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And these guys know that even when they think they’ve got some girl ‘in the bag’ a lot can happen between the bar and getting her back to their place.
He starts to open the bag, looking at it like a kid in a candy store until his eyes narrow, inspecting it more closely. He gives himself a quick gummer with the index finger of his hand that’s not holding his cigarette. His face immediately telegraphs that he’s been had.
“Hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I was thinking…” My eyes move down to his groin and he cocks an eyebrow, taking a step back.
“I don’t know what this shit is in this bag, but it’s not coke. And I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t play that gay shit, bro.”
In an instant a switch inside me flips. I know this game, know how to keep control which is why this ‘in the wild’ experience is like none other. And why I know I need to do this now before I lose that control I so desperately desire.
“And I don’t play that shit you were trying with that girl inside the bar…bro.”
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. “You’re one of those social justice warrior pussies, aren’t you? Think you’re gonna white knight for some dumb bitch and it’s gonna lead to you getting some pussy, or some dick. One of the two what the fuck,” he says, the last sentence coming out rushed. Taking a step back he stubs his cigarette out against the wall.
I use the time much differently, my eyes becoming hooded as my vision goes cloudy. I suck in a deep breath, place the heel of my palm under my chin and in one sharp movement crack it right, then left, the audible sound of bones moving, manually altering the physicality of a human being, even if it’s me this time, pleasing. A smile overtakes my face as heat rushes through me.
My eyelids slam open, my eyes twitchy.
“This is for you, momma.”
“What the fuck?” the guy says, a split second ago about to attack but that idea having clearly changed now that he realizes he’s in a dark alley, behind a dumpster, face-to-face with a legit crazy person. Maybe that shrink was right.
Laughing out loud at the thought I turn my head to the side and spit.
Taking two steps back my ass finds the dumpster, letting me know I have no more space to maneuver in. Not a problem. This is enough, feeling so fucking alive right now I know I can fly.
“This some kind of a sick game for you, wacko?”
Now he went and did it. He insulted my mental state, but unlike at that shrink’s office he has nothing to offer me in the form of pills and no cameras that prevent me from doing things that would put me behind bars for life.
“Oh, there will be games all right. Just not the kind you came here looking for.My kindof fun.”
From a dead stop I take off like I’m shot out of a cannon, a bat out of hell. Two steps on the ground and then two more off the wall reminiscent of my childhood when Bo Jackson defied gravity on a hot Baltimore summer’s day in 1990, pulling off a Spidermanesque move as my feet push off the wall and I hurl my body at this prick’s, sending him to the ground with me on top.
By the time his head bounces off the asphalt I’ve already got my incisors buried into his cheek, biting down hard and whipping my head from side to side like a wild animal as I rip his flesh off, morphing into the beast that I know all too well, the animal he’s forced me to become by talking to my woman, who’s waiting inside.
He screams but I quickly jam a fist down his throat, his cries choked as he gasps for air and comes up short.
“See you in hell,” I state matter of factly to him as he tries to gouge out my eyes and knee my groin, but these self-defense maneuvers are child’s play for a professional killer like me.
His legs kick and his body relaxes, letting me know he’s on his way out of this world and into another. Standing, I wipe the blood from my mouth, spitting his flesh on top of his body before dropping to my knees and searching for my damn cigarette.
I scramble like a fiend looking for a crack rock he dropped, my eyes darting everywhere as I hear the back door open.
I freeze, my heart hammering so hard against my rib cage I swear it’s going to leave a bruise. A second later the sound of a garbage bag making contact with the metal bottom of the dumpster beside me startles me so much I jerk and the back of my hand slaps the side of the dumpster, clearly making a sound.
Fuck!
“Humph,” a voice says. “What the hell was in that bag? With this bar, no telling.”
The door shuts and everything goes still again, but I’m not out of the woods. Not by a long shot.
“Where the fuck is it?” I say out loud, as if that’s going to help me. All I’m doing is leaving more forensics. Yeah, it’s a long shot but C.S.I. and the bullshit they use to solve crimes have me on edge. Sure, a lot of that stuff is clearly fictional, but it’s on the back of my mind nonetheless.
Finally, it dawns on me to flip this sorry sucker over and doing that I see my damn Marlboro.
Carefully picking it up from the ground I tuck it into the small fifth pocket in my jeans, inside my front right pocket.
“You wanted to get primal with her?” I say to the corpse. “Well, I got primal with you, you fucking bitch.”
