‘I told him to speak to you,’ the Führer said, before steaming off to the other room.
Joe grinned at Dante and whispered cheerfully, ‘My geeky brother’s about to get his butt kicked.’
Before Joe could explain, the Führer was back, dragging eleven-year-old Martin by his white school shirt.
‘What did I tell you, brat?’ the Führer shouted. Sandra and the other teenage girl backed off as Martin got bundled against the wall.
‘Talk to Teeth,’ Martin replied sheepishly. ‘I forgot.’
‘And what did you do?’ the Führer yelled, as he ripped the book out of his son’s hand. ‘Harry Potter!’ he snorted. ‘You spend the night reading some book about dragons and tomorrow you’ll go back to school and get your arse kicked again. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Screw you,’ Martin shouted defiantly. ‘Fighting never solved anything.’
There was a sharp crack as the Führer slapped his son’s face. He turned towards Teeth and Scotty and began an explanation.
‘Yesterday I caught this little bag of bones in the kitchen, crying to his mommy. Saying that some kid’s picking on him at school. Can you imagine that? My son, the school punchbag. So I brought him down here tonight and told him to get Teeth to show him some moves. So what does he do?’
Joe seemed to enjoy watching his big brother getting whacked and couldn’t resist stirring it. ‘He can’t help it, Dad,’ Joe blurted. ‘He’s a natural born geekburger.’
Teeth spoke more sympathetically. ‘It’s not hard you know, Martin? Four or five sessions will teach you enough to stick up for yourself. I’ll be happy to meet you up here a few afternoons after school and help you out.’
‘I don’t want to learn to fight,’ Martin said angrily. ‘I’ll deal with this my way.’
‘What’s your way?’ the Führer roared. ‘Cry to mommy? Pay off the bully with a bag of sweeties?’
‘I’m a pacifist,’ Martin said, as he scowled at his dad. ‘I’m not like you, Dad. I don’t want to pick up an iron bar and break a guy’s back, like with that dude you put in a wheelchair.’
The Führer wrenched Martin forward before thumping him against the wall again. ‘You’ll be in a wheelchair if you don’t get up in that ring. And the next time I see you reading I’ll shove the damned book up your arse.’
Martin got hitched off the ground and thrust violently between the ropes around the ring. He moaned as his hip slammed down on the planks. People had heard the ruckus and were filtering through from the bar to see why the Führer was yelling.
‘One step out of that ring and I’ll break your skinny neck,’ the Führer warned.
Martin clutched his painful hip as he staggered towards the far side of the ring, but he wasn’t trying to escape. He’d eyed Teeth’s Brigands M.C. jacket hooked over the corner post and when he got there he picked it up by the collar and spat on the patch.
Dante’s jaw dropped. A biker’s patch is a sacred object. It wasn’t unknown for people to get a beating for accidentally brushing up against a patch in a crowded bar. If any adult had spat on Teeth’s patch in a Brigands clubhouse, they’d be unlikely to make it out alive.
‘That’s what I think of your stupid ass motorcycle club,’ Martin shouted defiantly, as he spat again and then gave his dad the finger.
‘You little bastard,’ the Führer snarled, as he grabbed the top rope and started clambering up into the ring.
‘Oh you big brave man,’ Martin shouted back. ‘Let all your cronies cheer while you beat up your eleven-year-old son.’
Joe didn’t like his brother much, but he didn’t want to watch him die either. ‘Martin, shut your stupid mouth,’ he begged. ‘Dad’s gonna kill you!’
‘Screw you as well,’ Martin yelled back. ‘You just copy everything Dad does.’
More people were coming into the back room from the bar. Outrage flashed through the gathering as everyone found out that Martin had spat on Teeth’s patch.
The Führer had a vile temper, and Teeth didn’t want his president doing something to Martin he’d regret later. So he grabbed him around the waist and pulled him down off the ropes. Teeth was twice the size of the Führer, but he struggled to keep hold. Scotty and another biker waded in to help.
‘He’s a kid acting out, boss,’ Scotty said. ‘Calm down. I know you don’t really want to hurt him.’
‘That’s not my son,’ the Führer screamed, as he pointed at Martin. ‘When I get my hands on