Prize Possession

By K. Randall Ball

Snake bellowed in pain, and then screamed for mercy as a steel-toed boot shattered ribs still tender and bruised from his last beating. When the boot stopped, Snake instinctively rolled over into a fetal position. Convulsed with pain, be became only a crude question mark on the deserted parking lot. “Get up,” a deep voice ordered.

Looking for pulse-pounding excitement, heart-stopping suspense, uninhibited sex and non-stop action? Then come along on a journey through the violent world of the outlaw biker...and get ready for the ride of your life!

Beginning with the theft and ending in death, Prize Possession is a high-octane, run-it-to-the-redline, relentless adventure of drugs, sex, danger and vengeance. Every page of K. Randall Ball’s gripping and forceful novel is packed with the raw power of a big-bore Harley, the lethal edge of a cocked .357 Magnum, and the no-holds-barred passion of women ready to shed their inhibitions for the lustful rush of pure cocaine. From beginning to end, Prize Possession is an unforgettable, high-rev race through a murderous maze of treachery and terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Randall Ball
• Release date: Jul 23, 2020

Book preview

Prize possession

K. Randall Ball

— 2020 —

5-Ball Inc.

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First published in the United States in 1996 by 5-Ball, Inc.

First published in paperback 1996

© 1996; 2020 by K. Randall Ball

Second edition: July 2020

Cover illustration by Hector Cademartori

Digitally remastered by George Fleming

Copy edited by Tex Campbell

ISBN: 0-9651605-8-0

Ebook formatting & cover design:

David G. Barnett

Fat Cat Graphic Design

fatcatgraphicdesign.com

5-Ball, Inc.

200 Broad Avenue

Wilmington, California 90744

Or [e-mail]

www.Bikernet.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or his agent, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a critical article or review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper, or electronically transmitted on radio or television.

All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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READY FOR A RIDE ON THE WILD SIDE?

Then turn to the first page of prize possession and enter a realm almost unknown—and virtually unimaginable—to the vast majority of Americans. This remarkable novel plunges the reader into the speed and sex saturated world of the outlaw biker, those Hog-riding hellions whose tattoos—Live Hard/Die Fast, Born to Raise Hell, Bad To The Bone—proclaim their profound contempt for the empty rewards and sterile relationships of middle-class security. You’re about to enter a world that’s sometimes brutal, often frightening buy never boring. Like the powerful fury of a Harley stroker, K. Randall Ball’s gripping tale propels the reader down a heart-stopping highway to a shattering showdown that hits home like a double blast of pure cocaine.

Pursuing the Purloined Prize:

Mick looked at the pathetic, fear-stricken kid and felt ashamed. The kid would never understand what it means to own and ride his own Harley, to live a lifestyle on the edge, or fight for his life. The kid couldn’t know what it was like to have the only meaningful thing in your life suddenly ripped out from under you. But Mick did, and he was going to do something about it.

THE SHAMELESS SLUT

Mick could smell Tiffany’s perfume halfway across the room. The black miniskirt was barely a ribbon around her crotch. Her taut, tan stomach was exposed through a calypso top tied just below her perfectly sculpted breasts. Her artic blue eyes were alive with cool expectation. From every angle, she was a dance on the wild side.

THE THIEVING COKEHEAD:

The last bike he stole was still warm, on its kickstand behind a biker bar at 1:00 a.m. The drunk rider dismounted, left the ignition unlocked to grab one more shot before closing time, and went inside. Snake was on the bike before it stopped vibrating. He rode it home, snorted a gram of coke while dismantling the Harley, and sold it the next morning. Before noon, he paid off his connection and was high again.

Rave Reviews for Prize Possession…

"I read Prize Possession in one fevered sitting…couldn’t put it down. This book is one nasty piece of action fiction, full of casual violence, ironic coincidences, hard-edged dialog, and one surprise after another.

—Kim Peterson, Editor, In The Wind Magazine

I was absorbed by this extraordinary story of a man’s relentlessly determined quest to regain his stolen motorcycle. Along the way, he not only learns who his real friends are, but discovers something about himself and finds the courage never to give in to adversity.

—Roger Anderson

University of Texas at Tyler

Biography

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

BIOGRAPHY

A motorcycle enthusiast, tireless rider, skilled builder and prolific writer since adolescence, K. Randall Ball was among the original staff of Easyriders magazine—the most unusual and influential publication in the motorcycle industry—at its inception in 1971. Ball was the first manager of ABATE, the pioneer motorcycle rights organization, and his involvement in rider’ rights issues continues to this day. In addition, he was a member of the Easyriders motorcycle land speed team that achieved the present record of 322.150 mph, 1990, the World’s Fastest Motorcycle.

Until 1999, K. Randall Ball remained the original and reigning Bandit of Easyriders magazine, and Executive Vice President and Editorial Director of Easyriders’s parent company, Paisano Publications, overseeing the production of nine specialized motorcycle-oriented magazines in five languages, while continuing his lifelong dedication to bikes and people who ride them.

Calling upon a lifetime of first-hand experience, Ball has produced a first novel of exceptional power and excitement. Prize Possession is the story of one man’s relentless struggle to recover his stolen motorcycle in the face of overwhelming odds and deadly opposition. To write this remarkable work (the first in a proposed series of biker novels), Ball called upon his unique, checkered—and often dangerous—past, including service in Viet Nam, riding with the hardest of the hardcore biker clubs, countless intense romances, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure. In short, he writes about what he knows, telling his tale with a gripping and accessible style born of real-life experience.

K. Randall Ball lives somewhere, but always with a motorcycle at his side. He currently runs a web site dedicated to custom motorcycles, Bikernet.com, plus Bandit’s Cantina and the 5-Ball Bonneville racing team.

Dedicated to Tex Campbell

Our professor of writing

CHAPTER 1

THE THEFT

Tempered steel as sharp as a razor blade spiraled and spun free from the antiquated lathe, slicing Mick’s face like wire through cheese. Mick tried to stop the gush of blood, now mixing with rivulets of sweat flowing down his neck, with a soiled shop rag. He cringed. Stale oil penetrated the wound, stinging his five o’clock shadow. As he reached again for the gash, he heard a pop, like a muffled shotgun, then the sound of a motorcycle firing to life.

Mick paused at the sound and held his breath as he turned toward the oil-splattered, piss-colored windows that blocked a view of everything except the amber glow of the setting California sun. The sound was unmistakable. It smacked of the rumble of a Harley-Davidson, a guttural roar that terrifies old women huddled behind plastic steering wheels.

Another snaky razor blade curled free of the spinning lathe and flew by Mick’s face like the tail of a bullwhip. Mick tried to convince himself that he did not recognize the familiar base tone of the V-Twin engine. He stared up at the clock hung cockeyed on the shop wall. Even over the deafening whirl of the lathes, he could hear the seconds tick and feel the jarring motion of the second-hand clamoring from one hash mark to the next.

His job had become a prison term with an undetermined sentence. Underneath his bib overalls, his powerful arms twitched in anticipation of the slowing time, the sound disappearing outside and what it could represent to Mick. Covered with metal shavings and sweat, his entire body tensed to the thunderous roar of what sounded more and more like his Harley speeding away.

Mick shut off the spinning menace of a lathe and dashed toward the window. The clock switched from leaning on every second to snapping through them like spurts from an automatic weapon. It couldn’t be happening to him, he thought. He’d had enough bad luck for one year.

He wiped away grime from the steel-framed windows and peered outside. It was impossible to discern much through the filmy crud caked on the old building’s ancient glass panels. He leaned closer and squinted through the grimy haze, then kicked a crate over to the window and stepped his 6-foot-2 frame onto it for a better look. It was definitely a motorcycle, a Harley, and it was black or a dark color, he couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it rounded the corner and was gone.

Mick’s mind still wouldn’t accept that someone might have stolen his bike. He had owned the 1948 Panhead for 12 years. He had massaged, rebuilt, researched and repaired every component of his treasured ride.

Mick wasn’t a machinist, an iron worker or a middle-class laborer; he was a biker. He defined himself by his motorcycle and his ability to build and maintain it. To a lawyer, a sheepskin and passing the bar exam was everything. To Mick and all bikers, their Harleys were their graduation certificates.

Without a running motorcycle, a biker is no longer a biker. Mick’s Harley was unique to himself, also rare to the breed. His was the first model year for the Panhead engine configuration. Few were still running examples of a 17-year reign as America’s premier Big Twin. He cherished every nut and bolt and the lifestyle it represented.

As Mick stepped back from the window, the 5 o’clock whistle blew. He continued to tell himself that no one would take his motorcycle. After all, he knew practically everyone in town who rode bikes. He scratched at the growth on his rugged face and pulled at the dirty blond ponytail at the base of his neck. He was big, had a big heart and a tremendous love for his motorcycle, one of his last possessions.

He once had a bank account, a comfortable home, a wife and a growing collection of antique motorcycle memorabilia. It was all gone now, but his demeanor remained stalwart. He had a natural toughness, from his thick calloused hands to the words he spoke.

He was direct, which had annoyed his wife. Lacking the refinements and political savvy of other men, she found him crude as the relationship wore on. She attacked the very core of what made Mick a leader and a respected man among his friends. He called a spade a spade, she preferred that he lie. Mick was rough around the edges, a man who liked beer, motorcycles and football games. He was no wimp, slacker or fool. He also never presented himself as something that he wasn’t.

Mick slung his fleece-lined denim jacket over his broad frame. He shook his long, wavy hair free from the ponytail, grabbed his gauntlet gloves and headed resolutely toward the door. As he descended the wood stairs outside, slippery from tracks of cutting oil, he squeezed the railing firmly to brace himself against the adrenaline-charged wrath mounting within him. A mobile construction trailer obstructed his view as he approached the parking lot.

Two years prior, he had run into some financial problems when his wife needed an emergency hysterectomy. He went to his boss, Wes Ferris, the fit, impeccably groomed 48-year-old owner of Ferris Industries, with a fuel petcock he had spent years designing, developing and machining on his own time. Mick was immensely proud of the outstanding design and its final prototype, which he had painstakingly perfected to fit all Harley models pre-dating the Dyna Glide. His ego was pumped with the well-deserved pride of a hard-earned accomplishment.

I’ve had designs like this floating around in my mind for years, Mick, Ferris had said. I’ve just never had the time to develop it, although I had planned to this year.

Mick felt uncomfortable and manipulated in Ferris’ presence. It was always no-win with him. This one is complete and tested, Mick had said. Ferris looked at the polished product with disdain. He didn’t offer Mick a seat in the plush interior of his office, as if his attire and stature didn’t warrant the offer.

The real test is the marketplace, and I would be the one to develop the tooling, marketing and take the risk of putting up considerable money to promote, Ferris continued, spinning then tossing the product on his deeply varnished cherry wood desk. Besides, anytime I need to expend mental energy on a project, it must be a considerable investment. You see Mick, my time is expensive. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you. Mick recognized the ploy and turned to leave.

I hear Sheila is sick. Ferris caught Mick by surprise. Few of the employees knew his wife, especially her first name.

Yes, that’s true, Mick acknowledged, but did not embellish.

I imagine the cost of health care is considerable, Ferris continued.

Mick knew exactly where Ferris was headed. He nodded again.

In that case, I will try to look at this soon, although I don’t think there is much profit in petcocks. Ferris turned his gaze to a separate file and began flipping sheets of paper.

Mick left and didn’t hear from Ferris again.

Mick was in a corner. His wife of five years was hospitalized. When it came to dealing with Ferris, he felt out of his league. But with his wife’s hospital bills having depleted the last of his savings, Mick saw no other option than to approach his boss again for a small advance on the petcock design.

Ferris was a consummate professional with all the trappings of a self-made pillar of the community. But underneath his polished exterior, Mick suspected, breathed a money-hungry hustler who’d franchise his mother’s soul if he thought it would turn a profit. Mick watched Ferris’s blind pursuit of the all mighty dollar—no matter who happened to get burned in the process. And although he managed to conceal many of his less-than-scrupulous methods, especially during his company’s lean times, capitalizing on the misfortunes of others had become his undisputed domain.

As the weeks passed, Mick became more desperate. He finally asked Ferris’ secretary for another appointment. Another week passed before he was granted an opportunity to enter the private sanctum. His wife had been in the hospital for over a month when he finally saw Ferris.

The man in the double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and silk designer tie acted rushed as Mick entered his office.

What is it, Mick? Shouldn’t you be working on the contract for jet valve components? Ferris’ artificially tanned face contorted into a condescending look of concern.

Mick looked at the dark, wrinkled brow. We’re way ahead of schedule, and you know why I’m here—the petcock.

Oh that. I don’t have time to deal with it. I don’t even know where it is now. He made a cursory glance around his desk. I don’t see any reason to become involved in the inconsequential motorcycle market, and I haven’t had time to research it, Ferris said as he grabbed his Monte Blanc from his pocket and made a note.

Mick scanned Ferris’ desk and his eyes came to rest on a file labeled Petcock. It was an inch thick and he recognized several ads for aftermarket motorcycle distributors sticking out. Well, I won’t take anymore of your time, Mick said and turned to leave.

Listen, Ferris said. I know you’re in a bind. His face softened with a look of distant concern. I probably won’t do a damn thing with it. Like I told you before, I designed something similar years ago, but felt the cost of reproduction was prohibitive, based on the market. I don’t believe anything has changed. But I will give you some money for it, because of Sheila’s condition, but I don’t want any partners. If I do something, I will be forced to put all my contacts and money in it. The deal will have to be a buyout.

Mick was stuck. He had no choice. How much?

How much are the bills? he asked, picking up a pad to take notes.

About $15,000 so far, and $10,000 for the operation.

Ferris wrote $25,000 on the pad. I’ll have a check cut for you tomorrow and something for you to sign releasing the product to me. I hope the operation is a success, he said, dismissing Mick. Now, if you’ll excuse me.

Mick turned and walked out. He didn’t thank Ferris and Ferris didn’t care. He had made one helluva deal and Mick knew it. Ferris could sell less than a couple thousand of the parts and recoup his payment to Mick and start-up costs.

Ferris immediately arranged to have the part manufactured in Taiwan for a fraction of domestic manufacturing cost—and quality.

Mick knew the potential of the growing need for new Harley-Davidson aftermarket parts. The factory sold every motorcycle they manufactured in 1994 and the wave hadn’t peaked yet. Ferris’ overnight success with the design rapidly launched him into the arena of even bigger business. Almost a year later, Mick found out how Ferris knew Sheila’s first name.

Shortly after she returned from the hospital, Mick noticed that Sheila’s aloof demeanor had worsened. For a week or so after the operation, Sheila’s slender form lay helpless in their queen-sized bed. Mick sold his antique motorcycle sign and toy collection and anything else he could sell. She respected his efforts while she was weak. She was thin, with classic features and long, straight red hair that signaled a hair trigger temper. As her strength returned, so did her temper and contempt