mobster mash

Max never felt like his mom was really his mom. Not so much as she was a penpal who sent him postcards from her free-spirited life of hitchhiking her way around the world. Not that he minded so much. She had left him in fairly decent hands. Well, at least they were hands that managed to get him to adulthood. The Hellhounds were a gang of bikers, mechanics, and average street drug dealers, and since none of them knew which one of them had fathered Max, they all took care in helping raise him. Even if that meant he was raised to be a bit of a thug himself.

The Hellhounds ran a bar in the outskirts of the city, and tended to hang around there when they weren't out causing problems. Max chewed on the straw of his soda as he looked at the photo in his hand of her at some tropical beach with the traveling commune she was bunking with at the moment. He lowered the photo as someone joined him at his table, glancing up at the rugged man absentmindedly. Lion got his name from his bushy red beard and equally bushy eyebrows, and he had always been one of the bikers that was closer to Max. He picked up the photo with a low chuckle.

"That Margie, she's still got a bangin' body after all these years," Lion said. "That woman has a Hollywood rack on her-"

"Lion, please," Max begged. "I don't want to hear about my mom's rack."

"Heh, sorry," he said. "Hey, can I have that picture? No reason."

"Ew. Fine. Whatever."

Max handed Lion the photo and the man grinned, tucking it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

"Heard there's a street race downtown tonight," he said. "Are you taking Valerie down there? Test out those new brakes."

Max shook his head. Valerie was what he had named his car, which was a beautiful cherry red piece of art he kept in pristine condition. He'd been working on it since he was fourteen, and Lion had helped him a lot with keeping it up. Max often entered into the shady street races with Valerie, and had a pretty lucky streak of wins.

"Nah," he said. "Jonesie is racing. The guy gets crazy. Last race he was in, someone got shot. I don't feel like dealing with that today."

"Sore loser," Lion grunted. "Kids these days think they know everything. That Jonesie, he's a Thorn isn't he?"

"Yeah, as of a couple years ago," Max nodded.

The Thorns were a longtime rival of the Hellhounds, and it usually didn't take a lot to get into knife fights with them. If they felt like you side eyed them, you were getting attacked. Max had been in that boat plenty of times, and he didn't feel in the mood for it tonight.

"Well, Barry and I were going down to The Grove," he said. "Meeting some of the other guys there. Drinking the place dry. You coming?"

"I don't know, I'm tired," Max said. "I'll probably go out for a little bit and head back to the motel early."

"You're the young one, how come you're not any fun?" Lion chuckled. "At least get a girl to take back to that dirty motel you live in. Alright, I'll see you later then."

He gave Max a pat on the back as he stood up and left. Max had grown up with gangs his entire life and never had the average childhood most kids had, but even if he didn't have a normal education, at least he had a street education. He knew not to pick fights he couldn't win, and he did have a bad feeling about the street race that night.

His gut instinct turned out to be right. He went to a nearby pub later that night to grab a drink before he headed home, going somewhere he knew he wouldn't see anyone he recognized. He eavesdropped on some others at the bar while he sipped on his beer, hearing that things had indeed gone wrong at the race. Sure enough, Jonesie had lost and ended up getting in a fight with the winner. Whoever had won the race ended up with a punctured lung.

Max cursed under his breath as he finished off his drink. He noticed some people looking at him, but he couldn't blame them. He looked shady, with his dark clothes and his entire upper body littered with tattoos. One tattoo in particular was a centerpiece, of a mythological hellhound. A symbol of his gang affiliation, and usually a sign for people to avoid him.

He tugged his sleeve down to cover the tattoo and put his hood up so he could blend into the shadows more, but his attention turned back to the bar as he saw a drunk man bothering a female bartender. She seemed uncomfortable as he hit on her, but Max was bothered when the man reached out to grab her arm.

"Hey," Max finally said. "Leave her alone, she's clearly not interested."

"Yeah?" the man snorted. "And who the hell are you?"

"Look, I don't want a fight," Max told him. "Just leave her alone, you're making everyone here uncomfortable."

"I don't need you to save me," the bartender snapped, surprising Max. "And I'm not going to sleep with you just because you're acting like a hero. I have a boyfriend."

"What?" Max frowned. "When the fuck did I say I wanted to sleep with you? I was just helping out."

"I said I have a boyfriend," she repeated.

The drunk had ejected himself from the situation, and now people were starting to stare as the woman raised her voice at Max.

"That's great for you, lady," Max said. "I'll go fuck myself-"

"Kate, is this loser bothering you?" another man said as he approached the bar.

This guy was bigger than Max, and he looked like he might have been the bar owner. Clearly, he was the girl's boyfriend.

"He's just acting like a creep," Kate said with a pout.

"You're creeping on my girlfriend?" the bar owner growled.

"No!" Max said, exasperated. "I was just telling the other guy to back off-"

Max didn't get to finish his sentence before a fist collided with his nose. He heard a crack and grimaced as he stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose.

"What the hell, dude?!" he winced.

Next thing he knew, he was being thrown out. Literally. Max was shoved into the alley so hard he hit the wall and felt something pull in his back. The door was shut and he just sat there for a while, trying to pull himself together.

He supposed he could have just gone home and slept it off, but something in his back felt wrong. It was a little late, but the Hellhounds had some contacts among doctors who didn't mind working with the shady ones.

The closest office to him was Winters, who Max had only seen once for getting a bullet out of his shoulder. The man was eccentric, but he worked quick and did a good job. He'd be quick with checking Max out. When Max got there, however, the usual doctor wasn't there. Instead, there was a young woman there. She looked up at Max with a smile, but it quickly turned to a grimace when she saw the state he was in.

"Is Dr. Winters in?" Max mumbled.

"Yes, I'm Dr. Winters," the woman said.

"Dr. Winters was a man last time I was here," Max said. "Sorry, was that offensive?"

"You met with my father," she said with a smile. "He stepped out, but I can take care of you. Sit down on the exam table, let me get the antiseptic wipes."

"Actually, I think I threw out my back or something," he said. "Can I just get some painkillers?"

"Mmm, looks like you've been drinking."

"Just a little."

"Then no. Sit down."

"Yes ma'am."

Max sat down with a quiet groan, then closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

"Hellhound?" the woman gestured to Max's tattoo as she returned with a kit of medical supplies.

"Yeah," he said. "Max Huxley. Max."

"I'm Athena. Now, take a deep breath. This won't feel good."