Frankie’s Friends

Flash Fiction

Through the fisheye peephole, Frankie eyeballed a pair of Hells Angels outside the front door. Bigfoot raised a balled fist as Viking palmed a Glock. When a Hell’s Angel whips out a cannon, it’s not show and tell time.

Running low on coin and safe houses, Frankie arrived at his girlfriend’s apartment. Bonnie agreed to take Frankie in on account it would be a quick stay, which looked about right.

The Angels were Frankie’s pot partners who chased him to hell and back before converging at Bonnie’s. Since slipping into hock, these two stink dogs sent Frankie on the lam for three lousy large. Viking and Bigfoot were the bank, while Frankie handled the street — what they call ‘door-to-door’.

Frankie’s been on the run all week. Hiding in museums and other cultural habitats while blocking his cell. The rest was spent in a motor lodge before a manager connected the Harley Davidson’s circling the complex to Frankie, and kicked him out.

As Bonnie’s door blasted off the hinges, Frankie and his Hush Puppies were halfway down the fire escape. A soft landing next to a pair of parked hogs with chrome skulls, ape-hanger handle bars, and the Angels’ logo branded on the teardrop fuel tanks. Instead of marveling over the dream machines, Frankie erupted down the street as if humping a jet pack.

In Frankie’s mind, he didn’t steal the money, but he did miss the drop. Frankie was also a degenerate gambler, indebted to a bookie over a bad bet.

That’s how the Angels’ proceeds ended up with the mob. En-route to the Angel’s clubhouse, the gangsters followed Frankie and cornered him first. A bum break for this chooch and too late now.

Frankie heard the chrome pipes cranking up. Once the Angels lifted off and turned the corner, he’d be road kill. Frankie slashed some alleys, hopped a few walls, and managed to ditch the firebirds for now.

If Frankie had a gun, he’d shoot the place kicker who muffed a chip shot field goal. He’s the reason Frankie’s running for his skin. How does a pro shank a twenty yard gimme? Not to mention a kick that would have mailed his team to the Super Bowl and covered Frankie’s point spread. Good heavens.

Tired of running, Frankie returned to his senses and decided to turn himself in. He reached the Angel’s clubhouse and entered the church in his chewed up Hush Puppies. Frankie searched out his pals to apologize and work out a payment plan for the missing scratch.

Out of principal, Bigfoot and Viking lead Frankie to a funky dungeon with black lights and chains on the wall. After a playful game of monkey in the middle, Frankie left the romper room with chipped teeth and a crooked smile.

Business is business, even in places like this. All was forgotten as Frankie lined a pair of doctor bags with fresh medicine. Bigfoot bro-hugged Frankie and Viking buried the Glock. The gang left the hangout as three amigos, back to the best-friends-forever gig.

Once Frankie returned to his flat, he sliced a sample and rolled a hefty joint. He sparked her up and took a deep toke. Great stuff and better than expected. He’d have no trouble moving this hooch.

Pot rich and cash poor, Frankie’s luck was about to change and he felt it. Not all milk and honey with his refried buddies from the motorcycle gang. Viking and Bigfoot already warned Frankie he had one week to unload and return to the chapter with ten large, or else.

Frankie’s clients were going to enjoy one helluva high and the Angels a whopper profit. That’s when Frankie reached for his cell phone. Already counting the incoming dough, Frankie called his bookie to lay ten grand on the Super Bowl.