(bleep)ing (bleep) up, part 1


It’s not like I expect it to feel good or anything, but shit, the first punch of the day always ends up more painful than anticipated. I twist back into the wall and my eyes feel like they are about to pop out of their sockets. Years of getting pummeled in the jaw means my body has adapted a natural recoil, so I bounce back to spit a wad of blood in his face. The kid flinches, and I jab my knuckles into his throat. A knee to the gut. An elbow to the back of his neck. His spine acts like a marionette puppet and I am its master. He’s on the ground: done. I kick him in the ribs for good measure before wiping my busted lip. I’d feel good about myself but this is only goon #1. He shouldn’t even have made contact. The second and third come running my way and I adjust my cufflinks before ducking under a swing, blocking a kick, grabbing a wrist, breaking an elbow, disarming a knife, etc… I mean, you get it. I stab goon #2 in the neck and twist #3’s arm and kick him in his knee. One dead, the other is walking like a bird. I guess you can call that walking. He looks at me one last time before my knuckles bring him to the asphalt. The alleyway leads to a red door and goon #4, the last guard, cowers in a corner. I flash him a grin before kicking in the door. A heavy beat vibrates through the club and strobe lights flicker in my eyes. There are four guys guarding on the inside and I take them out in swift succession using a bottle withdrawn from the hands of an oblivious drunk. Blood and glass trail me as I continue thought the club, dodging drug afflicted dancers who pay me no mind and grabbing a stack of coasters from the bar. A set of curtains lead to a hallway, and inside there’s a guy holding a rifle. He notices me briefly before receiving a coaster in his face. I leap up and smash him in the nose. As he staggers back, I bust his ribs with a kick and he droops against the wall like jelly. His final feeble attempt to raise the rifle fails when I cup his ear and smack his head into the drywall. I walk away after tossing the remaining coasters on him like I’m making it rain on a stripper. There’s a door locked from the other side, so I knock. A latch at about eye-level slides open but I duck so he can’t see me. The anticipation is the best part. I milk it before I reach up with two fingers and poke his pupils.
“Fuck!” The guy curses.
“Who is it?” I hear another man yell from the inside.
“Police!” I yell back, and I giggle at myself. I hear them cock their guns so I hug the wall just before bullets whistle through the door and undoubtedly kill a couple of dancers on the floor. Silence. Bad guys always think you’re dead if you’re not up talking shit. That’s the hardest part for me, though, so I guess their naivety is understandable. Soon enough, like clockwork, the door swings open. I slide over on my knee and trip this giant of a man who tumbles down and knocks over a couple of glasses in the room. More bullets fly my way, but 300lbs of fat makes for good cover. When they reload, I vault over that belly like it’s the hood of a car and turn living guys into dead guys. The last guy alive is the boss. I know this because he wears a suit, but doesn’t wear it well. No tie and his top three buttons unbuttoned. Nothing screams bad guy quite like unruly chest hair. He’s got cocaine boogers and he’s holding a gun with zero bullets in its magazine. I know this because he’s fingering that trigger like he’s trying to make it cum. Tears line his red eyes and I’m going to assume this is bad news for what’s to come in his undies.
“Give him back.” I tell him. “I will sow the skin of your balls to your lips unless you give him back.”
He whimpers, backing himself into the wall.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He screams.
“Aaron. Where is he?”
He says he doesn’t know an Aaron. He shakes his head like he’s trying to evade a bad trip. I ask him again, but he swears he doesn’t know.
I grab his gun from his hand and jab it into his protruding Adam’ apple.
“Don’t play games with me.” I usually don’t get loud but I realize I’m yelling at him.
“I don’t know…” He’s an ugly crier. Quivering lip and saliva dripping on my fingers. Gross. I kill him quickly by shoving the barrel of his gun through his throat. What a waste of fucking time. I thought I was close.


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