Edgibill Wilson hated his first name. He hated his nickname too, but that’s what the Fenkell Trips called him.
You could do a lot of shit for the Fenkell Trips without being an official Fenkell Trip.
Pick up food, hook up nitrous units on cars, even make a collection if something seemed like bad shit was sizzling on either side of the law.
The one thing you couldn’t do until you were official, was call the boss by his nickname.
The Trips would rather have a probie die than a cat who was full fledged.
Only one probie had died doing a collection of the two who got shot, the one the cop shot.
Gulwicki was the cop’s name.
He retired right after that, otherwise the Fenkell Trips were gonna retire him.
The other probie got sprayed but survived.
They made him a full-on, branded-on-his-left-thigh Fenkell Trip.
The one thing you couldn’t do until you were official, was call the boss by his nickname.
When the probie who survived was healthy enough to come back to The Spot-it wasn’t a clubhouse, it wasn’t a lair, it wasn’t headquarters, it was just The Spot- Tukkie Conroy helped him limp into the back room, his leg sore from getting shot and from getting branded.
The probie stood underneath some cold white track lighting and looked at Edgibill Wilson.
He smiled.
“Probies don’t smile,” the boss said.
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