C.f.b. By Ron Sanders

C.F.B. © 2009 by Ron Sanders

“Okay,” Bryce rumbled, shuffling a fistful of papers, “I think we all know why we’re here.” His baggy eyes swept the room. “This town is fed to the teeth with gangbangers, hookers, and drug dealers. We’re sick of biker gangs defecating on all that is decent, then having the audacity to roar around with American flags cringing on their motorcycles. We’ve had it with lowriders polluting our roads and our lives, and we’re ready to bust over these ignorant, insolent, illiterate graffiti ‘artists’. We, folks, are at the end of our rope. The police are emasculated by internal affairs—our every complaint falls on deaf ears.” His eyes slunk to the side and he cleared his throat. “Anyway.” Bryce surveyed his guests for eye contact. “We don’t wear nametags here. We’ll get to know each other as we go along.” He swept an arm. “But first I’d like to introduce you to someone I’m sure you’ve seen around town.” He motioned to a round little man seated to his left. “This is Reggie of Reggie’s Camera over on Seventh and Main. Reggie had his store vandalized last week by the Mas Putos gang—for the third time. Reggie’s one of us now, and he’s generously donated dozens of video cameras and peripherals. 1

Darryl of Deuce Hardware, who unfortunately couldn’t make it tonight, has also upped his ante: we’re looking at cayenne spray, pagers, and air horns—vital equipment you’ll all become familiar with.” “So. As it turns out we’ve an important guest tonight.” He stepped behind a man seated to his left, placed his hands on the chair’s back. “This is Sergeant Larkin of LAPD. He’s better equipped to explain the ground rules to you newbies, so I’ll just shut up and get out of his way. Officer Larkin?” “Thanks, Gary.” The man replaced Bryce at center stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. The mayor’s office has agreed to give this fledgling operation a little breathing room, at least temporarily. I’ve been assigned to act as liaison, and to tender a report at a specific time as directed by the mayor; a report card, if you will. “Now, we have reams and reams of data—granted, gleaned mostly from hearsay, innuendo, and jailhouse gossip—that establish an outlaw motorcycle gang known as the O-TANZ—that’s short for Orangutans—as absolutely pivotal in pimping, in extortion, and in the distribution of methamphetamine and worse to the Caca de la Cabesas family, and to several other gangbanger groups in the inner city. What this means is that you must be very careful to not stir things up; there are bigger fish in this pool. Don’t intimidate, don’t elaborate, don’t advertise. Your sole objective, as reluctantly expressed by the mayor, is to dissuade lawbreakers from congregating in public, with the ultimate prayer they’ll become uncomfortable enough to move along permanently. “Understand that your open presence might paradoxically engender heightened public paranoia, rather than create a newfound sense of security. It’s just human nature. That’s why there are no uniforms or insignia permitted. Dress normally, radiate calm, be cool. Keep your equipment out of sight, don’t make eye contact unnecessarily. You will receive tonight a single source of identification—a business card with this organization’s name, logo, and cell numbers. Present this card to any peace officer upon demand; without it you’re just another loose cannon on the streets. You are civilians, period. Remember that. Do not argue with the police, do not argue with lawbreakers, do not argue with the public. This is only a civic experiment, and you are hereby forewarned to be on your very best behavior. Gary?” “Thank you, Officer Larkin. Folks, those words of wisdom cannot be echoed enough. I don’t want anybody hurt, so you’re required to follow your good sense in conjunction with the law.

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Refreshments are in the hall. I want you all to mingle freely and become good friends as well as good crusaders. So for now, thanks again for coming and welcome to C.F.B.—to Citizens Fighting Back.”

For Marla Deerst, C.F.B. was a revelation. She’d grown up the good girl, the shy girl; waiting, waiting, waiting. But Mr. Right never called, and her dreams of a law career peaked at court reporter. The workaday rut broke her down, week by week. Yet it was in this hum and peal of law that she grew increasingly aware of the human sewage oozing about the city’s underbelly. No real alarms were triggered—as with most normal, self-involved citizens, a healthy revulsion remained secloistered in the back of her mind—until she was treated to a home break-in, vandalized car, and brand new graffiti paint job on her walk and drive. C.F.B. gave her a look into like violations and similar victims, lending her a strong sense of community, almost of family. The first night out she went as part of a trainee team, and though it was a real eye-opener, it was kind of cool. They wore jogging suits with streamlined back-and fannypacks, courtesy of Sportmart. After a few startling on-camera incidents, hookers and johns opted for deeper shadows or relocated. Taggers became prone to abbreviation, dealers seemed to have vanished altogether. Gangbangers were the worst by far. These animals grow rowdier by the number, and tend to loiter in restless packs. Obsessive criminality makes them very observant. Marla was frequently threatened, mostly for not moving along quickly enough. She kept her pepper spray, packaged to appear as a lipstick tube, gripped in her hand at all times. Overall the program was successful. While there was plenty of harassment, and the occasional beating of a C.F.B. member, the streets of West L.A. gradually grew safer and more civil. C.F.B. headquarters became a minor landmark, and even the myopic L.A. Times ran a great piece in their Sunday morning Streets section. Marla, cuter than she realized, was one of the featured faces in the group-friendly collage. Small-time or not, it was a taste of celebrity. After that she grudgingly consented to stammering her way through an early morning radio talk show interview, resulting in a flood of fan mail and a couple of bizarre marriage proposals. It was giddy but brief. On the One Hundredth Day Anniversary, the party was cheerfully crashed by police representatives who presented Marla, the group’s de facto secretary, with a new 3

laptop as a symbol of C.F.B. approval, and, with the whole room craning, their guest speaker even unintentionally, perhaps, mispronounced her name Marla Dearest. She brought that laptop everywhere, plastered with crimebuster decals and riddled with wellwishers’ sentiments. As the attention waned she sank with it, and gladly. Marla was a loner at heart. It became a relief to drive home from work knowing C.F.B. was again a volunteer weekend affair—to know that she could turn on a local station without hearing the organization’s name, and feel, as she sat waiting the light on Sepulveda, that West L.A. was almost a different world—even though she, like every other decent driver, couldn’t help but grow aware of the broad obnoxious form wheeling insolently between lanes. Dangerous, aggressive, ugly, inconsiderate, the biker roared along mere inches from side-view mirrors, looming unpleasantly upon the lawful and meek. When the hog came alongside Marla’s Nissan, the rider clomped down his boots and walked his bike the few feet necessary to line up both vehicles’ front wheels. The biker kept his shoulders squared and his spiked helmet pointing high. She could see his reflection in his handlebars’ righthand mirror: the dark shades, the fat face, the overgrown beard. The gang name O-TANZ was sprawled across his mammoth back in red and gold, framing the mohawked-skull logo. The monster revved his machine needlessly, as though challenging the light. Again and again, louder each time. When the light hit green he immediately edged in front of the Nissan and proceeded to hold her at 5 mph. Marla honked and honked, and for every sounding of her horn the rider revved deeper, without putting on speed or looking back. She switched on her left-hand turn signal and attempted to go around, but the biker easily cut her off. Now honking continuously, she tried passing on the right; same result. Finally the bike came to a halt an inch from her front bumper: she couldn’t proceed without producing a collision. Marla honked maniacally, but the rider stared streaight ahead, absolutely motionless, an oblate monolith and monument to vulgarity. She was just reaching to lower the window when an instinct made her lock the doors instead. Marla pulled her videocamera from its case. When she looked back up she was the focal point of a hog stampede. Bikers pulled up on both sides and left the rear clear: the O-TANZ had learned, from decades of successful vehicle assault maneuvers, that panicky victims are wont to throw their cars in reverse.

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To her left, the leader posed grinning while three of his leash exposed themselves and hammed for the camera. Marla desperately looked in her rear-view: four bikers, twenty yards back, had placed flares and emergency cones in the lane and were waving traffic around. The beefy leader put a chained fist through the driver’s-side glass. A filthy smiling head leaned in. “Excuse me, ma’am. Did you call for road assistance?” He snatched her keys out of the ignition, tossed the ring over the roof. Another member unlocked the passenger door, tossed the keys back. The passenger door opened and an equally obnoxious brute slid in. He plucked the videocamera from Marla’s unresisting fingers. “My cash and cards are in the glove box,” she said levelly. “You can have the car. Please just let me keep my I.D. and the family pictures.” The leader worked his way in behind the wheel—Marla was now the soft white center in a fat hog sandwich. He patted the videocamera. “Oh, I think we’ve found what we came for.” Surprise lit his features. “Say, didn’t you know we’re producers? We’re shooting a porno movie.” He leaned in tight and Marla almost gagged. “Congratulations,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re gonna be a star.”

The warehouse was part wood, part sod, part corrugated tin. It must have sagged there for half a century; unoccupied, unrepaired, a derelict in both condition and memory. The property belonged to Warren Estates, and was periodically sub-leased for storage; the building itself was of no consideration. This was the suburbs’ boondocks—so off the beaten path a herd of bikers escorting a late model car went unnoticed. Marla was squeezed between large, leaning, hangar-like double doors. The interior was well illuminated, as the wasted walls and roof allowed scattered spears like slender spotlights. Perhaps a dozen O-TANZ lieutenants were watching over a crescent of C.F.B. members, sitting along one wall with their hands bound. Marla knew each personally—these were her friends, her extended family. But not one had the balls to acknowledge her directly. “You must be wondering,” the leader addressed Marla pleasantly, “why these guys aren’t gagged. That’s how they do it in the movies, right? That way nobody can scream.” He wagged his head. “Never understood that logic: screaming’s the best part.” He bowed. “And you must be Miss Deerst. Or is it Ms.? No real man can ever get that shit straight.” He covered his mouth and his eyes 5

grew wide. “Don’t tell me it’s Misses! And here you are, out partying with the boys. What would hubby and the kiddies say?” A snap of fingers. “Tell you what: it’ll just be Missy, at least as long as we’re dating. Well, Missy Miss Misses, Treefrog here’s been going over your computer’s files. Pretty tricky of you, labelling a folder C.F.B. right on your desktop, but we would’ve found it eventually. Get over here, Frog.” Treefrog pranced up holding Marla’s open laptop like a satin pillow. “Toshiba Satellite,” the leader mused. “Crappy battery life, but this won’t take long.” He dragged the folder into the recycle bin, opened the bin, selected the folder, and hit delete. “Oops.” He then lifted a purse, holding it like a soiled diaper. “And look what we found in your saddlebag, Missy: a Verizon broadband card.” He slid it into the port and opened the program. “Which browser are you using? Opera! My favorite too. I’m gonna take some liberties, Missy; I’ll only be a minute. I’m typing in Gopher’s YAHOO address here, la-de-da, and I’m emailing ol’ Goph’ a message. He’ll be glad to hear from you. The message is: Go.” He said in a faux aside: “That essentially means all borders are open—C.F. fucking B.’s out of business.” He turned to address the captives as a whole. “And now, folks, I hit SEND. Done! Anybody for pizza?” The beam abruptly left his face, and for no apparent reason he pointed directly at a bound young man seated near the end. “Fuck you.” He plucked a pepper spray canister off the collection table and sauntered over, saying, “How many dollars you costed our organization?” He sprayed the man right in the eyes, calling over the helpless howls, “Frog! Get back here!” Treefrog, picking up on the vibe, pulled a videocamera off the table and gleefully filmed the sitting captives being sprayed one by one. “How do you like it?” the big man snarled. “How’s about you? And you?” When he reached the end of the line he stuck his face right in Marla’s. “What’s the matter; your friends in pain? Well, how much pain do you think they caused my friends?” No getting around it; Marla was clearly his interest, rather than the group as a whole. He picked through the stacked C.F.B. protective arsenal, addressing her directly while Treefrog panned from speaker to captives, to Marla and back. “What the fuck are these? Air horns!” He grabbed one in each hand, blasting the seated prisoners right in the ears as Treefrog followed. “Not so much fun, are they? These things are made 6

for football crowds, not for scaring the shit out of folks.” He seized and raised a rubberized horseshoe-shaped object. “My, my; personal stun protection. What next, tasers?” Each captive received a harmless but vexing jolt. The leader propped his big dufus boot on the tabletop’s edge. “Now that’s protection.” He kicked the table over, sending C.F.B. property clattering across the floor. And now he turned and, almost anticlimactically, cupped his filthy paws on Marla’s breasts and kissed her flush on the mouth. That was bad enough, but the swift clam of his biker miasma was so profound she immediately flashed all over his face and beard. The O-TANZ laughed nervously. “Sorry,” Marla trembled. “Butterflies in my stomach.” The leader glared. “Not any more.” He plunged his head into a bucket of dirty water, wagged all over like a soaked dog, and wiped himself dry with his sleeves. “Come here.” Marla was dragged by the blouse to the table’s original location. The brute had two accomplices restrain her while another tossed a rope over a rafter. Her hands were bound with a torn T-shirt, then raised above her head and tied to the dangling rope. A hog hauled back on the other end. The leader, now the guest speaker for a sitting circle of horrified witnesses, casually indicated the woman strung like a marlin on a line. “Observe. Your pin-up pretty has elected to go hard core.” He ripped her blouse up and off as though he were a lecturer moving to the next page on an easel’s display chart. “Welcome to B.F.C.— Bikers Fucking Citizens.” The closing ring of hogs whooped and wheezed. The leader reached behind his love object and unfastened her bra, flung it into the crowd. “Girls! Catch!” Marla wept openly as she was forced to her knees. It was impossible to look to her friends, impossible to avoid the inevitable—for half a dozen relentless predators, positioned between her and their captive audience, had just dropped trou. Treefrog balanced the videocamera on his shoulder, peered into the viewfinder, and, seeking his beasthood with his free hand, called, “Action!” The big man shuffled up, fettered by his dragging pants, and dangled at eye-level for her assumed delectation. “You’ll notice,” he said pleasantly, “that you’re not being blindfolded.” He extemporized for his gleaming pals. “We’re not kinky; we’re just friendly.” 7

The scumbags all guffawed and, handling themselves with the group dexterity that comes only from long experience on the road, closed in for the coup de grace. The warehouse doors blew in from the impact of a police Hummer. Before the dust had cleared there were two dozen abashed bikers surrounded by LAPD and SWAT. A female officer draped a dropcloth over Marla, another cut her bonds. The entire C.F.B. crew was sequestered against the east wall while the bikers were placed under arrest. A man in shirt and tie stepped over. “I’m Detective Arthur Nathan Lawrence, liaison with L.A. Gangs Division and Federal. I realize how abrupt this is, considering all you’ve been through, and I’d like you to know you all have our deepest admiration.” He held up a hand. “Technology is a beautiful thing. Since virtually everybody doing C.F.B. was non-responsive to pagers and cells, our department, which has been following the O-TANZ for interstate violations involving everything from grand theft to child pornography, was placed on tactical alert. When the WI-FI switch was engaged on Ms. Deerst’s laptop, an internet global position indicator automatically alerted an operator as to your whereabouts. We got here as fast as we could.” He took a deep breath. “Congratulations to you all. I want you to know my superiors will be apprised of your operation’s efficacy, and I’m certain they’ll recommend commendations from the city and an extension of this program. All I can say personally is: thank you for placing law and order above personal safety. And may God bless a world of officers keeping the peace, communities helping out, and citizens fighting back.”

Thanks for reading C.F.B., one selection from the Mad From The Farting Crowd collection, a work in progress. In the meantime, why not blow your mind with my utterly unique novels: Microcosmia 8

Signature Freak and Carnival and take a trip through the literate maelstrom known as For Readers Only. And please don’t forget my lush morbid verse: Moth In The Fist— all available as free downloads right here at pdfcoke.

http://ronsandersatwork.com/ [email protected]

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