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There’s a new pretend dive bar for young media bros near the corner of Las Palmas. Outside, a muscular guy in new leathers is doing a belligerent Tom Hardy impression—like the most deranged audition in history—and has backed a smaller guy against the wall, jamming a finger over and over into his chest. I can’t tell if the smaller guy is a friend, a younger sibling, or a lover. He’s definitely someone Tom Hardy is sure he can dominate. Tom keeps pointing to a shiny new Harley Roadster with all the bells and whistles. I get the feeling that the little guy wasn’t sufficiently impressed and Tom is trying to scream awe into him. When Tom takes a breath, the little guy tries to slip away, but he’s not fast enough. Tom gets hold of his arm and yanks him back hard.
So, I kick over the bike.
“Clumsy me. Sorry.”
At the sound of crunching metal, Tom spins around. He lets go of the little guy and approaches me slowly, like his mind can’t quite wrap itself around the carnage. Finally, he looks at me.
“Motherfucker, do you want to die right now?”
I put a boot on the bike and step over it, careful to leave a footprint on the pristine seat. When I’m kissing distance from Tom I look into his stupid, beer-addled eyes.
“Do you even know what death is, Tom?” I say. “It’s dumb, and it’s loud, and it smells bad; you’re in Hell and you want to die to get away from it all, but you’re already dead and there’s nowhere to go. And what’s worse is you know you’re there because you deserve it, because you’re such a fucking waste of skin and gristle. So no, I don’t want to die. It’s no fun and there’s too many people like you there.”
I’m not halfway through the sales pitch when he reaches for a knife. The little guy is still against the wall, too scared to make a run for it.
I say, “Why don’t you let your pal go and I won’t piss in your gas tank?”
Tom starts waving the knife around, all movie menacing. No way the little guy is going to run now. I know what he’s thinking. He’s worried that Tom is going to kick my ass and take it out on him later.
I slap Tom hard, and he takes a step back like he forgot that I have hands and can do things with them.
“It’s okay,” I tell the little guy. “He’s not going to hurt you.”
He takes a couple of steps. Looks at Tom and back to me.
Tom lunges at me with the blade. It’s not much of a fight. He’s as subtle as a one-eyed hippo. I smack his drunken hands away, bat the knife to the ground, and grab him by the throat. Lift him up so he’s on his tiptoes. He does a funny little dance as he chokes.
I look at the other guy.
“Do you want him gone for now or forever?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Forever.”
“Done.”
“You’re not going to kill him . . . ?”
I lift Tom up a little higher. He waves his arms around like he’s trying to signal passing jets.
“There’s too many people around,” I tell the little guy. “But he won’t bother you again.”
He runs off.
When I drop Tom, he falls in a big leather heap. I get his knife while he’s still trying to remember how to breathe and cut a hex into the palm of his left hand. A funny Hellion one you only use on people you find extra annoying.
The moment Tom catches his breath he’s on his feet. Swings a big John Wayne roundhouse punch at my face. I stand there and let him connect. At which point, he screams. His hand has collapsed into a soft wad of hemorrhaging meat.
“You’re going to want to watch your temper, Tom. From now on whenever you smack someone in anger, your bones are going to turn to chalk and come apart like just now. Don’t worry. They’ll grow back, just not a hundred percent. And each time you break them, they’ll get worse and worse until there’s nothing left of you but a sack of rattling skin. Understand?”
“What?” he peeps.
“Never mind. You’ll figure it out.”
I leave him there nursing his putty hand and head to Max Overdrive. People are streaming out of the shop. Others mill around on the sidewalk as I go inside. I’m surprised when the place is empty.
Kasabian glares at me from behind the counter.
“Your usual graceful entrance,” he says.
