Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

“All right, everyone, listen up!” Necro shouted. When the room quieted down, he continued. “I hope you all have means of transportation. My car can only fit four, maybe five guys in it.” They all laughed, and even Necro Cock had to crack a smile. “All joking aside, we do have a long ride ahead of us. Those of you who don’t have a ride need to team up with someone who does.”

  “What’s the plan?” This from a forty-year-old punk named Pisser.

  Necro pointed at his map. “This is the east side. Where all the rich people live, right?” Everyone made a sound of agreement, or disgust. A few people spat. “By now, you all know what these rich fucks did to Skank and Nutsack. We don’t know who, specifically, but goddammit, we’re going to find out. We’re going to scour the entire east side until we find the right fucks.”

  “That could take forever,” F, from FUCK, said. “There’s a lot of us, sure, but not enough. The riot pigs’ll toast us within a half an hour.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re going to split into two teams. My team will start in the northeast side while Skank’s team will start in the southeast side. That way, the swine will have to spread themselves thinner, and we’ll last longer. We’ll also cover more ground.”

  “I don’t know, man,” C said. “This sounds like a suicide mission. I’m not down for that.”

  “No, this is about revenge for one of our fallen.”

  “Then how are we going to get out of this one? All the pigs gotta’ do is wait for us to come together in the middle and surround us. Then we’ll be fucked.”

  “First of all, the pigs can’t stand by and let us torch the neighborhood until we’re in a vulnerable position,” Necro said. “Secondly, you’re assuming we’ll even make it to the middle. I’m sure we’ll find the right fucks before then.”

  “And how will we find them?” F asked. “Knock on every door? ‘Hello? Are you the Bad Rich People? No? Oh, thank you. Goodnight.’” A few others laughed, but most kept their peace.

  “Of course not,” Necro said. “We’re going to crash every mansion. Skank already described what we’re looking for, so when we find it, we’ll know. But we have to be quick about it.”

  “I don’t know,” F said. “This sounds fucked.”

  “It’s the best plan we have. If you want out, then get the fuck out.”

  F didn’t say anything more after that.

  Necro Cock motioned to the left side of the room. “All of you are on my team. The rest of you are on Skank’s. My team will take our cars and drive up to the north here.” He indicated the location on the map. “There’s a parking lot up there, from which we can walk the two blocks to the rich neighborhood—“

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” C said, “it’ll be dawn soon. Don’t you think we’ll look a little strange? A bunch of heavily armed punks walking toward the rich neighborhood?”

  Necro grimaced at that. He didn’t like it anymore than C did, but they had no choice. “It’s the best we can do.”

  C shrugged. “Just asking.”

  Necro Cock nodded and turned back to the map. He indicated the bottom. “Skank’s team will drive to the parking lot of the old theater here. They will then walk the block north to the rich neighborhood. From that point—“

  “Hold on, Necro.” From Kelly, a young man who dressed without the pretense of the rest of the punks. He wore a t-shirt and jeans, both without a single tear or rip. At first, the rest of the group, aside from Necro Cock, had despised him, taking him for a square slumming it. But over the years, they discovered Kelly had a nasty bend to him. Sometimes, without provocation, he would beat the shit out of someone or something. He never warned anyone, and this habit endeared him to the others.

  “What is it?” Necro Cock asked.

  “That’s a gated community there. They got guards. Armed guards. It’d be a bitch getting in there. If those guards saw us, and I’ll bet they would, they’d be on the radio to the real cops, and then they’ll start shooting.”

  “There’s only townhouses in there,” Skank said. “The place I was in was a fucking mansion.”

  “Okay, then,” Necro said. “Forget the gated community. Just go for the mansions.”

  “Wait, how’d she know she was in a mansion?” F asked. “She only told us about the two rooms.”

  “Townhouses aren’t that big,” Skank said. “They wouldn’t be able to build a place like that in a townhouse.”

  “What about the fences around the mansions?” C asked. “And what if they have dogs?”

  “You’ve got weapons,” Necro said. “As for the fences, are you telling me that you people can’t climb a fucking fence if it came to it?”

  “Well, they could be electrified,” C said. He didn’t look at Necro when he said it.

  Necro said, “Will someone please hit him?”

  “What? It’s a reasonable fear.”

  Pisser advanced on C, his fist pulled back, but Necro Cock held up a hand. “No, don’t. We can’t afford to fight each other right now. There won’t be any electric fucking fences, okay?”

  C didn’t respond.

  Necro Cock continued. “We’ll split our two groups into a bunch of groups of five or ten, whatever it takes. Each of those groups will take a different street. Everyone clear?”

  “Will that be enough?” Kelly asked.

  “It’s going to have to be. We’ll go down our assigned streets, and we’ll storm every mansion we find until we get the rich fucks who started this. Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” C said. “When this is all done, or if the bacon gets to be too hot, how do we escape?”

  “Any way you can. I don’t know about the rest of you, but Nutsack was my best friend. My fucking brother. I’ve known him since we were still shitting our pants. I’m going all the way. Either I get the bastards that killed my brother, or I die. I hope you’re all with me.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Skank yelled.

  When the crowd shouted their assent, Necro Cock smiled. “Then let’s fucking go!”

  2

  The Midas Theater had been standing at the corner of Clinton and East since it had been built in 1930. In its glory days, it had been a palace of a theater, complete with sweeping, gold-embroidered velvet curtains, bright plush chairs and an orchestra pit. They played all the classics when they were first run, from Dracula to East of Eden. Then, in 1956, the theater caught fire because a drunk patron dropped a cigarette, and while the firefighters managed to save most of the building, the ceiling collapsed, and eighty-four people died that night. So did the theater’s relationship with what most considered decent movies.

  They rebuilt the Midas in 1957, based on the original blueprints, but the owners nearly went bankrupt in the process. They sold the place in 1960 to a young man who started showing monster movies instead. The theater’s original clientele stopped attending out of disgust, but a new crop of customers came pouring in, eager for the next schlock fest. The Midas did well until the first years of the 21st Century, when everyone turned to the ‘net for their cult classics. The cost of keeping up the utilities suddenly wasn’t worth staying open, and the bright young man of 1960 shot himself in the projectionist booth while watching one of his favorite movies.

  After that, the city boarded the Midas up. Every once in a while, the council talked about razing the building, or maybe turning it into a historic site, but nothing ever came of it. Before long, it lay fallow and forgotten by all except the teens who liked to hang out there, smoking, drinking and fucking.

  Skank had many fond memories of the place, most involving Nutsack. She tried to hold back her tears as she parked the Nutmobile in the spot they usually took in the old days. She didn’t want anyone else riding with her, since she still had Nutsack in the car. He’d gone stiff and started to smell, but she wanted to be in his presence, at least for a little while longer.

  She watched as the others parked around her. Gently, she reached over to the passenger seat and kissed Nutsack’s cheek. “We’ve almost
got the bastards.”

  She got out, and the other punks gathered around her. Pisser stood next to her, holding a lead pipe taped up on one end. The others held their weapons at the ready, and many of them popped Berserker pills. Usually, they reserved them for the mosh pit, but now, they waited for it to puff out their muscles and add more mass to their bodies. Others who had swapped some of their body parts in the name of body modification, strapped on cybernetic limbs to replace what they’d lost. Some of them bore blades in them, others had projectiles. One of them had a flamethrower built into his arm. They all bristled for action.

  “You all ready?” she asked them.

  “Yeah!” they all shouted.

  “Let’s fuckin’ do this,” Pisser said. He grinned through his scraggly beard.

  “All right,” Skank said. “We’ll split into teams here.” She went down the rows of them, giving them each a number, as if they were back in high school gym, trying to figure out who would be on which team. In the end, there were six teams of ten and one team of seven, which included Pisser, C and herself.

  “As we walk down East Street, I’ll point each team to a block. Those on the east, follow your streets down to the lake, crashing houses as you go. Head north on Lake Street, crashing more houses until you meet some of Necro’s boys, then all of you head back west.

  “Those on the west,” she continued, “follow your streets to Maple, and then head north. When you see Necro’s boys, head back east. We’ll all meet up on East and Greenspan and figure things out from there. Got it?”

  The crowd agreed.

  “Let’s go.”

  3

  Get in the zone!

  Grunt and moan!

  Butt-fuck my clone!

  Skank turned up Nutsack’s favorite song and put it on repeat. It seemed only right.

  She and her team walked calmly down East Street. As they went, Skank pointed the way for the sub-teams. Soon, the sounds of panic and violence filled the air around her. Screams and gunshots prevailed, and soon, she turned and saw flames behind her.

  Down to the last three sub-teams. They could now hear sirens approaching from the west. “Things are in full swing,” she told the others. “Be careful.”

  When she’d sent the last sub-team off, Skank turned to her remaining friends. “We’re going down this way. Starting with this place.”

  They headed for the enormous mansion on the corner of East and Jobs, eager to bust down the gates. They hammered at the lock for a while, but it only tired them out.

  “Fuck it,” Skank said. “We’ll climb over. Gimme a lift.”

  Pisser, despite his age, had the stoutest, strongest body of the bunch. He helped everyone over before jumping up and pulling himself to the top. The spikes that crowned the gate in an iron diadem cut his hands and ripped his jeans, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

  No one stopped their rush toward the mansion. Upon arrival, C and a little smelly guy everyone called Windy Winston beat the door down. The entire team rushed down the corridors, howling and destroying as they went, but it soon became evident that they were in the wrong place. C wanted to stay behind and smash the place Just Because, and Skank had to drag him out so they could move on to the next mansion.

  Outside, Pisser helped everyone over once again, and just as he dropped down to the other side, they saw flashing red and blue lights. Cruisers off the track squealed down the street, and cops jumped out of the cars, guns aimed and ready to kick ass.

  “It’s about fuckin’ time!” C shouted. He filled his mouth with fluid, and produced his lighter, ready to rock and roll.

  The officers shouted their usual litany of “Freeze!” and “Drop it!” They stood behind their open car doors, guns pointing out.

  C lit up and spit with all his might through the flame. A bright burst of fire sprayed forward, causing the cops to cringe despite the fact that C didn’t have the distance. One of the cruisers caught fire, and one of the officers slapped at it with his jacket.

  C, on the other hand, screamed when his hand blazed to life. He waved it around, trying to put it out, but the flames quickly moved to his spiky hair.

  “Help!” he shrieked.

  The cops stood and stared in awe, and one of them smiled, holding back a laugh.

  Skank saw that smile and rage billowed out of her head in a smoky cloud. She rushed forward and beat the cop’s face in with the baseball bat. He yelped and fell to the ground, holding his flattened nose, blood streaming between his fingers. He gagged, rolling around, completely forgetting about his surroundings.

  Skank hit him again and again. Pisser slipped in and picked up the cop’s gun. Before the others could do anything, he’d shot one of them.

  And so began what would eventually be known as the East End Riot of 2200.

  4

  Skank noticed the limo and the news helicopter at the same time. It had been a half an hour since the riot started, maybe more, and since news traveled fast, the battle had grown. Not only had the riot police shown up, but many thrifty entrepreneurs had also arrived, eager to join in the fighting and looting. These new looters brought better weapons with them, which had really spiced things up.

  Sadly, by then the original punks had been whittled down a bit. Skank and her team had left C behind, a smoldering crisp where his head should be.

  Skank saw the limo and wondered who the hell would drive into a riot in such style. She thought about it too long; she didn’t even see the cop approaching. He slugged her in the face with his gloved fist. Pain lanced through her cheek as she fell, scraping her elbows on the pavement. The cop followed up with a kick to the ribs, knocking her wind out with his jackboots.

  “Like that, bitch?” the cop said. He drew his weapon, but he didn’t get the chance to use it. A loud crack! sounded, and the cop felt a very brief stabbing in his throat. He didn’t feel much after that. The bullet had blown his neck out so badly that his head rolled back, no longer attached at the spine. His body quivered before dropping to its knees and falling next to Skank.

  Randall looked down at the man he’d just shot. Never in his life had he had to kill anyone, and it had happened so quickly. It couldn’t be real. This had to be some kind of dream. Shock set in, and he suddenly didn’t want to play the game anymore.

  Then, he saw a cop about a block away, stomping a punk’s head over and over again, blood sticking to his boot like paste.

  No. He had to be heartless. He had to kill his father, and he wouldn’t be able to do that if he pussied out now. He stepped toward the person he’d just saved and offered his hand to her. “Hello, Skank. Fancy meeting you here.”

  She blinked her vision clear, and when she saw Randall, she felt anger flare in her heart once again. Now she’d never get to avenge Nutsack’s death. She could only hope that her friends succeeded in getting back at everyone else.

  And then she realized that Randall didn’t point a gun at her. Instead, his hand was empty, waiting to help her.

  She grabbed his hand, and he whisked her to her feet. Then, she touched her cheek to see how bad it hurt. It throbbed at her touch, but nothing felt broken. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, actually,” Randall said. “Nice riot you have going here. How’d you get this crowd together?”

  “They’re friends,” Skank said, “and they’ll kick your ass if you kill me.”

  Randall held both hands up, the gun now stowed in his pocket. “No worries here, Skank. If I were going to kill you, I’d have let the cop do it for me. I’m here to help you.”

  Skank offered him a lopsided grin. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  Randall nodded.

  Skank picked up her bat and started pounding on the headless body of the cop with all her might, a stream of expletives pouring Biblically from her mouth like blood from her target’s ragged neck wound.

  “Looks like we’re being watched,” Randall said. He pointed up to the news helicopter. “If Mom was still aliv
e, I’d wave.”

  Skank’s arms grew tired, so she stopped beating the dead cop. She took a second to gather her wits—and breath—before she looked up at the chopper. “I guess you know what I’m doing, then.”

  “Yeah. Attacking the rich neighborhood in the hopes that you’ll find the right mansion. Kind of a silly plan.”

  “Why?” Skank’s voice took on a sharp tone.

  “Because that’s like killing everyone in an apartment complex because a pedophile might live there. Besides, the cards are stacked against you. If I hadn’t come along, you would have eventually lost to the riot police.”

  “And what the fuck makes you so special?”

  “This.” He pulled his father’s address book out of his pocket.

  “What is it?”

  Randall then realized that Skank had probably never seen a physical book before. “This contains all of Dad’s friends and business associates. I’ve narrowed the possibilities down to a few places. We can take care of this much easier my way. Quicker, too.”

  “Possibilities?” Skank asked.

  “My father’s place is out. I burned it down.”

  “Fuckin’ awesome.”

  Randall laughed. “Yeah. Anyway, there are still a bunch more to choose from. Edward Bridges, Richard Coppergate, Elizabeth Drake, William O’Neill, Martin Taylor, and Charles Wingate. Those names have stars next to them in the book. Shall we gather your group and try them alphabetically?”

  “Too late. There’s too many of us for that, and we’re all over the place. We’ll need—“

  “Look out.” Randall stepped around her and calmly shot an approaching officer. The cop had his nightstick out, ready to give Skank a wood shampoo. Holy shit, he couldn’t believe he’d done that. Like something out of the movies. Part of him thought he should be horrified with himself, but at the same time, he also hoped he looked kind of cool while doing it.

  “Thanks,” Skank said.

  “No problem. I’ve got my limo here. Let’s see how many people we can gather in there. I probably have room for six, maybe seven.”