Getting Ugly

by Mike McCrary

  Rasnick watches, trying not to smirk. He does enjoy the show Leon is putting on.

  “Let me think about it. How ‘bout fuck you?” says Pike.

  Patience nods, eating it all up with a spoon.

  Leon smiles. “Good. Because you need to ask yourselves a serious question—are you here to cut the Devil’s nuts off, or piss your panties?” Pike and Patience are all ears. Leon is feeling it now. He jerks his thumb. “Behind those doors is a nightmare greased for war.” He turns an eye to Pike. “You go pussy on me, I’ll fucking leave you dead on the floor.”

  Now all eyes are now on Pike.

  He shrinks, knowing he can’t really hide the way he reacted moments ago in the front yard. “I lost it a bit, okay? I’m better now.” Leon raises an eyebrow. Patience knows Leon’s concern is warranted—hell, she’s concerned too—but Pike is her man, dammit. She blurts out, “He’s fucking good, ok?”

  Rasnick shifts, eyes the 9mm Berretta with the GPS grip that Talley gave him. He glances to the door, knowing his SWAT brothers are coming in at some point. Wishes they’d hurry the hell up.

  Leon turns his attention to Rasnick. “And you?” Rasnick knows he needs to squash any doubters right here and now. He responds, “Don’t waste my time. You? Questioning me? You fucking…”

  “Then let’s go,” Leon says.

  16

  The Gentlemen’s room.

  This room is a finely woven mix of high-end strip joint and a Best Buy. Deep leather couches, plush chairs, massive screens everywhere showing various ESPN channels, along with three striper stages complete with polished brass poles. Colored lights twirl above the stages, with the rest of the room dimly lit. Along the far wall is a fully stocked bar that stretches up to a skylight in the ceiling. Rain starts to spatter on the windows, giving a new eerie feel to an already odd place. Nothing like walking through a madman’s home equipped with in-house version of Scores.

  Leon, Rasnick, Patience and Pike push through the doors, entering with caution. Rasnick and Leon sweep with trained efficiency, again checking corners and clearing the area.

  Rasnick’s method is perfect, and this isn’t lost on Leon. “You ever in the military?”

  Rasnick gives a defensive snarl. “Fuck no. Why?”

  Patience jumps up on the center stage and begins working a striper pole. Pike loves it. Leon doesn’t hate it, but feels the need to put this fire out before it gets out of control. “Really not the time.” Patience fires off a sexual blast with a simple flicker of her eyes, a curl of her lip and an ever so slight hip roll. She works the pole like a pro, driving Pike crazy. He folds a dollar bill and bites down on it. Rasnick doesn’t like them getting careless either. He ratchets up a harsh tone. “He’s right, we need to move.”

  Patience slithers and slides, sexy pumping full stream. She crawls over to Pike, taking the dollar from his mouth with her teeth. They hold their stare. Leon thinks, Don’t do it on the stage, don’t do it on the stage…

  A stream of gunfire cuts up the hardwood stage.

  Pike rips Patience away. He comes up with a hand cannon in each fist, screaming and firing blindly at anything and everything. Patience follows suit laying down M4 submachine gun bursts. They fire in no particular direction, bullets searing air, rounds popping spastic. The bar shatters. Bottles pop. Booze rains. Sixty-inch screens get cut up to shit. Leon pushes over a table, taking cover with his tricked out AR-15 ready. Rasnick dives next to him. They scan the area.

  There’s nobody else in the room.

  No Big Ugly.

  “Stop!” yells Leon. Pike and Patience continue screaming and unloading bullets at nothing in particular. Leon gets to his feet. “Stop fucking shooting. Please!” Gunfire stops. What the fuck? glances all around. They all turn to Leon looking for something in the way of wisdom.

  “He’s not here. He’s just fucking with us.”

  “How do you know?” asks Rasnick.

  “Because we’re all alive.” Leon turns to Patience and Pike. “You wanna dance a little more, or can we get the fuck on with this?”

  Leon leads with his AR, the rest following behind him with weapons tracking. They’ve entered a long corridor of a room that contains two-foot thick glass walls on either side. It’s a room sized fish tank holding thousands of gallons of water and various aquatic life forms. What little light there is gives off a soft bluish glow to the room. Fish streak by the glass. Hundreds of them cut through the water surrounding the crew. It’s as if SeaWorld had a Gun-Toting Wild Bunch Day. Pike taps the glass, pissing off the fish. Patience joins him. They stare childlike at the marine life, like two kids who’ve only seen fish on TV.

  A large chunk of raw meat floats in the water. Leon takes note of a skeleton, stares hard. “Is that…a cow?”

  Pike presses his nose to the glass.

  A shark rips through the water inches from the Pike’s face, jaws snapping taking the chunk of meat down whole. Pike almost shits himself. Pulls his guns, ready to blast away. Leon stops him. “Easy, Tex.” Patience plays with Pike’s hair, trying to sooth her boyfriend.

  After Pike’s blood pressure comes down to a manageable level he says, “This guy’s some kinda Willy Wonka prick cocksucker.”

  17

  Chats enters the Great Room, a room mammoth in scale with twenty foot high ceilings. The crystal chandeliers seem to float in air. Chats charges through; he couldn’t care less about the décor or the fine craftsmanship or the time and effort required to put together a room like this. He moves with purpose, void of any skill or concern, without regard for clearing the room first for safety.

  That shit’s for Johnny Law.

  Chats plows along like Michael Myers stalking a teenager, the big difference being that Chats doesn’t give two shits about his prey’s sex life and does not bother with a mask. He’s extremely confident he’ll kill whatever comes his way. He tries a set of doors. Locked. Pumps a round, blasts it open.

  A sharp noise sounds from a stairway to the right.

  Chats marches down a hallway to the set of stairs. Enters with sawed-off first. There’s a heart-freezing stillness to the open space, only the rain from outside patters against the windows. This is the point when a weaker mind, a sane mind, would start to rethink strategy. Perhaps think of doing something other than driving into the heart of a certified killer’s home. Others might even take this moment to analyze where they are in life, think about maybe making some changes. Chats does not take such a moment. Chats presses on with his hunt.

  A platinum hatchet cuts through the air.

  Chats pivots right, the hatchet thudding deep in the wall about a half-inch from his skull. All Chats sees is Big Ugly’s shoe slipping through an exit. Chats unleashes a 12-guage fury while rushing the doorway. The door blows open, torn off its hinges from the pulverizing shotgun force.

  Back in the Aquarium Hall, Leon, Rasnick, Pike, and Patience jump at the sound of the shotgun blasts. They rush to the doors.

  Chats pushes through the doorway. No Big Ugly to be found. He’s reached a locker room type shower area. Gold fixtures. Etched glass. Flat screens show a sharply edited montage of porn with fast cuts of gruesome Japanese horror movie death.

  Something else catches Chats’s attention. Up ahead, at the far end of the lockers stands Big Ugly.

  Five Big Uglys, actually.

  Multiple mirrors are angled perfectly to give five full-length reflections of Big Ugly in his exquisite suit…and the steel axe strapped to his back. Big Ugly gives him the finger—five actually.

  Chats pumps and unloads, shattering the mirrors as if twenty disco balls exploded into a confetti shower. Chats shoves in fresh shells as the gentle tinkle of mirror bits fall.

  A flat hand chops Chats in the throat as Big Ugly twists the shotgun loose from his grip, throwing it against the shower wall. Chats recovers with hard foot to Big Ugly’s knee, putting him on the tile. Chats dives, wrapping his hands tight around Big Ugly’s throat. Big Ugly counters by unsheathi
ng the axe from his back, whipping it around like a windshield wiper.

  Chats falls back, but not before the axe snips the tip of his nose. Blood spreads down his mouth and chin. Chats spits red, pulling his 9mm from his belt. Big Ugly springs like a cat from a bathtub, spinning, pivoting, and slipping away from the gun blasts into the next room, leaving Chats with nothing but the sound of empty shells bouncing off the tile. Chats can only grin as blood drips from his snipped nose.

  Leon and the remaining crew rush down the hallway into the locker room.

  Chats follows Big Ugly, entering mid-court onto a full-size basketball court marked with NBA specs, complete with a big-ass Jumbotron. On the other side of the court stands Big Ugly, who slips his axe behind his back and pulls his favorite Colt. Chats keeps his 9mm on Big Ugly, and the two hold guns on each other, taking a moment to size up their competition. Big Ugly takes a second to glance at the surveillance monitor app on his tablet, where he sees Leon, Rasnick, Pike and Patience entering the shower room. With a flick of his thumb the Jumbotron lights up with a full image of Chats and Big Ugly on the court. He flicks his thumb again.

  As Leon and company enter the shower room, a side door to another room swings open by itself. They glance at each other. The fuck? With guns raised they creep through the door, slipping into a room filled with rows of theater seating ten rows deep. But not your average bleacher seating. These are plush leather captain chairs with the initials BU embroidered on the backs.

  The door slams behind them with a metal thunk.

  The wall in front of them rolls down revealing a glassed-in view of the basketball court. Pike tries a door leading to the court. “Locked.”

  Rasnick pulls at the door they came through and it opens a bit. He keeps that info to himself. “Yeah, we’re locked in.”

  Leon checks the glass. It’s thick as hell, surely bulletproof.

  All they can do is watch the two gladiators on the court. Sound is piped in through Bose speakers. On the basketball court is the show. The war. Guns on guns, psycho on psycho, Chats on Big Ugly.

  Chats and Big Ugly lock eyes, grins spreading across their faces. Two warriors who know what is happening here—only one gets out alive. It’s cool. They nod respectfully.

  They go at each other in an all-out sprint. Both blasting, each weaving just enough for the bullets to whizz by. Chats dodges left, then right. Big Ugly spins and rolls, comes back up firing. The hardwood court is chewed up and spit out. They steamroll, bulls raging toward one another, getting closer and closer to impact,.

  They collide at center court. Chats jams his 9mm to Big Ugly’s temple, who swats it away as a bullet plows into center court. The battle, in all its glory, is mirrored up on the Jumbotron.

  Big Uglys shoves his Colt into Chats heart. Chats grabs Big Ugly’s wrist, twisting it away with a crack of ligaments. The Colt slides across the court, a stray bullet firing toward the glass viewing wall.

  The bullet digs into the glass wall directly in front of Leon’s face. He doesn’t even blink as he watches on.

  Chats and Big Ugly twist, tug, and pull as Big Ugly holds on to Chats’s gun hand. Chats throws a head-butt into Big Ugly’s face, which Big Ugly returns with an even harder forehead slam to what’s left of Chats’s nose. Chats stumbles back and Big Ugly rips the axe free, cutting off Chats’s right hand in a single, clean swipe. The severed hand bounces to the hardwood, still gripping the 9mm.

  Chats’s body trembles. His eyes bulge, water, swell red. Yet, still not a single sound from the man as blood spits from his wrist stump. Big Ugly leaps, plunging his axe downward for the mother of all death chops. Chats rolls and the axe slams full force into the foul line, completely stuck in the wood.

  Chats pulls a tactical knife from his ankle with his remaining hand. He flips the knife into an overhand grip. He swings and rips at Big Ugly with lightning fast, wind-cutting swipes, pushing Big Ugly away from the axe planted in the court. Big Ugly throws a quick jab, then lands a roundhouse. Chats takes the hits but keeps coming.

  From the bleacher room the remaining crew watches on like they were at a UFC brawl. The hell-bent warriors on the court are getting closer and closer to the glass. Chats has his back to them. Big Ugly goes for a knockout uppercut. Chats pivots and comes up slicing Big Ugly’s cheek.

  Big Ugly takes a step back. Like Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon, he touches his finger to his bleeding cheek, tastes it. Then, as if a switch was flipped, as if Big Ugly suddenly decided enough is enough, he grabs Chats’s arm with amazing speed and force. The arm cracks, knife popping up, airborne. Big Ugly grabs another tactical knife from Chats’s belt, then snatches the first blade in midair.

  The crew is stone cold silent. Leon closes his eyes; he knows how this is going to end.

  Holding the Ginsu-sharp tactical knives in each hand with an overhand grip, Big Ugly slices both hands in a scissor-whip across Chats’s throat.

  Chats’s head slowly slides from his neck, landing with a single bounce. Blood pumps from the carotid arteries in the open neck. Big Ugly looks into the bleacher room at his captive audience. His stare is blank, calm, and chilling. He drops the knives, picks up his Colt, grabs Chats’s head and calmly walks away, leaving a chill in the air and an O negative spitting neck-fountain on the court. All televised on the Jumbotron above.

  The crew is shell-shocked, disbelief so thick you could bite it.

  All except Leon. He looks around. Sees Pike. Sees Patience.

  “Where’s Rasnick?”

  18

  Rasnick moves with life-threatening urgency through the house, knowing that he has to find that money and quick. In a perfect world, he would find the stash before his brothers got there and be ready to load up and slip out when they arrive, while Leon and company distract that maniac who owns this manor.

  He tracks his weapon over the sprawling area he’s entered, a space dedicated to Big Ugly’s surprising dedication to art and culture. The room is peppered with marvelous ancient stone sculptures of Greek Gods in exile, along with a rich collection of Buddhist artifacts from Indonesia. Rare, eclectic collections of paintings are hung up and down the walls: Botticelli, Vermeer, Whistler, Munch, Dali, Warhol…and a photo of Jenna Jameson autographed in lipstick.

  Rasnick tosses a Warhol Big Electric Chair, checking the wall behind it. He pushes at the wall seeking out a secret door. There’s got to be something. He finds nothing. Where’s the fucking money?

  Rasnick tries another wall.

  Flicks the balls of a Hermes statue.

  He utters an adrenaline-fueled whisper to himself. “Come on. Come on…” Stepping back, he bumps into Chats’s head. It has been mounted on the wall—right next to a Pollock that looks like a yak vomited up a bag of Skittles—like a hunting prize in Big Ugly’s collection..

  Rasnick leaps from his skin. His face drains pale, just shy of translucent. There’s a row of ten other heads displayed just like Chats’s.

  “Fuck!” Rasnick fights to pull it together.

  He works to control his breathing as he looks into Chats’s dead eyes, thinks about the kind of man Chats was. He was a coldblooded killer, a crazed fighter. Basically, he was a bad motherfucker. If Big Ugly took him down, what the hell is he going to do to Rasnick? He knows he can’t afford to think this way. He’s here on a mission of commerce and must stay focused. This is about dollars, not dick size.

  Rasick swallows his fear. You’re bad man. Anybody can be gotten to. Big Ugly just got the jump on Chats, that’s all. You got to move on.

  He squeezes his GPS Beretta. “Where the hell are they?

  19

  The sun slips down for the day, framing the mega mansion in a warm, purple glow. The rain has slowed to a peaceful rate, falling gently on the woods. The soft pat, pat of drops landing on leaves gives the lull of a sleepy hideaway.

  A vulture yanks and gnaws at the insides of a dead cow.

  Zwips whisper-blast the feathered fucker.

  Out from the woods step B
uster and Talley, officially joining the party. They’re dressed head to toe in black SWAT tactical gear: urban assault body armor, laser-sighted modified assault rifles, Glocks, riot helmets with steel grid face shields and cervical neck protectors. The light rain picks up, pissing down on them.

  They survey the mess, the carnage-laden wasteland that is Big Ugly’s front yard. Soil cut up by landmines, smoldering cow remains, what’s left of Oleg and Vig. It’s a form of repulsive yard art, cold, hard indicators of what has happened

  “Holy hell!” blurts Talley.

  Buster snickers, “Fuckin’ dope, man.”

  Talley looks at his brother with disgust.

  Buster doesn’t get his moods. “What, bro?”

  “Do you remember the day you became a fucking idiot?”

  “Dude, easy…”

  “Was it cold that day? Sunny?”

  “Asking you, go easy. Please.”

  “No really? When was it?”

  Buster’s eyes well. “Begging you…”

  “Is it something I did?” asks Talley.

  Angry tears form from Buster. “Now I’m warning you.”

  Talley keeps at it. “If I did, I want to apologize. I’m sorry for assisting you in your quest to become a complete fucking idiot.”

  “Goddammit, Talley! Lay off me. I’m a person. If you can’t accept who I am then…then…I don’t fucking know what, but will you please stop judging and accept me like a brother, you complete fucking asshole?”

  Talley starts to retort, but stops himself when he sees his brother’s hurt expression. Buster wipes away the tears. They stand silent, observing a moment of brotherly reflection.