Post by Dakota Bishop on Jul 2, 2007 13:03:49 GMT -5
Again, a little something different. Along with the adventures of Dakota's schoolin', and Ash's investigation over a certain explosion, we also have an unknown who is...well, unknown! Does he have anything to do with the nights we have all seen? Or is he completely unrelated, a figure of mystery with intents unknown? YOU DECIDE. =P
---
I hate guns. They're loud, they make funny smells, and no matter how many I see, they always seem to be pointed in my direction. The thug I had surprised pulled one on me, and before he knew what was going on I kicked it out of his hands. He had a tight grip on it, so I wasn't surprised when it went off. The bullet missed, but I didn't. He was out cold before he hit the ground, and the woman he was assaulting was long gone. Thats the way it normally goes, though. No thanks, no applause...just the aching feeling in my knuckles of another job well done.
I jump and let my reflexes take over. It isn't long before I'm standing above the alley, looking down from the rooftop. Normal people don't jump off of walls like a rubber ball, but then again, I'm hardly normal. I'm what the newspapers call a vigilante, which is just a fancy word for a wacko who likes to punch people on the wrong side of the law. No better then any other violent lunatic, except I don't drive a taxi. I take out the trash.
The night is almost over, so I savor the taste of twilight as the sun begins to rise. My coat is still wet from the night's rain, so I take it off. The cuts and bruises I earned need to get some fresh air, anyway. One of them feels pretty lousey, and I know I'm in for another circus when I get back.
The shelter looks like it always does; friendly and scary at the same time. Friendly because its a refuge, a place of last resorts. No matter where you come from, what you've done, or who you've done it to, the doors are always open. Scary for pretty much the same reason; you never know who is sitting next to you. Could be a little old lady. That same old lady might stab you in the face with her inhaler. You can never really tell.
Its been a long night. I drop from the roof and watch the ground come up to meet me. Its a good five story drop, but heights don't mean much to me. It hit the ground nice and solid, and bend my knees a little so not to make so much noise. I know some of the folks who sleep in these alleys, and most of them arn't morning people. Doesn't make any sense why they just don't walk the thirty yards to the shelter, but thats pride for you. It'll take you far, I guess, but it'll ground you too.
I slip inside without anyone seeing me. The hobo ninja, thats me. I can smell the soup cooking, and I lick my lips. Smells like beef, which is great. At least it isn't vegatable. I hang up my coat with the others and start toward the kitchen. Most of the folks know me here, so I should be able to get something to snack on before the line sets up completely. Some toast, maybe some coffee if I'm lucky. I make it all of five steps from the coat rack when I feel a finger against my back, and a smart female voice telling me to freeze. I do what the lady says.
Jill is a volunteer at the shelter, a smart girl with a real future ahead of her. She's sugar and spice, and everything nice, only with a little extra thrown in for good measure. When she isn't here, she's working at one of the hospitals here in the rough part of town. I don't know how she does it, but it can't be easy. She steps around me and keeps her five-finger pistol pointed at my chest, and I can't help but to smile. She isn't a super model or anything, but she has brown eyes that could melt a man.
"Up a little early this morning, arn't we John?" She asks. She calls me John because she doesn't know what my real name is. Honestly, I don't either, so I tell people to call me what they want. John is just as good as any other name, but when she says it, it almost has the right ring to it.
"Early, late...its all the same. Hows the soup this morning?" I try to dance around her and get into the kitchen, but she isn't falling for it. She grabs my wrist and spins me around by sheer force of will, with that stern grip that only a nurse can have. She isn't as strong as I am, few people are, but I turn even though I know whats coming. She gasps at the gasher just under my shirt. I stopped the bleeding a while back, but there is only so much blood you can get out of a shirt.
"John! Honestly, how do you get so banged up? This looks like someone took a steak knife to you! Jesus!" She nags playfully at me, but I can see the concern in her eyes. She pulls me into the little first-aid station that they have at the shelter and she starts to patch me up. A bandage here, some salve there, some stitches and I'm all better. Well, except for my stomach. Right on cue it growls a little tune for her, and I feel that familiar pang of pain. I forget to eat sometimes, and my stomach was letting me know that if I didn't eat, it was going to take matters into its own hands.
"Thanks Jill, but I needs me some soup. Want some?" I ask. I know better, though. In a few minutes, after she gets cleaned up, she is going to be spooning that soup to every lost cause and hard luck case that comes through those doors. And wonder-of-wonders, she'll do with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Most people don't notice them, but there are also bags under her eyes. Jill does a lot of good, but I don't think she sleeps too well at night. Hell, as much as she does, I don't even know if she sleeps.
Despite the fact that I was leaving on my own, she shooes me away and soon enough I have a hot bowl of soup in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. This early in the morning the eating area is pretty empty, so I don't have trouble finding a spot to sit and eat. I try to take a bite, but the soup burns my lips something fierce. I curse under my breath and spoon some soup up and start cooling it off. It takes a while. While I wait, I watch the doors open as the morning rush starts up. I reconize most of the faces, I even know some of the names. A bunch of men and women down on their luck who need a hand. I know what thats like.
Here I sit, able to lift cars and dodge bullets, and yet I'm just as homeless and poor as they are. Its not so bad, I think as I swallow a few bites. Things could be worse.
I could be eating vegatable soup.
***
A few days go by and not much happens. I sleep here at the shelter when I can, but most of the time I wander the streets. I'd like to say that it helps keep my mind off the hurt, but that'd be a lie, and I don't see much sense in lying to myself. I walk because it isn't running, and I'd just feel silly if I was still running away from the past, 10 years after it all happened.
I wasn't always a bum. I had a life once. It wasn't anything special, but it was mine. I had a wife and a few kids, a little house too close to the bad side of town for my tastes, but I couldn't afford much else. A cop doesn't make that much, even in a crime ridden place like Duncann City. I worked hard, sure, but it wasn't long before a guy on the force told me about dirty pockets in the city, and how I could get into them. At first I was against it, but the money started looking better and better, and before I knew it I was giving favors in exchange for green. And man, did it pay off.
His name was Marcus James, and he paid real well. I was able to move my family into a safe neighborhood, buy expensive things...keeping up with the Jones's. Things were great, even had a baby on the way...but things changed. I was found out, and they were going to put me away, so I cut a deal. Marcus found out about it...and he took care of things.
I was the only one to survive the fire.
***
My head hurts, thats the first thing I understand. I don't try to move because I can already tell it would hurt too damn much. I'm in the shelter, I can tell because I can hear Jill in the background somewhere. She sounds fuzzy, and I can't tell if its because my ears are ringing, or if because she is too far away. I breath in deep and I can feel the bandages around my ribs. I don't remember exactly what I was doing to get myself this banged up, but it must have been some kind of party to get me in this kind of shape.
Jill starts to walk closer to me, and I can hear her now. "Yeah, Kurt found him god only knows where. God, there was so much blood. I'm surprised he lived through it, the big jerk." She says to someone, who I don't know. "Broken ribs, over 200 stitches. I swear Rob, I've put more stitches in John then I have in all my other patients at the hospital put together!"
When she puts it that way, I almost feel proud about it. I get tired of playing the sleeping act and I try to sit up. I get a scream for my trouble. "Damn it John! Don't scare me like that!" Jill screams at me. I laugh, but its weak and slow, like I've smoked for thirty years.
"Sorry Jill, didn't mean t'scare you." I say as I rub my eyes and open them slowly. There arn't that many lights on, and its sometime in the afternoon I think. I try to focus on a clock on the wall, but the harder I try the fuzzier it gets. I take the clue my body is trying to give me and lie back down. Jill sits beside me and puts her hand against my forehead like a caring mother would. Its a kind gesture, and one I haven't forgotten since. Kind things like that don't happen to me much anymore.
"What happened to you last night, John?" She asks me, trying to keep her voice calm and casual. I have to look bad, because now that I'm more awake I feel even worse. Bones broken, bruises, gashes...I'm really torn up. I try to remember what all happened, but it just won't come. I shrug, and then I wince.
"I thought you were going to tell me that part." I tell her. She sighs and gets back up, probably going for a hot water bottle or something. Things start to fade again, which is pretty strange because my eyes are already closed. I could fight it, but I don't. I know that when I wake up I'll be in better shape. Its another one of those things that make me different. Its hard to keep me down.
***
I was out for about a day and a half. When I woke up I was a little sore, but most of the cuts and broken bones were taken care of. I made sure to leave when Jill wasn't around. I don't know why, but I usually try to keep my differences a secret from just about everyone, but especially her.
After I leave the shelter I swing my coat around and slip inside it, popping the collar to protect against the wind. The sky doesn't look too friendly, and wind looks to cut some people down. You learn to hate the weather when you live on the streets. Its a constant enemy, the bully that never leaves you alone. The sun burns, the wind cuts, and the rain just makes you feel like crap. Nothing is worse then being wet and hungry. Nothing.
When I was awake last, when Jill was on the phone, I remember hearing her say who found me. A guy named Kurt. I know him. He's not a nice guy. If Jill knew half of what he has done in the past, she'd probably spike his soup with arsenic. A boozer who had beaten more women then there are rats in a dumpster. That wasn't the worst of what he'd done, but that wasn't my problem. Everyone has a past, present company included. What was bothering me was why a slimeball like Kurt would be helping someone like me. That, and I still coudln't remember why I was so banged up to begin with, so that was one more question Kurt would have to answer for me.
***
I found Kurt in a rat hole bar deep in the slums. It was one of those places that came straight out of a detective novel. A dark pit filled with the dregs of society...nowadays, my kind of place. I'm half tempted to grab a brew, but the smells coming out of the door change my mind pretty quick. Its a smell that equal parts alcohol, piss, and cigarette smoke. Fresh air, compared to what the city normally pumps out here on the ground floor. Sleeping in the garbage probably has something to do with that, though.
I walk into the place, and it looks about as nice on the inside as it smells on the outside. Business seems to be doing pretty good, and it takes me a few minutes to finally pick Kurt out from the crowd. I find him over in one of the booths, trying to sweet talk a prostitute into joining him for the night. The girls on these streets are like family, and they tell each other things. They know Kurt is rough with women, and so he has it hard when it comes to buying pleasurable company.
I help myself to a seat at his booth in front of him and the hooker. She takes one look at me and goes to powder her nose in another joint. Its not that I'm ugly, or that I rough up girls like Kurt. The girls talk, like I said, and they know that I usually mean trouble. I can't help it. I'm just that kind of guy.
Kurt looks real nervous, and he chases the lump going down this throat with whatever they pass for booze here. I smile, because frankly, I find it kind of ironic. If I were anyone else, Kurt would probably be pointing a meaty finger at me and cursing up a storm. He's a big guy with probably 50 pounds on me, and a good three inches taller. But me being me, he just sits there and drinks up, probably hoping that I sat at the wrong table and'll be on my way soon. I figure I'll play it nice and easy for now. After all, for all I know he might have turned a new leaf last night. It had happened before, but I wasn't going to hold my breath. Instead, I was going to buy the man another drink.
I raise my finger, and soon Kurt has another bottle sitting in front of him. The waitress gives me a toothless smile, and I can tell in her eyes that she's worried I might start something here on the floor, with Kurt. I give her a wink to ease the nervousness. I look at the man sitting across from me, and its like seeing a rat looking at cheese in a mouse trap. Was the brew for me, or for him? I could almost see the gears grinding. I put on a convincing smile and motion toward the bottle. "Well, are you going to drink it or not? Not every day someone saves my life, least I can do is buy you a drink." I tell him, making sure I sound nice and sincere about my good intentions. He eases a little bit and makes a grab for the bottle, tossing half of it back in a few gulps. Woman beater or not, Kurt could toss'em back.
I toy with the idea of lying to him, but for some reason I feel like just playing it straight. "Well, I don't really know if you saved my life or not, really. Jill told me that much, but I don't remember a lick of it. Not a thing. Why don't you fill in the blanks?" I say, real casual like.
The first thing he does is finish the brew. It doesn't take long with a mouth as big as his. He looks at me and sizes me up again, probably to see if he can hit the door before I grab him. I half expect him to bolt when he surprises me. "You got yourself real fucked up, man, you know that? All bloody and shit." He says to me. His voice is rough, like nails on sheet metal. "I was gonna mug your ass, y'know, make a few bucks, but they shut that shit down real quick."
I don't know what he's talking about. Hell, thats why I'm here, to try and figure out what I've missed out on in the past few days. I get him another drink to encourage him, and soon enough he finishes up the story.
"You honestly don't know, huh? Guess they really did mess you up. You were fuckin' with the Kappa. They had a little girl, and you were trying to take her back, or something. Shit, I dunno what you were doing." He chuckles and lights a cigarette, then shakes the cherry blossum at me. "They jumped you good though! Man, you never saw it coming. Pipes n'everything, Jesus! I thought they killed you for sure. After they left, I tried to give your corpse the once over, but like I said, they shut it down. One of the guys with the guns was behind me. He told me to make sure you stayed alive, or he'd gut me with my own fingers. So, heh, I did what the man said."
He takes a strong draw from his cancer and blows it across the table at me. I let the story sink in, and sure enough, something doesn't sit right with it. Why would I be messing with the Kappa? They were loose cannons, real psychos. I can handle 'em without much trouble, but I usually keep to myself. But he mentioned a little girl, and I'm a sucker for little kids. Always have been since the 'accident'.
I was about to ask him another question, maybe about what the goon looked like, when he cut me off.
"That ain't it though. He always told me to make sure that, when you found me, to make sure I used this." Its a small movement, and I see him put a cell phone on the table. Before my mental math puts two and two together, I'm being thrown across the room. A couple of tables break my fall, and people start to scream. A fight every now and again isn't much to get excited over, but seeing some bum being launched like a cannon ball through a few pounds of wood? Stuff like that tends to get the blood flowing, even in a dive like this.
Getting to my feet isn't a problem. The landing wasn't so bad. I look to where I was sitting, and Kurt is nowhere to be found. I'll catch up with him later. Instead I see three goons. Two of them are bigger than me, and the third is about my size. They look like a bunch of rejects from some chinese gangster movie. The small one is acutally wearing a fedora. I have a small laugh and dust off my sleeves. It looks like I'm going to have to break some faces after all.
I figure that the two big guys'll come at me first, but I'm surprised when the little guy in the hat charges me. He jumps into the air with some kind of Bruce Lee kick, trying to impale my chest. I turn with my upper body so he misses me clean. As he goes by I grab his leg and spin around like an olympian tossing one of those big hammers. I let go halfway through the spin and toss him into another mess of tables. The cracking wood has a nice crunch, and by the way his fingers are twitching I'm pretty sure he's out for the night. One down, two to go.
The other two spread out a little and come at me nice and slow. They're bigger then me and probably pack a mean punch, so I'm quick to get one of the walls near my back. They're expecting me to be defensive, so I get a little wild and charge. The big lug doesn't know what hits him. I do a heavy shoulder ram and send him sliding to the floor, and by the time I turn to face the other one, I'm getting hit by a smart right hook. It hurts, no mistake about that, but its hardly the kind of punch that'll put me out. Without thinking I overexaggerate and go to my knees, making him think he really laid one on me. He grabs my hair to pull me up, and thats when I nail him with an elbow uppercut, from the floor to his chin. He lands on the bar counter and I wence as the bottles break under his fall. More property damage that'll be put on my tab...not that I planned on coming back here anything soon.
With that taken care of, I walk toward the guy I introduced to my shoulder, and he's starting to get up. He's made a tougher stuff then I gave him credit for. I could trade a few more punches with him, tire him down, but I'm not in the mood anymore. Getting jumped does that to a guy. I reach down and grab his neck, and before he knows it I got him up against a wall by his windpipe, a couple of inches off the ground. A mean feat for someone a foot smaller then him. I ask him who he works for and he spits in my face. I tighten my grip so that doesn't happen again, and then I grab his groin in my other hand. I squeeze plenty hard, and then I ask him again. He gives me a name, and after some careful interrogation, he gives me an address as well. As thanks I let him keep his hopes of future children and shove my forehead into his nose, knocking him out cold. He slumps to the floor and I go through their pockets before I leave. They have about 500 dollars between them. On the way out I see the waitress that served me and Kyle earlier, huddled down in the corner and crying. I throw the money down at her feet and she just stares at it, and then back at me. It's a lousey apology for wrecking the place, but I'm sure the cash will help sort things out. Money has a way of doing that.
***
I leave a trail of broken bones and dirty threats behind me, each one bringing me a bit closer to the sudden mystery the past 72 hours have become. The story so far was that the girl was the daughter of some crime boss, and she was kidnapped for leverage on an upcoming turf war. Some kind of leverage, blood. It's the only kind these people really pay attention to. Guns and explosives are always within reach, but blood? Only so much of that. You have to pay attention, cause it could be yours next.
That part makes sense, and me trying to save her, if I saw her, makes sense too. But knocking me out, catching me off guard, that part doesn't click. I was a beat cop once, and I grew up on the streets before that...I'm a hard man to sneak up on. I was tricked somehow, no other way about it. I couldn't remember what it was, maybe someone pulled a gun on the girl; that would have stopped me, stopped me cold. I can't stop bullets, especially when they arn't pointed at me. But now wasn't the time to think about that.
I hunker down in the car I stole, putting my hands over the heater more out of habit then out of feeling cold. I know its cold out there, I can feel it, but it doesn't really affect me. I guess I'm above small things like the elements, at least in minor doses. The heat feels good, though, and the smell brings back distant memories of stake-outs, waiting to bust the bad guy. Years later, here I was, doing the same thing, except my squad car was stolen, and I wasn't planning on arresting anyone. I had a completely different agenda in mind, and it involved lots of people getting hurt. Bad people, I reminded myself. They have it coming.
---
I hate guns. They're loud, they make funny smells, and no matter how many I see, they always seem to be pointed in my direction. The thug I had surprised pulled one on me, and before he knew what was going on I kicked it out of his hands. He had a tight grip on it, so I wasn't surprised when it went off. The bullet missed, but I didn't. He was out cold before he hit the ground, and the woman he was assaulting was long gone. Thats the way it normally goes, though. No thanks, no applause...just the aching feeling in my knuckles of another job well done.
I jump and let my reflexes take over. It isn't long before I'm standing above the alley, looking down from the rooftop. Normal people don't jump off of walls like a rubber ball, but then again, I'm hardly normal. I'm what the newspapers call a vigilante, which is just a fancy word for a wacko who likes to punch people on the wrong side of the law. No better then any other violent lunatic, except I don't drive a taxi. I take out the trash.
The night is almost over, so I savor the taste of twilight as the sun begins to rise. My coat is still wet from the night's rain, so I take it off. The cuts and bruises I earned need to get some fresh air, anyway. One of them feels pretty lousey, and I know I'm in for another circus when I get back.
The shelter looks like it always does; friendly and scary at the same time. Friendly because its a refuge, a place of last resorts. No matter where you come from, what you've done, or who you've done it to, the doors are always open. Scary for pretty much the same reason; you never know who is sitting next to you. Could be a little old lady. That same old lady might stab you in the face with her inhaler. You can never really tell.
Its been a long night. I drop from the roof and watch the ground come up to meet me. Its a good five story drop, but heights don't mean much to me. It hit the ground nice and solid, and bend my knees a little so not to make so much noise. I know some of the folks who sleep in these alleys, and most of them arn't morning people. Doesn't make any sense why they just don't walk the thirty yards to the shelter, but thats pride for you. It'll take you far, I guess, but it'll ground you too.
I slip inside without anyone seeing me. The hobo ninja, thats me. I can smell the soup cooking, and I lick my lips. Smells like beef, which is great. At least it isn't vegatable. I hang up my coat with the others and start toward the kitchen. Most of the folks know me here, so I should be able to get something to snack on before the line sets up completely. Some toast, maybe some coffee if I'm lucky. I make it all of five steps from the coat rack when I feel a finger against my back, and a smart female voice telling me to freeze. I do what the lady says.
Jill is a volunteer at the shelter, a smart girl with a real future ahead of her. She's sugar and spice, and everything nice, only with a little extra thrown in for good measure. When she isn't here, she's working at one of the hospitals here in the rough part of town. I don't know how she does it, but it can't be easy. She steps around me and keeps her five-finger pistol pointed at my chest, and I can't help but to smile. She isn't a super model or anything, but she has brown eyes that could melt a man.
"Up a little early this morning, arn't we John?" She asks. She calls me John because she doesn't know what my real name is. Honestly, I don't either, so I tell people to call me what they want. John is just as good as any other name, but when she says it, it almost has the right ring to it.
"Early, late...its all the same. Hows the soup this morning?" I try to dance around her and get into the kitchen, but she isn't falling for it. She grabs my wrist and spins me around by sheer force of will, with that stern grip that only a nurse can have. She isn't as strong as I am, few people are, but I turn even though I know whats coming. She gasps at the gasher just under my shirt. I stopped the bleeding a while back, but there is only so much blood you can get out of a shirt.
"John! Honestly, how do you get so banged up? This looks like someone took a steak knife to you! Jesus!" She nags playfully at me, but I can see the concern in her eyes. She pulls me into the little first-aid station that they have at the shelter and she starts to patch me up. A bandage here, some salve there, some stitches and I'm all better. Well, except for my stomach. Right on cue it growls a little tune for her, and I feel that familiar pang of pain. I forget to eat sometimes, and my stomach was letting me know that if I didn't eat, it was going to take matters into its own hands.
"Thanks Jill, but I needs me some soup. Want some?" I ask. I know better, though. In a few minutes, after she gets cleaned up, she is going to be spooning that soup to every lost cause and hard luck case that comes through those doors. And wonder-of-wonders, she'll do with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. Most people don't notice them, but there are also bags under her eyes. Jill does a lot of good, but I don't think she sleeps too well at night. Hell, as much as she does, I don't even know if she sleeps.
Despite the fact that I was leaving on my own, she shooes me away and soon enough I have a hot bowl of soup in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. This early in the morning the eating area is pretty empty, so I don't have trouble finding a spot to sit and eat. I try to take a bite, but the soup burns my lips something fierce. I curse under my breath and spoon some soup up and start cooling it off. It takes a while. While I wait, I watch the doors open as the morning rush starts up. I reconize most of the faces, I even know some of the names. A bunch of men and women down on their luck who need a hand. I know what thats like.
Here I sit, able to lift cars and dodge bullets, and yet I'm just as homeless and poor as they are. Its not so bad, I think as I swallow a few bites. Things could be worse.
I could be eating vegatable soup.
***
A few days go by and not much happens. I sleep here at the shelter when I can, but most of the time I wander the streets. I'd like to say that it helps keep my mind off the hurt, but that'd be a lie, and I don't see much sense in lying to myself. I walk because it isn't running, and I'd just feel silly if I was still running away from the past, 10 years after it all happened.
I wasn't always a bum. I had a life once. It wasn't anything special, but it was mine. I had a wife and a few kids, a little house too close to the bad side of town for my tastes, but I couldn't afford much else. A cop doesn't make that much, even in a crime ridden place like Duncann City. I worked hard, sure, but it wasn't long before a guy on the force told me about dirty pockets in the city, and how I could get into them. At first I was against it, but the money started looking better and better, and before I knew it I was giving favors in exchange for green. And man, did it pay off.
His name was Marcus James, and he paid real well. I was able to move my family into a safe neighborhood, buy expensive things...keeping up with the Jones's. Things were great, even had a baby on the way...but things changed. I was found out, and they were going to put me away, so I cut a deal. Marcus found out about it...and he took care of things.
I was the only one to survive the fire.
***
My head hurts, thats the first thing I understand. I don't try to move because I can already tell it would hurt too damn much. I'm in the shelter, I can tell because I can hear Jill in the background somewhere. She sounds fuzzy, and I can't tell if its because my ears are ringing, or if because she is too far away. I breath in deep and I can feel the bandages around my ribs. I don't remember exactly what I was doing to get myself this banged up, but it must have been some kind of party to get me in this kind of shape.
Jill starts to walk closer to me, and I can hear her now. "Yeah, Kurt found him god only knows where. God, there was so much blood. I'm surprised he lived through it, the big jerk." She says to someone, who I don't know. "Broken ribs, over 200 stitches. I swear Rob, I've put more stitches in John then I have in all my other patients at the hospital put together!"
When she puts it that way, I almost feel proud about it. I get tired of playing the sleeping act and I try to sit up. I get a scream for my trouble. "Damn it John! Don't scare me like that!" Jill screams at me. I laugh, but its weak and slow, like I've smoked for thirty years.
"Sorry Jill, didn't mean t'scare you." I say as I rub my eyes and open them slowly. There arn't that many lights on, and its sometime in the afternoon I think. I try to focus on a clock on the wall, but the harder I try the fuzzier it gets. I take the clue my body is trying to give me and lie back down. Jill sits beside me and puts her hand against my forehead like a caring mother would. Its a kind gesture, and one I haven't forgotten since. Kind things like that don't happen to me much anymore.
"What happened to you last night, John?" She asks me, trying to keep her voice calm and casual. I have to look bad, because now that I'm more awake I feel even worse. Bones broken, bruises, gashes...I'm really torn up. I try to remember what all happened, but it just won't come. I shrug, and then I wince.
"I thought you were going to tell me that part." I tell her. She sighs and gets back up, probably going for a hot water bottle or something. Things start to fade again, which is pretty strange because my eyes are already closed. I could fight it, but I don't. I know that when I wake up I'll be in better shape. Its another one of those things that make me different. Its hard to keep me down.
***
I was out for about a day and a half. When I woke up I was a little sore, but most of the cuts and broken bones were taken care of. I made sure to leave when Jill wasn't around. I don't know why, but I usually try to keep my differences a secret from just about everyone, but especially her.
After I leave the shelter I swing my coat around and slip inside it, popping the collar to protect against the wind. The sky doesn't look too friendly, and wind looks to cut some people down. You learn to hate the weather when you live on the streets. Its a constant enemy, the bully that never leaves you alone. The sun burns, the wind cuts, and the rain just makes you feel like crap. Nothing is worse then being wet and hungry. Nothing.
When I was awake last, when Jill was on the phone, I remember hearing her say who found me. A guy named Kurt. I know him. He's not a nice guy. If Jill knew half of what he has done in the past, she'd probably spike his soup with arsenic. A boozer who had beaten more women then there are rats in a dumpster. That wasn't the worst of what he'd done, but that wasn't my problem. Everyone has a past, present company included. What was bothering me was why a slimeball like Kurt would be helping someone like me. That, and I still coudln't remember why I was so banged up to begin with, so that was one more question Kurt would have to answer for me.
***
I found Kurt in a rat hole bar deep in the slums. It was one of those places that came straight out of a detective novel. A dark pit filled with the dregs of society...nowadays, my kind of place. I'm half tempted to grab a brew, but the smells coming out of the door change my mind pretty quick. Its a smell that equal parts alcohol, piss, and cigarette smoke. Fresh air, compared to what the city normally pumps out here on the ground floor. Sleeping in the garbage probably has something to do with that, though.
I walk into the place, and it looks about as nice on the inside as it smells on the outside. Business seems to be doing pretty good, and it takes me a few minutes to finally pick Kurt out from the crowd. I find him over in one of the booths, trying to sweet talk a prostitute into joining him for the night. The girls on these streets are like family, and they tell each other things. They know Kurt is rough with women, and so he has it hard when it comes to buying pleasurable company.
I help myself to a seat at his booth in front of him and the hooker. She takes one look at me and goes to powder her nose in another joint. Its not that I'm ugly, or that I rough up girls like Kurt. The girls talk, like I said, and they know that I usually mean trouble. I can't help it. I'm just that kind of guy.
Kurt looks real nervous, and he chases the lump going down this throat with whatever they pass for booze here. I smile, because frankly, I find it kind of ironic. If I were anyone else, Kurt would probably be pointing a meaty finger at me and cursing up a storm. He's a big guy with probably 50 pounds on me, and a good three inches taller. But me being me, he just sits there and drinks up, probably hoping that I sat at the wrong table and'll be on my way soon. I figure I'll play it nice and easy for now. After all, for all I know he might have turned a new leaf last night. It had happened before, but I wasn't going to hold my breath. Instead, I was going to buy the man another drink.
I raise my finger, and soon Kurt has another bottle sitting in front of him. The waitress gives me a toothless smile, and I can tell in her eyes that she's worried I might start something here on the floor, with Kurt. I give her a wink to ease the nervousness. I look at the man sitting across from me, and its like seeing a rat looking at cheese in a mouse trap. Was the brew for me, or for him? I could almost see the gears grinding. I put on a convincing smile and motion toward the bottle. "Well, are you going to drink it or not? Not every day someone saves my life, least I can do is buy you a drink." I tell him, making sure I sound nice and sincere about my good intentions. He eases a little bit and makes a grab for the bottle, tossing half of it back in a few gulps. Woman beater or not, Kurt could toss'em back.
I toy with the idea of lying to him, but for some reason I feel like just playing it straight. "Well, I don't really know if you saved my life or not, really. Jill told me that much, but I don't remember a lick of it. Not a thing. Why don't you fill in the blanks?" I say, real casual like.
The first thing he does is finish the brew. It doesn't take long with a mouth as big as his. He looks at me and sizes me up again, probably to see if he can hit the door before I grab him. I half expect him to bolt when he surprises me. "You got yourself real fucked up, man, you know that? All bloody and shit." He says to me. His voice is rough, like nails on sheet metal. "I was gonna mug your ass, y'know, make a few bucks, but they shut that shit down real quick."
I don't know what he's talking about. Hell, thats why I'm here, to try and figure out what I've missed out on in the past few days. I get him another drink to encourage him, and soon enough he finishes up the story.
"You honestly don't know, huh? Guess they really did mess you up. You were fuckin' with the Kappa. They had a little girl, and you were trying to take her back, or something. Shit, I dunno what you were doing." He chuckles and lights a cigarette, then shakes the cherry blossum at me. "They jumped you good though! Man, you never saw it coming. Pipes n'everything, Jesus! I thought they killed you for sure. After they left, I tried to give your corpse the once over, but like I said, they shut it down. One of the guys with the guns was behind me. He told me to make sure you stayed alive, or he'd gut me with my own fingers. So, heh, I did what the man said."
He takes a strong draw from his cancer and blows it across the table at me. I let the story sink in, and sure enough, something doesn't sit right with it. Why would I be messing with the Kappa? They were loose cannons, real psychos. I can handle 'em without much trouble, but I usually keep to myself. But he mentioned a little girl, and I'm a sucker for little kids. Always have been since the 'accident'.
I was about to ask him another question, maybe about what the goon looked like, when he cut me off.
"That ain't it though. He always told me to make sure that, when you found me, to make sure I used this." Its a small movement, and I see him put a cell phone on the table. Before my mental math puts two and two together, I'm being thrown across the room. A couple of tables break my fall, and people start to scream. A fight every now and again isn't much to get excited over, but seeing some bum being launched like a cannon ball through a few pounds of wood? Stuff like that tends to get the blood flowing, even in a dive like this.
Getting to my feet isn't a problem. The landing wasn't so bad. I look to where I was sitting, and Kurt is nowhere to be found. I'll catch up with him later. Instead I see three goons. Two of them are bigger than me, and the third is about my size. They look like a bunch of rejects from some chinese gangster movie. The small one is acutally wearing a fedora. I have a small laugh and dust off my sleeves. It looks like I'm going to have to break some faces after all.
I figure that the two big guys'll come at me first, but I'm surprised when the little guy in the hat charges me. He jumps into the air with some kind of Bruce Lee kick, trying to impale my chest. I turn with my upper body so he misses me clean. As he goes by I grab his leg and spin around like an olympian tossing one of those big hammers. I let go halfway through the spin and toss him into another mess of tables. The cracking wood has a nice crunch, and by the way his fingers are twitching I'm pretty sure he's out for the night. One down, two to go.
The other two spread out a little and come at me nice and slow. They're bigger then me and probably pack a mean punch, so I'm quick to get one of the walls near my back. They're expecting me to be defensive, so I get a little wild and charge. The big lug doesn't know what hits him. I do a heavy shoulder ram and send him sliding to the floor, and by the time I turn to face the other one, I'm getting hit by a smart right hook. It hurts, no mistake about that, but its hardly the kind of punch that'll put me out. Without thinking I overexaggerate and go to my knees, making him think he really laid one on me. He grabs my hair to pull me up, and thats when I nail him with an elbow uppercut, from the floor to his chin. He lands on the bar counter and I wence as the bottles break under his fall. More property damage that'll be put on my tab...not that I planned on coming back here anything soon.
With that taken care of, I walk toward the guy I introduced to my shoulder, and he's starting to get up. He's made a tougher stuff then I gave him credit for. I could trade a few more punches with him, tire him down, but I'm not in the mood anymore. Getting jumped does that to a guy. I reach down and grab his neck, and before he knows it I got him up against a wall by his windpipe, a couple of inches off the ground. A mean feat for someone a foot smaller then him. I ask him who he works for and he spits in my face. I tighten my grip so that doesn't happen again, and then I grab his groin in my other hand. I squeeze plenty hard, and then I ask him again. He gives me a name, and after some careful interrogation, he gives me an address as well. As thanks I let him keep his hopes of future children and shove my forehead into his nose, knocking him out cold. He slumps to the floor and I go through their pockets before I leave. They have about 500 dollars between them. On the way out I see the waitress that served me and Kyle earlier, huddled down in the corner and crying. I throw the money down at her feet and she just stares at it, and then back at me. It's a lousey apology for wrecking the place, but I'm sure the cash will help sort things out. Money has a way of doing that.
***
I leave a trail of broken bones and dirty threats behind me, each one bringing me a bit closer to the sudden mystery the past 72 hours have become. The story so far was that the girl was the daughter of some crime boss, and she was kidnapped for leverage on an upcoming turf war. Some kind of leverage, blood. It's the only kind these people really pay attention to. Guns and explosives are always within reach, but blood? Only so much of that. You have to pay attention, cause it could be yours next.
That part makes sense, and me trying to save her, if I saw her, makes sense too. But knocking me out, catching me off guard, that part doesn't click. I was a beat cop once, and I grew up on the streets before that...I'm a hard man to sneak up on. I was tricked somehow, no other way about it. I couldn't remember what it was, maybe someone pulled a gun on the girl; that would have stopped me, stopped me cold. I can't stop bullets, especially when they arn't pointed at me. But now wasn't the time to think about that.
I hunker down in the car I stole, putting my hands over the heater more out of habit then out of feeling cold. I know its cold out there, I can feel it, but it doesn't really affect me. I guess I'm above small things like the elements, at least in minor doses. The heat feels good, though, and the smell brings back distant memories of stake-outs, waiting to bust the bad guy. Years later, here I was, doing the same thing, except my squad car was stolen, and I wasn't planning on arresting anyone. I had a completely different agenda in mind, and it involved lots of people getting hurt. Bad people, I reminded myself. They have it coming.