A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  Playing my role was all about the greasy smile. These people believed the pimp act with no trouble. I was able to invade their space without slapping or sweet talking anyone. Who wants to talk to a greasy pimp? My assumed title gave me freedom from having to socialize. “Genius,” I muttered in appreciation to my brain, feeling a deserved moment of ego.

  Pimp smooth, I slid a hand over my greased back hair.

  “They look too absorbed by the dogs. How are we going to play this?” Shocker whispered flirtatiously in my ear, smiling and stroking my cheek.

  I brushed my lips on her ear. She giggled. I said, “You have the Special K?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She smiled and cut her eyes at some guy checking her out. Waved playfully.

  “Follow Blondie's lead.”

  “Okay,” she grumbled, then hurriedly planted the hooker smile on again.

  I walked over and squeezed my girl's butt. I do that a lot, so much that it's become a part of our communication. This squeeze said, Get to work, woman.

  “Gotcha, Raz,” she responded, inclining her head at Shocker. They couldn't walk in the grass around the fight ring in heels and maintain the body language they wished to project. But there were brick and stone walkways throughout the yard, and the deck was large, the width of the house, the benches filled with people, all of them drinking beer or mixed drinks from a makeshift bar, a small table lined with booze and two hotties in bikinis, a cooler of ice and a keg of beer between them on the stained wood.

  My hookers walked on the brick path to the fight ring like runway models, hair, boobies and buttocks bouncing in eye pleasing fashion. The dog fighters noticed the bombshells and amped up their boisterous play. With testosterone levels pegged to the max from the vicious fights, their sex drives were accelerated as well. The jump from Fight to Fuck was an easy matter for any man of thug/gangster breed. The Gorgeous Woman Effect will make a man do really stupid things, so I wasn't surprised to hear men shout loud, ridiculous bets, flashing wads of cash while their eyes were glued to Blondie and Shocker. Some were so drunk or hormonally crazed they were imitating the dogs, barking, snarling, heads whipping back and forth as if they were worrying an enemy's hide. My inner wolf responded, dosing me with a quaking surge of adrenaline and endorphin's. I howled a challenge.

  With their goal of riveting attention accomplished, the hookers spun on the runway and strutted over to the deck, stepping up by the girls who poured Bud Light in plastic cups from the ice cold keg, drops of condensation twinkling wetly on the stainless steel. No one paid me any attention, so I sat in a lawn chair, kicked back to watch the show.

  “Thank you ladies,” Blondie told the pretty, scowling girls. “You've done great. You can leave now.” She flicked a dismissive hand, and the girls shuffled aside with intimidated disbelief, shamefully walked off the deck into the house.

  “Ha!” I clapped. “Status superseded.” I dug out my cocaine. Took a few quick bumps.

  Blondie looked over at the fight ring. Every eye was on the new bartenders - the guys from the porch, the dicers from the garage, the thugs at the fight ring - they all stared at the baddest white girls they've ever seen. Blondie had their attention, but it wasn't enough. She needed to bring everyone together. She looked at Shocker. “Ever done a keg stand?”

  “Um…”

  “Never mind. Just hold up my legs.” She turned to the nearest gangster, Little Guy, and curled a finger at him. He grinned like a lottery winner, stepped closer to the goddesses and the keg between them. “Hold the tap to my mouth and count the seconds,” Blondie demanded. Little Guy nodded rapidly. Blondie smiled at the crowd and announced, “There's a new bar service on the scene. Any of you weak motherfuckers care to challenge me in a keg stand?”

  The men raised their drinks or shouted in Vietnamese, English, some lewd comments in French.

  A line began forming at the bar. Blondie grabbed the keg's rim with both hands and jumped into a handstand, long legs stabbing into the air, stilettos tipping her magnificence like lightning rods on a skyscraper. Shocker grabbed her calves, held her with a small feminine grunt, the sound more annoyance than strain. Their arms bulged with ripped muscle, and eyes widened in amazement. I could see the wheels turning in the marks' heads. How can prostitutes look like this? their mystified faces said.

  Blondie's skirt rode down enough so that everyone got to see her bright green panties and any questions they may have had about her being a hooker were forgotten.

  She shows everyone but me, I pouted to myself.

  A supermodel hooker doing a keg stand panties flash was quite the spectacle. Blondie had drugged everyone with lust or envy, emotions that would blind them from catching on to the next phase of our job: drugging them for real.

  Blondie sucked the tap in Little Guy's hand while he counted out the seconds. The men surrounding them bellowed, “Go! Go! Go!” while girlfriends stood on the outskirts with pure hatred coloring their lovely epicanthic eyes. Blondie spat out the tap after a full minute and screamed, “Suck it! You worms can't beat that!”

  Laughing genuinely for the first time since we arrived, Shocker lowered her. No one wanted to attempt a keg stand, likely fearing the ridicule they would suffer when they failed to beat Blondie. My girl straightened her clothes, hmmpted in satisfaction, looked over at me.

  I mouthed “green” and snorted a wonderful drip, lacing my fingers behind my head.

  The girls began filling cups of beer, the drink suddenly more popular. As I pondered my girl's success as a top-rate Budweiser spokes model, I watched her and Shocker slip Ketamine into over twenty cups of brew. The recipients slurped it up happily, wiping cold foam from mouths that continually vied for the attention of the goddesses running the show.

  I chuckled, clapped my hands, then broke out the coke once more. The lawn chair was comfy. I lay it all the way back. Crossed my ankles. Snorted several gigantic bumps.

  The tranquilizer took effect almost immediately. The guys were draining their cups quickly to have a reason to get closer to the girls again, getting refills and more Special K. They were staggering around after the first cup, and sitting down after the second. Some of the girlfriends were tending their inebriated men with great suspicion, though I think they believed their men were simply swooning under Blondie's and Shocker's influence.

  That's what they want to believe, I smirked in thought. The guys, and most of the girls, had been drinking for hours before we got here. The Ketamine wouldn't be noticed by these people until it was too late.

  The sun felt great heating my face and arms. Being a greasy pimp at a house party, I felt obliged to unbutton my shirt, pull it open so everyone could admire or hate on my greasy abs. I laid back again, waiting for Blondie to tell me our marks were ready for the coup de grâce.

  “Are you ready yet?” Big Guns said in my ear. “You could have annihilated them after B flashed her junk.”

  I laughed, murmured, “This is her game. She'll tell us when it's our turn to play.”

  He sighed in response, and I pictured his teeth flashing silver impatience. He had wanted to be in the mix of things. His hands-on attitude is what made me respect the gang leader when I first met him, five or six years ago. He never ordered his men to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He had many standards as a crew leader I'd do well to observe.

  I can't remember the last time I've seen a keg empty as fast as this one did. After thirty minutes nearly every man present was plastered on alcohol, and unknowingly plastered on something that's not supposed to be consumed with alcohol. Two people were vomiting out by the fence. Another was sound asleep on his back, wide nose casting a shadow on his chin, bright sun baking his skin. The dogs were completely forgotten about, three of them tied to the fence. One licked up a puddle of puke. Others ran around trailing leashes. Blondie and Shocker were having to be more aggressive in fending off advances as men lost further control.

  I sensed the critical mass on the horizon and stood. Took my shirt off. Blondie gav
e me a nod, pivoting away from groping hands. Big Guns said, “EMP is on,” and I walked over to the deck, stepped up, walked with purpose to a bench lining the middle of the handrail. Shoved the people sitting on it out of my way and stood atop it, turning to face the crowd that finally took serious note of me. The people I had ejected cried foul. Those sitting or lying sensed something was wrong and began standing. I paid them no attention, held up my hands.

  “Silence, peasants!” I roared, commanding voice ensnaring everyone. Vietnamese didn't like being called peasants. I had their undivided attention. I projected my words, aiming to sound like a passionate Supreme Court judge. “The Two-Eleven and Oriental Baby Gangsters are hereby stripped of their holdings and shall cease all operations on the Coast. You have offended and hurt hundreds of people you had no business molesting, and the people will no longer stand for it. We are here to represent the people's interest.”

  I caught Blondie rolling her eyes. Damn you're fried on coke, Shocker pooh-pooh faced me.

  I snorted, eyes darting, heart racing with the thrill. I'd make a swell judge.

  While everyone watched me, Blondie and Shocker had taken off their heels, pulled some flats from their handbags and slipped them on. Put the stilettos in the bags. Dropped them on a bench. Put hair in ponytails. Shocker had brass knuckles over black leather gloves. Blondie pulled on a pair of similar gloves and gripped two iron bars, each as big as a roll of quarters.

  I flexed my bare fists. Calmly, in no hurry, I took a set of bouncer gloves from a pocket. Took my sweet time putting them on. I held my weapons out for silence and was rewarded with dozens of glaring eyes. Judge Razor sentenced them. “Today you will be punished for what you've done. If you choose to continue on your ignoble course, as I'm sure you will, we'll be back. And we'll come back as many times as it takes for you idiots to get the message.”

  “What are you a fed? Fuck you and those undercover hoes!” Little Guy raged at me, finger aimed accusingly at my team members, slurring, unbalanced. Mad as hell because he had been teased like a common mark at a titty bar. “We are forty strong, and can have more with a phone call. How you think you can punish us?”

  For an answer, I casually kicked him in the face. My size 12 Rockport bludgeoned his fragile cheek bone from my elevated position. “Aaarrrgh!” he gasped, flailing at the people around him to keep from going down. They caught him, eyeing me with a hilarious, lethargic surprise. Not only had I assaulted their Brother, I had threatened their way of life. They screamed drunken-drugged battle cries and pushed each other out of the way to get at me.

  I jumped off the bench, over the handrail to the grass, landing on balance. Looked up to see Blondie and Shocker wade into the crowd with fast, devastating punches, all business, taking advantage of the attention on me to hit them in the back of their heads, brutal rabbit punches dropping the tranquilized men with ease. They moved quickly toward the men with guns and knocked them senseless before the marks even knew a fight was happening.

  A flurry of arms and grim faces came at me from the left, more jumping the handrail, four guys trying to encircle me. I danced out of their trap, popping long jabs into their enraged eyes. I planted my back foot, pushed off it hard and threw a right-hand into the chin of the closest man. It was a bone-jarring blow, felt deep in my shoulder. His jaw broke in more than one place, he hit the grass on his stomach, groaning dully, unconscious. The other three saw the ease and precision with which I had dispatched their comrade and sobered.

  They slowed their charge, but that didn't help; I charged them, the unexpected blitzkrieg freezing them long enough for me to pump my legs, hips, roll shoulders, uppercuts dropping two, a quick pivot and overhand-right taking out the third. My tightened fists went through them like hydraulic shafts, pistoning with explosive, endless energy, thwacking them to the ground. Their drugged equilibriums had no luck against my speed. I looked around and saw witnesses staring at me, hesitant to fight the killer wolf. Several fled as fast as they could, staggering, leaping bodies on the lawn and deck, crashing through the house as Blondie's iron-barred fists blazed in their wake. Others jumped the fence, taking refuge in neighboring yards. A pitbull attacked one of the fence leapers, giving in to his instinct to chase and bite things that ran. The guy screamed in pain, pants tearing loudly, flesh gouged from sharp canines.

  “Ha!” I clapped.

  I turned and ran around the deck to the opposite side of my hookers to block people escaping their fury. There were at least a dozen thugs and two Viet girls still fighting, packed together, facing the blistering combos of the girl-beast and blonde warrior. With no room to swing without hitting each other they were slowly pushed back and off the deck. One spotted me coming up behind them and shouted a warning. “Can than!”

  I stepped up swiftly and leaped, bringing my knee into a random face. His nose felt gruesome breaking under my patella. I threw an uppercut at the same time, smashing his eye. He cried out in agony and blood slicked under my boots. Several turned and swung wild, desperate, panicked punches. I ducked my head back quickly, hitting someone's face behind me. A fist cracked against my ear, rocking my head. The blow connected cleanly, but only served to sharpen my focus.

  “Good shot,” I told the man, drilling him with a jab, right-hand, left-hook combo. He whooshed out a breath as his stomach received the hook, sinking to his knees.

  More punches rained on me, four, five, six guys, as I turned back around, hands up, slapping fists aside, weaving head, able to see the amateur punches coming, focusing on slick movement to avoid clean hits. Fortunately these guys weren't in top form at present and couldn't muster enough strength to hit very hard. And there's just such a huge difference in skill between professionally trained fighters and average street gangsters. I held a significant height and reach advantage over them, as well, and used it to keep them on the end of my punches, away from me.

  My arms felt like they could go for hours, the excitement of the battle imbibing my muscles with limitless fuel. I started throwing long, straight, quick punches, combos with buzz saw effect. A line of men seven feet wide tried to press in on me, bold now that they were cornered. I focused peripherally on any that jumped too far over the line I mentally drew on the deck, eyes extremely wide, watching everything at once. I pivoted on them smoothly and struck, lighting them up with hard, furious shots, turning to hit another with explosive speed, busting lips, eyes, blood flowering on faces, resetting shoulders to relax and recover a fraction of a second before throwing hard again. They had no idea how to get close to me, the confines of the deck holding them together, preventing them from surrounding me, getting inside my punches. None of them were even close to being on my level. I was a wolf among medium sized doggies, and they knew it.

  To be a good sport - and make it more of a challenge- I decided to use just my left-hook. Every fighter has a punch they really excel at. Blondie had a great jab, long, crisp, and on time- she could knock a man down with it, without an iron bar. Shocker had an inhuman overhand-right. My punch was the hook. I could throw it from any angle, incredibly fast, in a Roy Jones, Jr. style.

  A guy with a map of Vietnam on his shirt lunged at me with a looping punch. I leaned to the side, weight over my left foot, exploding off it to throw a hook into his cheek. Crunch! My fist resounded. He squinted hard as the blow displaced his face in space-time, throwing an unconscious punch on the way to the ground. His fist brushed my leg.

  I pivoted to the left, right, slapping aside several swings of a wooden stick that scattered my foes. An older woman holding a thick broom, the cook that greeted us on the way in, thrashed it insanely, hard wood cracking into faces and necks on either side as she screamed in Vietnamese. It was straight out of a comedy movie.

  I was reluctant to hit the woman, especially since she was helping me. Several men she had smacked yelled at her. She realized what she was doing, adjusted her grip on the stick and made to spear me with it. I smiled at her, come on, really? Her face scrunched up for a war c
ry, then distorted gruesomely as Shocker's brass knuckles caved in her cheek, smashing jaw, teeth. She dropped, limp, trampled on by two men scrambling to avoid the girl-beast's devastating metal fists.

  “Haaa!” I clapped. Snorted a drip, then ran headlong into the melee, meeting my warrior hookers in the center, the three of us clearing the deck with our preferred punches, men running away hurt, girls crying shrilly, curses, pleas, questions shouted desperately in rapid Vietnamese. It was chaos, and I reveled in the collective panic of the fleeing enemy. “Bitch!” I shouted, slugging an overweight thug that deigned to challenge my position as King of the Deck.

  With no targets to seek and destroy, I inspected Blondie and the girl-beast. My girl's vest and skirt were twisted on her curves, hair wild, lip leaking blood from a corner. She licked it, giving a wicked smile. The Shocker had a wardrobe malfunction, one bra-clad boobie sticking out, bright white, blood spotted in the sun, torn strap hanging. She still wore her Fight mode face: brows low and tight, eyes dark and lips peeled back from her gritted teeth. Two long scratches on her cheek. I looked down. Her brass knuckles glistened red in her shadow. Veins throbbed in her freaky arms. She couldn't wait to hit something else.

  She pulsed an energy I was envious of. She was a true berserker, a rare human being, her physical abilities able to defy nature. What little I was able to watch of her work was a real pleasure. Damn. I should've had Big Guns film this.