Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
Casketslinger
Star
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2016
James 'Coffinhunter' White stood 6'4" and weighed almost 260lbs, he was big and muscular and covered in intimidating tattoos. He had short-cut, dark slicked back hair and dark eyes, with a scar running down the side of his square jawline and every inch of him looked the part of an enforcer for the country's most notorious motorcycle gang, The Devil's Disciples.
He'd gotten the macabre nickname from his cohorts by how dangerously he rode his motorcycle, they'd said he rode like he was hunting for his coffin and the moniker stuck. Although he was still fairly new to the organization, having only earned his patch a year prior, he'd quickly rose through the ranks and was currently a lieutenant and head of what the gang called, the wrecking crew, meaning he was allowed to sit in at the big table where all the major decision making for the gang took place.
The DDMC's current President was a man named Hector 'Heck' Tingue nicknamed 'Blood'. He was as dangerous as he was intelligent and had taken the gang from a two-bit gang of thugs, to an international organized crime syndicate in the five years he'd been in charge. Before his reign of terror, the DDMC might have been guilty of dealing small scale pot or carrying the occasional unregistered firearm,where as now they were suspected of Gun trafficking, and the manufacturing of Methamphetamine on a grand scale.
Heck had managed to arrange alliances with the Russian Mafia in New York as well as the South American drug cartels and although he was on most federal and state law enforcement agencies watch lists, they'd yet to actually catch him doing anything that would stick. The ATF had taken an especially strong interest in the MC's activities and labeled Blood their White Whale, because no matter how hard they tried to apprehend him, he always managed to slip the noose.
This is where James came into the picture, he wasn't actually the hardened criminal that he appeared to be. The truth was that James Tiberon, not White, was actually an undercover federal agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms better known as the ATF. He was a former Marine who'd joined the state police after his two tours of duty in Iraq and during his training in the police academy he'd been approached by the federals for a very this special mission. The infiltration and eventual destruction of a notorious motorcycle gang was the sales pitch, and it sounded like something the war hardened action junkie was more suited for than sitting on the sides of highway's eating doughnuts and chastising speeding motorists. James practically jumped at the chance.
Of course he had no idea what he was in for when he signed up, but soon found out. He had to completely dissolve his former identity, ceasing all contact with his family or friends from his former life. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, James Tiberon had died a hero in Iraq and he was now James White, a former marine with PTSD turned criminal and known killer fresh out of prison and looking to make a name for himself. His only connection to who he formily was would be a single man, Agent Harry Carlson would be the only person on the planet who knew who he actually was.
It wasn't just letting his hair grow shaggy and not shaving his face either, he had to get tattooed and minor plastic surgery to attain a far more permenant form of disguise. And once the physical transformation was complete he was forced to do a short stint in prison to complete the fascade. James was tough, both physically and mentally but after his release he found out just how hard this mission truly would be. He was tasked with getting the DDMC's attention and that was done by hurting people. Bar fights, street brawls, run ins with the police all par for the course but it wasn't until they actually agreed to prospect him that he saw the true depths he was going to have to sink to, to gain their acceptance.
The gang wouldn't ever accept anyone until they witnessed you doing a felony crime to be sure you weren't a cop. James was tasked with murder, killing a rival gang member. Agent Carlson had arranged it so that James wouldn't have to actually kill anyone, and that the suposed victim would end up in witness protection, but things didn't go to plan and James ened up actually killing the man.
Agent Carlson had assured him that the murder would be written up as self defense and that it was good for his cover, but James still had nightmares from his conscious torturing him over the heinous act. This was nothing like the kills he'd chalked up in the military, this was something far more visceral and he simply couldn't shake it but he was in too deep now, and there was no turning back.
The funniest thing was that in that first year, James found himself actually growing fond of these delinquents he was being forced to hang out with. Not at first of course, but the longer he spent with them the more he could see their good traits instead of their bad ones. It was kinda like the guys in his squad when he was enlisted in the military. Sure many of them were annoying or down right despicable when you first met them, but as time went by and you realized that these same guys had your back in a firefight, you stopped seeing the bad shit and only saw them as comrades.
Soon he even found himself omitting gathered evidence against some of them, so that the case the ATF was building wouldn't reflect so badly on them. Agent Carlson would have shit a solid gold brick if he'd known, but he didn't. He was like a mushroom for James, feed him shit and keep him in the dark. He was happy to have anything James was willing to give, and James was happy to loose anything that was overly incriminating to guys that were genuinely decent guys, even if they'd chosen this life of crime. Blood was the sole exception, anything James could get on him was immediately rendered over to Agent Carlson, the problem was that it was almost nothing. Blood rarely ever got his actual hands dirty, allowing his willing cronies the heavy lifting in the actual criminal enterprises.
Today, Friday July 29th, 2016 James awoke in his own bed after being away for almost three weeks. He'd been assigned almost a month ago to travel from their home turf in Oregon, down to New Orleans to investigate missing cargo shipments the South American Cartel were complaining about. He and his Wrecking Crew had sussed out the corrupt Dock workers and dealt with them, making Blood happy, as well as Agent Carlson in the process. But his vacation was over now and he'd been ordered to report to the clubhouse for his next assignment.
James dressed but didn't shower, instead a simple shellacing of hair grease to lay his pillow headed hair into place and his uniform. Leather pants, and heavy steel toed motorcycle boots, a wife beater, and his 'cut'. A cut was usually a denim jacket sans sleeves which held your colors. It was usually worn over a leather jacket, but today was too hot for that and he'd chosen to go with out his jacket. On the back of the cut was the Devil's Disciples insignia, a red horned devil holding a pitch fork in one hand and the world in the other. 'Rockers' framed the top and bottom of the main symbol, these were name of your club on top, and the bottom rocker read the territory that your gang laid claim to. Next to that was an MC patch, and on the other side was the most important patch, it read 1%er and it meant you were the baddest of the bad. The front of the cut was mostly decorative badges, a nickname, "Coffinhunter", a gun patch which was symbolic of killing for the club, a set of menacing eyes, meaning he'd watched out for the clubs interests over his own and finally his position in the club, head enforcer, Lieutenant.
Into the rear of his waistband James tucked his 357 revolver, a final look in the mirror to reassure his confidence in his cover and he was ready to ride. He walked out of the dive house he'd rented since first taking the role of James White and hopped on to his classic Knucklehead chopper, hitting the ignition and kick starting the faded maroon beast to life. A wild wheelie down the small suburban street and he was off like a bat out of hell.
Thirty minutes later, on a ride that should have taken 45 minutes, James rolled into the parking lot of the Devil's Den. The bar had been a failed redneck dive before Blood had purchased it and turned it into the DDMC's clubhouse, now it was a fortified fortress. He parked his bike, disembarked and walked up to the front entrance where two young prospects stood, trying their hardest to look tough. James only nodded as he walked by and entered unobstructed.
As soon as he entered the smoke filled bar area several of the men turned and gave him a nod, he was well liked here. James scanned the faces of the crowd and saw the usual suspects; Denver, Skank, Astro, Creep, Ratfuck, Heathen, and Barry the Bump. All of these men would eventually spend time in federal prison or end up dead in a hail of gunfire and all because of the cases James himself had built against them. He nodded back without a hint of guilt and walked to the table where where his crew was seated.
The Wrecking Crew were a gang within the gang, run by Coffinhunter, they were tasked with the business of hurting people when the DDMC deemed it necessary. Turpentine, Geiger, Vader and Lil Hank were four of the toughest sons of bitches James had known since he was in the Marines and he considered each and everyone of them to be his friends.
"Sup Coffin, how'd that shit pan out man?" Turpentine asked, pulling his whiskey sour up and taking a swig at 10 am in the morning.
"Good, I got it all handled, how was the ride back?" He responded and sat down at the table.
"You a smooth operator, that's why Blood pays ya the big bucks. The ride was good, ran into a 'statey' around Utah, he didn't fair too well." Turp answered and slid a beer over to his Lieutenant. James took it and nodded, scanning the crowd, all of which looked familiar except one, a chick standing over near the booth seats at the back of the clubhouse. These were the seats Blood and his VP usually sat at when conducting business, and sure enough they were there, and talking with someone, but James couldn't make out who.
"Who's the new Dame?" James asked, tipping his beer bottle in her direction.
"Don't know, prolly one of Blood's side bitches." Turp answered.
"Where's Denise?" James asked. Denise was Blood's real Ol' lady, his bottom bitch. Sure the guy had plenty of girlfriends but Denise was his wife and an old school biker broad from the boots up. She was the MC's mother figure and her word carried almost as much weight as Blood's own.
"Skipped town, heard they had some big blow out while we were down in NOLA. Now he's been hanging with that pretty new one." Vader spoke up.
"And Blood has her standing in while he's conducting business? That don't seem strange to anyone else?" James asked.
"Hey man, I don't make the rules, I just play by them." Vader said and smirked.
James got up from the table and started over toward the table, it was hard to tell what the new girl looked like, but even in the smokey atmosphere he could see she was as hot as a two dollar pistol. But as he approached the VP, Hannibal stood and held up a hand to stop James' advance.
"What's up Han?" James asked.
"Not much, Blood's just finishing up a meeting, he'll be with you shortly." Hannibal said, standing in front of James with his arms folded.
After a few minutes Blood concluded his meeting and the man he'd been conversing with stood to leave. His back still to James, the first thing James saw was the patch on the guy's back. It was a feral dog wearing a sombrero, Los Perros Locos were a rival motorcycle gang and as the man turned he saw a familiar face. Jose 'Blanco' Rodriguez, an enforcer for the Crazy Dogs, was a man that held the same position as James did in his own organization, except Jose wasn't an undercover cop, he was the real deal, a man that would gladly shoot and old lady or a child in the face if ordered to.
Jose's eyes came up to meet James' and the two locked onto each other's gaze for a brief second before Jose pushed passed him, bumping shoulders as he did so. James turned back to meet Blood's gaze and saw the boss motioning him over.
"Hey man what the fuck was that about?" James asked as he approached the table, taking another second to eye the pretty girl up and down again.
"Don't fucking worry about it, if you need to know, I'll be the one to tell you, how'd NOLA go?" Blood asked, chewing his toothpick and staring at James through his blacked out sunglasses. The bar was dark, but that never stopped Blood from wearing shades, the guy was rarely ever without them.
"NOLA is handled, the cartel won't be having any more shipments go missing from the docks. So who's this fine little thing, what happened to Denise, she's practically a staple round here?" James asked, nodding toward the gorgeous girl standing next to Blood's booth.
"Denise had to take a vacation..." Blood said coldly and then turned to the beautiful biker babe posted up next to him. "...Well don't just stand there looking good, introduce yourself to my Lieutenant Coffinhunter." Blood instructed the young pretty woman.
He'd gotten the macabre nickname from his cohorts by how dangerously he rode his motorcycle, they'd said he rode like he was hunting for his coffin and the moniker stuck. Although he was still fairly new to the organization, having only earned his patch a year prior, he'd quickly rose through the ranks and was currently a lieutenant and head of what the gang called, the wrecking crew, meaning he was allowed to sit in at the big table where all the major decision making for the gang took place.
The DDMC's current President was a man named Hector 'Heck' Tingue nicknamed 'Blood'. He was as dangerous as he was intelligent and had taken the gang from a two-bit gang of thugs, to an international organized crime syndicate in the five years he'd been in charge. Before his reign of terror, the DDMC might have been guilty of dealing small scale pot or carrying the occasional unregistered firearm,where as now they were suspected of Gun trafficking, and the manufacturing of Methamphetamine on a grand scale.
Heck had managed to arrange alliances with the Russian Mafia in New York as well as the South American drug cartels and although he was on most federal and state law enforcement agencies watch lists, they'd yet to actually catch him doing anything that would stick. The ATF had taken an especially strong interest in the MC's activities and labeled Blood their White Whale, because no matter how hard they tried to apprehend him, he always managed to slip the noose.
This is where James came into the picture, he wasn't actually the hardened criminal that he appeared to be. The truth was that James Tiberon, not White, was actually an undercover federal agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms better known as the ATF. He was a former Marine who'd joined the state police after his two tours of duty in Iraq and during his training in the police academy he'd been approached by the federals for a very this special mission. The infiltration and eventual destruction of a notorious motorcycle gang was the sales pitch, and it sounded like something the war hardened action junkie was more suited for than sitting on the sides of highway's eating doughnuts and chastising speeding motorists. James practically jumped at the chance.
Of course he had no idea what he was in for when he signed up, but soon found out. He had to completely dissolve his former identity, ceasing all contact with his family or friends from his former life. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, James Tiberon had died a hero in Iraq and he was now James White, a former marine with PTSD turned criminal and known killer fresh out of prison and looking to make a name for himself. His only connection to who he formily was would be a single man, Agent Harry Carlson would be the only person on the planet who knew who he actually was.
It wasn't just letting his hair grow shaggy and not shaving his face either, he had to get tattooed and minor plastic surgery to attain a far more permenant form of disguise. And once the physical transformation was complete he was forced to do a short stint in prison to complete the fascade. James was tough, both physically and mentally but after his release he found out just how hard this mission truly would be. He was tasked with getting the DDMC's attention and that was done by hurting people. Bar fights, street brawls, run ins with the police all par for the course but it wasn't until they actually agreed to prospect him that he saw the true depths he was going to have to sink to, to gain their acceptance.
The gang wouldn't ever accept anyone until they witnessed you doing a felony crime to be sure you weren't a cop. James was tasked with murder, killing a rival gang member. Agent Carlson had arranged it so that James wouldn't have to actually kill anyone, and that the suposed victim would end up in witness protection, but things didn't go to plan and James ened up actually killing the man.
Agent Carlson had assured him that the murder would be written up as self defense and that it was good for his cover, but James still had nightmares from his conscious torturing him over the heinous act. This was nothing like the kills he'd chalked up in the military, this was something far more visceral and he simply couldn't shake it but he was in too deep now, and there was no turning back.
The funniest thing was that in that first year, James found himself actually growing fond of these delinquents he was being forced to hang out with. Not at first of course, but the longer he spent with them the more he could see their good traits instead of their bad ones. It was kinda like the guys in his squad when he was enlisted in the military. Sure many of them were annoying or down right despicable when you first met them, but as time went by and you realized that these same guys had your back in a firefight, you stopped seeing the bad shit and only saw them as comrades.
Soon he even found himself omitting gathered evidence against some of them, so that the case the ATF was building wouldn't reflect so badly on them. Agent Carlson would have shit a solid gold brick if he'd known, but he didn't. He was like a mushroom for James, feed him shit and keep him in the dark. He was happy to have anything James was willing to give, and James was happy to loose anything that was overly incriminating to guys that were genuinely decent guys, even if they'd chosen this life of crime. Blood was the sole exception, anything James could get on him was immediately rendered over to Agent Carlson, the problem was that it was almost nothing. Blood rarely ever got his actual hands dirty, allowing his willing cronies the heavy lifting in the actual criminal enterprises.
Today, Friday July 29th, 2016 James awoke in his own bed after being away for almost three weeks. He'd been assigned almost a month ago to travel from their home turf in Oregon, down to New Orleans to investigate missing cargo shipments the South American Cartel were complaining about. He and his Wrecking Crew had sussed out the corrupt Dock workers and dealt with them, making Blood happy, as well as Agent Carlson in the process. But his vacation was over now and he'd been ordered to report to the clubhouse for his next assignment.
James dressed but didn't shower, instead a simple shellacing of hair grease to lay his pillow headed hair into place and his uniform. Leather pants, and heavy steel toed motorcycle boots, a wife beater, and his 'cut'. A cut was usually a denim jacket sans sleeves which held your colors. It was usually worn over a leather jacket, but today was too hot for that and he'd chosen to go with out his jacket. On the back of the cut was the Devil's Disciples insignia, a red horned devil holding a pitch fork in one hand and the world in the other. 'Rockers' framed the top and bottom of the main symbol, these were name of your club on top, and the bottom rocker read the territory that your gang laid claim to. Next to that was an MC patch, and on the other side was the most important patch, it read 1%er and it meant you were the baddest of the bad. The front of the cut was mostly decorative badges, a nickname, "Coffinhunter", a gun patch which was symbolic of killing for the club, a set of menacing eyes, meaning he'd watched out for the clubs interests over his own and finally his position in the club, head enforcer, Lieutenant.
Into the rear of his waistband James tucked his 357 revolver, a final look in the mirror to reassure his confidence in his cover and he was ready to ride. He walked out of the dive house he'd rented since first taking the role of James White and hopped on to his classic Knucklehead chopper, hitting the ignition and kick starting the faded maroon beast to life. A wild wheelie down the small suburban street and he was off like a bat out of hell.
Thirty minutes later, on a ride that should have taken 45 minutes, James rolled into the parking lot of the Devil's Den. The bar had been a failed redneck dive before Blood had purchased it and turned it into the DDMC's clubhouse, now it was a fortified fortress. He parked his bike, disembarked and walked up to the front entrance where two young prospects stood, trying their hardest to look tough. James only nodded as he walked by and entered unobstructed.
As soon as he entered the smoke filled bar area several of the men turned and gave him a nod, he was well liked here. James scanned the faces of the crowd and saw the usual suspects; Denver, Skank, Astro, Creep, Ratfuck, Heathen, and Barry the Bump. All of these men would eventually spend time in federal prison or end up dead in a hail of gunfire and all because of the cases James himself had built against them. He nodded back without a hint of guilt and walked to the table where where his crew was seated.
The Wrecking Crew were a gang within the gang, run by Coffinhunter, they were tasked with the business of hurting people when the DDMC deemed it necessary. Turpentine, Geiger, Vader and Lil Hank were four of the toughest sons of bitches James had known since he was in the Marines and he considered each and everyone of them to be his friends.
"Sup Coffin, how'd that shit pan out man?" Turpentine asked, pulling his whiskey sour up and taking a swig at 10 am in the morning.
"Good, I got it all handled, how was the ride back?" He responded and sat down at the table.
"You a smooth operator, that's why Blood pays ya the big bucks. The ride was good, ran into a 'statey' around Utah, he didn't fair too well." Turp answered and slid a beer over to his Lieutenant. James took it and nodded, scanning the crowd, all of which looked familiar except one, a chick standing over near the booth seats at the back of the clubhouse. These were the seats Blood and his VP usually sat at when conducting business, and sure enough they were there, and talking with someone, but James couldn't make out who.
"Who's the new Dame?" James asked, tipping his beer bottle in her direction.
"Don't know, prolly one of Blood's side bitches." Turp answered.
"Where's Denise?" James asked. Denise was Blood's real Ol' lady, his bottom bitch. Sure the guy had plenty of girlfriends but Denise was his wife and an old school biker broad from the boots up. She was the MC's mother figure and her word carried almost as much weight as Blood's own.
"Skipped town, heard they had some big blow out while we were down in NOLA. Now he's been hanging with that pretty new one." Vader spoke up.
"And Blood has her standing in while he's conducting business? That don't seem strange to anyone else?" James asked.
"Hey man, I don't make the rules, I just play by them." Vader said and smirked.
James got up from the table and started over toward the table, it was hard to tell what the new girl looked like, but even in the smokey atmosphere he could see she was as hot as a two dollar pistol. But as he approached the VP, Hannibal stood and held up a hand to stop James' advance.
"What's up Han?" James asked.
"Not much, Blood's just finishing up a meeting, he'll be with you shortly." Hannibal said, standing in front of James with his arms folded.
After a few minutes Blood concluded his meeting and the man he'd been conversing with stood to leave. His back still to James, the first thing James saw was the patch on the guy's back. It was a feral dog wearing a sombrero, Los Perros Locos were a rival motorcycle gang and as the man turned he saw a familiar face. Jose 'Blanco' Rodriguez, an enforcer for the Crazy Dogs, was a man that held the same position as James did in his own organization, except Jose wasn't an undercover cop, he was the real deal, a man that would gladly shoot and old lady or a child in the face if ordered to.
Jose's eyes came up to meet James' and the two locked onto each other's gaze for a brief second before Jose pushed passed him, bumping shoulders as he did so. James turned back to meet Blood's gaze and saw the boss motioning him over.
"Hey man what the fuck was that about?" James asked as he approached the table, taking another second to eye the pretty girl up and down again.
"Don't fucking worry about it, if you need to know, I'll be the one to tell you, how'd NOLA go?" Blood asked, chewing his toothpick and staring at James through his blacked out sunglasses. The bar was dark, but that never stopped Blood from wearing shades, the guy was rarely ever without them.
"NOLA is handled, the cartel won't be having any more shipments go missing from the docks. So who's this fine little thing, what happened to Denise, she's practically a staple round here?" James asked, nodding toward the gorgeous girl standing next to Blood's booth.
"Denise had to take a vacation..." Blood said coldly and then turned to the beautiful biker babe posted up next to him. "...Well don't just stand there looking good, introduce yourself to my Lieutenant Coffinhunter." Blood instructed the young pretty woman.
