it quickly, and strain it over them. The birds
should be laid into the stewpan with the breasts downwards.
The third, or half of a pottle of small mushrooms is sometimes
added to this dish. It may be converted into a compote aux petits
pois by adding to the pigeons when the broth, in which they are laid,
first begins to boil, a pint and a half of young peas. For these, a pint
and a quarter, at the least, of liquid will be required, and a full hour’s
stewing. The economist can substitute water for the broth. When the
birds can be had at little cost, one, two, or more, according to
circumstances, should be stewed down to make broth or sauce for
the others.
Obs.—Pigeons are excellent filled with the mushrooms au beurre,
of page 329, and either roasted or stewed. To broil them proceed as
directed for a partridge (French receipt), page 290.
 MAI TRANK (MAY-DRINK).

(German.)
Put into a large deep jug one pint of light
white wine to two of red, and dissolve in it
sufficient sugar to sweeten it agreeably.
Wipe a sound China orange, cut it in rather
thick slices, without paring it, and add it to
the wine; then throw in some small bunches
or faggots of the fragrant little plant called
woodruff; cover the jug closely to exclude
the air and leave it until the following day.
Serve it to all May-day visitors. One orange
will be sufficient for three pints of wine. The
woodruff should be washed and well
drained before it is thrown into the jug; and
the quantity of it used should not be very
large, or the flavour of the beverage will be
rather injured than improved by it. We have
tried this receipt on a small scale with
lemon-rind instead of oranges, and the
mixture was very agreeable. Rhenish wine should properly be used
for it; but this is expensive in England. The woodruff is more odorous
when dried gradually in the shade than when it is fresh gathered,
and imparts a pleasant fragrance to linen, as lavender does. It grows
wild in Kent, Surrey, and other parts of England, and flourishes in
many suburban gardens in the neighbourhood of London.
 A VIENNESE SOUFFLÉ-PUDDING, CALLED SALZBURGER
NOCKERL.

At the moment of going to press, we have received direct from

Vienna the following receipt, which we cannot resist offering to the
reader for trial, as we are assured that the dish is one of the most
delicate and delicious soufflé-puddings that can be made.
(A) Take butter, four ounces; sugar in powder, three ounces; fine
flour, one ounce and a half or two ounces; and the yellow of eight
eggs; beat these together in a convenient sized basin till the mixture
gets frothy. (The butter should probably first be beaten to cream.)
(B) Beat to snow the whites of the eight eggs.
(C) Take three pounds (or pints) of new milk, put it in an open
stewpan over a gentle fire, and let it boil.
(D) Next, prepare a china casserole (enamelled stewpan—a
copper one will do) by greasing its internal surface.
As soon as the milk boils, mix gently A and B together, and with a
small spoon take portions of this shape and size and lay them over
the surface of the boiling milk till it is entirely covered with them. Let
them boil for four or five minutes to cook them; then put them in
convenient order on the ground of the greased casserole (stewpan).
Go on putting in the same manner small portions of the mixture on
the surface of the boiling milk, and when cooked, place a new layer
of them in the stewpan over the first; and continue the same
operation until the mixture is all consumed. Take now the remainder
of the milk, and add it to the beaten yellow (yolks) of two eggs, some
sugar, and some powdered vanilla. Pour this over the cooked pastry
in the stewpan, and set it into a gently heated oven. Leave it there
until it gets brown; then powder it with vanilla-sugar, and send it to
the table.
 Author’s Note.—The preceding directions were written by a
physician of Vienna, at whose table the dish was served. It was
turned out of the casserole, and served with the greatest expedition;
but we think it would perhaps answer more generally here, to bake it
in a soufflé dish, and to leave it undisturbed. We would also suggest,
that the yolk of a third egg might sometimes be needed to bind the
mixture well together. A good and experienced cook would easily
ascertain the best mode of ensuring the success of the preparation.
We must observe, that the form of the enamelled stewpans made
commonly in this country prevents their being well adapted for use in
the present receipt: those of copper are better suited to it.
Half the proportion of the ingredients might, by way of experiment,
be prepared and baked in a tart-dish, as our puddings frequently are;
or in a small round cake mould, with a band of writing paper fastened
round the top.
The vanilla sugar is prepared by cutting the bean up small, and
pounding it with some sugar in a mortar, and then passing it through
a very fine sieve.
The “cooked portions” of which the soufflé is principally composed
are the shape, and about half the size of the inside of an egg-spoon.
If somewhat larger, they would possibly answer as well.
 INDEX.

Acton gingerbread, 552

Albert’s, Prince, pudding, 411
Almond, cake, 545
candy, 566
cream, for blamange, 478
macaroons, 544
paste, 367
paste, fairy fancies of, 368
paste, tartlets of, 367
pudding, 425
pudding, Jewish, 608
shamrocks (very good and very pretty), 574
Almonds to blanch, 542
chocolate, 568
to colour for cakes or pastry, 542
in cheese-cakes, 361
to pound, 542
in soups, 21
to reduce to paste, the quickest and easiest way, 542
Alose, or Shad, to cook, 79
American oven, 178
Anchovies, to fillet, 389
fried in batter, 84
potted, 306
curried toasts with, 389
Anchovy, butter, 138
sauce, 115
Appel krapfen (German receipt), 373
Apple cake, 362
calf’s-feet jelly, 464
Charlotte, or Charlotte de Pommes, 486
marmalade for Charlotte de Pommes, 487
custards, 482
dumplings, fashionable, 420
fritters, 384
hedgehog, or Suédoise, 480
jelly, 522
jelly, exceedingly fine, 523
juice, prepared, 456
pudding, 408
pudding, common, 409
sauce, 124
sauce, baked, 124
sauce, brown, 125
soup, 21
snow-balls, 421
tart, 363
young green, tart, 364
creamed tart, 364
Apples, baked compote of (our little lady’s receipt), 572
buttered, or Pommes au beurre, 488
Apricots, compote of green, 457
Apricots dried, French receipt for, 517
to dry, a quick and easy method, 517
Apricot blamange, 479
 fritters, 384
marmalade, 516
Arabian, or Turkish Piláw, Mr. Lane’s receipt for, 614
Artichokes, Jerusalem, à la Reine, 338
to boil, 326
en salade, 326
to remove the chokes from, 326
Jerusalem, to boil, 337
Jerusalem, to fry, 338
Jerusalem, mashed, 338
soup of, 19
Asparagus, to boil, 319
to serve cold (observation), 319
points, dressed like peas (entremets), 319
Aspic, or clear savoury jelly, 104
Arocē Docēe, or sweet rice à la Portugaise, 489
Arrow-root, to thicken sauces with, 106
to thicken soup with, 2, 4
Potato, 154
sauce (clear), 403
Bacon, to boil, 259
broiled or fried, 259
Cobbett’s receipt for, 252
dressed rashers of, 259
French, for larding, 254
lardoons of, 181
to pickle cheeks of, 254
genuine Yorkshire receipt for curing, 253
super-excellent, 256
Bain-marie, use of, 105
Baked apple-pudding, or custard, 437
apple-pudding, the lady’s or invalid’s, new, 608
apple-pudding, a common, 409
 compote of apples, 572
minced beef, 207
round of spiced beef, 199
beet-root, 339
bread-puddings, 429, 430
calf’s feet and head, 178
custard, 483
haddocks, 73
ham, 258
joints, with potatoes, 179
mackerel, 70
marrow bones, 208
mullet, 76
ox-cheek, 208
pike, 81
potatoes, 312
raisin puddings, 441, 442
salmon, 60, 179
smelts, 78
soles (or soles au plat), 66
soup, 178
sucking-pig, 250
whitings, à la Française, 68
Baking, directions for, or oven cookery, 178
Banbury cakes, 549
Bantam’s eggs, to boil or poach, 446, 449
Barberries, to pickle,
in bunches, to preserve, 526
stewed, for rice-crust, 459
Barberry jam, a good receipt for, 526
jam, another receipt for, 527
superior jelly and marmalade, 527
and rice pudding,
tart, 364