Thrash
Hammer.
Out of all the Reaper’s Sons that I hate, I hate Hammer the most. He’s the most vicious. The most cunning. And he’s the one who’s closest at this very moment.
And he’s sitting in my favorite living room chair with a gun pointed right at my chest.
Yeah, I’ve got a lot of hate for that son of a bitch.
I take another pull from my cigar and calmly survey the scene.
There’s about fifteen feet between my place in the doorway and Hammer. To my right, the open entryway to my kitchen calls temptingly.
If I can make it there, I’ll have a chance to find cover and fight back.
Now to figure out what to do about the gun pointed at my chest.
I pull some more tobacco smoke into my lungs.
This shit’s sweet as pussy. Shame I don’t have more time to enjoy it.
“How are you still standing?”
He laughs. A full belly laugh. “Oh, I had some of whatever the hell it was that you put in the beer — which was a nice fucking touch, by the way, you had me out of it for a while and you sure as shit turned most of the club into fucking invalids. But I was planning on staying mostly sober tonight. It’s my god damned bar, I’m in charge of the place, and there’s not a chance in hell I was letting myself get too shitfaced to work.”
“Well, fuck me.”
“Yeah. Fuck you.”
“So what now?
“Now, you drop the bag and get on your knees. I want to savor this. I was originally thinking I would just put a bullet in the back of your head for the robbery, but that was earlier in the night, before you’d burned my house down. Now it’s fucking personal.”
He starts to stand, and it’s in that half-standing, half-sitting moment that I make my move. I drop my cigar into the duffel. The ember-tip of the cigar lights the traces of gasoline and puffs into flame. The cash catches fire and I toss the burning bag towards him.
It’s a horrible fucking sight. All that cash, burning.
There’s a moment where he freezes in mortal stupefaction; Hundreds of thousands of dollars burning to embers.
I laugh in spite of myself — the look on his face is fucking precious — and dart into the kitchen. Bullets tear into the spot where I was standing just seconds before and Hammer lets out a cry of rage.
I find shelter in a corner with a good angle of sight to the entryway and pull my pistol out.
“What the fuck have you done?” He rages.
“You think there’s ever a chance that I’d hand over cash to a cocksucker like you? Or get on my knees like a bitch? Jesus Christ, Hammer, you must be getting fucking senile in your old age.”
We hold in a stalemate, both armed, both ready to kill, waiting for the time to strike. All I want to see is his ugly mug poke around the corner so I can put a bullet between his eyes.
But he’s smarter than he looks, and he doesn’t just step around the corner like some clueless prospect. Hammer moves like a fucking cat, diving through the entry and going for cover; I fire and get one shot off — nicking his hand and sending his gun clattering — before he grips a chair in his free hand and bashes me right across the head.
I go flat to the ground. The air flees my lungs. My teeth bite the tile floor.
Two heavy punches crack the back of my head and snap me into reality. Pain reverberates through my body and I grit my teeth.
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
I power forward, catching him at the knees and sending him backwards, crashing violently into my kitchen cabinets. Air leaves his lungs in a whoosh as he impacts and I fight to a standing position and unleash my rage on him, battering him with my fists and elbows. Bones bend and break against my knuckles and the spatter of blood flies from his busted lips.
But he does not go down.
He fucking grins with his broken face and chipped teeth.
“My turn.”
He slips a punch and throws a hard right that catches me in the jaw and then another snaps my head backwards. Black lights float in my vision and I stagger backwards under his onslaught.
Another fist cracks me in the jaw. My knees buckle and I catch myself on the kitchen table, just in time to take an uppercut to the face that sends me careening into the wall.
I spit a tooth to the ground and sway on my feet.
But I won’t go down.
This isn’t over.
Smoke starts to fill the air, the flames of the burning cash spreading across my living room floor.
“When I’m done with you, I’m going to find that Alice bitch. I’m going to rape her with your blood still wet on my hands.”
I see red. Fuck dying. Fuck the cash. I don’t give a shit about any of it. Nothing else matters compared to her.
I’d give anything for her.
Even my life.
Adrenaline surges in my blood and all I feel is rage.
I will keep her safe. Whatever the cost.
I charge him, and our bodies crash together with bone-shaking force. We hurl together back into my refrigerator, knotted together in primal fury, filled with the elemental need to spill each other’s blood. He throws punch after punch at me and I don’t feel a damn thing — all I can think about is keeping her safe, protecting her, my woman. Alice.
I batter him, even as I feel something snap in my hand and each punch I land sends sparks erupting behind my eyelids. My body might be giving out, but I will not relent.
But Hammer will not go down.
And he gives as good as he gets. My body bears the marks of his rage as he pummels me in return.
Eyes darting for something — anything — I need to end this.
I bob and weave like a boxer, dodging under a bruising punch, and abruptly step sideways. Hammer stumbles, off balance and I throw open a kitchen drawer.
Jackpot.
A knife.
Hammer reaches for me, going for my throat. Fingers tighten their grip and he rams my head forward into the counter. A gash opens across my forehead and hot blood spills into my vision, but I keep hold of the knife and turn, just enough that I can ram it into his gut, burying it all the way to the handle.
His life floods across my hands. A tremor shakes him as his body comes to grips with his coming death.
“Motherfucker,” he spits, before his hands lose their grip and he falls to the ground.
I spit on him and kick him square in the face, knocking him unconscious.
Thick smoke and the blaring of my smoke alarms reminds me I’ve got more important things to do right now than gloat over that dead prick. Racing to my kitchen sink, I throw open the cabinet doors beneath it and pull out my fire extinguisher.
My living room is ablaze, fire consuming almost a quarter of the room — including my favorite chair — but it hasn’t gotten out of control, yet.
Sweat beading on my forehead, woozy from the heat and the blood loss, I take aim and spray the extinguisher at the base of the flames.
It takes the whole damn canister to put out the fire.
In the end, I’m down a pint or so of blood, a tooth, my favorite chair, almost half my fucking living room, and the whole duffel of cash.
I head back into my kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and sit down on my non-broken chair.
I sip the amber liquid from the bottle and soak in the whole wreck around me. There are dead bodies in my wake, the ashes of a financial dream scattered among the wreckage of my living room, a ruined relationship with a rarity of a woman, and there’s a corpse on my kitchen floor.
What a fucking night.
My eyes catch sight of the small present Alice gave me a few days ago, a little thing wrapped in the loud ‘Happy Birthday’ wrapping paper. I snatch it up and open it, wanting at least something positive right now in the wake of losing everything.
The paper tears away to reveal a small box, and inside that box, there’s a note, a pamphlet, and a business card. Curious, I pick the note up in my bloody hands and start to read.
Thrash (Lloyd),
It means more than you know to have you there, believing in me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt hope or pride, but having you in my life has given me both those feelings in spades. I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve done for me and my mom.
The card and the pamphlet are for a friend of mine who runs a brokerage in San Francisco. I met him through work. He’s good. You’ve always said you wanted to be independent and have the money invested so you can take care of yourself outside of the club and he can help you do that. He’s one of the best there is and he’ll help you set up a Roth-IRA, 401K, or whatever your heart desires.
I know it isn’t a sexy gift, but it is something that I give to you with the best intentions and the utmost appreciation for everything you’ve done. You’ve changed my life for the better.
Thank you for everything.
Love,
Alice
I set the note down on the table and just stare at the damn thing.
What an idiot I’ve been.
I’ve sacrificed everything truly important, all so I could get a little bit richer. And now, I don’t even have that. Money will come and go, but a woman like her is priceless.
I have to get her back.
Whatever it takes, I have to set things right with her. I have to let her know that none of the success means anything without her.
I take out my cell and give Riot a call.
He answers on the second ring.
“What’s wrong now?” He says.
I know he’s only half joking. With the way our night’s going, I don’t blame him for having a bit of an attitude.
“I need a favor,” I say.
“Yeah? What’s that, brother?”
“I need you to come on over to my place and take care of a mess. I’ve got to get over to Alice’s house.”
“What kind of mess?”
“The corpse kind.”
“Holy hell, what’s going on, Thrash?”
“Hammer’s dead on my kitchen floor and half my living room’s a pile of ash. Bring a broom.”
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck? Are you serious?”
“He was here waiting for me. He knew — he’d stayed sober and figured out what we were up to. I think he’s the only one who knows, otherwise, he would’ve brought other Reaper’s Sons with him. But I can’t take that chance and leave Alice without protection. I’ve got to go to her, man.”
“Fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I hang up and, without waiting, run straight for my bike.
I’ve got somewhere important to be.