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Makes me sick.
The other gang members turn. I stop in front of the curb and slowly stare them each in the eye. A few stare back menacingly, and also with a touch of confusion. They are not used to someone acting this way in front of them.
One seems to immediately notice who I am. A lot of people in this city know who Damon Penmayne is, and I guess he’s one of them. His eyes widen in fear at my stare, and he starts to take a step back before he’s practically running in the opposite direction away from me.
I do tend to have that effect with people who recognize me.
But the other three guys remaining seem to not identify my famous face.
Shame.
I was hoping to avoid conflict today.
I really do hate getting my tailored suit dirty.
“Fuck off,” one of the gang members snarls at me, shaking off thefact that his friend just ran away in pure terror.
I just continue to stare for a long moment before I take another step toward them. Now I am on the sidewalk, practically in their space.
I bet they won’t like this.
And they don’t. The thug shakes his head and then reaches inside his jacket. He pulls out a handgun and points it directly in my face. The nuzzle of the weapon is mere inches from my nose.
“Fuck off,” he snarls. Again. He’s got the confidence of a man with a very real weapon in his hands. A fitting substitute for his tiny cock.
NowIreally don’t like this.
I sigh. “I hate the use of guns,” I say unhurriedly and calmly. I don’t even flinch at the action of a gun being aimed between my eyes. “I prefer blades to take care of business. I like things up close. Guns are a coward’s way out.”
The guy holding the gun frowns. “You can’t get close to me. And what the fuck are you talking about daggers for? You can’t take a knife to a gunfight.”
In response, I simply reach behind my back to the submachine gun I have strapped on, concealed from view of these guys as I approached, and I coolly hold it up. I aim the big threatening weapon at the guy aiming his pathetic little handgun at me.
Everyone, except for me, is in total shock.
I really hate using guns. And I hate this guy for making me use my own.
As the cluster of inexperienced thugs grapple with this abrupt twist of fate, I assertively press the nozzle of my submachine gun against the gunman’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground. Swiftly and fluidly, I allow my weapon to drop, suspending it from its strap by my side, and Ipull out my knife, smoothly placing the blade against the fallen thug’s vulnerable neck - a maneuver I’ve honed through countless practice. His gun scatters across the ground, safely away from us.
This is how I like things done.
“What do you think?” I ask the squirming man as he looks up, terrified, into my eyes. “I think I am pretty fucking close to you now, don’t you?”
He can’t escape. The coldness of my steel reminds his neck of who’s boss here.
“You don’t know who I am, but you should,” I continue. I don’t blink. I don’t show weakness. I can tell this low-level thug now totally understands that he is dealing with someone far above his station. “Don’t ever fuck around with kids again, you got that?”
He nods.
“Tell all your friends to do the same. No fucking drugs with fucking kids.”
He nods again.
Honor is more important than anything else in this world.
“You should’ve followed your smart friend and ran away like he did,” I whisper with a sharpness in my voice. “I’m Damon Penmayne. And this is my city, you got that?”
And, for the last time before I set him free, the gang member nods.
