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Rock’s eyes go wide as he watches me twirl the knife in my hand. Most people like guns in my line of work, but not me. Guns are easy. They don’t need any talent. There is no need for finesse when pulling a trigger. But a blade is beautiful. It takes conviction, drive and, most of all, skill. “Tony and Salvator. Boss, he is just drunk.”
I glare at Rock as I glide the knife’s blade along the inside of my palm.
Tony raises his hands, showing that he gets the message as I open the door and see the little fucker sitting in a metal chair. The pussy is literally shaking. That is the thing about these aggressive punks who came to the club. They are cowards pretending to be alphas.
I roll up my sleeves, exposing all my tattoos, and watch as the guy’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. He swallows his fear, trying to replace it with indignation on his weasel face as I approach, holding a blade in my hand. We both know who is in charge here, who the tied-up animal in the cage is, but the fucker still tries to pretend he has some power.
“You can’t just keep me here. This is illegal. I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”
Tony tosses a wallet to me, and I pull out his driver's license. “Michael Williams.” I flip through and see a picture of the pussy with two little boys and a woman who looks tired of his shit as she plasters on a fake smile for the camera. “Cute family.” I glide the knife gently on the picture, barely scraping it. “I wonder if they’d like a brief visit from me.”
“Don’t you fuckin go near them, you psycho.”
I laugh. I know I’d never touch his family. I don’t hurt women and kids. That was what assholes like this fuck would do, but I let him think I would gut every single person he loved and have no remorse about it. There is no harm in fucking with his head. I walk up to him and place the tip of the knife along his throat. “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do and who to do it to. You should have thought about your little wife and kids before you touched something that didn’t belong to you.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about, man? I took nothing.”
I laugh, sitting on the chair opposite him as I pull a solid wood table between us. “Take? No. You could take nothing from me. I said touch. You touched something that is mine.” I tap on the table. “Put your right hand here. Spread your fingers apart.”
“What the fuck for?”
“We’re gonna play a little game. You like games, right, Michael? You seem to play them on the ladies. They say no, and you chase a little game of cat and mouse. The thing is, Michael, you didn’t touch just any pussy this time. You touched my lioness, and there needs to be a price for that.”
When Michael doesn’t move, I nod at Tony, who points the gun at the coward’s temple. I lean forward in my chair, twirling the sharp blade on the small table. “Bullet or my game, Michael. The choice is yours.”
Reluctantly, he places his shaking hand on the table.
“Good choice. Your life really isn’t worth refusing me. Now spread your fingers apart.”
Michael spreads his fingers apart, his eyes glistening. Was the fucker gonna cry?
I balance the tip of the knife along his hand. “I love this game.” I move the blade between his fingers while I stare right into his eyes. “You ever played it before? It’s got many names: the knife game, pin finger, nerve, bishop, knife fingers and, my favorite, five-finger fillet.”
Michael shakes his head. I laugh, and then I hear it, the steady stream of liquid. Michael has pissed through his pants. “Michael, I would think a grown man like you would’ve been toilet trained by now. I wanted to draw this out, but I’m not sure you can handle it."
“You’re a fuckin’ psycho.”
“Yes, Michael, you’ve already covered that.” I smile at him as I move the blade faster between his fingers. I sing and watch as genuine fear grips him. He knows he is staring at a monster and has nowhere to go and no one to help him. “Engine, engine number nine, going down the Chicago line. If the train goes off the track, do you want your money back?”
“Fuck,” Michael screams as he pulls his hand back. Blood now spilles violently where his index finger connected at the knuckle a moment ago.
“Michael,” I say as I examine his severed finger, “we are now even.”
“Even? You fuckin’ cut my finger off.”
I bend down, my eyes now level with his, and shove the finger in his face. His eyes look frozen, mesmerized by the limb. “And you touched my woman. This finger here touched what belongs to me, so I took it, making us even.”
