This is fantastic, thought Murder. He could feel the wind rushing against his bottle; the water sloshed and churned as his chauffeur inexpertly navigated through the traffic. Car horns blared and tires screeched and skidded as the rider blew through red lights, rode over roundabouts, cut corners and changed lanes without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

  The bikers’ headquarters wasn’t far from the industrial area that Murder had been before, but riding along with a bike was way more fun than being carried by a slow cat, even if the rider was suicidally reckless. The speed of the bike just left his cat litter in the dust.

  They rode past what was left of the old drug lab. Only a few brick walls remained standing, supporting only police tape that acted like a beacon to attract curious children who poked around in the ashes with sticks, despite this being exactly the kind of thing the tape was there to prevent.

  The sensation of speed was exhilarating. If Murder really tried, he could work up enough speed in the tank to leap a few inches now, but that was nothing compared to this. Trees rushed past, people were screaming blurs, cars honked and swerved – it was fantastic!

  Through the bottle and the water, Murder could hear the muffled sound of frantic dubstep that blasted out through the rider’s headphones. The only thing louder was the car horns, which seemed to blast nearly continuously. Apparently oblivious to the sound of a hundred angry motorists, the lucky wannabe prank-show contestant followed his bluetooth instructions to the location of what Hunger had described as ‘Pranktown Rival HQ’ and dismounted from his bike.

  One look at the building and Murder wondered if they were too late. Apparent bullet holes peppered the drywall. Parts of cars and rusted old motorbike chassis were strewn across the lawn, giving the property the look of a post-apocalyptic scrapyard.

  The building itself didn’t look like the office for a newly formed internet prank group, it looked more like someone had converted a workshop into a dive bar. The would-be prankster checked the instructions on his phone again.

  Message from Pranktown 10:01 AM

  Once you arrive, wait until you see movement inside, then fire all of the blanks in the pistol directly at the movement inside to collect your prize. Remember, it’s scarier if it looks like you’re really aiming!

  “Oh man, this is going to scare the shit out of them,” the young man said to himself.

  Hunger, seeing through Murder’s eyes, rammed into the side of the tank, hitting the send button on another prepared message. The prankster’s phone beeped and automatically read the message aloud through his headphones:

  Message from Pranktown 10:15 AM

  Contestant Duncan Thrips, congratulations on making it to the location within the time limit. Our hidden camera can see that you’re at the right address. Go ahead and fire off all the blanks right at them as quickly as you can, then ride to the service station on the corner of George and Beaumont in under five minutes to double your prize. Your time starts… now!

  “No time to waste,” Duncan said to himself before raising the pistol and pretending to aim, inexpertly holding the pistol sideways. For the cameras, he let out his best action-hero scream and fired all fifteen rounds in quick succession. When the loud banging gave way to an unsatisfying click, he stopped pulling the trigger and decided, quite on a whim, to throw the water bottle towards the house. “I’m so random,” he said, giggling as he mounted his bike.

  Stunned from the concussive force of the pistol, and by Duncan’s unexpected improvisation, Murder flew through the air towards the clubhouse in his plastic bottle. While airborne, he could hear window panes shattering and tinkling as broken glass hit the ground. Murder was reflecting on how much he hated the sound of glass breaking when he felt a jolt as he impacted against one of the garage doors and rolled to a halt on the driveway.

  “That wasn’t part of the plan!” screamed Murder. “I demand you pick me up right this instant!”

  Hunger and Death started running into the side of their tank to type a frantic message when Murder saw the expression on Duncan’s face change as he noticed some very angry men and one angry woman shouting at him from inside the house. It occurred to Duncan that perhaps these people were in the small minority that didn’t appreciate a good physical prank from a total stranger. And the closer he looked, the more he thought that these were the kind of people who wouldn’t know a good joke if it hit them at a thousand feet per second.

  “It was just a prank,” Duncan called out before he very quickly got back on his bike and started pedaling frantically.

  Shouting from inside the clubhouse intensified and the sound of an engine starting vibrated the ground. A garage door loudly rolled open, crashing as it came to a rapid stop that made the whole house shudder. Inside the garage was the same blue convertible Murder had seen from a distance at the salon. This time he was close, and he was stuck in a bottle on the ground right behind it, and directly in line with a set of tires.

  The engine revved. “Come on, get in!” yelled a man from inside the garage.

  “Fuck, shit, bugger, ass,” thought all four Murders. Having the benefit of four minds to pull from, Murder wasn’t short of expletives, but he needed some ideas, and fast. He swam as hard as he could against the side of the bottle. It didn’t move at all. He got a run up, metaphorically speaking, and rammed himself bodily against the curved wall of the bottle. The bottle rolled back for a moment, then rolled forward; he was back where he started.

  A car door slammed and the convertible accelerated backwards, faster than Murder was expecting. He was out of time. He had just one more desperate idea. Murder positioned himself next to the lid and prayed to the unborn God of the hells. What was his name? Krackninja? That doesn’t sound right.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The car backed directly over the bottle, crushing it. The lid burst off with a pop under the weight of the car, and a stream of water, along with a very relieved-looking nibble fish, flew across the driveway.

  “Thank you, Crack Ninja!” cried Murder.

  Hands, an honorary club Sergeant, and Derrick, a man who looked like he had lost an incredible amount of weight but couldn’t afford a new wardrobe, ran out the front door to try to chase on foot. It was of no use – the bike and its rider were already at the end of the street and moving fast. Dasher’s blue convertible screeched and popped out of the driveway and sped off in the direction of the shooter with Prancer in the passenger seat and the leather-clad Dasher behind the wheel.

  “Boss, look!” said Derrick, pointing at something wiggling on the driveway.

  “What is it?” asked Hands, not able to make out the writhing shape from this distance without his glasses.

  “It’s a fish. That guy threw a live fish at us,” said Derrick. “Boss, there is water here too, and a trail leading to that bottle. Is it a message? Should I squish it?”

  Derrick’s boot hovered menacingly over Murder, who thrashed helplessly on the hot, dry concrete of the driveway.

  “We haven’t got time for this. Quickly, chase after him!” ordered Hands.

  Derrick gestured towards the empty garage and shrugged, making him look even more like a coat hanger.

  “Well, I don’t know Derrick. Get the bus,” said Hands.

  Derrick looked at him like he was an idiot again. Hands hated it when people did that.

  “I don’t like bus stops. ICE likes to pick people up at those things,” protested Derrick.

  “Now!” screamed Hands. “Or I’ll tell Badeer that you refused my orders, again.”

  With one hand holding up his oversized jeans, Derrick shook his head and started jogging off in the direction of the nearest bus stop.

  Hands picked up the crushed bottle and uncrinkled it, then placed the fish inside and poured in some water from a nearby tap. He held the fish up, inspecting it.

  “You’re evidence. I think I’m going to keep you in case we might need to throw a bunch of cyclists into a pool and see which one you swim to,” said Hands.

  The biker walked inside the headquarters that had been shot up, again, and looked around for somewhere to store the fish. Oddly, the chapter headquarters didn’t have any fishbowls laying around. There was a table with a motorbike engine that was perpetually in the middle of being rebuilt, multiple empty beer bottles, but no fish tank. It did have a few trophies though. He scanned the trophies for one with the largest volume. “There we go. A nice new home for the little fish,” Hands said quietly, pouring the contents of the bottle into the mounted brass cup. A small plaque on its base read:

  Seventh Annual Hell’s Spawn Club Awards

  Category – Years without anyone being assassinated

  Award – Most improved

  Hands remembered when the trophy had been presented to his club. Whatever chapter they moved him to, he always seemed to have a lot of run-ins with rival gangs. Now that he was in the gang's smallest chapter, and by far the smallest town, he wondered how much rival gang activity there could possibly be. He sighed. It was time to call the boss, who would no doubt tell his father, and Hands would get the talk again, even though it wasn’t his fault.

  “For the fifth time, what was the damage?” asked Badeer, his thick Scouse accent and gruff voice barely audible through the burner phone’s cheap speakers.

  “A few broken windows and a graze on one of the lad’s arms,” replied Hands.

  “That’s too close. Did you get the guy?” asked Badeer.

  “What?” replied Hands, sticking a finger in the ear that didn’t have a phone pressed tightly against it. “I can barely hear you. These dodgy phones can barely pick up your voice.”

  “Did you get the guy?” asked Badeer more forcefully.

  “Sorry, louder isn’t better. It’s like your voice is too deep for the speakers or something,” replied Hands.

  “For fuck’s sake,” said an inaudible Badeer. The squeaking metallic sound of a valve opening and the hiss of gas could be heard over the line. “Did you get the guy?” repeated Badeer in a comically high pitch.

  “That’s better. Nah, he got away. None of us here have bikes yet and the little bastard kept taking shortcuts through parks and alleyways until Dasher lost him.”

  Heavy breathing, a squeak and a hiss came down the line.

  “Do we know who’s responsible? Was he wearing his colors? Do you have fucking anything to go off, or are you of absolutely no use?” shouted Badeer.

  “Not yet, but we’re chasing down a few leads,” replied Hands. “Dasher and Prancer are driving around looking for him and stopping anyone on a bike.”

  “I thought I told them to come up with better nicknames for themselves,” said Badeer. “It’s embarrassing, going around representing our chapter calling themselves Dasher and Prancer. We’re supposed to be ruthless criminals, not a fucking Christmas special. What did you do with Derrick?”

  “He’s keeping an eye on the buses, just in case,” replied Hands.

  “Hmm,” said Badeer thoughtfully, the effect being somewhat ruined by the helium running out mid hum, which caused the pitch to steadily decrease in an involuntary vocal glissando. He took another breath of helium. “The Kazakhs still think we set that fire. The Mexicans are still pissed that we killed one of their lieutenants last year. There has been an increase in vigilantism. And the Neo Nazis are fucking everyone at the moment. So it could have been anyone. You got anything else to go on?” asked Badeer.

  “They sent us a message in a bottle,” replied Hands, examining the fish as it swam in small circles inside the trophy.

  “Well why didn’t you fucking say so. What did it say?” asked Badeer.

  “Nothing – it’s a fish,” replied Hands.

  Badeer didn’t say anything for a few seconds, expecting Hands would give some kind of qualifying statement. He didn’t.

  “...What?” said Badeer eventually. “I haven't got time for your bullshit, Hands. I have a lot of respect for your father, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take any horseshit from you, okay? You had better start making sense if you don’t want me to come over there and cut your tongue out and use it to clean out your blocked fucking ears.”

  Hands ignored the threat; Badeer was so paranoid that he hadn’t left his house in two years. And with today's shooting, that wasn’t likely to change.

  “The guy threw a fish in a bottle at us. We think it’s some kind of message,” replied Hands.

  “You have a fish…” replied Badeer.

  “Yeah, a little brown thing,” responded Hands, still staring at the fish. He heard another metallic squeak, followed by the hissing of gas and a deep inhalation.

  “Let me get this straight. You sat there like ducks, letting people throw fish at you and then ride away on a pushbike. For the last time, Hands, we’re supposed to be a no-nonsense, ultra-violent fucking biker gang and you’re making us look like a fucking petting zoo. When I come down there, I’m going to… I’m going…” fumed Badeer, sounding somewhat woozy.

  “So, you don’t want us to keep the fish? Badeer? Hello?”

  After a prolonged silence, Hands could hear the gentle susurration of breathing coming down the line. He put the phone down. If Badeer wanted him to do something important, he would probably call back.