Motorcycle Man: My Meeting with Skunk “Rex” Viper

It’s not often you find yourself sitting across from the ringleader of the outlaw motorcycle club, The Bloody Churros. Well, it depends who you are I guess. You could be Rex’s right hand man Toejam, or the club treasurer Snutknuckle, or his pet possum Shaun. But I ain’t any of those folk, I was just a sweaty journalist who was now wishing he’d done this over Zoom.

Around the thick bearded giant’s even thicker neck hung rusted chains and his lucky rabbit’s scrote. His hair was saturated in grease, of both the lubricating and hamburger varieties. Countless tattoos were scattered all over his body, including his gang’s emblem, a flaming skull and crossbones vomiting. Other notable standouts were a deranged rabid bat smoking a cigar and giving the finger, in honour of his mother, and a zombie woman with large breasts on a Harley Davidson clutching a spanner dripping with blood, to signify his love of auto repair. On his right arm were many different female names that had all had been crossed out except one: Ciara. It had been a long and painful experience at the tattoo parlour while Rex tried to remember his girlfriend’s name but he had got there eventually. Well kind of, her name was Kiera, but he figured it was close enough. 

Rex had numerous wounds as a result of various disagreements with rival gangs over the years. He had sported an eyepatch under his sunnies ever since a heated argument with Squizz Bennett from Satan’s Rascals; a chunk of his ear was missing after a difficult meeting with Gunk Harris, the ring leader of The Dirty Thunders;  and a large knife was sticking out of his shoulder due to a misunderstanding with Little Maggot from The Fucked Turkeys.

We were sitting in his office at the club’s HQ, The Mouldy Swan. The room reeked heavily of body odour, petrol, stale beer, gunpowder, and horse manure, ever since Rex had entered it. On the walls were tattered posters displaying the club’s slogans, “When You’re Not Sure, Kick Down A Door”, “Bikes Before Wifes” and “Knives Don’t Stab People, We Do.” There were also photos showcasing some of the clubs more notorious members: a cheeky snap of club historian Chainsaw Williams tackling a police car; a Polaroid of the club’s Vice President, Backsweat, shotgunning a keg at his parole hearing; and a framed image of lifelong member Oink Leneghan spearing a member of rival gang The Devil’s Jesters through the head with a pool cue.

On Rex’s desk (which appeared to be a turned over bathtub) was an assortment of objects including an army helmet filled with cigarette butts; a copy of Tits & Weed Illustrated; an axe; a backpack full of meth; a bucket labelled Mungrel, which contained the ashes of Rex’s predecessor; and Rex’s bike. I had been told that the bike was like Rex’s baby, except unlike his actual baby he took care of it, knew where it was, and there was only one.

As I reviewed my notes, Rex picked a booger out of one of his remaining teeth with a rat bone then removed his bandana, dipped it in a full bucket underneath one of the many roof leaks, wrung it out over a weed plant, and wiped his face with it. He took a swig of gasoline from a nearby boot, to try and get the taste of goon out of his mouth. He had taken a sip earlier in an attempt at a health kick but threw the box at the wall in disgust and instead ordered his usual cocktail, The Sweaty Arse Crack, a combo of white rum, dark rum, methylated spirits, and kangaroo blood. He also chewed away at a concoction called Shrapnel, which was made up of assorted screws, nails, broken glass, and some peppermint gum to give it a bit of kick. 

The interview would have to be quick, Rex’s secretary Scabby Reg had informed me. The Bloody Churros had quite a busy schedule that afternoon. Security for the heavy metal band Gutblood;  blowing up the hideout of rival club The Iron Coffins; then hijacking a truck full of the hot new drug Runt Dust and driving it across the state line, while not letting the speedometer drop below 120km or a bomb would go off. 

Rex then told me to give him a second while he took a business call. I tried not to eavesdrop as he reprimanded a colleague, but I did overhear the phrase “I will glass you with your own skull then shove a Molotov cocktail up your dick hole.” He then stomped on the phone twenty-four times, threw the shards out the window, and turned to me.

“So you gonna interview me or what?”

“Ah yep yep, uh…so you…uh… you like motorbikes?”

“Yeah.”

“OK well great, uh yep, I think that’s everything, see ya!”

THE END

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