by J. C. Allen
At first, I didn’t do anything, too scared to fight back. The Falcon was huge, and Tara was still running at him, looking ridiculous for her suicidal charge forward.
But then…
Something changed.
I was still scared. There was no denying this was a nightmare, and not a dream.
But when I looked at Falcon, I saw a caricature of a man, not an actual man. This was not Rock. This was a man to be taken down.
“You think I fear you, Falcon?” I shouted. “I have Derek. I have Roost. I have Tara! What do you have but the loyalty of a few cowards?”
“Hah!” Falcon shouted. “You call my men cowards, and yet your friends wait on the sidelines. Your whore coworker charges at me like a fool, and—”
I did something that seemed downright insane. I grabbed a rock, aimed, and chucked it.
I was shocked to see my throw went several hundred feet, striking Falcon in the face. He staggered back, wounded and angered.
“Now, Eve! Let’s roll!”
But Tara’s voice had not come from her… it had come from…
“Eve! Let’s go!”
I shot forward, suspecting I had not slept for more than…
I looked at my phone. I’d actually slept for over an hour, far longer than I would have ever guessed. And I did feel more energized.
Not nearly as energized as Tara, though, who wore a giant grin on her face, as if she had just discovered the secret to eternal youth.
“What are you… what?” I said, still slowly waking up.
“Roost is snoring at his desk! He’s out like a bear in hibernation! Come on!”
“Wait, what, you’re serious?” I said, suddenly a lot more awake.
“Yes! I’m goin’ to the shoe factory and gonna blow some shit up!”
“No, Tara!” I said, grabbing her arm. “Maybe if we had Matty and some of the Saviors on backup, but—”
“Backup, nothin’,” she said with a smirk. “What do you think they make more movies about, solo heroes who face an entire army, or units of five or six? Hmm? Don’t you remember Predator, how it was just Arnie at the end?”
“I… uhh…”
I was so baffled by what Tara was saying, it defied the most common of common senses. What part of her truly believed life was like a movie and that she could just charge in and take down the entire operation of the Falcons? Did she really think life emulated Hollywood?
“Tara, this is dangerous.”
“And so is running an oppositional brothel in a town where the Black Falcons are still operational. And so is going to save your ass. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna die. Hey, still here, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothin’, girl! Let’s go!”
She actually physically dragged me out of bed, and I had to quickly stagger to my feet before she dragged me out with too much force.
“Tara!” I said.
She stopped, me standing and staring at her with all intents.
“I know we can fight, I know. But if Matty doesn’t want us to go… then… I think it would be best—”
“Fine.”
And then she did something that I didn’t expect but should have in retrospect.
She kept going, leaving me behind, and heading for the keys to all of the vans.
“The hell, Tara!”
But she ignored me, even jogging at one point to elude my grip. She grabbed two rifles and some rounds from a crate, hurried to the truck, and hopped inside.
“God! Fucking damnit!”
There was no stopping Tara, I realized. And as much as I thought this was a stupid idea, I didn’t want her to be on her own at this moment.
I looked back at the shop, saw no sign of Matty, and swore again.
“You better fucking know what you’re doing, Tara,” I said.
I hurried over to the passenger’s side of the truck as she pulled up to the exit to the main road. I knocked, drawing a huge smile from Tara, and she unlocked the doors and let me in.
“I got two of these because I knew you’d be comin’,” she said with a smug self-satisfied look.
“Matty’s gonna kill us, you know,” I said.
“Yeah, he thinks he’s goin’ to, and then he’s gonna show up at the shoe factory and realize that we just helped knock out the Falcons supply by a fifth!”
“You mean… you mean a quarter? Or a third, if Derek is already done?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Just drive. And do me a favor, drive safely, will you? I don’t want the most dangerous part of this mission to be the drive.”
“You got it! Alright, let’s go!” Tara said, clapping excitedly.
Despite my request for her to drive safe, Tara pretty much did anything but. She ran past reds a good two seconds after they turned, she took turns at over forty miles per hour, and she sped at least twenty over the speed limit, all the while screaming with unreal laughter. I shuddered to think of how she would have driven if I didn’t ask her to be safe.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I shouted over the noise.
“Duh! Do you think I would’ve taken off if I didn’t know?”
“Yes!”
“Touche!”
That did nothing to put me at ease as I held onto the car handles for dear life.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how the course of this mission went—Tara pulled up to what looked like an abandoned shoe factory. There was nothing else around, and there were some motorcycles nearby, making it quite likely, if not a certainty, that we had found the place.
“Alright, let’s go kick some Falcon ass,” Tara said, opening the door.
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s have an actual strategy before we head in.”
I had a terrifying thought that my dream, though obviously unrealistic in size proportions, might foretell of Tara’s foolish sprint ahead. Ideally, the more we could do to prevent that, the better.
“What’s your plan, captain?”
“I, uhh, I don’t have one, this was your idea, remember?”
“Well, let’s treat it like a stealth mission, huh?” Tara said, as if it was just as easy as saying it. “We’ll be the FBI and the CIA, snap a few necks, slice a few throats, you know how it is.”
“Uhh, no, I don’t, this is crazy.”
“You got a better plan? I now you don’t. So.”
With that, she got out of the truck with one of the rifles.
“Damnit, Tara,” I muttered, also getting out and equipping myself with a rifle.
At least she had the intelligence to move quietly, holding her gun forward, carefully scoping out the area.
“Here I thought you were about to charge in,” I said.
“You crazy? I want them dead, not me! I got more dicks to suck and more cash to make!”
I just shook my head in disbelief, too tense to laugh at her words.
And then someone came up behind us.
I swiveled my gun quickly, looking at a big figure coming forward with his hands up.
“Tara,” I said.
Tara swung around and also held her gun aloft.
“Identify yourself!” she whispered in a loud voice.
“Do I really have to for yer stupid asses?”
Oh, shit. Well, this is lovely. The dad caught the daughter sneaking out.
“Don’t even try and stop us, Roost,” Tara said. “I will fire off a bullet and force you to stay.”
“Don’t do somethin’ so fuckin’ stupid,” Matty said as he came into view of what little light we had. “I oughta knock ya both out and drag ya back home, but then I’ll hafta answer to Derek, and I ain’t gonna go through that shit. So.”
He reached behind him, pulled out what looked like a shotgun, and pumped it.
“I come to support ya.”
“See!” Tara said, as if it was so obvious that she had made the right move. “I knew you’d come around!”
“For now,” Matty said. “I’mma talk to Derek and get permission to knock ya out next time ya pull somethin’ like this.”
“Just try, faggy boy,” Tara said, but I was well aware that Matty had no humor and no sarcasm in his voice.
For now, though, we could move forward as a trio, and I felt a lot more comfortable about our odds than I did seconds before.
We moved forward to the building, taking the sight of it in as we scanned the area. The location was a dump, and while Matty had said something about renovations, I couldn’t see much in the way of work from the outside.
“Let me take the lead,” he growled. “All respect, Tara, but this ain’t a video game. Let someone with experience take over.”
“Fine,” she sighed. “But you better not hog all the kills.”
“Whatever.”
The two advanced forward, officially stepping into the building. Taking a deep breath, I followed after Tara and Matty.
“Creepy place, ain’t it?” Tara said, trying to mask how nervous her voice sounded.
Now you sound like a nervous wreck. Think of how we’d be if Matty hadn’t shown up! Maybe this will get you to not go on such crazy missions.
Yeah, right.
“Yeah, it really is,” I said, frowning.
As we stepped through the doors, I glanced around, seeing that they had obviously done some work on the inside of the factory. A new paint job had been given to the large space, specifically on a few of the large metal columns. Perhaps these were the renovations Matty had mentioned, or perhaps the Falcons had been here much longer than before.
As we stepped further inside, I shivered, hating how quiet and dark it was. Aside from the natural moonlight coming in from the limited ceiling windows, there was no sign of any other kind of lighting to be had. It made me nervous for an ambush, and there was almost certain to be more than three Falcons in here.
“Fuckin’ quiet in here, ain’t it?” Matty said, though he almost seemed to enjoy it. “Keeps ya alert.”
“Too quiet,” Tara said, her voice a whisper, as if afraid to make any too loud of sounds. “You sure we’re good, Roost?”
“Hell naw,” he said, snorting. “Was yer decision to come in here. Ya pay the consequences now!”
Something about his tone seemed almost too light, like he knew we were going to emerge victorious. I wasn’t sure if he was that confident, or if this was some sort of a defense mechanism, but either way, he seemed awfully reassured.
“Matty—”
“Well, well, well ain’t this a charming sight?” a voice almost certainly belonged to a smoker called out towards us, “It’s a whole cluster of cocksuckers: some wayward whores of ours and the Savior’s token faggot!”
I scanned my gun around the room, looking for the man. “Wayward whores” brought back some bad memories, but this manifested itself more as tension and anxiety than an actual replaying of the memories to their fullest degree.
Matty, however, seemed unaffected.
In fact, he laughed.
The three of us eventually found the speaker, who was standing on a stretch of balcony that overlooked the central floor of the factory, giving no apparent attempt to hide himself. The perforated metal grating that made up the surface of the balcony allowed us to see the man in his entirety, though only half of him—the upper-half—was clearly visible, his legs reduced to a seemingly pixelated cluster of blackness offset against an off-black backdrop of the dimly lit ceiling.
The upper-half was enough, though. It was enough to see the dirty, gray tank top stretched to its limits over a barrel chest and a set of shoulders that, I swear, looked to be made of at least five smaller men’s shoulders. Arms that would have looked more appropriate on a gorilla flexed, urging a layer of furious-looking veins to throb against the surface of his skin, and a pair of hands that each looked like a cluster of bananas clung to the railing. I was certain that the lower-half, partially hidden behind the perforated metal grating and our forced, upward angle, would prove no less massive than the upper-half.
The fact that it was just him told me that either the Falcons had no fear of more Saviors coming and thought one steroid-ridden man could handle them, or there were a whole bunch of Falcons in the wings, just waiting to enjoy the Gladiator-style battle about to take place.
“Larry, m’boy!” Matty called, sounding almost cheerful. “I see someone’s been eatin’ their Wheaties.”
“Wheaties nothing!” Tara said with a stabbing scoff. “Motherfucker’s been juicing since before I even knew him!”
I looked over at that, blanching at her words. How… what?
“Tara?” I caught myself whispering, “You knowthat guy?”
Tara smirked at the question, shrugged, and shouted for the “benefit” of Larry.
“Rock used to rent me out to this douche-canoe as an ‘interoffice favor.’ You remember Rock’s rule on being chatty, so there was never much conversation between the two of us, but… while I can’t I know himall that well, you couldsay that I’d become rather well acquainted with his dick. Or, rather, what passes for a dick with him.”
She held up her hand, her pointer and thumb held up in a close pinch that was separated by barely an inch.
“Let’s just say that the job don’t get much easier than when I gotta work with someone of Larry’s caliber.”
“Bitch!” Larry snarled, his hands tightening around the balcony’s railing and actually earning a metallic groan for his efforts.
More veins, if such a thing were actually possible, rose to the surface, throbbing. I felt a wave of bile rising up the back of my throat as the image of a nest of fleshy snakes slithered into my brain.
“Gross…” I whimpered, trying to stifle my urge to vomit.
Left unsaid was that as gross and unsettling as the image of Larry was, I was equally scared that those fists and forearms were about to drive my skull into the concrete beneath me—and there was going to be no Derek to rescue me.
So fight back, then.
Tara offered me a sympathetic pat on the back.
“You have no idea, darling. Gross undersells it.”
Then, still patting me, she turned to Matty.
“So how do you know the pencil eraser?”
Matty, grinning at that, actually looked away from the man to answer. This, I saw, didn’t settle well with Larry, who immediately released the railing and started an angry stroll across the grating towards the nearest set of stairs. Amazingly, Matty didn’t seem the least bit bothered—I was amazed at how calm he was this entire mission.
“Used to be a Savior, actually,” Matty said, either not noticing the man’s approach or not caring. “Was a lot smaller then; a lot smarter, too.”
“I’m going to tear you all to pieces and feed you to the Falcons like that, you fuckers!” Liam announced in a near-roar as he started to stomp down the stairs. “But first, I’m going to skull fuck each and every one of you!”
“With what, stubby dick?” Tara called out.
How the hell can you be so certain when this guy is coming at us?
“Should we shoot him?” I asked, realizing that we had the advantage.
“Ain’t necessary,” Matty said.
“You sure?”
“Watch n’ see, princess.”
Finally reaching the ground level in one piece, Larry paused to level one of his massive arms in a bulgy attempt to point at Roost.
“I’m gonna start with you, faggot!”
Though the last part was spoken in the closest thing Larry could bring to an “indoor voice,” it resounded in my ears as being the most aggressive.
Words like “whore” and “faggot” genuinely hit my ears the way acid hit flesh.
Though it wasn’t a great leap from my initial impression of him—not by any stretch of the mind—I decided then that I really wanted to see Larry hurt. I lowered my gun, knowing I could kill him at any moment—assuming more Falcons weren’t in the waiting.
“I’m gonna use what’s between my legs to choke the life outta you, faggot!” Larry snarled, spittle sailing past his lips as he did.
His massive legs began carrying him towards the three of us. Tara, ignoring the gargantuan man’s approach, actually started laughing hard enough to double herself over.
“What you’re keeping in there?” she cried out in hysterics, “You got room for everything in there! There ain’t anything down there!”
“Should’ve turned you inside-out when I had the chance,” Larry, seething, said as he drew near enough for me to smell him. “But I’m not gonna waste another chance, you stupid slag of a who—”
I never even saw Matty’s arm move.
Somewhere between the end of the word “a” and the beginning of the word “whore,” a sound that was very far from a word echoed past Larry’s parted lips. I imagined that Matty had been aiming for the would-be attacker’s jaw, but, given the size of his fist, it seemed ridiculous to think that aiming should ever be a factor.
Though I was far from able—or willing—to commit to any actual measurements to verify this prediction, I figured that if the bottom of Matty’s fist had met with the bottom of Larry’s jawline, then the top of his fist would come to rest somewhere above the start of his hairline.
Simply put, Matty’s punch caught Larry in nearly the entire side of his beet-red face. And Tara and I heard everything as the impact of that punch started rearranging the layout of that face.
The crunches of teeth all but jumping from Larry’s skull that sounded like a baby’s rattle as they clattered against the teeth that managed to stay in place.
A snap, like someone breaking a dry tree branch across their knee, was accompanied by a wet, slurping sound.
A meaty thud, like somebody taking a baseball bat to the side of a slab of beef.
A small series of popcorn kernel-like pops from a few of the knuckles in Matty’s hand, accompanied by Matty offering a contemplative hum—as though cracking his knuckles was more satisfying than the act itself.
And, carrying all of these sounds along, was the rising, shifting groan of agony. The word “whore” shifted to something that spanned a full range of vowel sounds—“who-aaeeiiooouuuuuuu”—until it sounded as though Larry was howling and crying.