*I decided to bring the "Stupid!" series Risexual started (and I later adapted) on Pedestrian-X back to LBC. Assuming the story is actually stupid enough, I figure it's content worthy enough to be on this blog. Yes this entry is over a month late, as I just remembered that I did it. No, I did not purposely just "remember" it to anti-bump PIT #8. Also, if you haven't noticed, I'm also periodically adding new parts to the "Old Revived Content" blog, so be sure to keep an eye on that, as I still have at least seven more chapters planned out.
So those of you who were with me on Halloween, or at least saw the Facebook pictures, saw my "wastelander" costume comprised of repainted hockey pads, duct tape, and tinted goggles. Originally, I was also planning on hot gluing paper mache spikes to the shoulder pads of the costume to give it that definitive post-apocalyptic badass look. Since that was the part of the costume that was going to be the most delicate and difficult to make, I put it off and put it off more until the day before Devil's Night where I immediately went into panic mode as I feverishly attempted to mould spikes out of newspaper and wood glue.
The main issue with moulding the spikes was finding something sharp and cone-shaped to wrap the paper mache around. I tried to keep an eye out for something like that for the entire month of October, and as I was panicking at the last minute I basically searched my entire house top-to-bottom and could find nothing. I returned to my room and fell on my bed to try to concentrate and collect myself, when a tupperware box inside my closet caught my eye. Said box contained some toy blocks from my childhood, some of which were cone-shaped and around 3" long. They weren't a perfect cone, but they were the best option at this point.
Opening the box revealed said blocks, plus a nerf ball, a flashlight I thought I lost, and a blue Push-Pop. I curiously examined the Push-Pop and tried to pry off the lid, that had been sealed by years-old dried up saliva and sugar, as I vaguely remembered the time I left it in there. I recalled when I watched an episode of Arthur where he hides some Halloween candy (how topical!) in a crawlspace for years to save for later, and thought that'd be funny experiment to try for myself. I estimated this Push-Pop to be from about 2001 or 2002. I finally tore the lid off as I further observed the partcially digested lollipop, and then bravely gave it a few licks.
And you know what? Nothing had changed. Contained within a watertight environment, it preserved its original flavour, while remaining completely devoid of dust, insects, and mould. On a macroscopic level, it was the same candy I had licked a decade ago. That said, I let it hit the trash afterwards. I didn't feel I needed to further test the integrity of Push-Pops after twenty years, as I thought I had already taken the experiment far beyond the scale that even the Mythbusters would have gone, and without blowing up someone's house in the process!
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
pit episode 8
Pit Episode 8
He was making no sense. I mean i have had my share of drugged out scumbags spouting nonsense, but this guy just takes the cake. And the thing that bothered me was that after a piss test, the man was sober. Well not quite sober, we found some pot, and he was drinking, but to a guy like this, i don't think that is going to put him in a state to be ranting about demonic clowns.
His name was Kurt Lopez, mid level member of our local branch of the Gato Negro, a spanish gang that has been second only to guys in suits with last names ending in vowels, at keeping this city under their thumb. Kurt had been working as a C.I. for us for quite some time, through a lucky mistake another C.I. found evidence showing that Kurt has as much Spanish in him as Taco bell. Since then he has been more than friendly , in exchange this information has not been made public, or rather tossed into the gutter for some rats to find.
" Tell me again, this time really try to push past all the O.G. Kush and think of what really happened." i say exasperated at our 10th hour of interrogation.
" Fuck, Kregan, i've told you this a dozen fucking times already man, why do you need me to do it for a 13th fucking time?" he says, at least as exasperated as i am.
" Because Lopez, i tend to disbelieve a story when it involves a demon clown taking out a warehouse full of people. " i say. I sit down on the bare metal chair in the interrogation room, and rest my head in my hands , fixing him with a raised eyebrow.
" I didn't fucking say demon, man. I said the fucker was scary." he says, looking toward the floor. I would be too if i got my ass kicked by a clown.
" Demon, scary, i don't care if the guy was half a god damn squid Lopez, your story doesn't make any sense. " I continue to look, and eventually he resigns himself and starts to tell the story from the beginning, again...
" We were just hanging, you know at the warehouse, keeping watch, and staying chill. Nothing big goin on, just punching our timecards.
Well we were in the middle of a game of poker, i was winning , actually, and pretty happy with it, we just had a major score a while back, so this would mean even more coin to jangle , if you get what i am saying.
We all hear this fucking noise, from the main doors, we couldn't hear what it was, but we thought we'd go check the shit out, you know, even a cat might knock something over that we didn't want knocked over, if you pick up what i am putting down.
Well we get there, me, Jimmy, Carlo, Trip, Ace, and Bats. And we see this fuckin guy, weirdest looking mother fucker we have seen in our life. Top hat and shit, some kind of fuckin symbol on a rag on it..."
I interrupt him.
" That one you drew for me?" I say , trying to keep everything straight. I couldn't understand what the hell it was for a minute, looked like some kind of eye, but that was stretching it, might just as easily be an asshole for all i know.
" Yeah fucker, let me finish this story and maybe i'll get out of here before i starve to death.
Anyway , we watch him for a while, and he looks pretty beat up, big ass cuts, blood dripping down on the floor, and he is stumbling around like he is fucking wasted.
We keep watching and suddenly ace says that maybe the weird clothes and shit, coulda meant he was queer , you know those guys, they wear all kinds of weird shit, and maybe someone rolled him after some kinda sex party or something.
Well, we were all in some good moods, good bud going around, all of us sittin on some fat wallets, so we decide to do the guy a solid. Let him sit around for a bit, maybe call him an ambulance , a few fuckin blocks away of course, shit like that.
So i say to him, not to worry, we wern't gonna kill his ass or nothing, and we start to walk over. Fuckin bats was first, the guy starts to get all quiet and shit, not movin much, but still standing , once bats gets close enough, motherfucker pukes blood all over him, and a lot a fucking blood, like one of those fuckin saw movies man. Bats was covered head to toe, and the guy just leans against a wall, not saying shit, no sorry , no nothing , man.
Well there is only so far a vato's good mood can go, you know? Bats wipes the shit off of his face, and starts in on the guy, telling him all the kinds of shit he was gonna do, and he walks up and pushes the guy over.
Well ace wasn't havin any of that. Actually, always thought ace was a bit of a queer himself, maybe felt some, you know that word, fuck...."
" Empathy?" i say rolling my eyes. Even this many tellings in the story is still fairly interesting, if not all that believable.
" Yeah, fuckin empathy. So maybe Ace was feeling all empathy toward the mother fucker, and walks over to Bats, tells him to chill out and shit. "
He shudders visibly, and stops for a second. At times like this i realize just how desensitized to these kind of guys i am. I'm no racist, i don't mean " Their Kind." i mean scum, the same type of scum i have been working 15 years to keep off of the streets. Sometimes you forget that regardless of what they do, or have done, or would do. They are just people, and anyone from the pope himself, to Adolph Hitler, is going to feel it if he sees a half dozen friends get killed in front of him.
" We shoulda fucking smelled it. But with the chron being passed, and all the other smells floatin around the warehouse, i don't think anyone thought anything of it. Just smelled like he was drinking.
Ace grabs a pair of gloves off one of the shelves, and reaches down, wanting to help the fucker up. The clown guy, he reaches out with his left hand, and right before Ace grabs it, his right one makes this little flicking motion. We see a spark, kinda like in those old ass war videos, you know when the guns are firing and shit, but you can see the bullets?"
I make a mental note, he is talking about tracer rounds. Though i doubt this guy is firing them from a wrist launcher, it is something to remember. Maybe they just didn't see a gun, or maybe it was just a match, but maybe this guy bought something at a gun and knife show, some kind of phosphorus, or Lithium self defense item, who knows. But weird is good, weird gives us a place to look.
" Well it floats over , kinda like a fuckin leaf, but faster , ya know? And when it hit bats..." Another shudder as he continues " Bats is a big mother fucker, 300 pounds buck ass naked, and all 300 of those pounds went up like a fuckin bottle rocket man. Just **woosh**, and he is screaming trying to put himself out, but the shit, it just kept sticking to everything, like it was , what do you call it, fuckin napalm or something.
We didn't even know what was going on yet, me and the rest of the crew go over, Ace was just kinda standing there stunned, we tossed a tarp over bats, like you see people do in jackass and shit, but the tarp just caught fucking fire too. Jimmy grabs one of the fire extinguishers, and sprays, it helped, but it didn't keep it out , man. By the time it was finished Bats was blazing again, you could start to see something spreading around the floor..."
I cringe a bit as i realize it must have been the guy's fat.
" Well right about then ace starts to put two and two together, and grabs the clown fucker by the throat. Screamin 'bout ' what the fuck did you do.' and shit. Ace is a juicer, i think you guys know that, picked him up a couple of times from what i remember. Strong as a bull, well i turn around and i see him holding the fucker by the neck, old school , and goes to slap some sense into the fucker, he picks the left side of the guys face, half of it was gone really, you could see the muscles and shit, all torn to hell. The slap shoulda damn near fucking killed the guy, but it didn't.
Right when ace hits the fucker, he screams and drops him, grabbing at his pimp hand, and this is when i saw, this guy, he wasn't fuckin hurt at all. "
Another mental note, not only is this guy good with makeup, but he has to be some kind of metalworker , or something. We found razor wounds on ' Ace' , and to rig something like that up without making it cut off your own face, would take a bit of talent. But who in the fuck would have the skill set to do that?
" When Ace let go, his entire fuckin... posture, yeah, posture, changes, he starts laughing, actually not laughin, just fuckin, giggling. Motherfucker was wearing one of them long coats, like you see those guys in the old flicks wear, and he takes something out of it. I thought it was gonna be a gat, but it was a stick, same kind those guys in the old flicks have, don't know what you'd call it though, ya se 'em at halloween sometimes, but this wasn't no plastic.
He says something, bout missing fingers or some shit, and ace starts to stare the guy down, but ace was smart, he was reachin for his hold, we left all of our heavy artillery in the back. But once he took a step forward, the guy brings his stick straight up, with both hands, right under Ace's chin.
That fuckin noise man, like hamburger being pressed through a hose. I'll never fuckin forget it, never seen a fucker do something like that, never in my fuckin life, the stick goes in, right under Ace’s chin six fucking inches at least, Ace started jerkin around and shit, not for long though, the clown guy, he rips the stick out, it actually made a pop , man. And Ace was fucked, blood was pourin out of his head, and he wasn't moving. "
This part he failed to mention in his first few tellings. And something that i add to my list of odd skills this guy is going to have to posses. What he did was originally taught to american soldiers in the korean war, an effective tactic , but even among them it was rarely seen. It was introduced after a study showed that when in a dire situation and unarmed, soldiers tended to take the easy way out. Just by showing them how any stick can be used to kill a man, they could reduce the tendency for this to happen by over 70%. I come from a family of soldiers, and while it has always been an interest of mine, i always thought that i could do better fighting the war at home.
I notice a pattern though. Everything seems to stretch what a guy is willing to believe, but there is a reason for it. On the surface, a guy putting a stick through someone’s head seems impossible, but if someone knows how, its actually not that much of a chore. Whoever this guy is, he is all about the shock and awe. I keep thinking soldier, but maybe that is just my childhood bleeding through.
" I was thinking to scream, but they wouldn't have heard me over bats, so i run over , i was screamin ' over there vato! , shoot you motherfuckers! ' , it took 'em a couple seconds but we run a tight ship, everyone drew the hold and started firing. Problem was, the lights went out. The emerg lights came on pretty quick, but the fucker wasn't there no more.
Trip whispered to us ' Don't make a sound pendecos.' and we didn't. He was always into that spy shit, wore camo, bought his food at the army surplus store , used to read some guy's books all the time, Tim Lance, or Tom Clarence or something, shit like that. So we figured he was the point man , for the moment at least.
So we stood there, listening, and trying to make out someone moving. Problem was, bats was still screaming , poor motherfucker , too much fat to burn i guess. Well trip puts one in his dome, without a second thought, trip has always been a cold motherfucker, but that was just ice, man.
Bats body kept fucking with our nightvision and shit, it wasn't burning that bright, but bad enough we couldn't adjust.
' We gotta move, to the back, now' Trip says, as if we all wanted to stand there in the fuckin dark. Didn’t mean it wasn’t good advice though. We started walkin’ real slow and shit, I can tell ya man, I was shakin, trip seemed to keep his shit together though, Jimmy and Carlo, I don’t know, was too busy looking for that clown to keep an eye on everyone else.
We make it into the back, and we all get out the artillery, trip cocks his A.K. , I feel a lot better with my sawed off, And Jimmy and Carlo flip the safeties of their tech 9’s. We look at each other and we knew he wasn’t killing no one else. Trip yells ‘ Feel like round two Punta?’ and we all laugh a bit, nervous shit, but a vato’s kinda got to front some times.
We were lookin around for about ten minutes before Carlo says ‘ Look on the table’ and there is a fucking note. Jimmy picks it up and says it feels kinda soggy , we didn’t give a shit if he jacked off on it , we just told him to read the fuckin thing. It said something like ‘ That was a blast, hope you guys had just as much fun as I did.’.
Sick fuck man, a sick fuck.
Well we all read it, well all of us ‘cept me, never really took to that schoolwork shit. We was trying to make some kinda sense, Trip, he goes in the back and flips some switches, and just like that the lights pop back on again.
Trip seemed chilled out though, we searched around the place and we saw some bloody ass foot prints going down the street. Jimmy and carlo followed them for a couple blocks, but didn’t find the guy. When we all got back we kinda decided it was over. If they guy wanted to keep going , he would have, right? And with us all on guard, well fuck man, we’re Gato Negro, no one is going to be able to play that fuckin card twice and win.
I’ll tell ya Kregan, I’ve never seen shit this that weird, but I’ve seen worse, like that shootout in 2002? You remember that?”
And indeed I do, Italians versus Spanish , bloody as a butcher’s floor.
“ So I mean, we got to doing what we always do, we buried Ace and Bats, you know the place. And we got back to our fuckin game. We were chillin for a few hours, it was a little before sunup, when Trip puts down a three, a seven, an ace, a nine, and a five, and starts laughing talking about walking away with our money and shit.
I laugh a bit, and ask him where the fuck he learned to play cards, when I see Jimmy lookin at his hands, moving kinda slow and shit. I ask him what the fuck was going on , and he shows them to me. His fingertips were all, kinda eaten and shit. Not much , not like they was gonna fall off, but like someone went over them with a sander or some shit.
Something just didn’t seem right Kregan, so I go over to Carlo, and Trip, and the same fuckin thing. And they start acting, not trippy, just fucking slow, and stupid and shit. Trip, he starts blinkin his eyes saying he can’t focus them. That’s when it hits me, motherfucker dosed them, some fuckin how.”
The note he was talking about was lost in the ensuing fire, but the tactic in question is a rather simple one. A weak acid can open a pathway for any number of drugs to get into, the guy wouldn’t even have to get something nasty, just a few over the counter sedatives, things like that. At the very least to cause the effects I am hearing for the 13th time.
“ I keep trying to get them to snap out of it, but it was a lost fuckin cause man, they were doped up something good. And as I start slappin trip, I hear footsteps, real loud footsteps, like someone wanted to be heard.
He was fuckin back.
Only this time, he aint got no cuts or shit, I can see him clear as day man, not a scratch on the fucker, but he had this big ass fuckin grin, and he kept that giggling up as he was walkin over.
Then he started talkin, fuck man, his voice, guy wasn’t that big, tall motherfucker, but not much meat on him at all, but his fucking voice, yo. So deep, couldn’t really understand him all that well, and that just made shit worse, I was listenin real hard trying to make out what he wanted, and all of the sudden he splashes the bucket at me, I’m no fuckin idiot, I dove my ass, fuckin hard, problem was the mossburg gets caught on the table and I drop it. I end up behind a big steel toolbox, and look over, thinking he tossed out some acid , or some shit, but no, just a bunch of fuckin paper floating to the ground.
And I see him, he aint running at me, he ain’t drawing a gat, he is just walking, real slow like over to trip, just as casual as hell, he puts one hand on trips forehead and the other on the top of his head, he bends trip’s head back, just a bit, and pushes down. I hear a cracking sound and I smell shit, real quick. “
I keep thinking military, I’ve never head of anyone doing something like that, but it just reeks of some kind of training. But then again, what doesn’t reek in the same manner is the way this guy does what he does. It’s not like there is a high degree of skill involved in any of this, just knowing that it exists. It’s like he found the widest selection of cheap shots he could and went with it. And it shows.
A soldier, a real soldier would have done this like a surgical strike, gotten in, gotten out, and done anything meant to terrify post mortum. We deal with a lot, from Mexican federali that changed sides, to the guy who didn’t get his promotion to captain and decides to take it out on the world from a rooftop. Soldiers make great scumbags, and I have to side with Lopez on this one, while this guy is doing his thing in an interesting way, it isn’t what you’d call efficient.
The almost Mexican continues.
“ I’m lookin at my gat, I’m lookin at him, and he is looking at Jimmy and Carlo, like I aint even fucking there. No, that ain’t right, he knew I was there , but he just didn’t give a shit.
He walks over to Jimmy, and grabs him by the neck, he wasn’t choking him , he just dug his fingers in and started shaking , sounded like glass bein broken in a sock, I didn’t have to look at his chest, motherfucker was dead, real dead, his neck wasn’t broken or nothing, but it was all out of shape, buggin out and shit.
Carlo, Carlo was closest to me, and by the time the fuckin clown gets over we are no more than 3 feet away. He is lookin at me now, but he is lookin at Carlo too, with a kind of, thinkin look on his fucking face. Like he was tryin to decide what to do. He grabs Carlo by the shoulder and flips him on the table, Carlo lyin on his back, if his eyes were open he would have been lookin right at the fucker.
The guy raises his hand, like this, makes kind of a fist, and slams it down on Carlo’s chest, right over his heart. There was a noise, like when you punch a motherfucker real hard. You’d know what that sounds like , right Kregan?”
He grins, and I reply “ Lets just stick to the topic at hand , if we can. “ I say, wanting to just get on with the interrogation.
“ Yeah, you wouldn’t know nothing about knocking someone around.
Anyway pendeco, if ya ask me, he was thinkin this would just kill Carlo, but Carlo’s eyes open a bit, he aint really… up , but you could tell he knew something about what was goin down.
Well the clown guy does it again, and again, each time he waits for a second, and each time Carlo just wakes up a bit more. By the time he does this a half dozen times, Carlo is struggling a bit, the guy seems like he is getting pissed all of the sudden, he puts his arm across Carlo’s throat, suddenly Carlo ain’t struggling as bad, probably was takin all he had just to breathe.
Well, I think this is my chance, he has one hand keepin Carlo down, might not be the most distracted anyone has been, but take what ya can get, I always say.
So I try and keep him distracted, I say ‘What the fuck do you want?’ as my hand starts to creep to the gat, between the table and chairs I guess he can’t see it, thought I was startin to get on a roll.
He tells me , ‘Well, short answer is I’’ve been paid to do this, long answer is that I just might be going batshit crazy.’ And I didn’t doubt it man.
My hand closes around the grip, and I musta started to smile or some shit, because he says to me ‘The barrel is filled with contact cement, unless you don’t like that hand, I wouldn’t bother firing it if I were you. ‘.And he points to the ground, sure as shit, there is some green slimy shit all over it. I drop the gat, maybe he was gonna kill me anyway, but later is better than sooner. Ya know?
I don’t remember exactly what he said, but the fucker starts having a conversation with me. Tellin me how he is kinda pissed that Carlo didn’t die, he said something like it ruined the ‘branding’ of what he wanted to do, whatever the fuck he meant by that. Carlo is coming more to it now, and suddenly he smiles, this big kid on Christmas morning smile. And the fucker says ‘ watch this’.
I don’t know how he did it man, I don’t even know what he did, but it killed Carlo , real fuckin dead. He presses one of his hands over Carlo’s mouth, covering it with the palm, and the other he uses to pinch close Carlo’s nose. There was this little hiss, maybe, I don’t know, I was pretty shook if we are tellin the truth. And Carlo’s chest starts to rise, like he is takin in a breath. But it don’t stop, Carlo is thrashin around real bad now, the guy leans in to keep him on the table, there is a tearing sound, real quiet and shit, and Carlo starts calming down, the guy doesn’t give up right away he keeps going, like, for half a minute.
Then he moved his fuckin hand.
Carlo starts spraying blood, lots of blood, and it gets distance man, not exorcist distance , but a good 6 inches or so, not for very long, but when he was done, the floor was covered pretty bad.
Guy walks over, and asks me if I want to live. I tell him of fuckin course I do, it’s a little hazy after that Kregan, but what I do remember is fucking off, beating sneakers away from that fuckin place. “
I think of mentioning that there has to be more to the story. And for the life of me, I cannot understand why the little prick isn’t telling it to me. My first thought is that maybe he killed this guy, whoever the hell it is , but why wouldn’t he say anything? Clear, even for someone like him, case of self defense.
I add it to the growing pile of shit that doesn’t add up.
Part 2
We stand outside the warehouse , me and Kurt. Passing a 40, Grey Snow, of course, back and forth. When they say going through a traumatic experience creates friends, I don’t think this is what they meant.
“So, why the fuck man? All I gotta ask.” Kurt says , he is scared, but the good scared, he thinks he is beat. I would say he knows, but that would mean that the situation was hopeless, it isn’t, but him thinking it is, is exactly what I wanted to do.
“ You really want to know?” I say , taking the odd puff of heavy on the sly, keeping my voice that demonic timbre, and protecting my identity just a bit more, not that I think this guy is going to be trying for revenge any time soon.
“ Man, I just saw 3 vato’s killed like you was Jason , not knowin is gonna drive me fuckin insane. “ he says, a reasonable stance to take.
“ Your grandmother.” I say simply, taking a long pull of the beer. For a moment I can tell he thinks that I was just making a variation of a ‘your momma ‘ joke. So i continue, “ She paid me, and well to make sure you got the hell out of this shitty life.”.
“ Hate to break it to ya, G, but I’ve seen motherfuckers killed before , I’ll probably get one hell of a buzz goin on for a few weeks, but after that , what’s to stop me from banging again?” His tone is curious, not confrontational.
“ Because if you do, your going to get known as bad luck. Maybe it won’t be right away, maybe it won’t even be like this, when your around, maybe it will be a bomb, or a gas leak, but I am going to kill every single gang banging associate of yours. And you know how superstitious these guys can get, I give it one more incident before they decide you’re bringing bad mojo, and dump you in a few different pieces, in a few different places.” I say trying to make sure he understands the gravity of the situation.
“ You could be bullshittin, like you were with the shotgun.” He says, not matter of factly, but more so genuinely curious.
“I could be, but look at it this way, you think I am going to have a hard time setting a housefire? Seriously, you have any idea how long it took me to plan this shit out? Weeks, to make the point, you see. But now it is just a case of reminding you. A lot less effort.” He goes white, well, from a genetic standpoint, he is white, but I am talking more of general skin tone.
“Gangsta” he replies simply.
“You could say that. Listen though, no one is asking you to become an alterboy, get a shitty job, sell some pot, do what you need to do. Just stay out of the flying bullet lifestyle. Anyway, this seems to be just about finished , I’m going to leave, please don’t follow me, I didn’t specify anything to Nana Johanson about you not getting blinded, or having your tongue cut out. “ And I start to walk away.
About four blocks ( give or take, how does one define a ‘block’ when they are walking through a series of back allies?) later I see Eric, leaning against a wall smoking one of those shit smelling cigarettes he gets by the case.
“ Well?” he says simply.
“Remember when you were telling me about bullet fragments? Well I have some first hand experience of them at the moment. Other than that though, went pretty well.” I say moving the sleeve of my jacket up a bit to reveal ten or so small bleeding wounds. “ There is a few in my shoulder as well, but none are very deep.”
8 months of training. Hard fucking training, you’d think I would just be talking about the physical stuff, but no. Stacks of books about learning german, shady tactics from every group of warriors you could think of, and a few you can’t, and books thicker than a king james bible about minutia ranging from self care of wounds, to the working of engines.
By no means did it turn me into the terminator, or , I guess, if I were to use a more apt analogy, it didn’t turn me into rocky. Better than I was, but no underdog to world champ, to put it in perspective.
“ Well, if I were to grade it, I’d give ya a C-, but your still breathin, so I guess that is a plus.” Eric says, it amazes me he didn’t go on to be a drill sergeant a few centuries ago with encouragement like that. “ Lets get goin though, I don’t feel like freezing my balls off, and then getting arrested. “
More sound advice.
We start walking, keeping to the allies, and dark areas of the somewhat abandoned industrial district, Not wanting to take too many chances. As always it is not so much about not getting caught , as it is postponing getting caught. Semantics to some, but not to me. The difference is, I wouldn’t mind being caught, or killed for that matter, if it meant something big. But until that time comes, I’d rather be free and breathing.
“ Oh, and by the way, that hammer blow thing, to the chest, is bullshit. I swear to you, the guy actually became more awake when I did it. “ I say, starting up a conversation for the long walk back.
“You was probably just doin it wrong.” Eric retorts
“ How hard do you think it is to hit a passed out asshole, on the left side of his chest? Trust me it is not user error here, it just doesn’t work.” Is my reply. I begin to think he is being confrontational moreso just to keep the conversation going than anything.
“ How did ya do it then?” Eric asks, tossing his cigarette aside, and immediately lighting up another one. How this guy survived to the age he did, is well beyond me when I consider his habits.
“ Actually, I just used this, “ I say holding up my right hand. “ A while back I disabled the pressure valve, not too dangerous if you are the one controlling the flow, but , pretty effective for…what I, we , do.”
“I aint even gonna ask what that ended up looking like.” Eric says, adding, of all things, a chuckle at the end of the sentence.
I wish I could say I was disturbed at the fact that I was walking away from a 5 person homicide, but in truth I’m not. And it isn’t because I am some psycho ( well , maybe it is, but I don’t think so, not really.) , it is just what has to be done.
Just like all those green garbed generals, all of those pants pissing privates, in wars past, I have managed to deal with the fact that the only way this fight can be fought is with blood, pain and fear. It doesn’t mean I like it, I could think of a dozen things that I would rather be doing. But simply that I know, as much as it is a foreign, and unpleasant experience, being elbow deep in someone else’s blood, it is for a good cause. And that lets me compartmentalize what I am doing.
“ Probably a bit different than when you had to…” Eric stops my sentence with a sharp elbow to the ribs, and tosses his hand up in a military code, that , roughly translated means “ Shut the fuck up.”.
After a second or two I hear it as well, two voices, one somewhat familiar, one not. The latter, may possibly be a female voice, though that qualification is merely a guess.
“No one fucking told me you were going to be here , bitch.” I hear that familiar Yee Haw tone of freeman’s say. It makes me think that my guess as to the sex of the second speaker is correct.
“Actually they did, but you think if you say that I am just going to leave. Fuck, Doug, if you could take care of this, I wouldn’t be here. I know that pisses you off, but your god damn ego isn’t as important as our job is it?” the female voice says, they are both speaking quietly, but her voice, specifically seems more muffled.
“Not able to do the job? Fuck you, seriously fuck you , a lucky god damn shot is what it was, then being swarmed on by a bunch of fucking uninformed cops. If I could have stayed I would have ripped that fucker’s head off.” Freeman says, his voice raising to almost a standard speaking volume.
“No, maybe john would have been able to fix your mistake, but you were the one that fucked it up, and that is why I am here. “ The female voice continues in a rather degrading tone.
“You realize we are the same rank right? What right do you have talking to me like that? Maybe I have to take that shit from Tom, but not from you. “ Freeman’s voice goes down in volume but retains its ire.
“What right? I’m better at this than you, plain and simple. And you are right, we are the same rank, which means that you shouldn’t need me to come in here and fix your problems. This guy isn’t anything special, no stolen tech, no cache of guns, and fuck, he isn’t even close to being as strong as you, hell, any of us. But for some reason, you couldn’t manage to scare him enough, or break him enough to stop his superman act. You’re pissed at me? You should be thanking me you jack-off. To be absolutely honest, I think if you went at him again, you’d be the one in a pine box. Don’t think of this as taking your job, but rather, saving your life.”
Freeman launches into a series of swears, and I start to look around.
I was half expecting this, half not. On one hand I knew they were probably keeping tabs, but on the other I thought, maybe with 8 months of me not existing, they had just forgotten.
I look for ways to prepare the battlefield, from my first encounter with these spooks, I know that I am going to need every edge possible, just to get out of this situation alive.
Garbage cans, and dumpsters, a stray cat wandering around, and a thick black cable coming from the rooftop, and anchored into the ground.
Bingo.
“ Bolt cutters.” I whisper to Eric, as he quietly opens a dufflebag full of miscelanious tools, and hands them to me.
As the metallic click happens, and the cable goes somewhat slack I hear the female voice say , “ Fuck, he’s here.” And just about as I can register that I hear the telltale noise of a zipline and see a dark form sliding down the cable.
About a quarter of the way down, the form is tossed off balance by the slack, and what was meant to be a rapid, and smooth entrance, turns into her slamming off of the wall, and trying desperately not to get tangled up in the cord.
Just when it looks as if, I may not even have to fight this fight, she kicks off of the wall. Her landing isn’t perfect, in fact as she rights herself I can see the her right leg is a bit hurt.
But that is about all of the optimism that can come from her landing. It isn’t cat like and graceful, with her landing in a crouch and spinning upwards, she lands almost already standing, the harsh noise of steel crushing stone screams through the alley , and I can see flakes of asphalt spray as she makes her landing. It reminds me more of a fridge being dropped from a roof than a human landing.
She stands almost six feet, and should I not have heard her voice, “she” is not the first thing that would come to my mind. She is garbed entirely in some kind of black steel, embossed with odd patterns , whether these are structural or decoration I have no idea. She has an angled steel dome , reminiscent of tank armor , as a helmet, with a mane of deep black hair , shoulder length hanging out of the back. No visible slits for eye holes, or for that matter ear holes, in fact the only flesh I can see is directly under her chin, everywhere else is steel clad.
Overtop of this is a long brown leather coat, the right tail completely gone, and various burn marks, holes and tears adorning it. My first guess is that, unlike my own coat, hers is simply for decoration , or maybe a memento of some form. And this honestly causes quite the sinking feeling in me. One of the biggest changes from the original “equipment” is that I have re-enforced the coat, pants, well, everything with layers of leather, on the inside of course, a trick learned from various books on prison life. But what I think of as solid protection, she thinks of as decoration.
Lastly, something is spraypainted across her chest, I can’t quite see the entire word but with a lucky gust of wind, I eventually see all of it, a simple decoration, the word “ Not” in an angry scrawl.
But this is where it pays off to be me, I’m scared, or rather I know that this fight is unbalanced in her favor as much as the last was sided against the gang bangers, but I don’t really care. It’s not fearlessness, nor apathy, just the simple fact that this is what I do. I no more care that I may get squashed by this steel clad warrior woman, than a plumber cares that he will spend his day elbow deep in someone else’s shit. It is just part of doing business.
A burst of helium, and I start in, but not before I palm one of my as of yet, untested new toys to Eric.
“ Well I bet you thought that would have been a lot more impressive, how’d that fall work out for you?” my tone is schoolyard bully obnoxious, and the helium makes it grating , hard on the ears.
She says nothing, she just looks at me. So I continue, “ And now comes the silence, is this the point where I am supposed to realize your unshakeable? A vanguard of one, trained to be unstoppable?” I laugh, a shrill barking giggle “ Well look at my scared face…What the fuck do they call you anyway? Vaginator? The crimson flow? Give me that at least.”
A couple of seconds go by, and I can see by a slight shift of the helmet that she might say something, I pounce on this like a karate master pounces on a lowered guard.
“ Come on , I really want to hear it, I want to shake with fear at your moniker, tremble at the very mention of your name, remember forever the label of the one who finally put an end to my reign of terror.” I snicker a bit, as if I am holding it back, giving her no more concern than a raised eyebrow and a relaxed pose.
“ Not-girl” She says simply.
I bring my hand up to my mouth, as if to stifle overwhelming laughter, actually I am taking a breath of the heavy, and after a brief ejaculation of deep laughter I continue , “ Holy shit, were you and freebird off fucking when they were passing out names? Wow, my jokes were better than that. Why the hell would you pick that?” I keep up the conversational tone , really I am just buying time, the cops saved my ass last time, and maybe it will work out the same way again. But not of I get my faced crushed in 30 seconds.
“ Why?” she gives her own snicker and starts slowly walking over, not that sensuous ‘fuck-me’ walk you see female villains have in the movies, but a simple, almost graceless stride. “Because girls are soft.” She lashes out at a wall, it doesn’t cave in, she doesn’t leave a hole, but none the less chunks of brick fly off of it hard enough to make high pitched Tinging noises off of her armor. “And I am, Not. Girls are scared” she continues as she twists her arm, and a set of small spikes extend from her right fist, not giant, three quarters of an inch at most, but nothing I want to be hit with. “ I am, Not.” As she keeps talking, I realize that maybe I am not the only one taking advantage of the pre fight rant. The arming, or drawing, or whatever you would want to call those appearing , is something that looked like it took a bit of effort. Not much, but if there is anything I have learned from the volumes and volumes of shit I have had to read, its that , that little bit of effort can be all it takes.
“Girls get fucked, and I can assure you , “ I see her leg lash out to the left, quickly, very quickly considering the armor she wore. It wasn’t cumbersome so much as simply heavy looking, in a very obvious way. But regardless of that, the movement is quick, almost unintentional looking, and a cinderblock comes flying at me, not a heat seeking missile, by any means, but it comes close to taking me in the stomach none the less.
“ I am not going to be the one fucked when this is all over.” She finishes and is now standing a mere ten feet away.
I let my face go slack, as if I just realise that unavoidable death is staring me down, I drop my cane, Lucite with a lead core , from a design standpoint virtually indestructible for my uses, but something I don’t have much faith in at the moment. “ You know, I just realized, I have no chance do i?” I say letting my voice shrink back to my normal tone and pitch, no gas, no falsetto, I see her give a superior kind of chuckle.
“ No, I’m the person they send in when asshead up there fucks up, and considering that happens on a pretty regular basis, you know I’ve had a lot of training.” I have to stifle a laugh, everything coming out of her mouth seems like she takes her job entirely too seriously. I have the soundness of mind to realize that whatever it is we are doing, or engaged in, it is absurd. Absolutely , out and out , absurd.
“ I get it, I just need to know one thing.” I sigh, a hangdog kind of noise, “ How long did it take you to think of that? How many hours did you sit down, and try different little variations , to see which one would induce the most pants shitting?” I give her a big smile, and as I do so I slip on a set of brass knuckles. Not the cheap kind found at flea markets and shady pawn shops, but genuine custom made , meant to kill , brass knuckles. Rigid, spiked, and in a deep, black purple the same hue as my gloves, ( hours of dying had stained my fingertips the most horrible shade of blue, but thankfully after 2 months I realized it was going to go away.) the thinking being, if people didn’t notice, the crushing, gaping puncture wound it would create would appear to be just my fist. Appearance is everything, well when your working with one eighth of the raw power of your competitors at least.
She growls a bit but seems to be deliberately trying to keep her cool.
“Okay, lets start again, I am not necessarily here to try and break you clown. You show talent, I mean you’d never be in my shoes, or even Freeman’s , but you could be a tech guy, a trainer, sparring partner, we have all kinds of support staff. “ she isn’t trying to provoke me. But if I have ever head a backhanded compliment it was now.
But she wasn’t finished.
“And don’t worry, not all of our support staff end up life a lonely old prick who has no one but a confused twenty something he tricks into being his friend.” She gives her own laugh and looks to Eric.
“ They still talk about you old man, a bit, is it true that in the Korean war you pulled a chunk of wooley pete out of a guy’s stomach, and stitched him up so good he was fighting the next day?” her voice does have a military tone about it, a little too loud, and a little too condescending if not talking to someone who is wearing the appropriate stripes to be condescending to her.
Eric takes a long drag of his cigarette, the alley is quiet and you can hear the bottom of the line , pale yellow tobacco pop and crack as he does so. “Stories kid, they always get exaggerated. It was a burning chunk of tree, and it only broke his stomach open a bit, but yeah, he was up being a better soldier than you’ll ever be the next day, you cunt.” Eric, never one to sugar coat an opinion, says.
I wish I could see her face, to see what reaction that got, because her tone got colder, and for a moment I thought she was going to kill him right then and there.
“ Old man, your lucky I am not here to simply take you out for being you. But letting you live is much funnier, isn’t it going to be funny going back to sitting around your apartment all day, doing nothing, hoping that you can think up some excuse to show up, at this insane fuck’s place? No more adventure , no more being the Mr. Miagi, to his fucked up karate kid.”
He takes another long, noisy puff of the cigarette, as a gust of wind, thick with the smell of industrial cleaners, motor oil, and various types of garbage, blows by.
“ When he is done breakin ya in half, you know what I am going to do?” he says casually, but I know him, and he is holding back rage by the bucketful, “Take a cab down to a pharmacy, buy all the Viagra they have.” His tone slow, as if describing a series of events it is important she knows. He takes one final puff of the cigarette, and he must have got a decent amount of filter in it, judging by the smell, but the smoke cloud Is yellow and thick, and makes a good backdrop for his next words, he chucks the butt on the ground, sparks flying away, almost as if they know something horrible is going on and are hoping to get away before the shit hits the fan. “ and then, there is a 50/50 chance if I snort it all, I might get a woody. And if that happens, I am going to rape the living shit out of you. I was helping this fuckin country, really helpin this country, savin lifes, saving the fuckin world, you hear stories, then you god damn know what we were really doing back then, and what we really had to fuckin deal with , and I was doin this long before you were getting paid to hunt down joe asshole in a back alley.” He says finally.
His rage breaks through about after the word woody, and it takes everything in me not to look disturbed to him. But I assume, with everything he has seen, he has his reasons for the reaction. I make a mental note to try and see what he meant though. I have never seen the old man snap that bad, so whatever it is she was pissing on, metaphorically of course, it was big.
“ I wouldn’t start planning the bus ride there quite yet fucker.” She says, and I am sure if she could spit upon him she would. “So you really want to do this… what is it they call you?” she asks the question almost as an afterthought.
“ What do they call me? Mike, actually. The concept of actually having a superhero name, doesn’t that just seem a little too camp to you? A little too like your trying to force something that isn’t there? You aren’t a hero, and I am not a fucking villain.” It takes everything I have to keep up a mocking , cartoonish tone. In all honesty I want to get her real opinion on the matter.
“ Not a villain? Really, you just killed, what, a half dozen men, up close and personal, and for what? You’re a murderer, plain and simple, no different from any number of mentally lopsided…” in the middle of the sentence , she does something, at first I think a punch is coming, but by the time I am moving I am staring down the barrel of a massive handgun, drawn and aimed with her left hand. “ Think you’re the only one that knows how to catch someone with their pants down?” she says, as I can hear a grin behind the mask.
“Fuck” I say simply, this is a moment I have been dreading, someone with a gun, and someone who knows how to use it, having a bead directly on me. We are no more than 6 feet away by this point, I doubt she will miss.
I see the barrel start to dip, not because of any loss of concentration, if I were to hazard a guess I would say she was trying to shoot me in the leg, maybe just in the gut, but regardless this is my only chance, another wasted second and I am going to be missing a large part of my body.
I take a massive swing , and turn my body, both putting my weight behind it, and shifting her target enough that she will have to take another bit of a second to aim. The brass knuckles connect solidly just below her wrist, the shock numbs my arm, on a normal person this would have shattered , if not severed the hand, not so much due to my own skill, as the vicious design of the weapon. But to her, it causes nothing more than a few inches of movement in her arm and a somewhat looser grip on the gun.
But in her haste to end this quickly she tries to fire off a shot, hoping that luck will be on her side. The gun goes off inches from my ear, a deafening blast, more akin to a rifle than a handgun, the sound sends a bolt of pain straight through my grey matter, but the recoil of this hand held SCUD in a compromised grip sends it up high. All training, all of the work I put into trying to know what to do and when to do it, goes out the window. I grab the gun, being as large as it is , I have enough room to get both hands on it, in a solid grip, and I yank, dropping myself toward the ground to get more leverage. For a brief moment I am staring again down the barrel, my heart leaps and there is a pit in my stomach, but as I yank my body to and fro like a pitbull trying to tear off a chunk of meat, I feel the resistance suddenly disappear.
It would have been the smart thing to do to keep the gun, it was in my hands, and judging from the noise that is leaving me (hopefully) temporarily deafened it would be a more effective weapon than anything I have. But this is why you don’t disregard training, instinct is seldom the smartest option in a situation. So instead of thinking it through, standing up and firing the gun into her until I hear a ‘click’, I toss it aside. As soon as I hear the metal on stone grinding noise of it sliding down the alley , I regret my decision.
I regret it further when I notice she has stepped in, and a steel clad knee is sailing up toward my chest. I roll with the momentum of the blow, straight up and backwards, saving my ribs from becoming pulp, but leaving me no other choice than to fly on a low flight, backwards, through a window. I land with three quarters of my body on the inside of the dim building, from the looks of it, some kind of car repair bay, hanging by my knees, my head just barely touching the ground. I am instantly grateful for my somewhat cumbersome, yet, now tested and found effective, leather re-enforcement.
I flip myself forward out of the window just in time to see her bearing down upon me in a manner that makes me instantly think of a football player, a damn good one. This is the point where I notice the fight has began in earnest.
All of the books start to slowly trickle back to me, there is no way I am going to be able to grapple with her, so I continue my flip into a bellyflop to the cement, I tuck my legs in , and spin , on my side, in an arc, that avoids the steel shod feet of my attacker. I notice the Lucite cane, on the ground and scoop it up before turning the spin into an awkward, but speedy rise to my feet. She hits the wall with her shoulder, shattering a few bricks in the process.
And a thought comes to me. The same trick I used in the warehouse.
As she turns around, casually, I dash in, she is taken off guard by the sudden reversal, ( and probably due to the stupidity of the charge as well.), and the Lucite stick comes straight up, I am hoping to hit right under the chin, as it is the only place I could not see solid steel, and drive the thing upward till it hits skull.
My chagrin as the staff encounters a thin steel plate, running between the exposed bits under her chin, is immense. And as I try to back up, cold, heavy steel arms wrap around me and I am slammed into the brick wall, being crushed between it and the iron monolith that has chosen to stop me.
I see the headbutt coming, and manage to crane my neck out of the way, the steel clangs off of the brick wall, and I fumble through my pockets for something that will extract me from the current situation.
I grab a knife, one of the original set I kept since day one, and try and slide it between the steel plates, the kind of maneuver that is standard to the point of cliché in fantasy movies and novels. But the knife encounters nothing but steel, it slides in a few inches, to be sure, but after those , there is nothing to shank, it seems armor has came quite some way since medieval times. Who would have thought.
The action costs me use of my left hand , she grabs it in a steel death grip, holding it down by my side. I feel her weight shift, and can see her balancing, on her right leg, the one that was damaged in the fall, if only slightly. Her left starts speeding upward, using my own leg as a rail to fire it unerringly into my groin, I hear, from a dozen or so feet away , Eric scream “ Pennies in a doorframe!”. The meaning is immediately clear, and gives me further respect for the old guy. I might not be able to get through the steel, but…
I twist my body in a contortion only comfortable to those who have been doing the splits since age 3, my left leg curls up , in a race to outdistanct the knee that is coming directly at my stones, it wins, and I use it to push myself forward and down, she keeps her grip on my left hand, and I ignore the pain, further twisting and shoving myself until I am almost wrapped around her right leg. I drop the cane for a moment, and draw a small paring knife, and jam it between the joints of the knee. She tries to kick off the wall herself, tossing her left leg so that her foot is resting on it, my guess is that she was looking at a full rotation while still holding on to my arm. A maneuver that , no doubt would have sent me sailing through the air, to a broken spine as I hit the wall. But as she tries to push back, the right leg will not cooperate, locked in place, if only for a moment by the knife.
I do a lot of laughing, but the fact that my best retort to her assault was inspired by something created by siblings trying to screw with each other, starts me into a gale of not-so-sane laughter as I pick up the cane, and get to my feet.
She teeters backward, with no give in the steel boots, and a leg locked ( though the knife bends , and falls out within a few seconds.) , she falls, flat, gracelessly onto the ground.
“Want me to give your old man a call?” I hear freeman scream, with a laugh. And with a growl, my adversary gets to her feet. It isn’t a cumbersome movement, but it isn’t a graceful movement like my own either. As she gets to one knee, I take a run forward, swinging the cane like a golf club, and at the last moment even adding “ Fore!” as it connects in the best way possible.
She falls back down, probably more due to the surprize that I had anything that could get through her steel skin, than any actual damage the blow did. And I decide to spring, I fall upon her, in what is commonly referred to as the “ Big brother” position ( full mount to all of you folks educated in the martial arts.), sitting on her stomach, with my arms free , I slam the cane into the helmet, as hard as I can, heedless of the short, jabs she is throwing into my ribs. But as the first half dozen of my blows connect, I start to realize that it may be annoying, may even be disorienting, but it is not causing any actual damage. And with each blow, she seems a little less dazed , my momentum starts to play out rapidly and I try to disengage.
This was a mistake.
Unlike myself who has had little ability to test out the book learning I have endured for 8 months, she has. And once she feels my weight start to shift, she is in motion. Before I realize what is going on I am spun to the ground, hundreds of pounds of steel and flesh atop of me, it feels like I am grappling with a safe. There is no position I can get into to change my leverage , and as I realize this, our previous entanglement is reversed, I am still holding the cane, now in both hands, to try and deflect some of the blows that I know are coming my way.
Gone is any semblance of martial defense, I fight like a wildcat, twisting, and lashing out with the cane, scoring hit after useless hit, but managing , to a point to keep the blows to the side of my head, or my shoulders, knowing that one solidly connecting shot, from this angle, with my head between a steel fist and the cement ground, would be fatal. Or at least would give me enough brain damage that my new career would be quickly ended.
One blow knocks the cane out wide, my left hand losing its grip, I try to get it back, but I instantly know this is the mistake that is going to hurt, a lot.
The first blow is off balance, almost as if she was surprized at the fact that the cane, finally went out wide. It connects almost perfectly, but she pulls the punch much too early.
I see black spots, the spot just above the nose she hit starts sending red waterfalls of blood into my eyes, and as I try to blink them, and the spots away , I feel a cold hand grab high on my neck. She does not intend to make the same mistake again.
The second blow does not get pulled, I manage to move my head, slightly to the left though, taking the lethality of the blow away.
Which isn’t to say it wasn’t damaging.
My jaw dislocates, and as I look to the floor of this dirty alley, I see piles of thin white splinters, the remains of my teeth up to the last molar. My mouth is pouring blood, and I start to cough as my head gets roughly yanked to stare up at her. I try to get in enough air to force the blood away from my throat, but doing so just leads to a feeling eerily similar to being waterboarded. (Part of our training was to put me through the paces of some know techniques employed by the us military to get folks to talk. ). I try to get a mouthful of blood, to maybe spit it , and blur her vision, anything to get myself out of the fatalistic situation I find myself in.
She yanks upward on my chin, slamming the back of my head into the ground, and making damn sure that I am watching her.
“ You know what is going to happen when I kill you, fucker? I am going to have to do about 5 days worth of paperwork. “ she says, a heavy steel slap threatens to make me lose consciousness , and opens up a ragged wound on the side of my face. “And you know what, I fucking hate paperwork.” Another slap furthers the wound, blood flies from my mouth in an almost fake looking amount. She continues “ But I am not going to have to go through this bullshit again. You weren’t a challenge , cocksucker, you are annoying. Like a fly that always seems to be just an inch out of your reach. And you know…”
I see something creep into the edge of my vision, and my heart jumps.
Three barrels, a little thicker than a broomhandle, dyed a light purple, with a stock carved from dark oak, thick screws hold it together. It is based off of a design popular among the youth gangs of 1930 , or so I was told, reliable , powerful, but with the accuracy of a garden hose. And in regards to this particular item, completely and utterly untested. The intent is to fire a solid steel shotgun slug, from something no bigger than a handgun.
There is an ear shattering explosion, not dissimilar to the sound of the gun that she had pulled on me earlier in the fight. This one though, has no elegant flame, but rather a cloud of sabot, gunpowder, and various different burning chunks. But the effect, the effect makes mockery of any appearance it may have.
Her head jerks to the left violently, a metal on metal scream as I feel shrapnel, maybe from the slug, maybe from the helmet hit my upper body, my first thought is that her neck is broken, but by the way she falls to the side, as if she had a second or so before the lights went out , I guess this is not the case, but regardless, I manage to pull myself out from under her bulk, or rather, the bulk of the suit, and get to a somewhat dazed standing position.
I run my tongue along my teeth, almost each one is shattered, making them almost reptilian, random points, jutting out at odd angles, but none actually knocked free of my head. I go to say something to Eric, and all that comes out is an unintelligible mumble, my jaw hanging at a cocked angle , that makes speaking impossible.
Eric, still holding the smoking Zip-gun, gives me a pretty good uppercut , the pain is intense , but I find, after a large bloody oyster, hocked to the ground, I can actually talk again.
I don’t take too much time to savor the moment, but rather look up at where I believe freeman to be standing. “So, dickface, you want to come down and have another go?” I say, legitimately expecting him to come down.
His reaction is a loud bark of laughter. “ No, but I do want to take a picture , any chance you could step on her chest?” he says.
I give a confused look to Eric, I honestly would have expected a little more… I don’t know, I guess professional courtesy is the word. They are, after all fighting on the same side. But I oblige, I assume this picture will get around their circles, and seeming good enough to take down someone like this, will contribute greatly to their perception of the lowly clown.
So I put my foot on her chest, like a big game hunter standing over a rhino, I expect to hear a click, or see a flash, but I get a simple “Thanks for that one.” And I assume he is done his picture.
There is somewhat of an awkward silence, and myself and Eric start to walk away, down the alley, picking up the Lucite cane as we do.
“Thanks for saving my ass…” I say, intending to follow it up with a joke of some form, and I hear a rough grating of steel on stone. And my joke turns to a dismal , soft “ For fuck sakes…” as I look behind us.
She gets to her feet shakily, seeming to be breathing heavily, she rips off the helmet and it slides, screeching, and hopping down the alley.
The girl behind the mask isn’t ugly, but she isn’t cosmopolitan pretty. She has more of a “ Natural beauty” , which is to say, that hunter gatherer part of one’s body knows that she would produce strong offspring. But that natural beauty is now fairly marred.
She sways on her feet a bit, and blood is coming down in small trails from her nose and ears, her dark brown eyes seem glazed, and maybe it is just the light, but one pupil looks much bigger than the other. She wipes a steel forearm across her face, smearing the blood more than clearing it away, and fixes me with a stare.
She looks as if she is going to say something, but instead just charges forward. This isn’t the calculated, professional charge that she brought out earlier, but more like a drunkard trying a hail Mary maneuver against a bouncer that has gotten the best of them.
For some reason or other, this actually enrages me. If I was to put a point on it, I would say it is because, regardless of how fair it may have been, she lost the fight. And above and beyond that, I didn’t do what I should have done, and simply separated her head from her shoulders before I left. ( that decision was 5% morals , 95% thinking if death was on the table, Freeman may have been more likely to step in.) That is not a mistake I am going to make twice.
She is far enough away that I can toss the cane , spinning in the air, just a bit, to catch it in a baseball bat like grip. I can tell by the way her line to me is swaying, and she is trying her damndest not to trip, that this isn’t going to be a hard blow to land. My intent is to simply hit her full force, the momentum of the swing, and her armor, should be enough to damn near snap her head off. I take careful aim, predict about where she is going to try and tackle me to the ground , and let fly.
The only problem is, that in my possibly concussion having state, I don’t take into account that the level of the head is going to change at the last moment. The blow is off, but not by much. It skips off the breastplate, enough momentum stolen, that it does not decapitate the tenacious wench, but explodes her nose, caves in one sinus, and sends her into a backward spin that slams her head against the ground with a sickening noise, like a semi-frozen orange, tossed in a sock and beaten against a counter.
This time, she is out cold, and by the garishness of the wounds, she may not be getting back up. I kneel over her still form , saying just loud enough to hear, in my real voice, “If you come out of this, remember that all it would take me right now is one fuckin stomp, and I would never have to worry about you again. But to be honest, after the tooth fucking you gave me, I am more concerned with getting drunk at the moment. If we see each other again, when I know your schtick, its going to be a slow fucking time dying, I would suggest a career change. “ While I am not confidant that a second encounter would de facto be in my favor, my intent is simply to degrade her, to shake her up, and maybe not have to fight a quazi invincible bitch with a chip on her shoulder again.
As I rise, I notice Eric has another smoke lit, already half way finished. He walks over, almost casually.
“ As far as that rapin business, I was thinking about it. I didn’t like getting the clap in ’43 , and I probably still wouldn’t like it. “ He finishes this by spitting a disgusting glob of phlegm, speckled with black bits, onto the mess that is now her face.
A few hours , and a stop for booze later, I am sitting in Eric’s apartment, screaming in agony, as he pours some kind of film over the jagged mess that my teeth have became. He tells me, with any luck, it will let them heal right.
And what am I , if not lucky?
He was making no sense. I mean i have had my share of drugged out scumbags spouting nonsense, but this guy just takes the cake. And the thing that bothered me was that after a piss test, the man was sober. Well not quite sober, we found some pot, and he was drinking, but to a guy like this, i don't think that is going to put him in a state to be ranting about demonic clowns.
His name was Kurt Lopez, mid level member of our local branch of the Gato Negro, a spanish gang that has been second only to guys in suits with last names ending in vowels, at keeping this city under their thumb. Kurt had been working as a C.I. for us for quite some time, through a lucky mistake another C.I. found evidence showing that Kurt has as much Spanish in him as Taco bell. Since then he has been more than friendly , in exchange this information has not been made public, or rather tossed into the gutter for some rats to find.
" Tell me again, this time really try to push past all the O.G. Kush and think of what really happened." i say exasperated at our 10th hour of interrogation.
" Fuck, Kregan, i've told you this a dozen fucking times already man, why do you need me to do it for a 13th fucking time?" he says, at least as exasperated as i am.
" Because Lopez, i tend to disbelieve a story when it involves a demon clown taking out a warehouse full of people. " i say. I sit down on the bare metal chair in the interrogation room, and rest my head in my hands , fixing him with a raised eyebrow.
" I didn't fucking say demon, man. I said the fucker was scary." he says, looking toward the floor. I would be too if i got my ass kicked by a clown.
" Demon, scary, i don't care if the guy was half a god damn squid Lopez, your story doesn't make any sense. " I continue to look, and eventually he resigns himself and starts to tell the story from the beginning, again...
" We were just hanging, you know at the warehouse, keeping watch, and staying chill. Nothing big goin on, just punching our timecards.
Well we were in the middle of a game of poker, i was winning , actually, and pretty happy with it, we just had a major score a while back, so this would mean even more coin to jangle , if you get what i am saying.
We all hear this fucking noise, from the main doors, we couldn't hear what it was, but we thought we'd go check the shit out, you know, even a cat might knock something over that we didn't want knocked over, if you pick up what i am putting down.
Well we get there, me, Jimmy, Carlo, Trip, Ace, and Bats. And we see this fuckin guy, weirdest looking mother fucker we have seen in our life. Top hat and shit, some kind of fuckin symbol on a rag on it..."
I interrupt him.
" That one you drew for me?" I say , trying to keep everything straight. I couldn't understand what the hell it was for a minute, looked like some kind of eye, but that was stretching it, might just as easily be an asshole for all i know.
" Yeah fucker, let me finish this story and maybe i'll get out of here before i starve to death.
Anyway , we watch him for a while, and he looks pretty beat up, big ass cuts, blood dripping down on the floor, and he is stumbling around like he is fucking wasted.
We keep watching and suddenly ace says that maybe the weird clothes and shit, coulda meant he was queer , you know those guys, they wear all kinds of weird shit, and maybe someone rolled him after some kinda sex party or something.
Well, we were all in some good moods, good bud going around, all of us sittin on some fat wallets, so we decide to do the guy a solid. Let him sit around for a bit, maybe call him an ambulance , a few fuckin blocks away of course, shit like that.
So i say to him, not to worry, we wern't gonna kill his ass or nothing, and we start to walk over. Fuckin bats was first, the guy starts to get all quiet and shit, not movin much, but still standing , once bats gets close enough, motherfucker pukes blood all over him, and a lot a fucking blood, like one of those fuckin saw movies man. Bats was covered head to toe, and the guy just leans against a wall, not saying shit, no sorry , no nothing , man.
Well there is only so far a vato's good mood can go, you know? Bats wipes the shit off of his face, and starts in on the guy, telling him all the kinds of shit he was gonna do, and he walks up and pushes the guy over.
Well ace wasn't havin any of that. Actually, always thought ace was a bit of a queer himself, maybe felt some, you know that word, fuck...."
" Empathy?" i say rolling my eyes. Even this many tellings in the story is still fairly interesting, if not all that believable.
" Yeah, fuckin empathy. So maybe Ace was feeling all empathy toward the mother fucker, and walks over to Bats, tells him to chill out and shit. "
He shudders visibly, and stops for a second. At times like this i realize just how desensitized to these kind of guys i am. I'm no racist, i don't mean " Their Kind." i mean scum, the same type of scum i have been working 15 years to keep off of the streets. Sometimes you forget that regardless of what they do, or have done, or would do. They are just people, and anyone from the pope himself, to Adolph Hitler, is going to feel it if he sees a half dozen friends get killed in front of him.
" We shoulda fucking smelled it. But with the chron being passed, and all the other smells floatin around the warehouse, i don't think anyone thought anything of it. Just smelled like he was drinking.
Ace grabs a pair of gloves off one of the shelves, and reaches down, wanting to help the fucker up. The clown guy, he reaches out with his left hand, and right before Ace grabs it, his right one makes this little flicking motion. We see a spark, kinda like in those old ass war videos, you know when the guns are firing and shit, but you can see the bullets?"
I make a mental note, he is talking about tracer rounds. Though i doubt this guy is firing them from a wrist launcher, it is something to remember. Maybe they just didn't see a gun, or maybe it was just a match, but maybe this guy bought something at a gun and knife show, some kind of phosphorus, or Lithium self defense item, who knows. But weird is good, weird gives us a place to look.
" Well it floats over , kinda like a fuckin leaf, but faster , ya know? And when it hit bats..." Another shudder as he continues " Bats is a big mother fucker, 300 pounds buck ass naked, and all 300 of those pounds went up like a fuckin bottle rocket man. Just **woosh**, and he is screaming trying to put himself out, but the shit, it just kept sticking to everything, like it was , what do you call it, fuckin napalm or something.
We didn't even know what was going on yet, me and the rest of the crew go over, Ace was just kinda standing there stunned, we tossed a tarp over bats, like you see people do in jackass and shit, but the tarp just caught fucking fire too. Jimmy grabs one of the fire extinguishers, and sprays, it helped, but it didn't keep it out , man. By the time it was finished Bats was blazing again, you could start to see something spreading around the floor..."
I cringe a bit as i realize it must have been the guy's fat.
" Well right about then ace starts to put two and two together, and grabs the clown fucker by the throat. Screamin 'bout ' what the fuck did you do.' and shit. Ace is a juicer, i think you guys know that, picked him up a couple of times from what i remember. Strong as a bull, well i turn around and i see him holding the fucker by the neck, old school , and goes to slap some sense into the fucker, he picks the left side of the guys face, half of it was gone really, you could see the muscles and shit, all torn to hell. The slap shoulda damn near fucking killed the guy, but it didn't.
Right when ace hits the fucker, he screams and drops him, grabbing at his pimp hand, and this is when i saw, this guy, he wasn't fuckin hurt at all. "
Another mental note, not only is this guy good with makeup, but he has to be some kind of metalworker , or something. We found razor wounds on ' Ace' , and to rig something like that up without making it cut off your own face, would take a bit of talent. But who in the fuck would have the skill set to do that?
" When Ace let go, his entire fuckin... posture, yeah, posture, changes, he starts laughing, actually not laughin, just fuckin, giggling. Motherfucker was wearing one of them long coats, like you see those guys in the old flicks wear, and he takes something out of it. I thought it was gonna be a gat, but it was a stick, same kind those guys in the old flicks have, don't know what you'd call it though, ya se 'em at halloween sometimes, but this wasn't no plastic.
He says something, bout missing fingers or some shit, and ace starts to stare the guy down, but ace was smart, he was reachin for his hold, we left all of our heavy artillery in the back. But once he took a step forward, the guy brings his stick straight up, with both hands, right under Ace's chin.
That fuckin noise man, like hamburger being pressed through a hose. I'll never fuckin forget it, never seen a fucker do something like that, never in my fuckin life, the stick goes in, right under Ace’s chin six fucking inches at least, Ace started jerkin around and shit, not for long though, the clown guy, he rips the stick out, it actually made a pop , man. And Ace was fucked, blood was pourin out of his head, and he wasn't moving. "
This part he failed to mention in his first few tellings. And something that i add to my list of odd skills this guy is going to have to posses. What he did was originally taught to american soldiers in the korean war, an effective tactic , but even among them it was rarely seen. It was introduced after a study showed that when in a dire situation and unarmed, soldiers tended to take the easy way out. Just by showing them how any stick can be used to kill a man, they could reduce the tendency for this to happen by over 70%. I come from a family of soldiers, and while it has always been an interest of mine, i always thought that i could do better fighting the war at home.
I notice a pattern though. Everything seems to stretch what a guy is willing to believe, but there is a reason for it. On the surface, a guy putting a stick through someone’s head seems impossible, but if someone knows how, its actually not that much of a chore. Whoever this guy is, he is all about the shock and awe. I keep thinking soldier, but maybe that is just my childhood bleeding through.
" I was thinking to scream, but they wouldn't have heard me over bats, so i run over , i was screamin ' over there vato! , shoot you motherfuckers! ' , it took 'em a couple seconds but we run a tight ship, everyone drew the hold and started firing. Problem was, the lights went out. The emerg lights came on pretty quick, but the fucker wasn't there no more.
Trip whispered to us ' Don't make a sound pendecos.' and we didn't. He was always into that spy shit, wore camo, bought his food at the army surplus store , used to read some guy's books all the time, Tim Lance, or Tom Clarence or something, shit like that. So we figured he was the point man , for the moment at least.
So we stood there, listening, and trying to make out someone moving. Problem was, bats was still screaming , poor motherfucker , too much fat to burn i guess. Well trip puts one in his dome, without a second thought, trip has always been a cold motherfucker, but that was just ice, man.
Bats body kept fucking with our nightvision and shit, it wasn't burning that bright, but bad enough we couldn't adjust.
' We gotta move, to the back, now' Trip says, as if we all wanted to stand there in the fuckin dark. Didn’t mean it wasn’t good advice though. We started walkin’ real slow and shit, I can tell ya man, I was shakin, trip seemed to keep his shit together though, Jimmy and Carlo, I don’t know, was too busy looking for that clown to keep an eye on everyone else.
We make it into the back, and we all get out the artillery, trip cocks his A.K. , I feel a lot better with my sawed off, And Jimmy and Carlo flip the safeties of their tech 9’s. We look at each other and we knew he wasn’t killing no one else. Trip yells ‘ Feel like round two Punta?’ and we all laugh a bit, nervous shit, but a vato’s kinda got to front some times.
We were lookin around for about ten minutes before Carlo says ‘ Look on the table’ and there is a fucking note. Jimmy picks it up and says it feels kinda soggy , we didn’t give a shit if he jacked off on it , we just told him to read the fuckin thing. It said something like ‘ That was a blast, hope you guys had just as much fun as I did.’.
Sick fuck man, a sick fuck.
Well we all read it, well all of us ‘cept me, never really took to that schoolwork shit. We was trying to make some kinda sense, Trip, he goes in the back and flips some switches, and just like that the lights pop back on again.
Trip seemed chilled out though, we searched around the place and we saw some bloody ass foot prints going down the street. Jimmy and carlo followed them for a couple blocks, but didn’t find the guy. When we all got back we kinda decided it was over. If they guy wanted to keep going , he would have, right? And with us all on guard, well fuck man, we’re Gato Negro, no one is going to be able to play that fuckin card twice and win.
I’ll tell ya Kregan, I’ve never seen shit this that weird, but I’ve seen worse, like that shootout in 2002? You remember that?”
And indeed I do, Italians versus Spanish , bloody as a butcher’s floor.
“ So I mean, we got to doing what we always do, we buried Ace and Bats, you know the place. And we got back to our fuckin game. We were chillin for a few hours, it was a little before sunup, when Trip puts down a three, a seven, an ace, a nine, and a five, and starts laughing talking about walking away with our money and shit.
I laugh a bit, and ask him where the fuck he learned to play cards, when I see Jimmy lookin at his hands, moving kinda slow and shit. I ask him what the fuck was going on , and he shows them to me. His fingertips were all, kinda eaten and shit. Not much , not like they was gonna fall off, but like someone went over them with a sander or some shit.
Something just didn’t seem right Kregan, so I go over to Carlo, and Trip, and the same fuckin thing. And they start acting, not trippy, just fucking slow, and stupid and shit. Trip, he starts blinkin his eyes saying he can’t focus them. That’s when it hits me, motherfucker dosed them, some fuckin how.”
The note he was talking about was lost in the ensuing fire, but the tactic in question is a rather simple one. A weak acid can open a pathway for any number of drugs to get into, the guy wouldn’t even have to get something nasty, just a few over the counter sedatives, things like that. At the very least to cause the effects I am hearing for the 13th time.
“ I keep trying to get them to snap out of it, but it was a lost fuckin cause man, they were doped up something good. And as I start slappin trip, I hear footsteps, real loud footsteps, like someone wanted to be heard.
He was fuckin back.
Only this time, he aint got no cuts or shit, I can see him clear as day man, not a scratch on the fucker, but he had this big ass fuckin grin, and he kept that giggling up as he was walkin over.
Then he started talkin, fuck man, his voice, guy wasn’t that big, tall motherfucker, but not much meat on him at all, but his fucking voice, yo. So deep, couldn’t really understand him all that well, and that just made shit worse, I was listenin real hard trying to make out what he wanted, and all of the sudden he splashes the bucket at me, I’m no fuckin idiot, I dove my ass, fuckin hard, problem was the mossburg gets caught on the table and I drop it. I end up behind a big steel toolbox, and look over, thinking he tossed out some acid , or some shit, but no, just a bunch of fuckin paper floating to the ground.
And I see him, he aint running at me, he ain’t drawing a gat, he is just walking, real slow like over to trip, just as casual as hell, he puts one hand on trips forehead and the other on the top of his head, he bends trip’s head back, just a bit, and pushes down. I hear a cracking sound and I smell shit, real quick. “
I keep thinking military, I’ve never head of anyone doing something like that, but it just reeks of some kind of training. But then again, what doesn’t reek in the same manner is the way this guy does what he does. It’s not like there is a high degree of skill involved in any of this, just knowing that it exists. It’s like he found the widest selection of cheap shots he could and went with it. And it shows.
A soldier, a real soldier would have done this like a surgical strike, gotten in, gotten out, and done anything meant to terrify post mortum. We deal with a lot, from Mexican federali that changed sides, to the guy who didn’t get his promotion to captain and decides to take it out on the world from a rooftop. Soldiers make great scumbags, and I have to side with Lopez on this one, while this guy is doing his thing in an interesting way, it isn’t what you’d call efficient.
The almost Mexican continues.
“ I’m lookin at my gat, I’m lookin at him, and he is looking at Jimmy and Carlo, like I aint even fucking there. No, that ain’t right, he knew I was there , but he just didn’t give a shit.
He walks over to Jimmy, and grabs him by the neck, he wasn’t choking him , he just dug his fingers in and started shaking , sounded like glass bein broken in a sock, I didn’t have to look at his chest, motherfucker was dead, real dead, his neck wasn’t broken or nothing, but it was all out of shape, buggin out and shit.
Carlo, Carlo was closest to me, and by the time the fuckin clown gets over we are no more than 3 feet away. He is lookin at me now, but he is lookin at Carlo too, with a kind of, thinkin look on his fucking face. Like he was tryin to decide what to do. He grabs Carlo by the shoulder and flips him on the table, Carlo lyin on his back, if his eyes were open he would have been lookin right at the fucker.
The guy raises his hand, like this, makes kind of a fist, and slams it down on Carlo’s chest, right over his heart. There was a noise, like when you punch a motherfucker real hard. You’d know what that sounds like , right Kregan?”
He grins, and I reply “ Lets just stick to the topic at hand , if we can. “ I say, wanting to just get on with the interrogation.
“ Yeah, you wouldn’t know nothing about knocking someone around.
Anyway pendeco, if ya ask me, he was thinkin this would just kill Carlo, but Carlo’s eyes open a bit, he aint really… up , but you could tell he knew something about what was goin down.
Well the clown guy does it again, and again, each time he waits for a second, and each time Carlo just wakes up a bit more. By the time he does this a half dozen times, Carlo is struggling a bit, the guy seems like he is getting pissed all of the sudden, he puts his arm across Carlo’s throat, suddenly Carlo ain’t struggling as bad, probably was takin all he had just to breathe.
Well, I think this is my chance, he has one hand keepin Carlo down, might not be the most distracted anyone has been, but take what ya can get, I always say.
So I try and keep him distracted, I say ‘What the fuck do you want?’ as my hand starts to creep to the gat, between the table and chairs I guess he can’t see it, thought I was startin to get on a roll.
He tells me , ‘Well, short answer is I’’ve been paid to do this, long answer is that I just might be going batshit crazy.’ And I didn’t doubt it man.
My hand closes around the grip, and I musta started to smile or some shit, because he says to me ‘The barrel is filled with contact cement, unless you don’t like that hand, I wouldn’t bother firing it if I were you. ‘.And he points to the ground, sure as shit, there is some green slimy shit all over it. I drop the gat, maybe he was gonna kill me anyway, but later is better than sooner. Ya know?
I don’t remember exactly what he said, but the fucker starts having a conversation with me. Tellin me how he is kinda pissed that Carlo didn’t die, he said something like it ruined the ‘branding’ of what he wanted to do, whatever the fuck he meant by that. Carlo is coming more to it now, and suddenly he smiles, this big kid on Christmas morning smile. And the fucker says ‘ watch this’.
I don’t know how he did it man, I don’t even know what he did, but it killed Carlo , real fuckin dead. He presses one of his hands over Carlo’s mouth, covering it with the palm, and the other he uses to pinch close Carlo’s nose. There was this little hiss, maybe, I don’t know, I was pretty shook if we are tellin the truth. And Carlo’s chest starts to rise, like he is takin in a breath. But it don’t stop, Carlo is thrashin around real bad now, the guy leans in to keep him on the table, there is a tearing sound, real quiet and shit, and Carlo starts calming down, the guy doesn’t give up right away he keeps going, like, for half a minute.
Then he moved his fuckin hand.
Carlo starts spraying blood, lots of blood, and it gets distance man, not exorcist distance , but a good 6 inches or so, not for very long, but when he was done, the floor was covered pretty bad.
Guy walks over, and asks me if I want to live. I tell him of fuckin course I do, it’s a little hazy after that Kregan, but what I do remember is fucking off, beating sneakers away from that fuckin place. “
I think of mentioning that there has to be more to the story. And for the life of me, I cannot understand why the little prick isn’t telling it to me. My first thought is that maybe he killed this guy, whoever the hell it is , but why wouldn’t he say anything? Clear, even for someone like him, case of self defense.
I add it to the growing pile of shit that doesn’t add up.
Part 2
We stand outside the warehouse , me and Kurt. Passing a 40, Grey Snow, of course, back and forth. When they say going through a traumatic experience creates friends, I don’t think this is what they meant.
“So, why the fuck man? All I gotta ask.” Kurt says , he is scared, but the good scared, he thinks he is beat. I would say he knows, but that would mean that the situation was hopeless, it isn’t, but him thinking it is, is exactly what I wanted to do.
“ You really want to know?” I say , taking the odd puff of heavy on the sly, keeping my voice that demonic timbre, and protecting my identity just a bit more, not that I think this guy is going to be trying for revenge any time soon.
“ Man, I just saw 3 vato’s killed like you was Jason , not knowin is gonna drive me fuckin insane. “ he says, a reasonable stance to take.
“ Your grandmother.” I say simply, taking a long pull of the beer. For a moment I can tell he thinks that I was just making a variation of a ‘your momma ‘ joke. So i continue, “ She paid me, and well to make sure you got the hell out of this shitty life.”.
“ Hate to break it to ya, G, but I’ve seen motherfuckers killed before , I’ll probably get one hell of a buzz goin on for a few weeks, but after that , what’s to stop me from banging again?” His tone is curious, not confrontational.
“ Because if you do, your going to get known as bad luck. Maybe it won’t be right away, maybe it won’t even be like this, when your around, maybe it will be a bomb, or a gas leak, but I am going to kill every single gang banging associate of yours. And you know how superstitious these guys can get, I give it one more incident before they decide you’re bringing bad mojo, and dump you in a few different pieces, in a few different places.” I say trying to make sure he understands the gravity of the situation.
“ You could be bullshittin, like you were with the shotgun.” He says, not matter of factly, but more so genuinely curious.
“I could be, but look at it this way, you think I am going to have a hard time setting a housefire? Seriously, you have any idea how long it took me to plan this shit out? Weeks, to make the point, you see. But now it is just a case of reminding you. A lot less effort.” He goes white, well, from a genetic standpoint, he is white, but I am talking more of general skin tone.
“Gangsta” he replies simply.
“You could say that. Listen though, no one is asking you to become an alterboy, get a shitty job, sell some pot, do what you need to do. Just stay out of the flying bullet lifestyle. Anyway, this seems to be just about finished , I’m going to leave, please don’t follow me, I didn’t specify anything to Nana Johanson about you not getting blinded, or having your tongue cut out. “ And I start to walk away.
About four blocks ( give or take, how does one define a ‘block’ when they are walking through a series of back allies?) later I see Eric, leaning against a wall smoking one of those shit smelling cigarettes he gets by the case.
“ Well?” he says simply.
“Remember when you were telling me about bullet fragments? Well I have some first hand experience of them at the moment. Other than that though, went pretty well.” I say moving the sleeve of my jacket up a bit to reveal ten or so small bleeding wounds. “ There is a few in my shoulder as well, but none are very deep.”
8 months of training. Hard fucking training, you’d think I would just be talking about the physical stuff, but no. Stacks of books about learning german, shady tactics from every group of warriors you could think of, and a few you can’t, and books thicker than a king james bible about minutia ranging from self care of wounds, to the working of engines.
By no means did it turn me into the terminator, or , I guess, if I were to use a more apt analogy, it didn’t turn me into rocky. Better than I was, but no underdog to world champ, to put it in perspective.
“ Well, if I were to grade it, I’d give ya a C-, but your still breathin, so I guess that is a plus.” Eric says, it amazes me he didn’t go on to be a drill sergeant a few centuries ago with encouragement like that. “ Lets get goin though, I don’t feel like freezing my balls off, and then getting arrested. “
More sound advice.
We start walking, keeping to the allies, and dark areas of the somewhat abandoned industrial district, Not wanting to take too many chances. As always it is not so much about not getting caught , as it is postponing getting caught. Semantics to some, but not to me. The difference is, I wouldn’t mind being caught, or killed for that matter, if it meant something big. But until that time comes, I’d rather be free and breathing.
“ Oh, and by the way, that hammer blow thing, to the chest, is bullshit. I swear to you, the guy actually became more awake when I did it. “ I say, starting up a conversation for the long walk back.
“You was probably just doin it wrong.” Eric retorts
“ How hard do you think it is to hit a passed out asshole, on the left side of his chest? Trust me it is not user error here, it just doesn’t work.” Is my reply. I begin to think he is being confrontational moreso just to keep the conversation going than anything.
“ How did ya do it then?” Eric asks, tossing his cigarette aside, and immediately lighting up another one. How this guy survived to the age he did, is well beyond me when I consider his habits.
“ Actually, I just used this, “ I say holding up my right hand. “ A while back I disabled the pressure valve, not too dangerous if you are the one controlling the flow, but , pretty effective for…what I, we , do.”
“I aint even gonna ask what that ended up looking like.” Eric says, adding, of all things, a chuckle at the end of the sentence.
I wish I could say I was disturbed at the fact that I was walking away from a 5 person homicide, but in truth I’m not. And it isn’t because I am some psycho ( well , maybe it is, but I don’t think so, not really.) , it is just what has to be done.
Just like all those green garbed generals, all of those pants pissing privates, in wars past, I have managed to deal with the fact that the only way this fight can be fought is with blood, pain and fear. It doesn’t mean I like it, I could think of a dozen things that I would rather be doing. But simply that I know, as much as it is a foreign, and unpleasant experience, being elbow deep in someone else’s blood, it is for a good cause. And that lets me compartmentalize what I am doing.
“ Probably a bit different than when you had to…” Eric stops my sentence with a sharp elbow to the ribs, and tosses his hand up in a military code, that , roughly translated means “ Shut the fuck up.”.
After a second or two I hear it as well, two voices, one somewhat familiar, one not. The latter, may possibly be a female voice, though that qualification is merely a guess.
“No one fucking told me you were going to be here , bitch.” I hear that familiar Yee Haw tone of freeman’s say. It makes me think that my guess as to the sex of the second speaker is correct.
“Actually they did, but you think if you say that I am just going to leave. Fuck, Doug, if you could take care of this, I wouldn’t be here. I know that pisses you off, but your god damn ego isn’t as important as our job is it?” the female voice says, they are both speaking quietly, but her voice, specifically seems more muffled.
“Not able to do the job? Fuck you, seriously fuck you , a lucky god damn shot is what it was, then being swarmed on by a bunch of fucking uninformed cops. If I could have stayed I would have ripped that fucker’s head off.” Freeman says, his voice raising to almost a standard speaking volume.
“No, maybe john would have been able to fix your mistake, but you were the one that fucked it up, and that is why I am here. “ The female voice continues in a rather degrading tone.
“You realize we are the same rank right? What right do you have talking to me like that? Maybe I have to take that shit from Tom, but not from you. “ Freeman’s voice goes down in volume but retains its ire.
“What right? I’m better at this than you, plain and simple. And you are right, we are the same rank, which means that you shouldn’t need me to come in here and fix your problems. This guy isn’t anything special, no stolen tech, no cache of guns, and fuck, he isn’t even close to being as strong as you, hell, any of us. But for some reason, you couldn’t manage to scare him enough, or break him enough to stop his superman act. You’re pissed at me? You should be thanking me you jack-off. To be absolutely honest, I think if you went at him again, you’d be the one in a pine box. Don’t think of this as taking your job, but rather, saving your life.”
Freeman launches into a series of swears, and I start to look around.
I was half expecting this, half not. On one hand I knew they were probably keeping tabs, but on the other I thought, maybe with 8 months of me not existing, they had just forgotten.
I look for ways to prepare the battlefield, from my first encounter with these spooks, I know that I am going to need every edge possible, just to get out of this situation alive.
Garbage cans, and dumpsters, a stray cat wandering around, and a thick black cable coming from the rooftop, and anchored into the ground.
Bingo.
“ Bolt cutters.” I whisper to Eric, as he quietly opens a dufflebag full of miscelanious tools, and hands them to me.
As the metallic click happens, and the cable goes somewhat slack I hear the female voice say , “ Fuck, he’s here.” And just about as I can register that I hear the telltale noise of a zipline and see a dark form sliding down the cable.
About a quarter of the way down, the form is tossed off balance by the slack, and what was meant to be a rapid, and smooth entrance, turns into her slamming off of the wall, and trying desperately not to get tangled up in the cord.
Just when it looks as if, I may not even have to fight this fight, she kicks off of the wall. Her landing isn’t perfect, in fact as she rights herself I can see the her right leg is a bit hurt.
But that is about all of the optimism that can come from her landing. It isn’t cat like and graceful, with her landing in a crouch and spinning upwards, she lands almost already standing, the harsh noise of steel crushing stone screams through the alley , and I can see flakes of asphalt spray as she makes her landing. It reminds me more of a fridge being dropped from a roof than a human landing.
She stands almost six feet, and should I not have heard her voice, “she” is not the first thing that would come to my mind. She is garbed entirely in some kind of black steel, embossed with odd patterns , whether these are structural or decoration I have no idea. She has an angled steel dome , reminiscent of tank armor , as a helmet, with a mane of deep black hair , shoulder length hanging out of the back. No visible slits for eye holes, or for that matter ear holes, in fact the only flesh I can see is directly under her chin, everywhere else is steel clad.
Overtop of this is a long brown leather coat, the right tail completely gone, and various burn marks, holes and tears adorning it. My first guess is that, unlike my own coat, hers is simply for decoration , or maybe a memento of some form. And this honestly causes quite the sinking feeling in me. One of the biggest changes from the original “equipment” is that I have re-enforced the coat, pants, well, everything with layers of leather, on the inside of course, a trick learned from various books on prison life. But what I think of as solid protection, she thinks of as decoration.
Lastly, something is spraypainted across her chest, I can’t quite see the entire word but with a lucky gust of wind, I eventually see all of it, a simple decoration, the word “ Not” in an angry scrawl.
But this is where it pays off to be me, I’m scared, or rather I know that this fight is unbalanced in her favor as much as the last was sided against the gang bangers, but I don’t really care. It’s not fearlessness, nor apathy, just the simple fact that this is what I do. I no more care that I may get squashed by this steel clad warrior woman, than a plumber cares that he will spend his day elbow deep in someone else’s shit. It is just part of doing business.
A burst of helium, and I start in, but not before I palm one of my as of yet, untested new toys to Eric.
“ Well I bet you thought that would have been a lot more impressive, how’d that fall work out for you?” my tone is schoolyard bully obnoxious, and the helium makes it grating , hard on the ears.
She says nothing, she just looks at me. So I continue, “ And now comes the silence, is this the point where I am supposed to realize your unshakeable? A vanguard of one, trained to be unstoppable?” I laugh, a shrill barking giggle “ Well look at my scared face…What the fuck do they call you anyway? Vaginator? The crimson flow? Give me that at least.”
A couple of seconds go by, and I can see by a slight shift of the helmet that she might say something, I pounce on this like a karate master pounces on a lowered guard.
“ Come on , I really want to hear it, I want to shake with fear at your moniker, tremble at the very mention of your name, remember forever the label of the one who finally put an end to my reign of terror.” I snicker a bit, as if I am holding it back, giving her no more concern than a raised eyebrow and a relaxed pose.
“ Not-girl” She says simply.
I bring my hand up to my mouth, as if to stifle overwhelming laughter, actually I am taking a breath of the heavy, and after a brief ejaculation of deep laughter I continue , “ Holy shit, were you and freebird off fucking when they were passing out names? Wow, my jokes were better than that. Why the hell would you pick that?” I keep up the conversational tone , really I am just buying time, the cops saved my ass last time, and maybe it will work out the same way again. But not of I get my faced crushed in 30 seconds.
“ Why?” she gives her own snicker and starts slowly walking over, not that sensuous ‘fuck-me’ walk you see female villains have in the movies, but a simple, almost graceless stride. “Because girls are soft.” She lashes out at a wall, it doesn’t cave in, she doesn’t leave a hole, but none the less chunks of brick fly off of it hard enough to make high pitched Tinging noises off of her armor. “And I am, Not. Girls are scared” she continues as she twists her arm, and a set of small spikes extend from her right fist, not giant, three quarters of an inch at most, but nothing I want to be hit with. “ I am, Not.” As she keeps talking, I realize that maybe I am not the only one taking advantage of the pre fight rant. The arming, or drawing, or whatever you would want to call those appearing , is something that looked like it took a bit of effort. Not much, but if there is anything I have learned from the volumes and volumes of shit I have had to read, its that , that little bit of effort can be all it takes.
“Girls get fucked, and I can assure you , “ I see her leg lash out to the left, quickly, very quickly considering the armor she wore. It wasn’t cumbersome so much as simply heavy looking, in a very obvious way. But regardless of that, the movement is quick, almost unintentional looking, and a cinderblock comes flying at me, not a heat seeking missile, by any means, but it comes close to taking me in the stomach none the less.
“ I am not going to be the one fucked when this is all over.” She finishes and is now standing a mere ten feet away.
I let my face go slack, as if I just realise that unavoidable death is staring me down, I drop my cane, Lucite with a lead core , from a design standpoint virtually indestructible for my uses, but something I don’t have much faith in at the moment. “ You know, I just realized, I have no chance do i?” I say letting my voice shrink back to my normal tone and pitch, no gas, no falsetto, I see her give a superior kind of chuckle.
“ No, I’m the person they send in when asshead up there fucks up, and considering that happens on a pretty regular basis, you know I’ve had a lot of training.” I have to stifle a laugh, everything coming out of her mouth seems like she takes her job entirely too seriously. I have the soundness of mind to realize that whatever it is we are doing, or engaged in, it is absurd. Absolutely , out and out , absurd.
“ I get it, I just need to know one thing.” I sigh, a hangdog kind of noise, “ How long did it take you to think of that? How many hours did you sit down, and try different little variations , to see which one would induce the most pants shitting?” I give her a big smile, and as I do so I slip on a set of brass knuckles. Not the cheap kind found at flea markets and shady pawn shops, but genuine custom made , meant to kill , brass knuckles. Rigid, spiked, and in a deep, black purple the same hue as my gloves, ( hours of dying had stained my fingertips the most horrible shade of blue, but thankfully after 2 months I realized it was going to go away.) the thinking being, if people didn’t notice, the crushing, gaping puncture wound it would create would appear to be just my fist. Appearance is everything, well when your working with one eighth of the raw power of your competitors at least.
She growls a bit but seems to be deliberately trying to keep her cool.
“Okay, lets start again, I am not necessarily here to try and break you clown. You show talent, I mean you’d never be in my shoes, or even Freeman’s , but you could be a tech guy, a trainer, sparring partner, we have all kinds of support staff. “ she isn’t trying to provoke me. But if I have ever head a backhanded compliment it was now.
But she wasn’t finished.
“And don’t worry, not all of our support staff end up life a lonely old prick who has no one but a confused twenty something he tricks into being his friend.” She gives her own laugh and looks to Eric.
“ They still talk about you old man, a bit, is it true that in the Korean war you pulled a chunk of wooley pete out of a guy’s stomach, and stitched him up so good he was fighting the next day?” her voice does have a military tone about it, a little too loud, and a little too condescending if not talking to someone who is wearing the appropriate stripes to be condescending to her.
Eric takes a long drag of his cigarette, the alley is quiet and you can hear the bottom of the line , pale yellow tobacco pop and crack as he does so. “Stories kid, they always get exaggerated. It was a burning chunk of tree, and it only broke his stomach open a bit, but yeah, he was up being a better soldier than you’ll ever be the next day, you cunt.” Eric, never one to sugar coat an opinion, says.
I wish I could see her face, to see what reaction that got, because her tone got colder, and for a moment I thought she was going to kill him right then and there.
“ Old man, your lucky I am not here to simply take you out for being you. But letting you live is much funnier, isn’t it going to be funny going back to sitting around your apartment all day, doing nothing, hoping that you can think up some excuse to show up, at this insane fuck’s place? No more adventure , no more being the Mr. Miagi, to his fucked up karate kid.”
He takes another long, noisy puff of the cigarette, as a gust of wind, thick with the smell of industrial cleaners, motor oil, and various types of garbage, blows by.
“ When he is done breakin ya in half, you know what I am going to do?” he says casually, but I know him, and he is holding back rage by the bucketful, “Take a cab down to a pharmacy, buy all the Viagra they have.” His tone slow, as if describing a series of events it is important she knows. He takes one final puff of the cigarette, and he must have got a decent amount of filter in it, judging by the smell, but the smoke cloud Is yellow and thick, and makes a good backdrop for his next words, he chucks the butt on the ground, sparks flying away, almost as if they know something horrible is going on and are hoping to get away before the shit hits the fan. “ and then, there is a 50/50 chance if I snort it all, I might get a woody. And if that happens, I am going to rape the living shit out of you. I was helping this fuckin country, really helpin this country, savin lifes, saving the fuckin world, you hear stories, then you god damn know what we were really doing back then, and what we really had to fuckin deal with , and I was doin this long before you were getting paid to hunt down joe asshole in a back alley.” He says finally.
His rage breaks through about after the word woody, and it takes everything in me not to look disturbed to him. But I assume, with everything he has seen, he has his reasons for the reaction. I make a mental note to try and see what he meant though. I have never seen the old man snap that bad, so whatever it is she was pissing on, metaphorically of course, it was big.
“ I wouldn’t start planning the bus ride there quite yet fucker.” She says, and I am sure if she could spit upon him she would. “So you really want to do this… what is it they call you?” she asks the question almost as an afterthought.
“ What do they call me? Mike, actually. The concept of actually having a superhero name, doesn’t that just seem a little too camp to you? A little too like your trying to force something that isn’t there? You aren’t a hero, and I am not a fucking villain.” It takes everything I have to keep up a mocking , cartoonish tone. In all honesty I want to get her real opinion on the matter.
“ Not a villain? Really, you just killed, what, a half dozen men, up close and personal, and for what? You’re a murderer, plain and simple, no different from any number of mentally lopsided…” in the middle of the sentence , she does something, at first I think a punch is coming, but by the time I am moving I am staring down the barrel of a massive handgun, drawn and aimed with her left hand. “ Think you’re the only one that knows how to catch someone with their pants down?” she says, as I can hear a grin behind the mask.
“Fuck” I say simply, this is a moment I have been dreading, someone with a gun, and someone who knows how to use it, having a bead directly on me. We are no more than 6 feet away by this point, I doubt she will miss.
I see the barrel start to dip, not because of any loss of concentration, if I were to hazard a guess I would say she was trying to shoot me in the leg, maybe just in the gut, but regardless this is my only chance, another wasted second and I am going to be missing a large part of my body.
I take a massive swing , and turn my body, both putting my weight behind it, and shifting her target enough that she will have to take another bit of a second to aim. The brass knuckles connect solidly just below her wrist, the shock numbs my arm, on a normal person this would have shattered , if not severed the hand, not so much due to my own skill, as the vicious design of the weapon. But to her, it causes nothing more than a few inches of movement in her arm and a somewhat looser grip on the gun.
But in her haste to end this quickly she tries to fire off a shot, hoping that luck will be on her side. The gun goes off inches from my ear, a deafening blast, more akin to a rifle than a handgun, the sound sends a bolt of pain straight through my grey matter, but the recoil of this hand held SCUD in a compromised grip sends it up high. All training, all of the work I put into trying to know what to do and when to do it, goes out the window. I grab the gun, being as large as it is , I have enough room to get both hands on it, in a solid grip, and I yank, dropping myself toward the ground to get more leverage. For a brief moment I am staring again down the barrel, my heart leaps and there is a pit in my stomach, but as I yank my body to and fro like a pitbull trying to tear off a chunk of meat, I feel the resistance suddenly disappear.
It would have been the smart thing to do to keep the gun, it was in my hands, and judging from the noise that is leaving me (hopefully) temporarily deafened it would be a more effective weapon than anything I have. But this is why you don’t disregard training, instinct is seldom the smartest option in a situation. So instead of thinking it through, standing up and firing the gun into her until I hear a ‘click’, I toss it aside. As soon as I hear the metal on stone grinding noise of it sliding down the alley , I regret my decision.
I regret it further when I notice she has stepped in, and a steel clad knee is sailing up toward my chest. I roll with the momentum of the blow, straight up and backwards, saving my ribs from becoming pulp, but leaving me no other choice than to fly on a low flight, backwards, through a window. I land with three quarters of my body on the inside of the dim building, from the looks of it, some kind of car repair bay, hanging by my knees, my head just barely touching the ground. I am instantly grateful for my somewhat cumbersome, yet, now tested and found effective, leather re-enforcement.
I flip myself forward out of the window just in time to see her bearing down upon me in a manner that makes me instantly think of a football player, a damn good one. This is the point where I notice the fight has began in earnest.
All of the books start to slowly trickle back to me, there is no way I am going to be able to grapple with her, so I continue my flip into a bellyflop to the cement, I tuck my legs in , and spin , on my side, in an arc, that avoids the steel shod feet of my attacker. I notice the Lucite cane, on the ground and scoop it up before turning the spin into an awkward, but speedy rise to my feet. She hits the wall with her shoulder, shattering a few bricks in the process.
And a thought comes to me. The same trick I used in the warehouse.
As she turns around, casually, I dash in, she is taken off guard by the sudden reversal, ( and probably due to the stupidity of the charge as well.), and the Lucite stick comes straight up, I am hoping to hit right under the chin, as it is the only place I could not see solid steel, and drive the thing upward till it hits skull.
My chagrin as the staff encounters a thin steel plate, running between the exposed bits under her chin, is immense. And as I try to back up, cold, heavy steel arms wrap around me and I am slammed into the brick wall, being crushed between it and the iron monolith that has chosen to stop me.
I see the headbutt coming, and manage to crane my neck out of the way, the steel clangs off of the brick wall, and I fumble through my pockets for something that will extract me from the current situation.
I grab a knife, one of the original set I kept since day one, and try and slide it between the steel plates, the kind of maneuver that is standard to the point of cliché in fantasy movies and novels. But the knife encounters nothing but steel, it slides in a few inches, to be sure, but after those , there is nothing to shank, it seems armor has came quite some way since medieval times. Who would have thought.
The action costs me use of my left hand , she grabs it in a steel death grip, holding it down by my side. I feel her weight shift, and can see her balancing, on her right leg, the one that was damaged in the fall, if only slightly. Her left starts speeding upward, using my own leg as a rail to fire it unerringly into my groin, I hear, from a dozen or so feet away , Eric scream “ Pennies in a doorframe!”. The meaning is immediately clear, and gives me further respect for the old guy. I might not be able to get through the steel, but…
I twist my body in a contortion only comfortable to those who have been doing the splits since age 3, my left leg curls up , in a race to outdistanct the knee that is coming directly at my stones, it wins, and I use it to push myself forward and down, she keeps her grip on my left hand, and I ignore the pain, further twisting and shoving myself until I am almost wrapped around her right leg. I drop the cane for a moment, and draw a small paring knife, and jam it between the joints of the knee. She tries to kick off the wall herself, tossing her left leg so that her foot is resting on it, my guess is that she was looking at a full rotation while still holding on to my arm. A maneuver that , no doubt would have sent me sailing through the air, to a broken spine as I hit the wall. But as she tries to push back, the right leg will not cooperate, locked in place, if only for a moment by the knife.
I do a lot of laughing, but the fact that my best retort to her assault was inspired by something created by siblings trying to screw with each other, starts me into a gale of not-so-sane laughter as I pick up the cane, and get to my feet.
She teeters backward, with no give in the steel boots, and a leg locked ( though the knife bends , and falls out within a few seconds.) , she falls, flat, gracelessly onto the ground.
“Want me to give your old man a call?” I hear freeman scream, with a laugh. And with a growl, my adversary gets to her feet. It isn’t a cumbersome movement, but it isn’t a graceful movement like my own either. As she gets to one knee, I take a run forward, swinging the cane like a golf club, and at the last moment even adding “ Fore!” as it connects in the best way possible.
She falls back down, probably more due to the surprize that I had anything that could get through her steel skin, than any actual damage the blow did. And I decide to spring, I fall upon her, in what is commonly referred to as the “ Big brother” position ( full mount to all of you folks educated in the martial arts.), sitting on her stomach, with my arms free , I slam the cane into the helmet, as hard as I can, heedless of the short, jabs she is throwing into my ribs. But as the first half dozen of my blows connect, I start to realize that it may be annoying, may even be disorienting, but it is not causing any actual damage. And with each blow, she seems a little less dazed , my momentum starts to play out rapidly and I try to disengage.
This was a mistake.
Unlike myself who has had little ability to test out the book learning I have endured for 8 months, she has. And once she feels my weight start to shift, she is in motion. Before I realize what is going on I am spun to the ground, hundreds of pounds of steel and flesh atop of me, it feels like I am grappling with a safe. There is no position I can get into to change my leverage , and as I realize this, our previous entanglement is reversed, I am still holding the cane, now in both hands, to try and deflect some of the blows that I know are coming my way.
Gone is any semblance of martial defense, I fight like a wildcat, twisting, and lashing out with the cane, scoring hit after useless hit, but managing , to a point to keep the blows to the side of my head, or my shoulders, knowing that one solidly connecting shot, from this angle, with my head between a steel fist and the cement ground, would be fatal. Or at least would give me enough brain damage that my new career would be quickly ended.
One blow knocks the cane out wide, my left hand losing its grip, I try to get it back, but I instantly know this is the mistake that is going to hurt, a lot.
The first blow is off balance, almost as if she was surprized at the fact that the cane, finally went out wide. It connects almost perfectly, but she pulls the punch much too early.
I see black spots, the spot just above the nose she hit starts sending red waterfalls of blood into my eyes, and as I try to blink them, and the spots away , I feel a cold hand grab high on my neck. She does not intend to make the same mistake again.
The second blow does not get pulled, I manage to move my head, slightly to the left though, taking the lethality of the blow away.
Which isn’t to say it wasn’t damaging.
My jaw dislocates, and as I look to the floor of this dirty alley, I see piles of thin white splinters, the remains of my teeth up to the last molar. My mouth is pouring blood, and I start to cough as my head gets roughly yanked to stare up at her. I try to get in enough air to force the blood away from my throat, but doing so just leads to a feeling eerily similar to being waterboarded. (Part of our training was to put me through the paces of some know techniques employed by the us military to get folks to talk. ). I try to get a mouthful of blood, to maybe spit it , and blur her vision, anything to get myself out of the fatalistic situation I find myself in.
She yanks upward on my chin, slamming the back of my head into the ground, and making damn sure that I am watching her.
“ You know what is going to happen when I kill you, fucker? I am going to have to do about 5 days worth of paperwork. “ she says, a heavy steel slap threatens to make me lose consciousness , and opens up a ragged wound on the side of my face. “And you know what, I fucking hate paperwork.” Another slap furthers the wound, blood flies from my mouth in an almost fake looking amount. She continues “ But I am not going to have to go through this bullshit again. You weren’t a challenge , cocksucker, you are annoying. Like a fly that always seems to be just an inch out of your reach. And you know…”
I see something creep into the edge of my vision, and my heart jumps.
Three barrels, a little thicker than a broomhandle, dyed a light purple, with a stock carved from dark oak, thick screws hold it together. It is based off of a design popular among the youth gangs of 1930 , or so I was told, reliable , powerful, but with the accuracy of a garden hose. And in regards to this particular item, completely and utterly untested. The intent is to fire a solid steel shotgun slug, from something no bigger than a handgun.
There is an ear shattering explosion, not dissimilar to the sound of the gun that she had pulled on me earlier in the fight. This one though, has no elegant flame, but rather a cloud of sabot, gunpowder, and various different burning chunks. But the effect, the effect makes mockery of any appearance it may have.
Her head jerks to the left violently, a metal on metal scream as I feel shrapnel, maybe from the slug, maybe from the helmet hit my upper body, my first thought is that her neck is broken, but by the way she falls to the side, as if she had a second or so before the lights went out , I guess this is not the case, but regardless, I manage to pull myself out from under her bulk, or rather, the bulk of the suit, and get to a somewhat dazed standing position.
I run my tongue along my teeth, almost each one is shattered, making them almost reptilian, random points, jutting out at odd angles, but none actually knocked free of my head. I go to say something to Eric, and all that comes out is an unintelligible mumble, my jaw hanging at a cocked angle , that makes speaking impossible.
Eric, still holding the smoking Zip-gun, gives me a pretty good uppercut , the pain is intense , but I find, after a large bloody oyster, hocked to the ground, I can actually talk again.
I don’t take too much time to savor the moment, but rather look up at where I believe freeman to be standing. “So, dickface, you want to come down and have another go?” I say, legitimately expecting him to come down.
His reaction is a loud bark of laughter. “ No, but I do want to take a picture , any chance you could step on her chest?” he says.
I give a confused look to Eric, I honestly would have expected a little more… I don’t know, I guess professional courtesy is the word. They are, after all fighting on the same side. But I oblige, I assume this picture will get around their circles, and seeming good enough to take down someone like this, will contribute greatly to their perception of the lowly clown.
So I put my foot on her chest, like a big game hunter standing over a rhino, I expect to hear a click, or see a flash, but I get a simple “Thanks for that one.” And I assume he is done his picture.
There is somewhat of an awkward silence, and myself and Eric start to walk away, down the alley, picking up the Lucite cane as we do.
“Thanks for saving my ass…” I say, intending to follow it up with a joke of some form, and I hear a rough grating of steel on stone. And my joke turns to a dismal , soft “ For fuck sakes…” as I look behind us.
She gets to her feet shakily, seeming to be breathing heavily, she rips off the helmet and it slides, screeching, and hopping down the alley.
The girl behind the mask isn’t ugly, but she isn’t cosmopolitan pretty. She has more of a “ Natural beauty” , which is to say, that hunter gatherer part of one’s body knows that she would produce strong offspring. But that natural beauty is now fairly marred.
She sways on her feet a bit, and blood is coming down in small trails from her nose and ears, her dark brown eyes seem glazed, and maybe it is just the light, but one pupil looks much bigger than the other. She wipes a steel forearm across her face, smearing the blood more than clearing it away, and fixes me with a stare.
She looks as if she is going to say something, but instead just charges forward. This isn’t the calculated, professional charge that she brought out earlier, but more like a drunkard trying a hail Mary maneuver against a bouncer that has gotten the best of them.
For some reason or other, this actually enrages me. If I was to put a point on it, I would say it is because, regardless of how fair it may have been, she lost the fight. And above and beyond that, I didn’t do what I should have done, and simply separated her head from her shoulders before I left. ( that decision was 5% morals , 95% thinking if death was on the table, Freeman may have been more likely to step in.) That is not a mistake I am going to make twice.
She is far enough away that I can toss the cane , spinning in the air, just a bit, to catch it in a baseball bat like grip. I can tell by the way her line to me is swaying, and she is trying her damndest not to trip, that this isn’t going to be a hard blow to land. My intent is to simply hit her full force, the momentum of the swing, and her armor, should be enough to damn near snap her head off. I take careful aim, predict about where she is going to try and tackle me to the ground , and let fly.
The only problem is, that in my possibly concussion having state, I don’t take into account that the level of the head is going to change at the last moment. The blow is off, but not by much. It skips off the breastplate, enough momentum stolen, that it does not decapitate the tenacious wench, but explodes her nose, caves in one sinus, and sends her into a backward spin that slams her head against the ground with a sickening noise, like a semi-frozen orange, tossed in a sock and beaten against a counter.
This time, she is out cold, and by the garishness of the wounds, she may not be getting back up. I kneel over her still form , saying just loud enough to hear, in my real voice, “If you come out of this, remember that all it would take me right now is one fuckin stomp, and I would never have to worry about you again. But to be honest, after the tooth fucking you gave me, I am more concerned with getting drunk at the moment. If we see each other again, when I know your schtick, its going to be a slow fucking time dying, I would suggest a career change. “ While I am not confidant that a second encounter would de facto be in my favor, my intent is simply to degrade her, to shake her up, and maybe not have to fight a quazi invincible bitch with a chip on her shoulder again.
As I rise, I notice Eric has another smoke lit, already half way finished. He walks over, almost casually.
“ As far as that rapin business, I was thinking about it. I didn’t like getting the clap in ’43 , and I probably still wouldn’t like it. “ He finishes this by spitting a disgusting glob of phlegm, speckled with black bits, onto the mess that is now her face.
A few hours , and a stop for booze later, I am sitting in Eric’s apartment, screaming in agony, as he pours some kind of film over the jagged mess that my teeth have became. He tells me, with any luck, it will let them heal right.
And what am I , if not lucky?
Monday, November 28, 2011
Revisited.
I was looking in my closet one day, and came across my very old sketch book. I decided to share one of my drawings from it. Then again, I figured I just remake it, since I originally drew this drawing when I was 15yrs-old. I made some big and small changes, added more detail, but I tried to keep the original likeness of the drawing.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Cabela's Survival: Shadows of Katmai
This game is seriously bad. So bad, I'm not even going to do it justice with a proper review.
It's an action-platformer with shooting bits from time-to-time. It's sometimes difficult to understand where you're suppose to be going, but that's a minor issue. The game is geared mostly for motion control, so it's relatively boring to play without, which I did. I think IndridCold bought it under the impression that it'd be similar to Cabela's other hunting games, but with a survival twist (which was the assumption I made as well), but it's just arcadey and stupid, with a stupid ham-fisted story as well. You're some guy helping someone transport a vaccine for a virus that's broken out in Alaska (probably too cold for viruses to survive up there) and your plane crashes in a snow storm. The rest of the game is a fight to retrieve the lost vaccine and reach civilization.
In your struggle through the Alaskan mountains, you're required to hunt animals, either for food or warmth. The virus you're racing to cure is causing aggression in the local predators, namely crows, bears, cougars, and wolves (but not the sled dogs you acquire later on), so you have to hunt for more docile animals such as goats and moose. Strangely, half the time you don't even retrieve the pelt or the carcass; the game just automatically assumes you've collected it and the story continues on its own.
Despite being a game about being lost and forced to survive, it's very linear, and the story is level-based. Having eventually come to terms with this and that you have to fight dozens of vicious predators (including a bear that tears down a tree and swings it at you like a club), I was willing to play a game that was more "gamey" and like a classic NES-style experience. However, I was almost done the single player campaign at this point as it's only like seven levels long. The game literally takes like two hours to play through, which confused the hell out of me, as there aren't even credits at the end; you just get the usual end-level status screen, then it asks you if you want to go back to the main menu. So between being nothing like other Cabela games and not offering a fulfilling single player campaign, there isn't really any reason to play this game.
Very shameful; very 2/10.
It's an action-platformer with shooting bits from time-to-time. It's sometimes difficult to understand where you're suppose to be going, but that's a minor issue. The game is geared mostly for motion control, so it's relatively boring to play without, which I did. I think IndridCold bought it under the impression that it'd be similar to Cabela's other hunting games, but with a survival twist (which was the assumption I made as well), but it's just arcadey and stupid, with a stupid ham-fisted story as well. You're some guy helping someone transport a vaccine for a virus that's broken out in Alaska (probably too cold for viruses to survive up there) and your plane crashes in a snow storm. The rest of the game is a fight to retrieve the lost vaccine and reach civilization.
In your struggle through the Alaskan mountains, you're required to hunt animals, either for food or warmth. The virus you're racing to cure is causing aggression in the local predators, namely crows, bears, cougars, and wolves (but not the sled dogs you acquire later on), so you have to hunt for more docile animals such as goats and moose. Strangely, half the time you don't even retrieve the pelt or the carcass; the game just automatically assumes you've collected it and the story continues on its own.
Despite being a game about being lost and forced to survive, it's very linear, and the story is level-based. Having eventually come to terms with this and that you have to fight dozens of vicious predators (including a bear that tears down a tree and swings it at you like a club), I was willing to play a game that was more "gamey" and like a classic NES-style experience. However, I was almost done the single player campaign at this point as it's only like seven levels long. The game literally takes like two hours to play through, which confused the hell out of me, as there aren't even credits at the end; you just get the usual end-level status screen, then it asks you if you want to go back to the main menu. So between being nothing like other Cabela games and not offering a fulfilling single player campaign, there isn't really any reason to play this game.
Very shameful; very 2/10.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Bad Video Game Advice
I'm not really sure if this is content-worthy enough to actually be an LBC blog, but since I think Ryan will get a kick out of it I'll post it here.
I recently started replaying Project IGI again. It was a pretty solid FPS back in 2002, and it's worth noting that the engine allowed the game to render randomly generated landscapes where you could leave the level and keep walking forever. However, I wasn't able to run it very well on my Pentium 2 back then, so I'm trying it again now. Anyway, right now I'm stuck on a bullshit level and I went looking around for general advice to make me better when I found out the game actually has a Wikia site. I quickly began disregard its advice when I read this:
The SPAS-12 is a semi-automatic pump-action shotgun with a moderate reload-time, that must be pumped between shots and cannot be used at range. A single round can be lethal if used on nearby targets.
... Here's me nailing a guy from like 100m away, killing him in one shot, which is more than I can say for anything that isn't the actual sniper rifle in the game. And, no, it's not a lucky shot. I use the shotgun for this all the time.
I recently started replaying Project IGI again. It was a pretty solid FPS back in 2002, and it's worth noting that the engine allowed the game to render randomly generated landscapes where you could leave the level and keep walking forever. However, I wasn't able to run it very well on my Pentium 2 back then, so I'm trying it again now. Anyway, right now I'm stuck on a bullshit level and I went looking around for general advice to make me better when I found out the game actually has a Wikia site. I quickly began disregard its advice when I read this:
The SPAS-12 is a semi-automatic pump-action shotgun with a moderate reload-time, that must be pumped between shots and cannot be used at range. A single round can be lethal if used on nearby targets.
- You should only use it when you're in an enclosed area and there are one or two enemies in the room; the pumping between shots makes it very hard to take out three or greater enemies without sustaining major damage.
- Don't even think about trying to snipe with the SPAS-12.
... Here's me nailing a guy from like 100m away, killing him in one shot, which is more than I can say for anything that isn't the actual sniper rifle in the game. And, no, it's not a lucky shot. I use the shotgun for this all the time.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Another Chart
Just cuz' I didn't really have anything productive to do while my Internet was down for the last ten days.
Derek would be pissed out of principle. He was designing a trading card series featuring some Zoner cards, and asked me to do the artwork. Seven or more years later, this is basically it.
Other forms aren't displayed either because they already look similar to Coopersville or because they haven't come about in the comics, and I haven't even conceptualized events in future issues that would allow them to transform.
Derek would be pissed out of principle. He was designing a trading card series featuring some Zoner cards, and asked me to do the artwork. Seven or more years later, this is basically it.
Other forms aren't displayed either because they already look similar to Coopersville or because they haven't come about in the comics, and I haven't even conceptualized events in future issues that would allow them to transform.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Parareality Induced By Trauma : episode 7
Pit : Episode 7
Adrenaline is the double edged sword wielded by thrill seekers since the dawn of time. One can push themselves well past their normal limits, but this isn't a gift, it is more of a loan.
Slowly the wounds, lacerations, bumps, bruises, the whole set, start to sneak up on me. Within another 30 minutes i am walking like an octogenarian , with another 10 blocks to go between where i am and where i want to be.
I get looks, but it still kind of stuns me that the costume didn't raise an eyebrow, and even it in concert with some of the most garish wounds you'd be likely to see on a living person, is only attracting the odd stare.
My mind is already snapping to how many party stores there are between where i am and my apartment. And which one would be the least likely to refuse me service. Sounds like somewhat of an obscure fact, but when you tend to buy liquor while inebriated , you get to know who doesn't like to ask questions.
Speed-gulp is okay, but then again, there is the security cameras. ( as a rather poor, heavy drinker, i will admit sometimes my methods of procuring liquor are less than legal.) Jack's is a bit farther away, but i am also pretty sure he makes the majority of his money in some kind of illegal venture, so i can't see him calling the cops any time soon.
I manage to make a 5 minute walk in 20, and see the dimly lit , unappealingly square building, with its strangely fully functional sign. I catch a bit of my reflection in the mirrored door, and even i am taken aback.
My face has a 5 inch cut, that apparently has been bleeding out rather badly since the event, not to mention several smaller, but still productive wounds scattered about my cheeks and forehead. One of the lacerations that made my forehead its home is showing white, hopefully gravel and not bone.
Not a thought that i ever thought i would have to think of.
As i reach for the knob i notice one of my fingers is hanging at a rather odd angle. Not facing me but well on its way. A dislocation, something i am actually pretty familiar with. A misplaced hand during a backflip can easily force a finger to be evicted from its preferred position.
Before i enter i give the pinky a quick yank, normally this brings me nearly to my knees, but after the events of this night, the phrase " drop in the bucket" doesn't quite make it.
I hear the alarm system beep as i walk in , and as always, behind the counter is Albert. I've always wondered who "Jack" is, but never really cared to ask.
He is in his late 50's, overly faded tattoos covering his arms, but otherwise not too terribly intimidating of an individual. A 50's pot belly, and a gin blossom nose, take away from the scary vibe he may have had in spades in his younger days.
I walk to the fridge, twice having to grab onto a shelf to steady myself. But this is nothing new, Al, barely looks up from his newspaper, as years old bottles of mustard, mayo and pickles clang together.
Two 40's of " Grey snow" beer, while i do love my drink, i am with it enough to realize that too much alcohol could rapidly turn my situation south.
" Costume party?" Al says , i can't tell if his tone is friendly, or mocking.
" Party? Yes. Costume, no." i say cryptically hoping,to stifle the conversation instantly.
" Oh yeah, Mike, right?" he says. How he knows my name i am unsure, but i continue the conversation, hoping to build a bit of good will, if for no other reason than to deflect suspicion.
" Actually, yeah... but..." i start
" You were pretty wasted, you came in here one night, drank a 40 and a half of bottom shelf whiskey. We talked about clowns... a lot." He laughs a bit, a phlemy , hoarse chuckle. Something i would love to be able to mimic next time i get into a conflict.
" Oh...sorry about that, sometimes i don't know when to stop. Talking, or drinking." i try to throw in a laugh myself , but my ribs put a quick end to that. I grab my side and wince a bit.
" Don't worry about it, you paid, and didn't call me 'pops' 'old man' or ' dude', highlight of my week. So, what kind of party was it, you look pretty beat up. " i get a hint of suspicion from his tone.
Instantly, i change my body language, leaning easily against the counter, running a finger across the gaping wound on my forehead. My body is screaming at me to stop, but i don't want to give him any kind of reason think this is anything else other than a drunk being a drunk, and spending 5 dollars in small change on liquor.
" Got ya on that one didn't i? Actually doing some filming , friend of mine got some kind of grant , and needed a spooky clown. Well i was a clown, and as you can see , with enough laytex and fake blood, i can be pretty spooky. Downside is that i had to be there for 20 hours. You'd think a scene where i walk down a hallway would take 5 minutes, but not at all apparently." I crack one of the beers and take a long swallow, finding that even my throat must have taken a hit, swallowing is not a pleasant time.
Al laughs, and shakes his head. " Those fuckin movie types, had some try and pay me 50 bucks once to shoot in front of the store. The bastards where there every night for a fuckin week. "
" I hear you, and tomorrow , i get to do it all again." i say with my own head shake , and another long swallow of the beer. A cigarette butt and acetone flavoured beverage, with hints of rotten egg. But it gets the job done.
" well, i'll make sure to keep another 2 of those extra cold for you then. " he says, prompting me a bit to leave.
After the beer, the walk goes a little bit quicker. But as i get to the main doors of my building i find myself leaning against a wall whenever possible. I must be leaving a trail through the hallway, but that fact is rather low on my list of priorities.
" Bozo! You stumblin your ass in again?" i hear from far down the hall.
At this point, you may be getting the impression that i am a hermit, a loner, a rather tinfoil hat gent who hates society, not true. But i do tend to socialize with those much older than myself. Something about the times they grew up in, i just find makes them much more interesting than anyone near my own age.
The person the voice in question belongs to, belongs in that category. 82 years old, miserable, and a ww2 veteran. Eric Benson, curmudgeon, skinflint, hoarder, but at the very least in my opinion, great guy.
He walks down the hall, and as he passes a flickering bulb that gives nothing more than a dim orange glow, his eyes spring open.
" Christ, Mike what happened to ya?" he says , his accent is by no means overly thick, but still retains the jewish grandfather ( Should he have had children , this description may have literally described him. ) tone that always makes me laugh. Somehow harsh and caring all at the same time.
" Oh, nothing, flight of stairs , bottle of rum , not a fan." i lie.
" Ya stairs happen to have a knife taped to em?" he says , the sarcasm in his voice, almost tangible.
" Broken glass actually, Eric, no offence but i just want to get home, don't really have time to hang out tonight." i try to stand up and walk off but my vision starts to blur, and black spots appear, the more i try to ignore them , but quickly i find myself able to do nothing more than put a hand against the wall.
" Your coming with me , ya stupid bastid. " he says tugging a bit at my arm, being no more than 5 feet, normally this would have been a futile effort , but he manages to unbalance me with the first tug. I step backward and take a half hearted swing at him , screaming " Fuck off old man."
He doesn't reply, he simply reaches into his pocket, and before i realize what is going on he jabs something into my forearm, i yank it back, and slump half way down the wall.
" I'm not gonna sit here and convince you , when i am savin ya life, asshole. Don't want to come? i'm just gonna keep stickin ya with my paring knife until ya brain decides to start firing again. " If " Matter of Factly " had a face, it would be his well weathered, heavy browed visage.
I start to stumble and he gets his shoulder under mine, and with the two of us, we manage to slowly waddle to his apartment.
Stacks of boxes, piled as high as me , take up most of the place. But other than that, it is spotless, memorabilia, from 1930 or so onward, prominently displayed in oak cases, gives the place more of a museum feeling , than a shithole.
I crash to the couch and as i look to see where Eric may be, i see nothing. Too hurt to care, i simply sit there, breathing heavily, trying my damndest not to pass out.
After a few minutes he comes out carrying a green , worn steel box. He flips the top open, and brings out the largest needle, and thickest thread i have ever seen. He walks over and with a remote turns on several lights in the apartment.
He begins to poke at the gash on my forehead a bit , and takes out a glass bottle and some gauze.
" This broken bottle , that was sittin on the stairs, already broken i guess, . Was there any chance it was made of knives? Was this ' i'm a fuckin liar' brand rum? I hear they do that. " and with this quip i feel my forehead explode into pain again, and liquid pour down my face.
" If you wern't bullshittin me , i would have asked you to close your eyes there. " he snickers at the end of this sentence.
Suddenly a thought hits me.
" Your going to sow me up, with that!?" i say, my skyrocketing eyebrows causing the gash to give me another helping of pain.
" Sure am, you fuckin liar." He says as i yank my head away.
" You psychotic old prick, i am not letting you do that!" as i say this he looks exasperated, and raises a bushy eyebrow.
" You think i am gonna just start Mcguyvering your skull? What kind of an asshole do ya think i am?" he starts " Before ya answer that last part, where do you think i got this box, and the needle, thread, and alcohol?"
I really wrack my brain, but between blood loss, and alcohol gain, it doesn't click in for a minute or so.
" You were in the army?" I ask tentatively.
" And it only took 3 fucking years for you to pick up on that." he replies.
What is absurd is that i actually find myself thinking of that. In the 3 years we knew each other he had never mentioned the war, or his part in it. Really i always assumed he just avoided it somehow and was embarrassed.
" So you know what your doing, right? I mean, i am sure you were the man, back in 1892 or whatever, but when is the last time you did something like..." a sharp pain near the wound, sharp is somewhat of a misnomer, ' quick onset' would be a better one. I can feel the old dull needle poke through as, without consent from me, he begins to work.
" On someone else? 40 years ago. " he says as another bit of pain , near to the first, happens. As he works the pokes become quicker , and by the time i have ran out of interesting variations on the word "fuck", he is done.
He fumbles a bit in the green box, and pulls out what must have passed for a set of tweezers back when the ark was made. Long, dull steel things , and another question hits me.
" How old is this shit?" i say as he starts toward me.
" Pretty damn old , by your standards, i'd guess." He says, as he presses his hand against my face, bending my head backward. A huge whiff of old man smell hits me, cologne, some kind of medicated rub and cheap tobacco.
" Is it still good?" i say, the words muffled a bit by his palm.
" One thing we learned was that thee is a difference between ' expired' and 'useless'. Expired may not be so great when your paying 500 dollars to have your arm set in a nice hospital , but when its life or death, and you are fighting in the muck Bonamo, expired is great, useless is a problem. " as he finishes these words of wisdom, he pulls something out of my forehead.
" Funny, not a bit a broken glass. You must have had the most polite bottle ever, they should market that, i am sure lying drunks all over the world would break down the doors of liquor stores to get the kind of glass that doesn't make slivers. " He keeps up his assault trying to get the real story out of me.
He begins to give me the ' once over' checking for any major wounds, he seems to focuss on three on my neck and shoulders. Instead of reaching into his box of tricks he walks over to his fridge, and brings back a giant, thick steak.
This confuses the living hell out of me. For the past few months, i have noticed a lot of discarded dog food cans, and boxes of generic saltine crackers. I never asked, assuming he would be embarrassed, but i invited him over for dinner 4 nights a week because of it.
" Where did you get that?" i ask. He laughs.
" What do ya mean? How did i afford steak when i have only had money for crackers and dog chow? Friggen kids, think ya the only ones who know how to run a con or two. I just knew if i seemed like i was starvin' i wouldn't have to make my own dinners for a while, ya stupid asshole." He laughs again, and i join him.
" Your a resourceful old bugger arn't you?" i say shaking my head. He had money for steak, i was legitimately near dog chow levels in regards to funds, i am a bit angry, but more impressed than anything.
" This steak though, i'm not gonna eat. " he says as he takes some books and leans the steak, against it. " This steak is going to show you something. " he continues cryptically.
" You working up your own clown act Eric?" i ask as he makes sure the steak is sitting straight up.
"No, just showing you one i knew when i was your age. "
He pulls out another box, and takes a knife from it, old, but actually sharp looking. A military style, though what i know about knives could easily fit in a dixie cup.
" Someone like you is gonna use a knife like this. " he says, and those old arthritic hands whip back and forth , drawing the knife along the meat a few times. Nothing action movie like, but at age 82 , impressive none the less. He uses the tip to move the 'wounds ' a bit " Shallow, no angle, and all scattered in one area, like a moron. "
He turns from me , and as he does takes a swipe at the steak. This time it is just one, and the steak itself slides to the ground in two pieces, still in the package.
" Now those, are the kind of wounds you have. Angled to make healing harder if ya miss, few, so the guy didn't waste energy and leave you time to take the knife, and if you were a hundreth of a second slower, they would have killed ya. Whoever you got into a fight with, they knew what they were doin'. And i am not talking about some schmuck in the reserves, or some drunk grunt. You've pissed someone off, and if is the kind of people i fuckin know it is, your in over ya head."
My response is silence, my story is insane, hell one could say my story itself is the very definition of insanity. I've killed, i have been under extreme stress, and i have an elaborate web of what very well may be fantasy to explain it all. Maybe he is picking up on it, and just trying to see how far down the rabbit hole i went.
" I'm fine Benson, no web of intrigue , just a fight i didn't want to admit getting my ass kicked during. " I say, a deflection mixed with a half truth.
" I have no doubt ya got the taffy beat out a ya, " he says ( once i asked what was with the plethora of taffy references, he then spent an afternoon showing me clips from an old show circa about 1950 , in which a clown, and what appeared to be a federal agent hocked taffy to children.) " but i've seen these kind of wounds before. I've patched these kind of wounds before, i've never been the best guy with a gun, or my fists, but even people like the guy who showed you ,need someone to patch them up. And i spent a few decades doin it, the kind of patching up that doesn't have records kept of it, if ya are starting to get it." He looks at me, and i have never seen this kind of expression on his face before. Not solem, but , serious.
I spill my guts, from the computer that started it all, to the events right before i got to where i am now.
He didn't laugh, he didn't call bullshit on anything, just sat down, smoked a half dozen cigarettes and looked progressively more worried.
" We were talking about something like this back in the 60's. We had some good guys, some guys that seemed to be better than anyone could expect. Not because they were trained better, even though they were, but just because they were just, a bit more. Don't know how else to say it. No supermen, no lazers, or telekefuckits, no flyin, just certain guys who ran faster, jumped higher, hit harder, and could take a beatin that would stun a rhino. Funny thing is, we always had trouble gettin these guys to work together. Luckily, we never had to much. They had things..." he shudders a bit. " taken care of. Problem was , we realized, if we was getting these guys just walkin in the door, there must be others out there. And that was something that we started to think wouldn't be a good thing. Like that Freeguy was saying. But i thought the idea was scrapped. Reason was, people didn't want a hero. No reason to worry, stories about one guy killing an enemy platoon in the war made people proud, stories about the same thing happening to some mobsters , made people sweat. So with a little hushin in the newspapers, and a little ...prodding the public opinion against folks takin things into their own hands, we didn't need to do anything else." he shakes his head a bit, trying to absorb the information.
" So, anything i should know?" i say, trying to get some kind of advice in the situation.
" You ain't gonna win , and you probably aint gonna live through the first asshead with a gun you try to stop. " he says, not as an insult, but calmly, making sure that i understand that this is no laughing matter.
" I know, but i just don't think i can stop. I don't know what it is. I don't like killing anyone, but i can't get over the fact that , yes i could do something to help someone in the world, and there is a group of people out there who's job it is to stop me. I don't mind the fact that i am going to die, or get caught, but i'd like to put off both as long as possible. " saying it out loud is wierd. I don't feel heroic, i feel like someone talking about a heroin addiction. " can you help? I mean you could show me how to fight, right? "
He laughs " Me? I was gonna fail boot camp, but they saw i was a doctor, or almost one, long story. That with the knife? Surgery , if that steak was movin around i wouldn't have put a mark on it. " It is his turn for silence, " You aint gonna give this up though are ya? “ he sighs a bit and continues “ Ya know what though? I’m 82, I don’t sleep, I barely shit, and I’m starting to lose hearing in one ear. I wanna be useful again, “ his tone is completely different than usual. Gone is the sarcastic life hardened old man, replaced with a melancholy old gent reviewing the last couple of decades of his life. “ You wanna get beat to death to stop some purses being snatched? Good on you, stupid, but something that gets my respect. You need to be patched up, I’ll do it. And if that gets me shot , fuck it, I’ve dodged enough bullets in my life, that I am ahead of the game. “
And that stark statement takes me back for a moment, and brings up a question. “ Someone left a note, whats stopping them from just walking into my place and shooting me while I sleep?”
He laughs , his expression turning to more of that old man I know , “ That was me , ya moron ya. I got my ways , and I had a feeling you was doing something like this, but I didn’t think it was this… involved. Just wanted to scare ya into being a bit more safe. Whole lotta good that did… And why don’t they just come in and shoot you? The law ya daffy prick. Maybe not the same law on the books you could read, but law regardless. Doing that just, aint what they do. “
Confusing does not even describe this situation, when I started all I wanted to do was go out in a blaze of glory, when that went too well , all I wanted to do was do some good, now I am hip deep in a cross between a Tom Clancy novel and a comic book.
Something catches my eye, in a case, it just seems to call out to me. I am not too much of a war buff, my historical trivia is mostly entertainment related, but the item in the case is pretty easy to identify.
“ Is that what I think it is?” I say pointing to the case. Inside is a burned, torn headband, emblazoned with the rising sun, as the ten gallon hat is to cowboys, this is to the kamikaze. And what am I , if not a kamikaze that seems to keep failing at the last part of a suicide mission.
“ I’m guessin so, why?” Eric says intrigued.
“ I want it, if I am going to do this shit, I kinda want to do it right. The only thing I got goin for me is the fact that I am odd, so I guess I have to work with that. “ I say as he walks over to the case, I hear a squeek of a hinge that hasn’t been opened in decades and he gingerly gives me the headband. I remove the tophat, the spirit gum hurting my scalp a bit, but in relation to everything else that has happened today, I barely notice.
I replace the hatband with the aged, headband and hold it out at arms length. A damaged , hat , a damaged hatband, and a symbol that states in no uncertain terms that if I am going down, I will be taking someone with me.
“ Ya know, maybe I have something else that can help ya out. “ Eric wanders off into another room and comes back with three books. “ Ya read german?” he says tossing them down on a table.
“ Why in the hell would I read german?” I ask
Suddenly his entire body posture changes, rigid, cold, and he spouts off a series of words that I can only assume, from the odd bits I have heard from films, is german. The accent, sounds perfect, or at least very close to what I have heard in said films.
“ Knowing krautspeak saved my ass more than anything uncle Sam taught me, maybe you’ll be able to say the same someday. “ He picks up the book, and flips to a random page a quarter or so in, the words are undecipherable to me , but the pictures of men engaged in hand to hand combat, or using weapons, seem to speak pretty clearly.
“ If there is anything the krauts were good at , it was hurtin people, these books are gonna be better than anything some slant eye is going to teach ya for 200 dollars a week. Once you know how to read em that is. “
Adrenaline is the double edged sword wielded by thrill seekers since the dawn of time. One can push themselves well past their normal limits, but this isn't a gift, it is more of a loan.
Slowly the wounds, lacerations, bumps, bruises, the whole set, start to sneak up on me. Within another 30 minutes i am walking like an octogenarian , with another 10 blocks to go between where i am and where i want to be.
I get looks, but it still kind of stuns me that the costume didn't raise an eyebrow, and even it in concert with some of the most garish wounds you'd be likely to see on a living person, is only attracting the odd stare.
My mind is already snapping to how many party stores there are between where i am and my apartment. And which one would be the least likely to refuse me service. Sounds like somewhat of an obscure fact, but when you tend to buy liquor while inebriated , you get to know who doesn't like to ask questions.
Speed-gulp is okay, but then again, there is the security cameras. ( as a rather poor, heavy drinker, i will admit sometimes my methods of procuring liquor are less than legal.) Jack's is a bit farther away, but i am also pretty sure he makes the majority of his money in some kind of illegal venture, so i can't see him calling the cops any time soon.
I manage to make a 5 minute walk in 20, and see the dimly lit , unappealingly square building, with its strangely fully functional sign. I catch a bit of my reflection in the mirrored door, and even i am taken aback.
My face has a 5 inch cut, that apparently has been bleeding out rather badly since the event, not to mention several smaller, but still productive wounds scattered about my cheeks and forehead. One of the lacerations that made my forehead its home is showing white, hopefully gravel and not bone.
Not a thought that i ever thought i would have to think of.
As i reach for the knob i notice one of my fingers is hanging at a rather odd angle. Not facing me but well on its way. A dislocation, something i am actually pretty familiar with. A misplaced hand during a backflip can easily force a finger to be evicted from its preferred position.
Before i enter i give the pinky a quick yank, normally this brings me nearly to my knees, but after the events of this night, the phrase " drop in the bucket" doesn't quite make it.
I hear the alarm system beep as i walk in , and as always, behind the counter is Albert. I've always wondered who "Jack" is, but never really cared to ask.
He is in his late 50's, overly faded tattoos covering his arms, but otherwise not too terribly intimidating of an individual. A 50's pot belly, and a gin blossom nose, take away from the scary vibe he may have had in spades in his younger days.
I walk to the fridge, twice having to grab onto a shelf to steady myself. But this is nothing new, Al, barely looks up from his newspaper, as years old bottles of mustard, mayo and pickles clang together.
Two 40's of " Grey snow" beer, while i do love my drink, i am with it enough to realize that too much alcohol could rapidly turn my situation south.
" Costume party?" Al says , i can't tell if his tone is friendly, or mocking.
" Party? Yes. Costume, no." i say cryptically hoping,to stifle the conversation instantly.
" Oh yeah, Mike, right?" he says. How he knows my name i am unsure, but i continue the conversation, hoping to build a bit of good will, if for no other reason than to deflect suspicion.
" Actually, yeah... but..." i start
" You were pretty wasted, you came in here one night, drank a 40 and a half of bottom shelf whiskey. We talked about clowns... a lot." He laughs a bit, a phlemy , hoarse chuckle. Something i would love to be able to mimic next time i get into a conflict.
" Oh...sorry about that, sometimes i don't know when to stop. Talking, or drinking." i try to throw in a laugh myself , but my ribs put a quick end to that. I grab my side and wince a bit.
" Don't worry about it, you paid, and didn't call me 'pops' 'old man' or ' dude', highlight of my week. So, what kind of party was it, you look pretty beat up. " i get a hint of suspicion from his tone.
Instantly, i change my body language, leaning easily against the counter, running a finger across the gaping wound on my forehead. My body is screaming at me to stop, but i don't want to give him any kind of reason think this is anything else other than a drunk being a drunk, and spending 5 dollars in small change on liquor.
" Got ya on that one didn't i? Actually doing some filming , friend of mine got some kind of grant , and needed a spooky clown. Well i was a clown, and as you can see , with enough laytex and fake blood, i can be pretty spooky. Downside is that i had to be there for 20 hours. You'd think a scene where i walk down a hallway would take 5 minutes, but not at all apparently." I crack one of the beers and take a long swallow, finding that even my throat must have taken a hit, swallowing is not a pleasant time.
Al laughs, and shakes his head. " Those fuckin movie types, had some try and pay me 50 bucks once to shoot in front of the store. The bastards where there every night for a fuckin week. "
" I hear you, and tomorrow , i get to do it all again." i say with my own head shake , and another long swallow of the beer. A cigarette butt and acetone flavoured beverage, with hints of rotten egg. But it gets the job done.
" well, i'll make sure to keep another 2 of those extra cold for you then. " he says, prompting me a bit to leave.
After the beer, the walk goes a little bit quicker. But as i get to the main doors of my building i find myself leaning against a wall whenever possible. I must be leaving a trail through the hallway, but that fact is rather low on my list of priorities.
" Bozo! You stumblin your ass in again?" i hear from far down the hall.
At this point, you may be getting the impression that i am a hermit, a loner, a rather tinfoil hat gent who hates society, not true. But i do tend to socialize with those much older than myself. Something about the times they grew up in, i just find makes them much more interesting than anyone near my own age.
The person the voice in question belongs to, belongs in that category. 82 years old, miserable, and a ww2 veteran. Eric Benson, curmudgeon, skinflint, hoarder, but at the very least in my opinion, great guy.
He walks down the hall, and as he passes a flickering bulb that gives nothing more than a dim orange glow, his eyes spring open.
" Christ, Mike what happened to ya?" he says , his accent is by no means overly thick, but still retains the jewish grandfather ( Should he have had children , this description may have literally described him. ) tone that always makes me laugh. Somehow harsh and caring all at the same time.
" Oh, nothing, flight of stairs , bottle of rum , not a fan." i lie.
" Ya stairs happen to have a knife taped to em?" he says , the sarcasm in his voice, almost tangible.
" Broken glass actually, Eric, no offence but i just want to get home, don't really have time to hang out tonight." i try to stand up and walk off but my vision starts to blur, and black spots appear, the more i try to ignore them , but quickly i find myself able to do nothing more than put a hand against the wall.
" Your coming with me , ya stupid bastid. " he says tugging a bit at my arm, being no more than 5 feet, normally this would have been a futile effort , but he manages to unbalance me with the first tug. I step backward and take a half hearted swing at him , screaming " Fuck off old man."
He doesn't reply, he simply reaches into his pocket, and before i realize what is going on he jabs something into my forearm, i yank it back, and slump half way down the wall.
" I'm not gonna sit here and convince you , when i am savin ya life, asshole. Don't want to come? i'm just gonna keep stickin ya with my paring knife until ya brain decides to start firing again. " If " Matter of Factly " had a face, it would be his well weathered, heavy browed visage.
I start to stumble and he gets his shoulder under mine, and with the two of us, we manage to slowly waddle to his apartment.
Stacks of boxes, piled as high as me , take up most of the place. But other than that, it is spotless, memorabilia, from 1930 or so onward, prominently displayed in oak cases, gives the place more of a museum feeling , than a shithole.
I crash to the couch and as i look to see where Eric may be, i see nothing. Too hurt to care, i simply sit there, breathing heavily, trying my damndest not to pass out.
After a few minutes he comes out carrying a green , worn steel box. He flips the top open, and brings out the largest needle, and thickest thread i have ever seen. He walks over and with a remote turns on several lights in the apartment.
He begins to poke at the gash on my forehead a bit , and takes out a glass bottle and some gauze.
" This broken bottle , that was sittin on the stairs, already broken i guess, . Was there any chance it was made of knives? Was this ' i'm a fuckin liar' brand rum? I hear they do that. " and with this quip i feel my forehead explode into pain again, and liquid pour down my face.
" If you wern't bullshittin me , i would have asked you to close your eyes there. " he snickers at the end of this sentence.
Suddenly a thought hits me.
" Your going to sow me up, with that!?" i say, my skyrocketing eyebrows causing the gash to give me another helping of pain.
" Sure am, you fuckin liar." He says as i yank my head away.
" You psychotic old prick, i am not letting you do that!" as i say this he looks exasperated, and raises a bushy eyebrow.
" You think i am gonna just start Mcguyvering your skull? What kind of an asshole do ya think i am?" he starts " Before ya answer that last part, where do you think i got this box, and the needle, thread, and alcohol?"
I really wrack my brain, but between blood loss, and alcohol gain, it doesn't click in for a minute or so.
" You were in the army?" I ask tentatively.
" And it only took 3 fucking years for you to pick up on that." he replies.
What is absurd is that i actually find myself thinking of that. In the 3 years we knew each other he had never mentioned the war, or his part in it. Really i always assumed he just avoided it somehow and was embarrassed.
" So you know what your doing, right? I mean, i am sure you were the man, back in 1892 or whatever, but when is the last time you did something like..." a sharp pain near the wound, sharp is somewhat of a misnomer, ' quick onset' would be a better one. I can feel the old dull needle poke through as, without consent from me, he begins to work.
" On someone else? 40 years ago. " he says as another bit of pain , near to the first, happens. As he works the pokes become quicker , and by the time i have ran out of interesting variations on the word "fuck", he is done.
He fumbles a bit in the green box, and pulls out what must have passed for a set of tweezers back when the ark was made. Long, dull steel things , and another question hits me.
" How old is this shit?" i say as he starts toward me.
" Pretty damn old , by your standards, i'd guess." He says, as he presses his hand against my face, bending my head backward. A huge whiff of old man smell hits me, cologne, some kind of medicated rub and cheap tobacco.
" Is it still good?" i say, the words muffled a bit by his palm.
" One thing we learned was that thee is a difference between ' expired' and 'useless'. Expired may not be so great when your paying 500 dollars to have your arm set in a nice hospital , but when its life or death, and you are fighting in the muck Bonamo, expired is great, useless is a problem. " as he finishes these words of wisdom, he pulls something out of my forehead.
" Funny, not a bit a broken glass. You must have had the most polite bottle ever, they should market that, i am sure lying drunks all over the world would break down the doors of liquor stores to get the kind of glass that doesn't make slivers. " He keeps up his assault trying to get the real story out of me.
He begins to give me the ' once over' checking for any major wounds, he seems to focuss on three on my neck and shoulders. Instead of reaching into his box of tricks he walks over to his fridge, and brings back a giant, thick steak.
This confuses the living hell out of me. For the past few months, i have noticed a lot of discarded dog food cans, and boxes of generic saltine crackers. I never asked, assuming he would be embarrassed, but i invited him over for dinner 4 nights a week because of it.
" Where did you get that?" i ask. He laughs.
" What do ya mean? How did i afford steak when i have only had money for crackers and dog chow? Friggen kids, think ya the only ones who know how to run a con or two. I just knew if i seemed like i was starvin' i wouldn't have to make my own dinners for a while, ya stupid asshole." He laughs again, and i join him.
" Your a resourceful old bugger arn't you?" i say shaking my head. He had money for steak, i was legitimately near dog chow levels in regards to funds, i am a bit angry, but more impressed than anything.
" This steak though, i'm not gonna eat. " he says as he takes some books and leans the steak, against it. " This steak is going to show you something. " he continues cryptically.
" You working up your own clown act Eric?" i ask as he makes sure the steak is sitting straight up.
"No, just showing you one i knew when i was your age. "
He pulls out another box, and takes a knife from it, old, but actually sharp looking. A military style, though what i know about knives could easily fit in a dixie cup.
" Someone like you is gonna use a knife like this. " he says, and those old arthritic hands whip back and forth , drawing the knife along the meat a few times. Nothing action movie like, but at age 82 , impressive none the less. He uses the tip to move the 'wounds ' a bit " Shallow, no angle, and all scattered in one area, like a moron. "
He turns from me , and as he does takes a swipe at the steak. This time it is just one, and the steak itself slides to the ground in two pieces, still in the package.
" Now those, are the kind of wounds you have. Angled to make healing harder if ya miss, few, so the guy didn't waste energy and leave you time to take the knife, and if you were a hundreth of a second slower, they would have killed ya. Whoever you got into a fight with, they knew what they were doin'. And i am not talking about some schmuck in the reserves, or some drunk grunt. You've pissed someone off, and if is the kind of people i fuckin know it is, your in over ya head."
My response is silence, my story is insane, hell one could say my story itself is the very definition of insanity. I've killed, i have been under extreme stress, and i have an elaborate web of what very well may be fantasy to explain it all. Maybe he is picking up on it, and just trying to see how far down the rabbit hole i went.
" I'm fine Benson, no web of intrigue , just a fight i didn't want to admit getting my ass kicked during. " I say, a deflection mixed with a half truth.
" I have no doubt ya got the taffy beat out a ya, " he says ( once i asked what was with the plethora of taffy references, he then spent an afternoon showing me clips from an old show circa about 1950 , in which a clown, and what appeared to be a federal agent hocked taffy to children.) " but i've seen these kind of wounds before. I've patched these kind of wounds before, i've never been the best guy with a gun, or my fists, but even people like the guy who showed you ,need someone to patch them up. And i spent a few decades doin it, the kind of patching up that doesn't have records kept of it, if ya are starting to get it." He looks at me, and i have never seen this kind of expression on his face before. Not solem, but , serious.
I spill my guts, from the computer that started it all, to the events right before i got to where i am now.
He didn't laugh, he didn't call bullshit on anything, just sat down, smoked a half dozen cigarettes and looked progressively more worried.
" We were talking about something like this back in the 60's. We had some good guys, some guys that seemed to be better than anyone could expect. Not because they were trained better, even though they were, but just because they were just, a bit more. Don't know how else to say it. No supermen, no lazers, or telekefuckits, no flyin, just certain guys who ran faster, jumped higher, hit harder, and could take a beatin that would stun a rhino. Funny thing is, we always had trouble gettin these guys to work together. Luckily, we never had to much. They had things..." he shudders a bit. " taken care of. Problem was , we realized, if we was getting these guys just walkin in the door, there must be others out there. And that was something that we started to think wouldn't be a good thing. Like that Freeguy was saying. But i thought the idea was scrapped. Reason was, people didn't want a hero. No reason to worry, stories about one guy killing an enemy platoon in the war made people proud, stories about the same thing happening to some mobsters , made people sweat. So with a little hushin in the newspapers, and a little ...prodding the public opinion against folks takin things into their own hands, we didn't need to do anything else." he shakes his head a bit, trying to absorb the information.
" So, anything i should know?" i say, trying to get some kind of advice in the situation.
" You ain't gonna win , and you probably aint gonna live through the first asshead with a gun you try to stop. " he says, not as an insult, but calmly, making sure that i understand that this is no laughing matter.
" I know, but i just don't think i can stop. I don't know what it is. I don't like killing anyone, but i can't get over the fact that , yes i could do something to help someone in the world, and there is a group of people out there who's job it is to stop me. I don't mind the fact that i am going to die, or get caught, but i'd like to put off both as long as possible. " saying it out loud is wierd. I don't feel heroic, i feel like someone talking about a heroin addiction. " can you help? I mean you could show me how to fight, right? "
He laughs " Me? I was gonna fail boot camp, but they saw i was a doctor, or almost one, long story. That with the knife? Surgery , if that steak was movin around i wouldn't have put a mark on it. " It is his turn for silence, " You aint gonna give this up though are ya? “ he sighs a bit and continues “ Ya know what though? I’m 82, I don’t sleep, I barely shit, and I’m starting to lose hearing in one ear. I wanna be useful again, “ his tone is completely different than usual. Gone is the sarcastic life hardened old man, replaced with a melancholy old gent reviewing the last couple of decades of his life. “ You wanna get beat to death to stop some purses being snatched? Good on you, stupid, but something that gets my respect. You need to be patched up, I’ll do it. And if that gets me shot , fuck it, I’ve dodged enough bullets in my life, that I am ahead of the game. “
And that stark statement takes me back for a moment, and brings up a question. “ Someone left a note, whats stopping them from just walking into my place and shooting me while I sleep?”
He laughs , his expression turning to more of that old man I know , “ That was me , ya moron ya. I got my ways , and I had a feeling you was doing something like this, but I didn’t think it was this… involved. Just wanted to scare ya into being a bit more safe. Whole lotta good that did… And why don’t they just come in and shoot you? The law ya daffy prick. Maybe not the same law on the books you could read, but law regardless. Doing that just, aint what they do. “
Confusing does not even describe this situation, when I started all I wanted to do was go out in a blaze of glory, when that went too well , all I wanted to do was do some good, now I am hip deep in a cross between a Tom Clancy novel and a comic book.
Something catches my eye, in a case, it just seems to call out to me. I am not too much of a war buff, my historical trivia is mostly entertainment related, but the item in the case is pretty easy to identify.
“ Is that what I think it is?” I say pointing to the case. Inside is a burned, torn headband, emblazoned with the rising sun, as the ten gallon hat is to cowboys, this is to the kamikaze. And what am I , if not a kamikaze that seems to keep failing at the last part of a suicide mission.
“ I’m guessin so, why?” Eric says intrigued.
“ I want it, if I am going to do this shit, I kinda want to do it right. The only thing I got goin for me is the fact that I am odd, so I guess I have to work with that. “ I say as he walks over to the case, I hear a squeek of a hinge that hasn’t been opened in decades and he gingerly gives me the headband. I remove the tophat, the spirit gum hurting my scalp a bit, but in relation to everything else that has happened today, I barely notice.
I replace the hatband with the aged, headband and hold it out at arms length. A damaged , hat , a damaged hatband, and a symbol that states in no uncertain terms that if I am going down, I will be taking someone with me.
“ Ya know, maybe I have something else that can help ya out. “ Eric wanders off into another room and comes back with three books. “ Ya read german?” he says tossing them down on a table.
“ Why in the hell would I read german?” I ask
Suddenly his entire body posture changes, rigid, cold, and he spouts off a series of words that I can only assume, from the odd bits I have heard from films, is german. The accent, sounds perfect, or at least very close to what I have heard in said films.
“ Knowing krautspeak saved my ass more than anything uncle Sam taught me, maybe you’ll be able to say the same someday. “ He picks up the book, and flips to a random page a quarter or so in, the words are undecipherable to me , but the pictures of men engaged in hand to hand combat, or using weapons, seem to speak pretty clearly.
“ If there is anything the krauts were good at , it was hurtin people, these books are gonna be better than anything some slant eye is going to teach ya for 200 dollars a week. Once you know how to read em that is. “
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