Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (22 page)

I stayed put, surrounded by my own blood and vomit.

Yuri nudged me in the side with the toe of his foot. “I say get up.”

“I say fuck your mother.”

(
What!?
)

Yuri exploded downward with a pile-driving punch into my kidney. I cried out and rolled onto my side. The pain was so intense, I almost puked again.

“Kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that,” Mr. John said.

Still on my side, still writhing and grimacing and clutching at a kidney I feel has burst, I for some reason asked: “You wanna borrow them?”

A brief pause. And then finally a little chuckle. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea,” Mr. John said, setting the gun aside and then picking up the knife.

(
You FUCKING idiot…
)

And the male ego’s foresight remains forever blind.

Obviously, I said nothing.

“I don’t think he’s listening,” Mr. John said, now propped casually on his side by an elbow, the bench his sofa, my plight his film. New ground for him, I’m sure. “Can you please check and see if he’s listening first?”

Yuri, still squatting in front of me, still grinning, gripped my left ear and sliced it clean-off.

The pain was awful, yet not as bad as the kidney or the broken nose. Huh. Still, I could not help but moan and place a hand over the new hole in my head.

Yuri wiggled my severed ear in front of my face. “Look what I
haaaaave…
”

All three of them laughed. Yuri tossed the ear and wiped his hand on me.

“Think he’s listening now?” Mr. John said.

“Maybe we take the other?” Vlad said.

Yuri slapped me, then jerked my head so he could get to my remaining ear. He gripped it tight between his thumb and index finger.

“Are you forgetting his offer?” Mr. John said.

Yuri looked over his shoulder.

Mr. John gave a theatrical splay of the hands. “I have no balls, gentlemen. He’s willing to lend me his.”

Yuri grinned again. Traced the knife down my curled body until it arrived at my groin. Started tapping the blade against my hip, breaths of anticipation coming out that grinning mouth like he wanted to fuck me.

More laughter at my squirming.

“Pussy,” I said. It was soft and labored, but they heard it.

The laughter stopped.

“Come again?” Mr. John said.

“I said pussy. You’re a fucking pussy.”

Yuri stood upright. Both he and Vlad looked at Mr. John; this was never in any of the scripts they’d read.

“Really?” Mr. John said. “We’re pussies, are we?”

I inched on my side until my eyes met Mr. John’s. I had no ear; my shattered nose was still a painful, leaky mess; and my entire body throbbed like a hangover. Yet I made sure when I locked eyes with this prick, he saw none of my pain, only a willful man stating an absolute fact. “No—not them. You.
You’re
the pussy.
One…big…giant…pussy.
” I then rolled onto my back and started laughing. Light at first, and then loud and uncontrollable, like a lunatic.

Behind my tears, I could make out Yuri and Vlad still exchanging looks as if they’d been asked a riddle. Mr. John’s expression was a far different read. He was livid. In one furious movement, he snatched the gun, leapt from the bench, and jammed the barrel in my face. Still laughing, I closed my eyes and waited to die.

It never came. Two loud knocks on the locker room door came instead.

Two more knocks.

“Who is that?” Vlad said.

Mr. John said nothing. He inched toward the door, gun now held behind his back. Yuri went to follow but Mr. John held up a hand, stopping him.

Three knocks now.

“Who
is
that?” Vlad asked again.

Mr. John spun on his man. In a loud whisper: “
Shut up! Whoever the hell it is, we don’t want them coming in here and seeing THIS.
” He waved an arm back and forth over my mangled body. “
Just shut up, and maybe they’ll go away.
”

More knocking.

Mr. John cursed under his breath, tucked the gun into his shorts, pulled his undershirt over it, and headed towards the locker room door. He was a few feet away when he turned back to us.

To Yuri and Vlad: “Stay right there and don’t make a sound.”

To me: “You’re still alive. You can stay that way. But if you make so much as a fucking fart, the three of us will pull an all-nighter taking you apart piece by piece. Up to you.”

I said nothing.

Mr. John turned back to the door. Approached cautiously. Opened it a crack and poked his head out. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Still nothing. He glanced back at us. “Stay here.” He slipped through the crack and left.

All three of us stared at that door. Yuri and Vlad’s thick chests heaved in anticipation, Yuri’s a stark white, Vlad’s a mural. My breath was no less anxious, my nose forcing me to breathe through my mouth.

Seconds passed. A minute. Nobody’s eyes left the door.

“I don’t like this,” Yuri said. He began backing up towards the bathroom stalls.

Vlad glanced back at him. “Be quiet.”

Yuri kept backing up. “Something is wrong.”

“
Shut up!
It’s nothing.”

Yuri shook his head slowly, his gray eyes narrowing, one fist clenching and unclenching, the other forever clenched on the knife as if it were his lifeline. “No…prepare, brother.”

Vlad spun, angry. “
Zatknis' na hui!
”

The locker room door opened. Paul entered wielding a gun. He fired two shots into Vlad’s chest, launching him backwards into the showers, Vlad’s dense, tattooed body hitting the tiled floor with a wet and heavy slap.

Paul’s eyes, frantic and scared, then fell on me; and I looked up with eyes equally frantic and scared—and completely dumbfounded. Paul dropped to my side instantly and began checking me.

I pushed him off. I wanted him to leave. Yuri was still here, lying in wait—a
true
trapdoor spider. Even with a gun, Paul had no chance. My words came out all wrong though:

“There’s still one more, man. Back there by the toilets. There’s still one more,” I said. It was a warning, not an order. But Paul sprang to his feet. He’d heard no warning; he’d heard an order to continue forward, to charge those stupid fucking toilets and eliminate the final threat.

“
Paul, wait!
”

Yuri appeared out of nowhere, snatching Paul’s gun-hand by the wrist and forcing it skyward, Yuri’s free hand, his knife-hand, driving up and into Paul’s gut, the gun falling from Paul’s hand and to the tile floor with a clatter, Yuri then jerking the long blade free, gripping a slumped Paul by the shoulders and tossing him aside as though he’d lost interest, Paul falling hard to the tile, eyes closed, blood painting his mouth and chin, his shirt already awash in wet red.

I will never forget these images. 

What happened next was harder to recall. Rage has a way of muddling things.

I know that I was on my feet without realizing, diving for the discarded gun. Yuri dove too, the knife coming down with him, catching me in the shoulder, the blade hitting my scapula, scraping bone. The pain was like a drug; it made me energized and manic. I scrambled for the gun, Yuri on top of me, raising the knife again. My right hand reached the pistol and I managed to spin under his weight and face him. My sudden spin affected his aim; the blade came down and missed, hitting the tile inches from my face with a clank. I jammed the gun into Yuri’s throat and pulled the trigger. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened without words. He coughed blood and it sprayed my face. I bucked him off and he rolled onto his back, dropping the knife, clutching at his throat, eyes wider. Coughs of blood now sprayed his own face as they were expelled up, and then inevitably down.

I hurried to my feet, wiped blood from my face with the back of my forearm, and shot Yuri up and down his torso until those wide eyes never blinked again. Then a few steps over to Vlad, and a few more bullets into his chest, just to make sure.

Paul.

I dropped the gun and rushed to his side, adrenaline still anesthetizing my pain. His shirt was soaked in blood, his eyes still closed. I placed my good (only) ear to his face and listened. His breath was a shallow wheeze, but it was there.

I gripped his shoulder and shook him. “Paul…
Paul
…”
            He opened his eyes. “I’m here.”

I felt like breaking down and sobbing right there. “What the fuck, man?”

He coughed. It had a wet, phlegmy gurgle to it that wasn’t phlegm. “Did we get them all?”

I nodded. “They’re all—” A sudden realization slapped me. “Mr. John.
Where’s Mr. John?
”

“Who?”

“
The guy! The guy who went looking for you!
” I started to my feet. Paul grabbed my arm.

“It’s okay, man…he’s out…I knocked him the fuck out…how do you think I got the gun?”

“He’s not dead?”

Another wet cough. “I don’t know. I got him pretty good with my crowbar.”

Paul kept a big crowbar with duct tape on the handle in his back seat. I used to tease him about it, calling him a wannabe tough guy and such. I couldn’t be more grateful for the damn thing now. Still, Mr. John could be alive. Worse still, alive and awake.

I ran a hand over Paul’s sweaty brow. “Stay here and hold on for me, brother, okay? Can you do that?”

More wet coughs. “Where the hell am I going?”

I got to my feet, spotted the gun by Vlad’s corpse, snatched it, and hurried out the locker room door to find Mr. John.

I glanced over at Paul. “Still with me, brother?”

He gave me a thumbs-up, but he was looking paler by the second.

(
Then save him. Stop this shit and get him the hell out of here.
)

I can’t stop. I can’t leave Mr. John alive and you know it. We’ve come this far. The hard part is done.

(
The hard part will be knowing you waited too long to save your friend.
)

Shut the FUCK up.

I dragged Mr. John to a urinal, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his face into the porcelain mouth, my free hand on the silver handle, flushing repeatedly. He eventually stirred, then started to gasp and choke as the water flooded his nose and mouth. I kept him there a tick longer, then ripped his head free and tossed him away.

His wet face embellishing the look of a frightened child’s, Mr. John scooted backwards on his ass, one hand out in front, pleading. “Whatever you want…whatever you want…”

“The money. Where is it?”

His frightened face shifted; he looked confused.

“The fucking money you bring here to make deposits! Where is it!?”

The confusion shifted back to fear. He stammered and fumbled his words. “I…it’s in the front office…in the desk.” And then a sudden look of self-reprimand. “I mean
under
the desk, it’s
under
the desk.”

“What do you mean?”

Another demonstrative face of self-reprimand, as though his earnest attempts might be taken into consideration come sentencing. “Sorry—it’s on the underside of the
top drawer
. It’s in a carrier belt attached to the
underside of the top drawer
. Take whatever you want…take it all.”

“I will thanks.” I kicked him in the face and sent him back to bed.

I pulled the belt free and unzipped it a few inches.

“
Fuck me…
”

Strike rats and replace with hundred dollar bills for that beautiful, beautiful snake’s diet. And he’d been a hungry bugger. I pulled a stack—the paper money band that held it read $10,000—and fanned it beneath my nose to make sure it was real. I’m no banker or counterfeit specialist or whatever, but it smelled like real money to me. Looked like it too.

I put the stack back in the belt, zipped it up, slung it over my shoulder, and ran back to the locker room. Inside, I laid the belt next to Paul.

“What the hell’s that?” he asked.

All I said was, “Almost home, brother,” and started towards the toilets, plucking up the bloody knife next to Yuri’s body en route.

Mr. John was still out. I bent and ripped off his undershirt. Then his boxers. He was now balls-naked—but not for long. I slapped him until he woke, his realization that he was naked hitting him like another slap as he cowered and cried and curled into a defensive ball.

I laughed. “You really are a pussy.” I pulled the knife and he cried harder, curled tighter, retreating into himself his only means of defense. “I’d love to pull an all-nighter,” I said, throwing his words back at him, “but I’m afraid I can’t. So, I’m gonna have to make this count. Even though they’re not much—looks like their roommate isn’t much either—I’m going to take from you what you couldn’t from me. Make sure you scream after, if you don’t mind; I’ve always wondered if that whole high voice thing was a myth or not.”