WHAT ARE PINGERS

The woman beside Giovanni got up when she finally received some attention from a guy sitting on his lonesome across the room. A loud, joyous scream rang loudly from somewhere within the pub and gained his attention. He threw his head over his shoulder in search of the familiar light brown, shoulder length mane of his mother.

He spotted her underneath the colourful strobe lights. Her blue jean jacket was hanging over her arm lazily. A coy grin painted her lips red and she was desperately leaning up into some old fuck in a suit. Judging from his expression, he seemed to be really enjoying her company. It definitely had nothing to do with her fucking tits spilling out of her skintight tank top.

A frown pulled his expression down and he angrily ripped his gaze from her, shaking his head at the familiarity of her behaviour.

Clearly, he was not drunk enough if he could still comprehend the fact that his mother was on the prowl for a new sugar daddy.

After Felix took the television, the money his mum was saving up for Mordoqueo's school trip and their pet cat, she first fell into this great depression. Then she got angry, like really angry and she started trashing their home. She would purposefully start arguments with him for no reason at all and, whenever he would grab his stash of weed and prepare to leave so that he would not have to deal with her bullshit, she would throw dishes at him to force him to stay.

The giant gash on his forehead came as a result.

Giovanni still had no idea how that cat ended up in their trailer.

"Hey," he hollered at the barmaid, waving her over to him.

He did not miss her reluctance to approach him and for a few seconds, she still wiped the glass in her hands before slamming it down underneath the counter. After throwing the towel over her shoulder, she slowly walked over to him.

"How may I help you, Gino?" she asked, her tone monotonous as her eyes thinned irritably.

"Another…" It took him a long second to think about what he wanted to say, and eventually, he slurred out, "Another pint."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that."

"Why not?" he demanded, scowling up at her.

"It's pub policy. You have already had about five pints, mate. In fact, I'm pretty sure you were drunk before you even set foot in the pub."

"Correction," he interrupted the barmaid, "I was high before I set foot in here; not drunk."

"Right," she murmured, nodding her head in an unimpressed manner.

Then he cocked his head to the side, expectantly.

She folded her arms over her chest, shaking her head and pursing her lips disapproving. "I'm sorry, Gino, but it's still a no."

"Why?"

"I told you already. I'm not allowed to give customers, who have clearly had enough, more alcohol."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know." She shrugged and sarcastically yelled, "Maybe because you could fucking die. Also, I don't wanna deal with Janine Lloyd crying and throwing shit at me, because I gave her son way more alcohol than he could handle."

She knew that he was Janine's son?

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

She was really familiar with his mum if she was addressing her by her govvy. Most people referred to her as Jay. This barmaid even knew her last name. Come to think of it, how did she know his nickname as well? Only a select few called him Gino. Had he spoken to her before, had his mum spoken to her about him? Why would Janine ever do that? All she ever spoke about when they were alone at home was how much she regretted meeting his father.

Maybe Janine had spoken about him with her colleagues; complained most likely. That might be how this barmaid knew his nickname. He had been to this pub a couple of times to be fair. His mum worked as a supposed bottle girl here. Well, when she was not buttering up the rich cunts who would later let it rain dollar bills all over her.

"I can handle one last pint, babe. Trust me."

"I said no, Giovanni. Don't make him call your mum."

"Oh, fuck off," he growled. Why would she go and say that? That was no way to speak to a paying customer.

When she subtly glanced over his shoulder at who he was presuming was the bouncer for help, he quickly retracted his statement not wanting to get kicked out.

"Okay, look. I'm a paying customer, aren't I? So why don't you go and grab a few bottles of vodka out back like a good little lass and maybe I'll slip you a dollar extra to sweeten the deal."

"Alright, Gino, that's enough. I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

"I'll fucking pay you."

"Doesn't matter."

"Jesus. When did you bartenders become so righteous?" His frustrations got the better of him and he swiped the empty beer bottle off the counter. It shattered somewhere when it hit the ground and the people around him gasped in shock.

"Alright. I tried to do this the easy way," the barmaid waved someone over behind him, "but it is clear that even being a full fledged adult you're still immature as fuck so…"

When Giovanni felt a hand wrapping around his bicep, in shock he turned around to see the bouncer who was standing by the door a few minutes ago. His head was cleanly shaven. The only sign of hair on him was the ginger beard which enveloped the lower bit of his face. With a frown, he glared down at his hand and then warningly, looked back up at his face. He would punch him if he tried him. No matter how much taller and more muscled he was.

When the bouncer attempted to pull him out of his stool, Giovanni put all his weight into shoving him off him. Standing up, he stumbled to the side and his once blurry vision returned.

Fuck. I may have stood up too quickly.

Readily, he held up his balled-up fists.

"You wanna go? Come on then, let's fucking go."

It did not come as much of a surprise when the side of his face met the cold concrete outside.

Hurriedly, he got up to try and save face, but the bouncer shut the door before he could even attempt to do anything in retaliation. Angrily, he pounded his fists against the metal barricade restricting him from returning to the bar. Multiple unrepeatable cuss words left his mouth. After a few minutes, he kicked the door.

When his anger dissipated and all that was left was despair, he pleadingly begged for them to let him back in. He begged them for just one last pint. One only. Still, they didn't let him in so defeatedly, he rested his forehead against the cold metal. The vibrations of the music mockingly thumped softly against his face.

"Please, mate. Just one… just one last pint," he whimpered beneath his breath desperately.

"Gino?"

He frowned almost subconsciously. When he tiredly pushed away from the door, he glanced over to his left to see his mum standing there.

This time she was wearing the blue, jean jacket which was hanging off her arm a few minutes ago. The disappointment staining her face was almost immiscible. Dull as ditch water. Begrudgingly, he pursed his lips and flickered his gaze away from her.

And clearly, he was not drunk enough to not feel embarrassed over his infantile behaviour. But at the same time, why should he have fucking cared about the repercussions of his actions? They did not affect him. It was only going to look bad on her. Then again, she did that all on her own what with her selling her body and everything. His behaviour was merely a drop in the ocean when it came to her reputation.

"What are you doing, Gino?"

"Not getting served by your colleagues," he muttered, making sure that he was loud enough for her to hear his snarky comment. "You know, Mum, I can see why you fit in here so perfectly. Incompetency runs in the business, I see."

"There you go again," she said with a dry grin.

He narrowed his eyes at her, bemused by her statement.

"It's never just your fault, is it? You can never just take accountability for your actions."

His eyes widened and a chuckle of disbelief escaped his lips. "As if you have any ground to stand on. Honestly, you are the last person I expect to be dishing out advice on acceptable behaviour. So please get off your high horse. You don't deserve to be on it."

The hurt in her eyes was hard not to notice and beneath his satisfaction, he felt guilty for his comment. Softly, she said to him, "I wish we raised you better."

For some reason, her words fuelled his lingering anger and he retorted, "It's okay, Mum. I didn't expect much from a whore." Fuck. He should not have said that. He really should not have said that. That did not feel good. He took no pride in such low blows.

The air between them visibly thickened as a heavy silence sat above them. They stood opposite each other, like a Western standoff. Her gaze was steady and freezing to the bone.

Then, out of nowhere, she pursed her lips sadly and shook her head in regret. Before he knew it, her eyes began to glisten underneath the sliver of light from the moon. Then she broke out crying. It was quiet at first until her eyes began to rapidly flutter and the tears kept seeping out of her eyes, streaming down her face. She covered her face, turning her back to me. Her shoulders shook up and down and he could faintly hear her cries.

Almost abruptly, the alcoholic haze lifted from his scrambled mind and every negative emotion under the sun hit him in full force. Guilt, remorse, anger. At himself. That was a bit too far. It was not like she was even arguing with him. Why did he say that?

He gulped the sudden lump that blocked his trachea and hesitantly took a couple of steps towards her, his hand reaching out to comfort her.

"Just go home, Gino," she whimpered, sniffing loudly. "It's useless talking to you."

With that being said, she walked towards the backdoor for employees only. Before disappearing from his sight, she hugged herself tighter. The cold breeze whisking by forced her to pull the jean jacket closer against her chest. The door loudly clanged shut behind her.

And he stood there in his shame.

A loud knocking noise abruptly woke him up from his dream of his mother… memory.

The sun was blindingly painful against his eyes, and he had to blink shut to get accustomed to the bright glare. Groaning tiredly, he wiped a hand across his face and a yawn left his mouth stretching wide open. Same dream. Well, for the most part.

Again, the knocking interrupted his train of thought and he musingly glanced outside his window to see a man who looked a decade older than him judging by the grey hairs in his blonde mane.

He had a stern, scary expression on his face which woke him up immediately. The tattoo on his forehead caused him to reach under his blanket in the space between the car seat. In preparation, he gripped the switchblade in his palm. It was cold.

Silently, the biker gestured at him to roll his window down and when Giovanni did not instantly do it, he cocked his eyebrow impatiently. Swallowing the spit that had mysteriously gathered in his mouth painfully, he clumsily slid the window down.

"Do you know where you are, mate?" The man's voice was as gruff as he imagined, maybe even deeper. He sounded like a smoker, smelled like one too.

Judging from his tattoo, he would guess he was a part of the most notorious motorcycle club, Satan's Savages.

This must have been their turf, Miloville.

It was an abandoned town that they claimed and livened up. For themselves and their families, of course. He had heard that they did great things with the place. From the motorcycle club themed bars to the houses that they fixed up. Their club was notorious for having members who did bad things just for the sake of doing bad things.

He could not even remember stopping his van here or sleeping here.

Was he not bleeding out in an alleyway?

As Giovanni lay beneath the blanket, he shifted slightly and his hand brushed against his lower abdomen. When he noticed the torn fabric of his shirt, he felt a pang of worry. It seemed some stitches were due. However, as his fingers traced the skin beneath the shirt, his heart raced with fear as he felt the smooth surface, devoid of any cuts or the sight of blood.

Did he not get stabbed last night?

Immediately, a pair of green eyes flashed in his memory. A familiar, chiselled face that he had grown up thinking about.

"Hey, I asked you a question, mate."

He blinked out his train of thought and nervously, he nodded to answer the biker's previously asked question. "I didn't realise I was on your turf. I'll leave as soon as possible." Just as he went to roll his window up, the man exclaimed for him to stop.

"What's your name, kid?"

Kid? I'm twenty eight.

Nevertheless, he told him. "Lloyd."

"Full name," he demanded.

He responded hesitantly lest he recognised his name, "Giovanni Lloyd."

The guy brought a fag up to his mouth, pinching it between his lips loosely. He lit up the cigarette using his silver lighter. Taking a closer look at the item, he noticed the tag of the motorcycle club he was a part of engraved into the side of it. Name too. Once he had lit the fag up, he breathed in a deep huff and blew it out in the same breath. The smoke hit him square in the face. It did not bother him.

He used to be a smoker too. He was used to the smell.

Holding the bud between his index and middle finger, he leaned into the door of his van and offered him a smoke. Giovanni declined it. The man shrugged as if to say, your loss.

Flicking his lighter close, he calmly asked, "What the fuck are you doing in Miloville, Giovanni?"

He scowled, feeling irritated by the way he was spoken to, but he knew better than to confront an MC member on their own turf. Any hint of defiance from his end could possibly lead to serious consequences, possibly even death.

So courteously, he answered, "As I said, I didn't realise I was on your turf. I got a bit hammered last night and I must have stopped on the side of the road to sober up. I think I fully conked out, mate. I had no idea this was your turf. If I knew, I wouldn't have stopped. I can leave if you want."

"Wait, hold on now. What's the rush, pretty face?"

Cautiously, he leaned back away from him when he stroked his face.

With a smirk of amusement, the man then retracted his hand and said, "For sleeping on his turf without any permission from the boys, I'm gonna have to tax you."

His irritation tripled at his words. Fucking tax? How much? He did not have money to spare. He used the last of it on the alcohol last night. "What do you want?"

"What are you offering?"

"I don't have any money."

He studied his face almost to see if Giovanni was being truthful and when he obviously did not catch a hint of deceit, he decided to look past him into the van. He too glanced back into the car to see if there was anything he could offer up as tax.

He already knew there was nothing. All the bottles had been emptied. The bags of rubbish from diners he had both bought and robbed food from were scattered everywhere. Floor, dashboard and all. His duffel bags did not contain any wads of cash either. Only his washed out jeans and white shirts.

Airi already got them to burn the clothes they wore on the job. She knew how forgetful he was. He once made the mistake of wearing the same outfit two days after the job was done. Never again did he want to explain to the cops why he was the same height, same physique and also wearing the same clothes as a suspected heist member.

"Pingers," the guy exclaimed, and he looked back at him in confusion.

Pingers?

What the fuck is pingers?

When the old man clearly caught his bemusement, he pointed at the coin holder in the van. "Pingers."

"My pills?" Giovanni mused, brows furrowing in even more confusion.

He nodded.

Why the fuck did he want his pills? "What?"

The man did not sway.

Giovanni instantly shook his head. "No. No, I need them."

"You need them to do what? To get fucking high?"

"No, for my fucking depression, cunt." Protectively, he reached for the bottle and held it tight against his chest.

Whenever Giovanni did not take these, he went off the rocker and he did things, things he was regretful for doing later on when the fog cleared from his mind. Then he panicked and he was a fucking mess and he cried, and he could not be asked to go through something like that.

Calling a motorcycle club member a cunt may have seemed like a bad idea. Well, it was, but he tended to not value his life when his pills were at risk. Or rather when that version of him was threatening to resurface again.

"I cannot decide if you're brave, plain old stupid," he paused and his stare pierced into him as his eyes darkened dangerously, "or if you're just eager to die sooner than expected."

His mouth worked faster than his brain and he enquired, "Why can't I be both?"

"Right," he murmured sarcastically. Smirking yet again, he tapped on the roof of his van and said, "Don't forget to fill up your car at the petrol station. It's a long drive out of Miloville, pretty face. Especially when you're on the run from the likes of Felix."

His face dropped at his final statement.

With that, the biker took another drag of the cigarette and then he got back on his Harley-Davidson XR-750, revving away from him.

With a small scowl on his face, Giovanni threw his head over his shoulder, his gaze following the loud motorcycle until it disappeared from sight. With a head shake, he glanced back at his container of pills… pingers, he called them. He had never heard anyone call pills pingers. It sounded extremely Aussie.

Dismissively, he threw them back in the coin holder and blinked against the reminder of the night he had.

He certainly got stabbed last night by Felix's men if that comment was anything to go by. Now that he knew that his name was already making the rounds, he was surely a dead man walking. But how come the wound had healed up already?

When he faintly heard his phone ringing somewhere in the van, he hurriedly searched for it. In the glovey, coin holder, backseat.

Eventually, he managed to find it underneath the passenger seat. At the sight of the caller, he hurriedly answered the phone. "Sky?"

"Oh, thank God you're okay," she replied on the other end, the relief palpable in her voice. "Why haven't you been answering the phone? I nearly filed a missing person report with the police."

He paused, thoroughly confused. "What? Why?"

"Someone broke into my apartment last night," she informed him.

He quickly sat up in his seat, all traces of sleep vanishing. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Luckily, I was working the night shift at the hospital so they were gone before I even returned. When I came back and found all the broken glass in our bedroom, I quickly hid in the bathroom in case they returned until the police arrived."

He ran a hand through his hair, relief washing over him. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Me too," she replied.

The shaky breath that escaped her almost unwittingly vexed him because he already had a feeling who was sent to their apartment, the cleaner.

"What's weird is they did not take anything of value. My laptop and my jewellery box were still left intact. They took our photo though. The one we took when we went to the beach together."

"Don't go back to the apartment for a while, okay?"

"Yeah, I won't," she confirmed which at least gave him a sense of peace, hoping that Felix's men would not find her and potentially use her as a bargaining chip. "Are you safe?"

"Yeah, I am safe." He looked around his rugged van and he could not help thinking the only thing that threatened his safety here was the mould spores that could cause respiratory problems. "Let me make a few calls. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

"Okay, love you."

At the same time she hung up on him, he received another call from the person he was actually going to call.

"Mr B?"

"Lloyd," his overzealous tone came through the device, and he could hear his accent even when all he said was his name. "Are you ready for one last job?"