For all that people seem to enjoy me from a distance, I just don’t work well with people. I get on their nerves, even when I don’t mean to. It’s going to make it hard for me to find some people to help me on this. I just don’t know where to recruit from and the people hanging around Rothstein’s do not want to hire out to me for some reason. Somebody mentioned a service that might match up a few temps, but the guy who answered said something about “trying to cut back on employee losses by reducing services to high-risk villains.” Case in point about me not working well with others? I went and picked up an Ikea rocket launcher for Moai to put together and blow up those guys’ headquarters whenever I find it.
Another case in point, apparently I upset a small gang nearby when I jazzed all over that guy’s car. He paid me a visit.
“Sup asshole.” I was leaving the Shithole Inn, or whatever I’m calling it today, when he spoke up. There he was with three other guys. They left behind the wall they’d been leaning on and walked toward me. The formed a line. A united front. I was in my civvies at the time, with Moai back in the room trying to assemble the Ikea rocket launcher.
“Wazzupizzle in the hizzle fo shizzle my nizzle?” I answered and held out my closed hand for a fist bump or something. He just looked at me like I had a mustache of nose hair.
“Whatever, man. You wanna guess how much it cost to clean my ride?”
“Jizzle, fo rizzle? Can’t say I know what it’s like to have to clean jizz off my car. Maybe you should have gotten a loan from a sperm bank.”
The one on the right end of the line cracked a smile and raised his hand up to cover his mouth.
“You got jokes, huh? Yeah. I got my boys with me. We’re here to collect on your ass. Whatchu think of that?”
“This skinny piece of shit here counts as one whole person? You sure? And I don’t know how to tell you this, but the one on the side of you there already looks like he got beat up by the barber. Meh, I could take them.”
The guy to jazzman’s left threw a punch at my jaw. I took it, latched on, gave him a bad case of fight bite. I stopped myself from swallowing the teeth that were knocked out. The first guy held his hand while the skinny asshole to the right tried to do this big spinning jump kick. It would have been really impressive, but I nailed him in the balls with an uppercut. The guy on the end who had to keep from laughing tried to get around behind me while Mr. Jazzy and the first guy tried me at the same time. I spat blood and teeth into jazz’s face and rammed my foot between the bitten man’s legs. I kicked off from there and turned, trying to find out where the laughing man went in the span of a short time in the air. He was close enough that I got him in a front facelock while in the air. As I fell, his face came with me. I landed on my back, but he hit the parking lot asphalt with his face, which was momentarily supporting a lot of weight. So was his neck, actually.
When I stood, I found that the group was trying to make a break for it, at least as much as you can. All except the guy I put the lock on, who was slow to get up. He’d only made it to his hands and knees. “Hey, you forgot someone! Here, let me just kick him over for ya!” I shouted to the retreating hooligans. I backed up, got a running start, and went for the punt.
Hey, guys reading this, don’t feel so bad. It couldn’t have been that hard of a kick. They caught him, after all.
I had to go back for a syringe of nanites to regrow my teeth. Thinking this was a stupid thing to have to do, I also grabbed a few extra for the road and brought Moai along because the Ikea rocket launcher wasn’t working out right. They had forgotten the Allen wrench and I don’t like my boomy thingies to have a few screws loose.
At that point, I was off to maniacally…shop for clothes. I don’t always bother saying when I do basic stuff like that, but I do it. Just like how I don’t always talk about it.
Yep. Bought some clothes. Ate some food. Commented on some stories online. Read a blog or two. Even used a bathroom. Then, Moai and I shopped for cheese. I know, all the secrets of my life that have yet to be revealed in a lot of depth.
It was night when we headed back to the apartment, with Moai looking quite human draped in all my clothes and carrying a big pile of grocery bags, and we found a whole gang waiting for me. There were seven guys backing up the asshole who wants my money. Two of him were his buddies from last time, too. The fight bitten guy and the skinny guy with the sore nuts.
The group stepped in my way and surrounded us, with the jazz dude stepping forward cautiously. He knew I could fight and wasn’t willing to take a punch. Not like he did last time. Wimped out over some teeth, blood, and spit to his eyes. That’s like a step below hitting him with a purse. Big baby.
I stopped, because why not kill people today? He lifted up his shirt, revealing the gun in his waistband. “I see you got a friend with you. How you like this? You’re gonna pay me now, and he’s gonna pay me too. Aren’t you? All fun and games until somebody grabs a gun.” I glanced around. Yeah, looked like a bunch of his friends were armed this time around. They had me surrounded.
Poor bastards couldn’t escape me then.
I grabbed the gun’s grip, made sure the safety was off, and settled my finger on the trigger. “I’ll do what now? There was some interference there.” I turned my left ear toward him to hear better. Meanwhile, jizzman had gone completely still. Sure, sure, keep a loaded weapon pointing at your crotch while you walk around. That’s fine. But the moment somebody puts a hand on it, THAT is when he realizes the danger.
He didn’t say anything. I jiggled the gun. “Let me know when you can hear my voice. Hello? Helloooo? Listen to me. Listen to meeeee.”
“Fuck,” he said under his breath.
“Ew. I’m not doing that. Not from you. In fact, I’d better make sure of it. Say, you don’t happen to be Jewish, do you?”
He shook his head. “Don’t shoot my dick off.”
“Say the magic word.”
“Please don’t shoot my dick off.”
“Then I guess your friends better drop their guns at my feet. Don’t you agree?”
“Drop ‘em. Do what he says.”
The guys began pulling out guns and tossing them by me.
“Good,” I said, grinning at my hostage, “All fun and games until somebody grabs a gun.”
We stood like that for several seconds. I knew he wanted to ask what was going to happen now. At the same time, he was too scared to ask. A man holding a loaded handgun to your dick is not a man you want to risk setting off. Hell, I could have held them there and called up Moai to bring me a chair and a drink with an umbrella in it and this guy wouldn’t have done or said anything to make me suddenly become twitchy.
I raised my other hand up and yawned. The guy flinched. His buddies inched away. They didn’t care to deal with this shit at the time. I checked my fingernails on my free hand. Ran one of them along a tooth to get the gunk out and spat it away. Then I looked him in the eyes through my glasses and smiled.
BLAM! “L’Chaim!” I yelled as he fell to his knees, clutching at his bleeding groin, whining and crying. I turned to Moai, lifted up the fedora on his head, grabbed some headware, turned, and slapped a yarmulke on the Jazz singer’s head. “Congratulations on your circumcision. Will I be getting an invite to the Bar Mitzvah?”
“He was already circumcised!” somebody yelled from the retreating group that was brought to threaten me.
“I don’t care, ahahahahaha!” I shouted, putting a hand over my head, spinning around, and firing randomly.
Ok, I guess every once in awhile I can find a way to have fun with guns.
When I took my hand away, I first saw that Moai had dropped onto his side. He rolled up to his feet, still holding the bags and without a scratch on my clothes. They don’t make statues like that anymore. I also saw I had hit a few people. Some just left blood behind when they ran, or were still running. Others were on the ground. Jazz Hands was still where I left him on the ground. I knelt down by him and put my hand on his shoulder. Trying to sound sincere, I told him, “It’s ok. You’re a man now. Just like me.” I gave him a gentle nudge to the chin with my fist like some made-for-TV movie dad.
Then I pulled down his pants, sodomized him with a pistol, and kicked it as far in as it could go for good measure. Roll canned laughter!
So, furniture and cheese acquisition finally made and the way to the apartment clear, we headed in. There we found a woman in a tight black outfit that covered her all the skin except for her face. A mask covered that instead. It was all shiny, made of a bunch of small mirrors and fake diamonds. She had an armband of similar make on one forearm. The glare from hall light was reflected back into my eyes as she took hold of the painting with the lobster and cat and dove out the window.
I chased her as far as the window because, fuck, man, I was tired, surprised, contemplative, and I had to use the crapper. After turning on the lights and checking the place, I found I still had the Cthulhu bird Picasso. I also found out she had cleanly cut the bars on the window she jumped through, so she didn’t have some sort of phasing power or anything. That helped with the contemplative part.
The real reason behind that shift in attitude in me was that she’d avoided blowing herself and the whole building up. I had that painting she stole hanging on an armed claymore, with a stepping stool made of claymores below it, and a claymore hidden behind it. Leaving Moai on guard, I turned my attention to the toilet, where I thought about the brief run-in amidst disarming the claymore my toilet paper was wrapped around.
Replaying the encounter in my head, thanks to the power of digital recording and prosthetic eyes, I made an interesting discovery. I noticed it when I froze the frame on the thief’s jump out my window, with the way the moonlight illuminated the material tightly covering her ass.
I had seen that ass before.
I ran the ass through my Anal Recognition database. Because faces are only so reliable, you know what I mean? The usual suspects were eliminated quickly. It wasn’t Nixon, Reagan, Ford, or the other presidents. Not even Roosevelt. Teddy, I mean, not FDR. Teddy Roosevelt worked on his ass a lot more than Franklin Delano. I guess that happens when you fight bad guys and travel through time with Nikola Tesla as the dynamic duo called Teddy n’ Tesla, or TnT.
It hit on a recent entry. The girl from the party.
I had just been stolen from a second time by the same woman. Hey, maybe she’ll work with me?