EXCERPT

From an original 10,000 word story titled
THE MECHANIC'S TALE
by Jim Stewart
inspired by the drawings of "Joe T."

THE STORY BEGINS

When he’d first landed up in this one-horse town four weeks ago he was in no mood to make friends.
His Harley had been almost trashed when a truck ran him off the road. The local Sheriff’s office had given him a seriously hard time, refusing to file his complaint against the three young guys in the truck. They were ‘kin’ and he was a stranger, a New Yorker and travelling in well-worn bike leathers and scuffed Engineer boots – so, somebody to be suspicious of ...

That is the background story I'd dreamed up for the 'Mechanic' character in Joe T's picture. With his bike in need of new parts and no cash, the biker had found work in a run-down garage ...

As crap days go it had been the worst so far. At seven in the morning a shitty, clapped-out truck arrived to get working for a drinking crony of the boss, Old Gus. The patch-up job was a waste of time, and forget any kind of tip or even a ‘Thank you’. Then the usual backlog of clogged carburettors, leaking gas tanks and finally a disintegrating muffler almost inaccessible under a filthy chassis with a leaking sump.

His borrowed coveralls stank of oil and grease and were sticking to his butt, and he’d dribbled sump oil all over the old-fashioned canvas baseball boots he worked in. But the spares he needed to repair his wrecked Harley had arrived. In the dreary weeks he’d been trapped in this hick town he’d earned enough to cover their cost. If he pitched in tonight and all weekend, he could reassemble his bike and be back to civilisation in two or three days.

As usual around mid afternoon, Old Gus, after sleeping off his lunchtime booze, had wandered off for the rest of the day. Casually, as he was leaving, the old man announced he wouldn’t be in tomorrow - because he had an important engagement down by the river. Pete was relieved – because he could now put all the effort into his own bike. He’d more than earned his keep for Gus that day and even tomorrow.

The other character in the original picture, I'd decided was ...

Big Dunk (Duncan, for God’s sake), was overpaid because of his family connections, and something of a bully with the guys who worked for him. As a local Romeo he also spent a lot of time at the local gym (owned by a cousin). It paid off, because he was built like a brick shit house – and he knew it. His kid brother was one of the three in the truck that started all Pete’s problems, and ‘Dunk’ had gone head-to-head with Pete during his first hours in town. In fact, yet another of Dunk’s cousins was a Deputy in his uncle the sheriff’s department. There was a time when Big Dunk might also have gone into the police, but he could earn more money in the gravel pitsand would eventually them.

The new Harley Classic Special had appeared on the scene shortly after Pete’s wreck. No doubt about it, it was a deliberate gesture of contempt for Pete, and the whole town knew it. Same with the new leathers; Dunk was suddenly strutting around town in immaculate, expensive leathers from Langlitz and knee-high boots which Pete recognised as Wesco ‘Boss’ 20 inch hi-leg. The top-of-the-range jacket, pants, vest and even chaps if you please had been paraded deliberately when Pete was on his way to or from the diner or grocery store. Big Dunk’s cronies sniggered as openly as they dared, but Pete knew he could not win – so didn’t play their games.

When Dunk arrived at the garage demanding that the mechanic should drop everying and make a minor adjustment to Dunks bike ... it was a tense situation ... and the local man could really cause trouble for the out-of-towner.

Pete knew this man would push his advantage all the way - and so he controlled his feelings. "OK," he said as he walked back into the garage, determined not to witness the gleam of triumph in his opponent's eyes. "Wheel the bike in. I'll help you guide it onto the clamp-stand."

Left to collapse the side-stand and wheel the bike into the shaded workshop, Dunk followed to where the neat little steel ramp on which a bike could be clamped firm without damaging it, stood ready.
Pete instructed "Front wheel comes through the stand and then the back clamp flips up to hold it all steady. See the lock?"
"Got it" said Big Dunk as Pete knelt before the front wheel to firm the second clamp.
"Now," said the mechanic with careful politeness, "if you wouldn't mind sitting astride, you can flex as I test the cable." - and Dunk flexed.

As he approached the bike he flexed his arms and naked chest and abdomen under the leather vest.
Then before lifting one heavily leathered leg and boot over the bike he flexed his knees for the benefit of the kneeling mechanic. His shining crotch arched as he settled astride the gleaming bike.
"These are new," he said "but the guy at Langlitz advised buying them tight so they can wear in." He hitched the heavy belt at the low waist. "Tight!" he said, thrusting a hand down inside the pants and adjusted his tackle, smiling down knowingly at Pete as he did it.

This time Pete didn't look away. "I bet the leather feels good" he conceded.
"It all feels good," glowed the man in the saddle, running his hands over shiny thighs and stretching the heavy cleated boots forward because the bike stand now held everything rigid. "These are great, aren't they. Lot of lustful looks when these are out on Main Street, I can tell you." A boot edged it's way in the direction of Pete's knee. "Just feel the quality of those soles - and those buckles. Go on - feel them?"

Embarrassed, Pete reached out with one hand and laid it on the toe-cap of a boot. The wearer shifted the other boot forward until both were stretched along the ramp, either side of the clamped front wheel. He had to lean back to push the boots forward. He gripped the pillion and lifted his hips slightly, the leather creaking against the scooped saddle, and the leathered legs and boots reaching towards the kneeling mechanic. Pete deliberately put down the wrench he was holding, and his other hand reached for the other boot. His two grimy hands now felt around the feet and sole of the unscuffed boots.

"Don't they feet great!" insisted Dunk as he brought his hands forward and slid them down his leather legs to his knees. Pete's hands moved from the strapped ankles of the boots up their long, tough leather length to where two pairs of buckles held them tight above the calves. Dunk's hands slid down his legs towards the boots and Pete, seemingly without intention, kept his hands just out of reach of the seated biker.

Dunks voice was silky smooth. "When I first saw you and your bike, I realised that was something I wanted to have; a bike and leathers. Never given it any serious thought before, a bike and biking buddies. Not that there's many likely candidates in this sad town. I guess you hang out with some weird characters where you live. New York is it?"
"Queens" said Pete, seeming to accept this questioning.
"Yes. Leokazowski, was it? Leokazowski - Queens. Yes. My cousin showed me the file. Police always run a check on anybody involved in a local 'accident'. He was quite impressed by your record. Not that it matters to me, of course - but it's not something to get noised around the town. Your secret's safe with me," he smiled.

The mechanic considered his options - and his hands stayed on the boots as he raised his gaze directly into the eyes of the other man and said carefully,"You like the idea of Big City bikers - taking no shit from anybody - getting into fights with other bike gangs and spick punks. Hell's Angels - but not angels at all, right. You like the idea of ruthless hard-men who obey no rules - welcome a no holds barred rough and tumble?
The thick boot ankles squirmed at the thought, and Dunk leaned forward across the handlebars, and the voice was deliberately challenging. "Tough - streetwise - ex-con" he said, eyes locked with those of the kneeling man. "I like to know who I'm dealing with - and I'm used to bringing the best out in the men around me. Demanding the best effort. The gang who work the gravel with me know how to knuckle under, believe me. If you play your cards right, Leo-whatever-your-fucking-name-is, I could make the rest of your stay in this township … shall we say, interesting."
Pete slowly removed his hands from the other man's boots - and rubbed them on his own oil-stained thighs, thoughtfully. "I'm sure you could," he said quietly. Then, he licked his lips and seemed to reach a decision about the possibilities on offer.

He nodded, and repeated thoughtfully, "I'm sure you could … " but his sentence seemed to be deliberately left hanging in the air, somehow incomplete - and the other man picked up the hint and nodded.
"Yes. On your first day here in the Sheriff's Office, you were calling my cousin Jake, sir. You kept your cool very well. I would think you're not used to calling people, sir ... except in jail."
Pete's eyes held those of the man towering above him as he risked ... "Yes, that took a great effort, calling that dip-shit deputy, sir."
After a pause Dunk allowed himself a smile. "Cousin Jake is something of a dip-shit - but more likely to get his shit-dipped into - if you follow me. When we were kids I was always the one making the running. Play your cards right … Leo … and we might have some high-old times together. Strictly on my terms, you understand. That's how it's always been and that's how I like it. Are you gonna fix that fucking brake?"
"Yes, sir!" said Pete with sudden resolution, "I'm going to fix everything."

Big Dunk sat back, satisfied and Pete, after a thoughtful pause, turned his attention back to the brake disc ... before looking back up into the expectant face.
"Now … sir … " he began tentatively, "What I need is for you to grip the two grips … please."
The brawny arms spread wide to take firm grips on the two rubber sheaths. The mechanic watched with what seemed to be appreciation.
"Now flex the front brake trigger - please." Pete's eyes went down to the brake disc. "Flex it again - now stop - now - firmer grip on both grips - really lock your palms round them - like you were giving somebody a real good time." The kneeling man smiled up, and the seated man enjoyed the sensation at his fingertips. "Now, can you see this bleed cap?" asked the mechanic? … and Dunk leaned his chest flat down across the tank to peer over the handlebars. "Keep your hands on both grips" instructed Pete, "and keep an eye down here," he insisted, pointing between the front calliper.
"Shit, I need a smaller wrench - don't let go - and keep your eye on that bleed valve."

Dunk did precisely as told, and so he didn't see the thick bungee strap with hooks on either end until the tough rubber was down across the back of his neck, around under the headlamps and back up again, dragging his chest tight against the bike; his thick neck pulled down by the industrial strength rubber and steel hooks.

His hands, still gripping the handlebars were now higher than his chest, elbows even higher and well bent. In his shock, it took time to release his grip and start to feel for the hooks that held the bungee cord in place. This delay allowed just enough time for Pete to start wrapping another bungee cord around elbows, as hands groped blindly for the hooks holding the neck. Elbows were soon forced together and being dragged down behind the leather-covered back. Three wraps, and still the rubber strip was long enough to hook the two hooks low on the bike frame, one on one side and the other on the opposite side. A third strip of rubber soon held the waist tight to the deep-scoop saddle and Big Dunk was belly down, ass up and legs too disoriented to do any damage. The clamp-stand held the bike firm and three simple bungee straps held the powerful wanna'be biker strapped to his own machine.

His yelling and cursing went unnoticed by the mechanic, who was busy hauling first one and then the other high-legged boot forward to anchor them to the fork over the front wheel. Rising from his knees, he was now in a position to survey his handiwork. He was turned on, watching the writhing form, the flexing straps which promise hope of escape but always dragged the powerful body back down against the bike. The uncomfortable position of legs forward and chest forward and arms pinioned backwards, inescapable even without the wrists fixed, was all great to watch. Pete took time to savour the situation - and speculate on how he would respond if it were happening to him. There had been times …

But the mechanic dragged his mind back to the present, and walked calmly away to the workbench. Dunk strained his head upwards against the rubber to yell "What the fuck you think … " but he stopped at the sight of the roll of wide duct tape in Pete's hands. Desperately he struggled as he felt one wrist being circled. But strain as he might, he could not see to evade the winding of the tape. With elbows tightly pinioned it was no contest however much he tried to resist. Wrists were soon solidly bound together by the unbreakable tape.

Dunk's mouth had not been as busy during this battle of the wrists, but now he was ready to open his mouth wide and recommence his yelling … when the crotch of Pete's greasy coveralls loomed close to his head. A hand lifted his chin painfully against the tug of the double rubber strap which dragged his neck downwards. The crotch pressed closer to the angry face, which was then slowly and deliberately embedded into the fabric and whatever lay beneath. After a couple of provocative thrusts, the crotch drew back and a voice from on high said quietly: "Now is the time to keep quiet, Duncan."

But Big Dunk was in no mood to keep quiet. He opened his mouth to speak and it was immediately filled by a small ball of some kind, and tape was circling his jaw and chin and around the back of his head.
"Oh, Duncan, Duncan, you pushed your luck and your luck ran out," said Pete.

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