Refraction | Part 1 | Darwin's Steroids
12) Chuck Hits the Road
I am about two klicks down the road, when it hits me. I had been sort of going over the whole fucking crazy insane burst of violence I had just been party to. Putting things together. It seemed like this was a somehow formal way to do a guy in. There's all sorts cheap, easy ways. So why drag me out here to the middle of seriously-fucking-no-shit-probably-radioactive-no-where, to do a normally simple task, to wit, 'kill that fucking big guy', in a totally overblown manner? Hadn't these fuck head assasins-to-be ever heard, kill the guy, THEN dump the body? Where did they get all that super high tech shit? Seriously, I mean fucking seriously, drug me so you can put me in a car and crush me alive? The fuck I do to these guys? A crane? A fucking depleted uranium gatling gun? Mossad Lasers? Give me a break, I don't owe anybody that much money.
Then it hits me, the crane. I left the crane guy alive. I sat there with him for like ten fucking minutes, and I forgot to fucking kill him. Of all the fucking junior varsity fucking things--
Then it hits me, cutting through my left deltoid, three distinct sounds. One: a tomato dropping onto the pavement. Two(almost right away): someone sets off a firecracker. Three: a high pitched whizz as the bullet (which I take to be 9mm from the impact, and the report from now-concious crane guy's gun) comes out the front of my shirt and spins all akimbo off toward some strung out looking cactus off to my left. I think it grazed the bone. He must have woken up while I was still there, or right after I left.
Alright crane guy. Let's go round and round. At least this jerk has a regular fucking gun, a pistol I gather, from the single shot. Now two shots, now three. But he is missing, he either sucks and should have found another line of work, or that paper wieght jacked him up good and he can't focus because of the brain injuries, and possibly a misshapen eyeball due to shattered eye socket. Either way he is still fucking shooting at me, which I don't tolerate well.
Let me reiterate the waste-landed-ness of where I am finding myself in this current scenario. It is a fucking wasteland, empty, dry, no-wheres-ville, and I want out before I get radioactive. I'm telling you, if this place isn't radioactive I'll eat my hat. Anyway the point is there is no cover. At all. So I rush the guy, who is definitely fucked up, weaving, his gun hand coming up, going back down, coming up again as he tried to get a bead on me. I weave back and forth in the road, his shots whizz past me and splatter on the pavement around me, and another one of them hits me. Pain and rage at the loss of my excellent little finger, my goddamn nose-picker, rise up in me. I curl my now wounded right hand into a fist, and from about 5 meters out a rush him. He has a funny, shocked look on his face, and he looks at his flat black Glock like he is pissed at it, like it let him down and he wasn't going to forget it. So I am kinda laughing as I plow into him like a freight train and snap his back. He goes down like a sack of potatoes, he starts moaning and waving his arms around, indicating a lower spinal break paralyzing his legs. I try to remember which internal systems are affected by disruption of the lumbar plexus, and I can't, I think it's his fucking digestion any way, big whoop. So I pick up his gun and shoot him in the face, which is hard to do because now he's looking at the gun like it's his best friend he caught fucking his wife, and it's cracking me up. This guy can't seem to get over the mindless treason of his weapon, which is pretty priceless. It's a fucking gun for christsakes. His head is lower than the rest of his body, and a real fountain of blood gushes out. You can smell it right away, easily recognizable when you've had the occasion to smell it a few times. Buzzards know the smell, fresh dead, and before I am a hundred yards away they start showing up. Which makes me feel better, because it means if it is radioactive around here it is only mildly so. Otherwise the vultures would be dead too. Turns out once the sun goes down, and the stars come out, it's actually sort of pretty.
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