#she can kick your ass in 1 nanosecond flat

[justin-peudeau]

Did someone say...

✨slaying✨

Haha, I begin my jobs since wednesday and I really love the new ideas that came to my mind when I got home now 😂

[rjmorrisonuniverse-blog]

Nolan and the One-Hook Day

1. NOLAN

 What a shit storm of a day.

Distilled angst, chain of events, cosmic joke funnel, harpoon of the gods.

I know as I sit near him that I will have to throw the best punch I have ever thrown; one with technique and violent finality. I'll have to lift up from the chair, slide it back as I tell him "I'm going for a piss", and deliver the perfect right hook that begins from my heel and gains muscle torque up the calf, thigh and buttocks. I'll pivot with it as I rise and all my years of practice should unconsciously find that sweet spot on his jawline. I have to throw for a kill.

One chance or else big trouble.

Even I know that you don't get into punch-ups with massive off-duty cops.

One knockout hook, and an expedient exit through the side door on the far end of that pool table. It has to be soon, before the after work crowd shows up and this shit-hole becomes witness city. Before the pork behemoth gets even nastier and I run out of time. You bet your ass the pig reference is intended; this guy has the face of a swine. Mammoth jarhead on a stump neck with beady red rimmed eyes and nose vascularity that bespeaks years of hard drink. His voice is gravel, whisky phlegm and flat hard, and his salt and pepper goatee has an ugly way of framing an unsmiling mouth.

Motherfucking pig, prick, douchebag.

 I guess we should backtrack some. My name is Nolan. You don't need the surname, so get over it right now. I work for a metal stamping plant, and we make mostly automobile fenders. The job pays well but the environment is a hell on earth; a gargantuan space lit by low sodium lamps that hang forty feet above the floor. Two-storey tall machines that thump and roar like monsters starved for metal and perhaps human flesh, and a long shift there with earplugs inserted and legs taking shock after shock wave is about as otherworldly a job as I've ever had.

Is it any wonder I amped up my mixed martial arts training and aimed at the UFC?

Lunch breaks at A.G. Simpson were hilarious, as the zombies filed into the cafeteria in various states of exhaustion, depression, hangover, debt, disillusion. Even there, with the long bank of windows that overlooked the main work area below, the fucking lighting was brutal. In your face harshness, bad food, a sickly mint green high gloss paint on the cinder block walls... I mean, no amount of overtime could justify my being there and ONLY there to make ends meet. I remember a painting crew that was hired to spray the ceilings and recoat the washrooms, and those guys were freaked OUT by the vibe. They took their breaks in the cafeteria too, cursing themselves for not bringing their own food to the job, bitching about the watery vending machine coffee, and more than a dozen times asking us "how the fuck do you stand working here?"

So, given my size and mindset coupled with a love for man-to-man conflict resolution, it was a no-brainer for me to embark on a little side action in the octagon. I started as a gangly kid with the amateur boxing and proved a quick study with natural power in each hand. Even with the headgear and twelve ounce gloves I was knocking people out cold, and sparring partners too. I always seemed to have that mean in me, but as lady luck, that rotten bitch, would have it... I was a "cutter". If I didn't knock his ass out in the first couple of rounds, sooner or later I'd be bleeding. Bottom lip, bridge of nose, and for a brief stint in the pro circuit, both eyelids. I was an undefeated slugger fighting out of a loser gym, punching for power and lantern jawed, but that goddamned skin of mine  pushed me toward MMA combat, and that was fine by me. I didn't like my fellow man as a rule, and most days, hitting him made more sense than conversation.

I started out lucky, through a cousin who was being trained in the Pat Miletich camp, and found myself under the tutelage of the great man himself. I could list details about the intensive training that mixed kickboxing and Jiu-jitsu, Pat's karate methods and a stripped down version of Thai boxing that seemed best suited to my power... I could talk about the first dozen fights in Iowa, all victories by knockout in the first round.

I was busting my hump at the metal stamping plant all day, training five nights a week, and taking fights for shit money anywhere they would put me. Eventually I was given an opportunity to match up against a name opponent, even though his career was on the downward spiral, and representatives from the UFC were ringside. That was one motherfucker of a highlight reel knockout, let me tell it. My six foot four two hundred fifty pound hammer was primed to drop and I don't mind saying that poor bastard was knocked out during the stare down. Stoked? Homicidal.

The first thing he attempted was a leg kick, and in missing, he presented me with a clean shot at his mandible. I saw his eyes go all wide and wild just as I uncorked a sweet left uppercut and felt that indescribable delicious shock of connection when it exploded on the sleep spot under his chin. He was out before his head bounced off the canvas, and even today the debate continues about what killed him; the punch or that heavy landing. My celebrations ended when I saw that he wasn't getting up, and by the time the stretcher arrived I knew it was serious. I won't lie to you. I won't say it chewed me up inside that my opponent died a week later. These are gladiators and they go into it fully aware of the dangers. Highly skilled, trained to the nth degree, all it takes between two combatants in that arena is a nanosecond of error and somebody's lights go out.

Permanent injury, career ending injury? Not common, but I wasn't a common hitter either. Maybe we can thank my father for that. Every opponent wore his face and I don't throw to win. I throw to injure.

I was told that a contract was being drawn up for me in the aftermath of that fight; that all the way up to Dana White's office, the name "Nolan" was being spoken as the next money magnet. Then that poor bitch died and the contract offer was postponed until the media hornets nest died, too. I was pissed, maybe even a little at myself, and for sure at the man whose physically abusive ways had forged the fires that shaped me.

Two weeks later, I busted up one of Miletich's top young prospects during a heated sparring exchange, and that was the end of my UFC dream. Back to the zombie show at A.G. Simpson I went, and no amount of prying from fellow workers would get me to talk about just how close I had come to fame and financial freedom. Fuck it, fuck them, and fuck dreams. That became my mantra, and I withdrew into a mean sonofabitch's shell. Nobody messed with me back then.

Well, not until I took on that part time gig as a bouncer at Bunny's strip club. That was where I met Sherry-Ann.

  2. SHERRY-ANN

  Here in the bottom of the barrel tavern, I motion to the waiter for two more pints and listen to the gravelly voice of the big prick sitting at the corner of the table. He's talking about his failed marriages, the failings of the judicial system, the failure of society to appreciate what he does for a living. Failure? I'll show the motherfucker failure. Then, as the waiter sets down two more pints, I hear off-duty pig's speech beginning to slur.

"You shoulda been a cop". He fixes his cold eyes on me, looking at my down-to-the-wood hairstyle and clean cut features. He's bitching about the career path and in his next beery breath he's pitching a sale.

"My woman wouldn't have anything to do with me if I was a cop", I tell his stump of a face while Sherry-Ann drops the needle down on some distant memory that plays a song of sex and rage. Pig-mug leers into his ale, and I glance down at the broad knuckles across my right hand, square and knobby and designed for pain delivery. I had been forming a fist as he bitched about his marriages, and now I force myself to flatten out the fingers on my thigh.

 You may have thought that Sherry-Ann was a stripper, based on my mention of the club where I watched the door and floor. Nothing against the girls inside who worked the laps for money, but I would never date a peeler. I fucked a couple of them when I first took the job because they were practically throwing it at me. These all-American clean cut features of mine would have been enough, but toss in some nasty scar tissue and my indifferent conduct, and it was shooting fish in a barrel time. I don't pretend to understand the mind of a woman, but there is a fundamental truth about their being attracted to rough men. They may not love us in a lasting way, but a lot of them want us between their legs.

My first weekend on the job, on the Saturday shift, this feature dancer "Savannah" kept taking her breaks in the entrance lobby, near the door and near me. Nothing wrong with my meat radar, and I knew where the harpoon was headed. This joint, "Bunny's", was a rough place in a nasty part of southside downtown. Blood spatter on the sidewalk out front was common, and in time a lot of it was extracted by yours truly in the doing of his job; I always thought it funny how these down and out motherfuckers could find money for beer and lap dances. How many of them had wives and hungry children at home?

Some of them came in looking for trouble, pissed off at the world, and I took pleasure when reducing their dietary needs to soup. The owner of the place didn't give a shit how we did our duty, as long as the money came in and the cops stayed away and the girls were kept happy. So, when Savannah finished her final three song set of the night, instead of taking private dance requests she asked me if I would join her for a drink. Rose, the owner, cleared it with "Night's almost over... long as you keep an eye on the room."

Savannah and I shared a small table near the entrance door, and she did most of the talking while I admired her rack and scanned the patrons. Her body language was nothing less than a carnal invitation, with those shapely legs spread and her hand coming up often to touch my bicep, forearm, knee. A vacant, giggling, augmented and needy blonde caricature.

Shift finished, I invited her back to my two-bedroom apartment for a few more drinks and some good hard fucking, but on the way out the back door I first saw Sherry-Ann and she laid a burn job on my mind. She was leaning forward to talk to a potential client through the driver side window, and I caught sight of long-honed legs flowing up into a tightly rounded naked ass calling to me beneath her hiked black skirt. Statuesque, easily six feet without the twat-for-sale boots, and when she heard the back door squeal open and slam shut she turned for a second to shoot me and my companion a hard appraising look. The street lamp threw a sleazy orb over her beautiful features, with that young Margot Kidder sneer, too much lipstick and tumbling waves of ludicrous wig-red tresses tickling the mid back.

Untamed; that was the immediate impression. Lanky and dangerous and maybe a little crazy, and the kind of bedroom ride that was sure to be a roller coaster. We experienced that intense time-stand-still-eye-lock and I felt the kinetic energy between us that stayed with me all through the next two hours of sex with Savannah. That final climax, doggie style with her face pushed into the back of my sofa and her hands braced against the wall... that was another woman's bird I was basting. A woman I was determined to meet at the next opportunity. I remember drama-Savannah's look of injury when I handed her cab fare at four in the morning and bluntly told her I needed to sleep alone. She tried to protest and I gave it to her straight - "We both got what we wanted tonight, and now it's time for you to piss off."

 "You really shoulda been a cop, I'm telling you."

I nod as if in agreement, look at the clock above the bar and realize that I'll have to do my thing soon. Sherry-Ann will be expecting me home from work, completely unaware that my day is an official shit-storm only beginning to hit the fan. The huge man sitting with me lifts the pint of ale to his mouth, still glaring my way over the rim, and I see his police-issue service revolver sitting snugly in its shoulder holster. The open front of his brown suede jacket, the bulging stomach, massive arms barely contained by sleeves, and a pungent body odor of sickening complexity.

This doomed fuck doesn't have a clue that I followed him here.

3. PARENTING

  A week after I first laid eyes on Sherry-Ann's lanky goods, I was on duty at Bunny's with a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt in a long time. The shift was uneventful, and when I went through the back door, there she was at the end of the block with another chick. I thought about walking over to her, but decided to roll up in my Grand National. It was a hot night and she was sweetly tucked into a pair of high-riding denim shorts and a tight red t-shirt with black boots at the mid-calf; straight platinum blonde wig. I saw her eyes move from her companion as I rode up slowly, window down.

What a fucking body. Built for cock of Nolan. I can't explain the power of the attraction, and I had never considered paying for sex even once in my life. She just had that sneer, defiance, youthful strut and a physique to match. I'll admit that I had a soft spot for the ladies of the night, because my mother had been one, and I hate on pimps and everything they represent. Sure, I had some Travis Bickle in me, and Sherry-Ann was my Jodie Foster.

"Looking for a date?" her upper lip curled at the corner, and then I could see her remembering me from the weekend before. She smiled as I stopped, and her girlfriend took a long look through the windshield before casually strolling around the corner out of sight. "Hey, I remember you, stud."

Long story short, we did a little negotiating and she got in the car. I drove around the block and parked in behind Bunny's near the fire escape and garbage bins. Very romantic. Turned out that Sherry-Ann was new to this stroll, and didn't fuck. She was oral only, and I had to wear a jimmy hat Her old man was a biker-type who also had a piece of the action in the very club where I worked; a few girls who took on after hours customers at his command. He'd taken a shine to his newest meat, and didn't want Sherry-Ann riding any cock but his. I was as stiff as a fucking girder when she started stroking me through the dress slacks, but when I tried to enjoy her tits she moved my hand away gently, bending to unzip me and set the crowbar free. As soon as she started rolling that goddamned rubber over the head I could feel myself losing the erection.

"This isn't how I want it" I told her flatly, and she froze, raised herself back up and looked me long in the eyes. I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere, maybe another life, and for the first time in my thirty four years I felt that I wanted something intensely. Her. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a coffee somewhere for half an hour, for the same money, if that's cool."

We started that way, and for weeks I would take her to a seedy twenty four hour diner near her stroll, to learn about her life and tell her about mine. Both of us were survivors of violent childhoods, but her father was nothing compared to the evil piece of shit that was mine. Her dad was heavy into the booze, gambling, and spousal abuse. My father was the angriest most self-entitled rage-aholic in existence, and from my first childhood memories it was his fists that marked my growth.

That prick verbally abused my mother and took sadistic pleasure in kicking the shit out of his only child. As I grew into a large teenager, the beatings escalated in duration and ferocity. He never told me why he hated me, but I knew instinctively that my life had been an accident... a miserable wait around that cocksucker's reality. As Sherry-Ann and I shared these sad stories over coffee, we could feel a mutual caring develop between us, and I always had that sexual hunger for her.

In time, she trusted me enough to explain that she wanted to get away from "Roy", who was becoming increasingly demanding and violent. He'd brought in another girl from the bus terminal, and that was his new top bitch. Sherry-Ann had to start earning like the other girls, and when she told me that, I took care of the situation for her. I spent a couple of weeks in hiding, watching for this fucker, and quickly enough I was able to figure out his schedule. He'd roll around just after the sun went down, in a beat up blue panel van, and again after three in the morning to collect the pussy rent... I waited for the Thursday of the third week, told Sherry-Ann exactly what I planned to do, ignored her warnings and pleas, and when Roy showed up later that night for his money...

Nolan came out of the shadows across the street. Roy was in the driver's seat, window down, in conversation with one of the other girls and I casually walked around the back of the van to push his bitch out of the way with my right hand before looping a short left hook into the center of his face; it had brutal follow-through and Roy's head whiplashed before he hit the bench seat sideways. Two of the girls started running away, but Sherry-Ann stayed for the show. I yanked open the door and grabbed a generous handful of beard and long hair, pulled the semi-conscious Roy back to a sitting position. The blood was cascading out of what remained of his nose, down his shirt and vest, all over the money he had dropped into his lap. I gave him a good shake and his eyes rolled open, tried to focus, and before he could attempt anything I drove a hateful straight left into his open mouth, putting him OUT. I loved the sight of him sagging back to a lying position in a grotesque slow motion of jaw-hanging gore. "Sherry-Ann is with ME from now on" I shouted into the cab, and who knows if he heard it or not...

"Call an ambulance for this piece of shit, and let's go get your things." An hour and two pieces of luggage later, Sherry-Ann took refuge in my apartment. A roach-infested den of depression and about as dead end as it gets for a pretty young runaway of twenty three. We had sex for the first time that night; a two-way act of consumption that I won't ever forget. We felt like we knew each other far beyond those few weeks of talking, and her forthright way of telling me how to fuck her, how to do the things that she needed done, the way her sexy mouth formed a leering curve when she came so hard and violently around me. It would be a long time before she heard it, but when I called in sick the next morning, I was sure I could love her.

Roy? He hadn't seen what hit him. I heard that he lost most of his upper and lower plate, had to have his nose reconstructed, and a few weeks after that night he and his women vanished from Bunny's and the block. Sherry-Ann settled in with me, took a waitressing job, and we fell into a year-long calm spell... I had saved almost all of my earnings over the past eight years and we made plans to get a house together outside the city core. We had a friendship and the sex was ferocious, but there were hurdles to overcome. I helped Sherry-Ann quit the glass pipe, and she helped me open up.

 Which brings me back to this nameless drinking hole and the large man sharing a scarred wooden table with me. Brings me to a heartbeat of hate, and the day that marked the history of Nolan with a river of tainted blood.

 4. SHIT, MEET THE FAN

 A Friday that began like any other, with the five thirty alarm. Sherry-Ann's warmth against me under the sheets, and the new anticipation of weekend reward in my life. I gave up the bouncer gig at the strip club to spend weekends with my woman, and for the first time ever I had days to look forward to during the workweek. Long lazy mornings in bed together, watching television, having sex, lost in conversation... me, the short fuse with lots on his mind and little to say. Simple, beautiful hours.

That Friday I ate my breakfast alone then walked quietly into the bedroom to kiss Sherry-Ann on the forehead as she slept. Me, the guy who told himself he would never give a shit about anyone... she was asleep on her side, dark brown hair fanned out across the pillow. I ran it through my fingers to make myself believe again that this amazing change had come to my existence, and then left to make the half hour trip to the A.G. Simpson metal stamping plant. I first noticed the horizon of fire when I made the turn into the industrial park on Laird avenue; jet black smoke billowing upward to form the devil's cloud cover, licked from below by a massive wall of flame. I hit the gas and felt my guts sink into the comfortable abyss of my usual state of being, knowing what I was going to see at the end of the avenue, reaching for the radio as I saw the rows of cars lining each side and stopped by a phalanx of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks. The all-news station was on the scene and I learned that a huge explosion had ripped through my place of employment, killing four workers and injuring dozens of others.

"Jesus H. Fuck!" I pulled over and parked on the strip of grass adjacent to the two lane blacktop, got out to watch the blaze. Co-workers either sat in their cars or stood around in groups, shaking their heads at the sight of the apocalypse before them. A couple of them acknowledged me with nods, but most of them ignored me. I told you before, people tended to avoid me and I like it that way. I asked a couple of the guys what they knew, and nobody had shit for info other than the explosion happened just before dawn. Fuck me, I kept thinking, there goes work for a while. Maybe for good if the place is gutted.

I went back to the car, sat and watched the show, and after a couple of hours it occurred to me that I should just go the fuck home to be with the only person I cared about before she went in to work her half day. All the way back toward the small house we were renting, my mind was in a fog that reminded me of the worst of times during my childhood. My sixteenth birthday, when the man who called himself my father arrived to take me out of school because my mother had overdosed on heroin. Waiting in the hospital as she fought her last battle, he found a way to blame me, and that night after her death the beating he dished out had me fearing for my own life. I fought him back for the first time, and even though I hurt that motherfucker, he got the best of me and I spent two days in my room bruised, battered, and determined to leave. Two weeks later, he went in to work the night shift and I escaped. Some day I'll tell you about those first few months... I did things to survive that no one should resort to. If not for my mother's sister, I wouldn't be here today to break deserving skulls.

A half block away from the house I could see a car in the parking pad. A rusty Pontiac Laurentian, dented along the passenger doors and crusted with dirt. What the fuck? I glanced at my watch and it came from the stomach up to my throat; a sick knowledge of a thought that I stopped from forming... without realizing it I was on the brake and slowing. Ten in the morning on a day I'm not supposed to be here until five thirty. She goes to work at twelve, comes home before five. I put the car in reverse and backed up to park against the curb about a dozen houses away from mine, killed the engine and sat in silence. I watched the car in the driveway, looked at the front of the bungalow that framed the inevitable act of betrayal that life had in store for guys like me. For the first time in nearly twenty years I didn't take immediate action. I couldn't, man. I was paralyzed with a cold sweating fear, choking on a feeling like being trapped in a plunging elevator. There was no rationalizing in the car that morning as I sat there watching and so certain that Sherry-Ann was in there destroying us with another man who was soon to pay a price beyond reason.

Almost two hours went by, in a blur, before I decided to leave the car. I strolled over to the house, slowly and not feeling anything I can describe. I was thinking about a movie that I'd seen called "Into The Night", where the main character played by Jeff Goldblum comes home early to find his wife screwing someone. As I walked between my place and the neighbour's, around the side to the back bedroom window, my mind went numb. I always knew that God had put me here in this body for a lifetime of getting fucked. Life is a better fuck than pussy. Life is a twenty four and seven joystick, motherfuckers.

Our bedroom windows bottomed at eye level. An air conditioner filled the lower section of the far pane, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass of the east frame... the blinds weren't dropped all the way down to the sill and I was able to make out the two shapes on our bed. The bottom of the bed faced the windows, giving me a clear enough look at his big legs and ass as he pumped his erection into her. I felt a scary chill of calm for a moment, watching his balls move back and forth as he rode that beautiful pussy and blocked her from my view through sheer bulk. The sight of her long naked legs, one bent upward and one straightened, and a small hand gripping the blankets... that started the tears and I turned away quickly to walk back to the car.

Those were the longest two hours of my life, longer even than the wait for news about my mother that afternoon in the hospital. I'm not a smoker, so I sat and chewed gum in silence, waiting and getting used to the idea that once again, the dream is over. Fuck life, fuck love, and fuck dreams. Welcome back to reality. You fell for a whore, asshole. She's been turning tricks on the side all this past year and you bought the Hallmark card version of what it should have been and isn't. Last Friday had been a good fucking day that lasted clear through until the following Monday, and THIS one is the end of the world as you know it. Job, woman? Fuck you. Gone.

 The bartender, myself and this half drunken off-duty pig, plus six others who sit at the bar on the far side of this shit-hole. Four hours ago I watched this man leave my house through the front door, as though it were his, and casually get into his old Pontiac. I gave him a decent head start and then followed him across town into the city core. He parked in front of a tired brownstone on the south side, got out and lumbered up the stoop past a sign that read "short term rentals available", and I parked further up the street and did some more waiting. Him first, her later. I couldn't believe it and yet it made perfect sense. I'd deal with him, then Sherry-Ann would get one chance to explain this to me. Just one. I turned to lean against the driver's door, stretched my legs out across the seats, flexed my fingers, and watched the front door of that brownstone. When I made the decision to stop waiting he emerged from the building wearing the same clothes, and I followed him to the fucking dive that now serves as the shit-storm epicentre.

I gave it fifteen minutes before I entered the nameless hole. It took my eyes a moment to adjust from bright afternoon to damaged liver gloom, and the smell of piss and old beer and sweat that hit me like a swinging back-fist. All eyes turned at my entrance, but he was hunched over a pint and facing away from the front door and was the only one not to see me come in. I went straight to the bartender and asked him in a low voice what "that guy over there" was drinking, ordered two pints, and walked the length of the room to his table.

I set the pints down in the middle of the tabletop and pull out a chair around the corner from his, and he looks first at me and then the beer. Back at me, eyes widening as I lower myself and bore lasers into his pupils. "Still a cop?" I slide one pint toward him and raise mine up for a good swallow. He doesn't answer right away, staring me in the face, sizing me up, lost in something... "YOU shoulda been a cop" he mutters. "I followed you here" I tell him right away, let it soak in for a moment. "From the place where I'm staying?" he runs a huge hand through his goatee and greying hair. "No, from my place... the factory where I work is burning today."

He nods slowly, looking down into his beer... "been looking for you, son."

"I've never been your son, mister. I have the scars to prove it."

"I heard you left the city to stay with your aunt for a long time... " his voice trails off in memory. "So you found out where I live, dropped by for a friendly visit, did you?" He smirks a little and I almost throw the bomb right then, but it isn't the right time... I'm throwing for a kill, remember. I play it like I don't mind that he found me, and of course he has no idea that I saw him fucking my woman... no idea that as I sit here getting psyched up to stop his motherfucking heart, my own has been smashed. "So here I am, sir. What can I do for you?" he smirks again.

And it goes like that for nearly an hour, as this beastly childhood force sits next to me and attempts to... what? Atone for something? Correct the damage that he inflicted on his only child? I sit here and listen to his talk about the difficulty of losing my mother, and the failed second and third marriages. I let him ramble through his anger, and I hear nothing but an older version of the gigantic negative force that took all of my potential and crushed it into a compact life-hating machine. I can't even come up with one iota of pity for this prick, and now it's Sherry-Ann I'm thinking of as I glance again at the wall clock and decide it's time. How she could betray me... us... like that, and with THIS of all monsters.

"Tell me something" I interrupt his self pitying rant about spineless judges. "How much did you pay?" He looks at me stupidly, one bushy eyebrow lifting. "For Sherry-Ann this morning" I raise my voice a notch. "What did that cost you?" His hand comes up with the pint as he says "I didn't pay" and I slide the chair back, start the hook from my hip as I rise and pivot to throw thirty five years of poison through my torso and shoulder and forearm and fist as a projectile unlike any I've ever unleashed. Instinctively aimed for his heavy jawline as he tries to react too late, jerking beer over the rim of his glass when I land it and envision my knuckles removing his lower face. The jolt of it through my arm is like an orgasm and he and the chair hit the floor as though a wrecking ball has swung into the tavern. I'm not even looking at the others in the room, and in one chain of events I squat to look at his hanging jaw and the teeth that he is pushing out of his mouth with a bleeding tongue.

The cocksucker is still conscious but the force of the hook has probably broken his neck. I've never seen a head swivel like that. I grab a handful of vest and start dragging him across the floor as the witnesses just begin to realize what has happened, maybe not even giving a damn in a place this rough. I drag the piece of shit across the floor and his face is hitting the legs of chairs, his arms are limp. The bartender yells "hey! take that shit out of here" and I feel a nasty smile crack my mouth. The door near the pool table has one of those metal bars on it that you push, so I lift up my prey with both hands and ram his face into it. Outside in the late afternoon sunshine I can see that his fucking head looks like a shotgun suicide, and his breath is heavy and blood thick. There's a big blue garbage dumpster around back, and I drag him face down by the vest collar, hearing his gun scrape along the asphalt, feeling the swelling along the top of my hand. 

I prop him up in a sitting position against the dumpster and step back to deliver a looping head kick to his temple. His skull whiplashes and he hits the parking lot on his right side. I feel myself nod in agreement, then finish him off with a short toe kick to the throat. From the moment I first hit him to the lifting and tossing of his body into the dumpster I have been outside of myself. I take one final look at his imploded features and spit on them, dropping the metal lid down on the fucking garbage.

Do you think the blades of the fan are now filled with shit? No. There's just one more detail to cap my Friday to end all Fridays. I drive back to my house, just ahead of rush hour traffic. My hand is swollen and cut where I clipped his teeth. My mind is a seething pit of rage and fatality. I don't care about a fucking thing at this point other than to have Sherry-Ann look at me with her gorgeous eyes and talk me out of this crescendo. Tell me it was a moment of weakness, of old habits dying hard... tell me what you have to but tell me everything will be okay.

I pull into the driveway, enter the house, and see that she is home early. Her purse and shoes and waitress outfit are all in the living room. The house is silent and I walk quickly down the middle hall toward the last room on the left where she is lying in bed with her eyes wide open and the belt from her bathrobe knotted up around her neck. My breath hitches in my chest. I turn on the ceiling light. The bedsheets are on the floor, the pillow case beneath her spattered in blood, the tip of her tongue is showing between bloody lips. I nod again in agreement with the universe. Nolan is getting cosmic-fucked now. How DARE I fall in love? Who am I to change what I am?

In an echo of my earlier gesture that morning, I bend over Sherry-Ann to kiss her forehead, then close her eyelids. No tears now. I pack one piece of luggage, turn off the bedroom light, and get into the car to head for the nearest automatic teller. I'll get a hotel room and tomorrow I clear out my savings. Nolan blows this town forever. I'm on a mission now, and before I'm finished people will know about me from coast to coast.

Every lowlife motherfucker in every shitty part of every city has it coming, and I'm the delivery boy.

[takaraphoenix]

Review: 3x14 - A Kiss From a Rose

So, @kimmycup and I finished watching that episode!

Let’s a try a different tune and be more positive, because overall there’s such a... tired weariness that settled deep in my bones concerning this show at this point. And that’s actually actively making me sad.

So, let’s talk about the things I liked:

1.) The fact that a stranger Seelie who never met Clary makes a better Clary impersonation than Jonathan can make a Jace impersonation. Like. Boy. Your acting used to be way better. (And yes, this is under “liked” because, honestly, I find Jonathan just straight up hilarious at this point. Boy needs to get his shit together, man.)

No, but seriously - what I liked about it was how fast Clary noticed it. It’s come a time where I once again forgot that I used to actually like Clary at some point. And this was exactly why I liked her! She notices shit! Instead of wasting a whole-ass episode where a character doesn’t notice when someone is impersonating a person they should know really well (*side-eyes Alec real hard here*), she is like nearly instantly “Well that ain’t Jace, huh”. And the trick with the rose to verify was really clever.

I miss them writing Clary as clever. Most of the time they just write her as raging and loud, or insanely horny and stabby. Just... Clary being clever are her best character moments and I like them.

2.) I LOVE SOFT!JACE SOFT!JACE IS MY FAVORITE JACE. Seriously from the cute bedhead, to him again picking something really thoughtful and really romantic to do - I love that romantic!Jace is canon, considering how much he is always reduced to just being a horny playboy by the fandom that apparently never ever saw an episode of the show huh - to him being graceless for a change and falling flat on his ass. Sure, that totally destroyed my headcanon that Jace can ice-skate, but heeey, it’s cute as fuck so I forgive canon.

3.) ISABELLE DOING SCIENCE. Sure, it was only short, but urgh, I love scientist!Izzy. It got so lost in all the romance drama and addiction drama and her... suddenly... also being weapon’s master for whatever reason (y’all still haven’t explained what that shit even meant, aside from you saving on giving another character a speaking role to hand Clary her Super Special Swords). I am still calling bullshit on that entire whole plotline because it is in fact bullshit to act like Izzy and Alec haven’t know all along how the Clave operates, but if it gets Isabelle back to actually doing something productive and showing off her skills instead of just... suffering in some form? I’m all here for that.

4.) Magnus actually opening up to Alec. Y’all know that my biggest complaint about canon!Ma/ec is that they don’t communicate and would literally rather bite off their own tongues than share personal stuff with each other. I like that so far in this half-season, they have... actually been talking about their feelings. It’s low-key pathetic that you gotta praise the very baseline of what a healthy relationship is, but here we are.

Seriously though, the feeling that was conveyed, how Harry played the scene, how much Magnus’ loss stood in the forefront there.

Things I didn’t like:

1.) I don’t trust this show enough to not bring Jordan and Maia back together. Yes, I did like that they talked shit out and had a good, surprisingly long scene together (instead of the usual incredibly rushed quick moments of Actual Talking before they dive right back into drama and action), but this show... I mean, come on, they chose a shared bite that brought Izzy back into addiction to open up the S/izzy, so if you really put it past them to bring Jordan and Maia back together only based on them having One Good Conversation, you do not know this show well.

So, yeah, that’s what I’m currently wearily expecting them to do, because they have given Bat a full screentime of 5 minutes so far on this show so I am somehow not thinking Ba/ia is gonna be endgame.

2.a) That whole Lorenzo story, start to finish, is literally just forced additional drama. And I do mean from start. Seriously, what reasoning goes behind “We need a new High Warlock of New York... so let’s take this outsider instead of a proper representative of our community like, say, Catarina Loss”. But no, we couldn’t have Cat do it and it not being dramatic. We needed a secondary antagonist so let’s put an OC in here. And like, yeah, I like Lorenzo alright, in the role he is in, but it’s also rather... unnecessary. Like, there’s already enough going on and Magnus is honestly already suffering enough without additionally getting kicked while he’s on the ground??

2.b) Also I am willing to bet money that the whole entire story-point of Magnus losing his loft is so Ma/ec can find ~a place of their own~ and move in early after all. Because seriously literally every single loss and suffering Magnus has endured in this show had the sole purpose of furthering the ship. I’d like for him to be, you know, treated as his own person?

Also, high-key Alec threatening Lorenzo over the very fair deal that Lorenzo made with Magnus, regardless of how petty it was, was... Not Good. This is exactly part of the point I keep making why the “OH NO the Clave is torturing Downworlders! We would have never expected uwu” is absolute bullshit for Alec and Isabelle. Because treating Downworlders as inferior is literally how they were raised. And this little display of “I can strip you off your power for upsetting my boyfriend because I’m a Shadowhunter” was very much an act of “I am the superior species” and that’s... uh. Yeah.

2.c) What also bothers me is the magic though. I mean this was like... borrowed magic? From Lorenzo. So, does it wear off? Is this going to be like another addiction plotline where Magnus pulls a Willow Rosenberg and goes for regular magic-fixes because he needs more whenever it wears off?? Because I can’t imagine that “a higher demon took all of my magic in a deal” can literally be resolved by a 2 second, non-draining magic transfer from the High Warlock? Like, Lorenzo wasn’t even outta breath? It can’t have been that easy.

3.) Filing. Okay, hear me out on this one. Literally everything in the Institute is incredibly high tech - all their fancy screens and scans, their database of warlocks, security system, the whole 3D projection of the city they can pull up. There is just no way that they have not digitalized all those old tomes and couldn’t just cross-referrence “Morning Star Sword” in some database. No way in fucking hell.

This is part where the whole world building doesn’t seem fully thought through again. They have all of those heavy, old books in their library. They would have digitalized those. They would have created Institute-wide networks to cross-referrence instead of solely relying on heavy old books in libraries that you gotta comb in person to find shit.

Not in a world where “A Shadowhunter in Paris has just reported a Stele missing” reaches the New York Institute in five nanoseconds. They’re more organized than that and they have shown to be more digitalized than that.

Sure, they’d still have the libraries for aesthetic reasons, but they sure as shit would have used spells or something, or even the Silent Brothers who apparently have enough free time to illustrate Paradise Lost, to digitalize their books.

4.) Luke. Luke getting stalked by those cops for? What? Reason?? Seriously, what charges do they have. It’s not like 0llie died, she was apparently transferred so she could have easily cleared Luke of whatever he was accused of when she had disappeared. There is... literally no legal reason why he is still suspended and why they would have cops trailing him? And then he just... immediately gets arrested. You really think that in the what, ten minutes that you had lost sight of Luke since you stalked him at the café, he had enough time to slaughter all those people. What the fuck, man.