chapter 2: niggaz done started something.

“I was the only one who made it out alive. What a fucking trip.” Axl was recounting the story of the brutal massacre last week at the warehouse to Johnny from behind the wheel of his banged up, baby blue Volvo station wagon. His left arm dangled out of window, pressed against the door, while the other loosely held control of the steering wheel, which was beginning to lose scraps of its synthetic leather. Johnny sat in the passengers’ seat staring blankly ahead of him and bobbing his head up and down to the garage rock screeching from the radio. He gave Axl the impression that he hadn’t been paying any attention to anything he said since they had started off on the road, but that was the impression Johnny gave whenever you said anything to him directly. That, and the impression he might blow chunks on your shirt at any moment.

“Good thing the Germans had already been defeated,” Johnny retorted. By that, Axl knew he meant, “Good to see you’re alive and well.” Maybe. Johnny continued his heavy surveillance on the road ahead, his eyes darting up and down with every yellow dash they passed.

To get to their destination, they had to trek a great distance from their quaint little home in Santa Destroy. They were driving through the seemingly endless desert, which was devoid of any kind of landmark at all. There wasn’t a single cactus, a rock, a bush—just miles upon miles upon miles of cracked desert mud that surrounded them in every direction they could turn their heads. The sky was as barren as the earth without a reassuring cloud or calling bird floating across it, just the overpowering sun bearing down on their tiny, cramped little putter. The heat kept the two broiling at all times, but after riding in the condition for an hour, they had both gotten used it. Axl couldn’t stop thinking about the unfortunate fuckers who had to pave the road they were driving on. He and Johnny were in a car and they felt like they were being baked alive, but actually having to work his ass off out there, the sweat evaporating off of his back before it could even collect into a drop, knowing that he had hundreds of miles to go before his job was finished, it was a thought that made Axl proud he was a lazy bastard. He smiled to himself and tapped his fingers on the car door.

They were headed nowhere, right into the middle of it. There were of a couple of acquaintances living there in a small, dingy trailer home that Axl and Johnny had scheduled a meeting with a few weeks earlier. The pair’s small stash of drugs had diminished rapidly since the warehouse massacre; that night and the next few nights afterward Axl had taken more drugs in a single setting than he ever had in his life. This allowed him to escape from reality for a good while, but unfortunately, good things don’t last forever, much like their supply, and the craving came back with reality. Things were different for Johnny, however. Johnny defied gravity everyday of his life. Johnny never came down. He was always gone somewhere, and it made Axl envious. Anywhere else was the one place Axl wanted to be, and then more than ever. But the feeling would fall to the back of his mind again once they got what they came for; he just had to keep following the yellow brick road.

The car cruised along the dusty road as a blinding light approached them from the horizon. It beckoned them, twinkling and twirling on the desert plain, acting as a beacon for those who have lost their peace of mind. It told Axl, glistening through the windshield and reflecting off of his bright blue eyes, that salvation was merely moments away, refuge was near, and sanctuary was waiting. Axl’s knuckled waned white around the steering wheel, and the corners of his cracking lips curled upwards into a grin. His shoulders rose higher with every breath he took, and every breath he took came faster than the next. The familiar feeling of anticipation and simultaneous relief filled the car’s interior. Without turning to his passenger, Axl rang out, “Johnny,” allowing Johnny to embrace the warmth, “this is it. We’ve have now arrived in Oz.”

As the light began to take the shape of a silver trailer home, Axl drew nearer and nearer to it until he pulled into the makeshift driveway, which was marked by the tire tracks of cars that had stopped by in the past. Axl was certain a few of the tracks had been his, and Johnny must have had the same thought; as he was unfastening his seatbelt he leaned forward and peered through the windshield to see if any of the patterns looked familiar. He continued looking around at the graveled ground as he stepped out of the car.

Axl eagerly trotted up to the rusting steps in front of the home’s entrance with Johnny trailing behind him, hands in his pockets, head in the clouds. Not much had taken place in preceding eight days or so, but who said there needed to be? A week of not doing anything but drugs and laundry was just period of rest and relaxation the stressed out, strung out junkie needed. Gave him the time to sort a few things out, find out what was important to him in his life. It wasn’t anything different than it was before the massacre, but he was at least aware of what it was now, which was drugs. Drugs, and Johnny of course. He could never get anywhere without his best and most trusted friend at his side. He made the most of his recovery period as he could, setting the goal to do everything he loved doing, only being high as a kite while doing it. Playing video games, play card games with Johnny, eating Chinese food prepared by Mexicans. Then he ran dry, and the fun had to stop.

With Big Boss being dead and his business halted, Axl had to actually buy his drugs now, which meant that he had to find new connections, which meant that he and Johnny had to go look for hot spots that weren’t run by Big Boss, who controlled most of the business in Santa Destroy. After a good while of scouring the city for another meth dealer, they failed, but eventually came across a young man who said he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who carried. They questioned their way down the gossip train until they got to his man, who, of course, only gave them a vague hint at where to find the drugs.

“Follow the yellow brick road,” he had said. The dude was wearing a patchy straw hat and a tee shirt with the Santa Destroy flag pattern on it that read “I went to Santa Destroy and all I got was Syphilis.” He had a total of maybe four and a half teeth, all of which in the back, despite appearing to be only in his mid-thirties. That was the sole reason for Axl not punching the strange man in the mouth, because it wouldn’t make much of an impact if he did. Axl and Johnny had cruised the streets for another hour, pissed and clueless, respectively, before the found just what they were looking for. The city exit sign, bombarded with graffiti. “You are now leaving Santa Destroy,” it had read underneath the vandals’ attempt at immortality. Only, Johnny had noticed—please note, Johnny had noticed—that the exit sign was not an exit sign at all, but a welcome sign. Someone had crossed out “Santa Destroy” in yellow spray paint and written “KANSAS” in block letters. After gawking at Johnny’s feat of comprehension previously believed impossibly, Axl drove them both down the road into the desert.

And there the two of them were, after marinating in their own sweat for hours, standing on the steps to heaven. Beyond the not-quite-golden gate was an orchestra of glass breaking, pans clanging, and coughing. Lots and lots of coughing. Axl couldn’t contain his eagerness when he knocked on the door, rapping his knuckles against the aluminum rapidly. At the sound, a high-pitched, street-savvy voice barked from inside.

“Man, the hell are you doin’? Go see who the fuck it is!” Axl’s eager smile shrunk a little bit. Johnny’s grew wider. There was more coughing coming from inside, and Axl couldn’t tell if it was getting worse, closer, or both. Then the door swung open and the two were suddenly face to face with a very strange sight of a human being, though Axl couldn’t tell if it was a male of a female. The person was drowning an oversized red hoodie that was adorned with little cartoon lions, dotted everywhere from the draping sleeves to the hood that engulfed her—his?—head. They had scruffy red hair, but that was about as much as Axl could make out on the person’s head, because it was wearing red snowboarding goggles that reflected his pale face back at him, and a surgical mask that was dotted with what looked like blood. She--it must have been a she because she was wearing brown spandex leggings—was wearing yellow boots, those Uck boots, or whatever they were called. She didn’t greet Axl or Johnny, just stood there in the doorway. She was probably staring at them, though it was impossible to tell. Axl he so close he could hear her breathe, and it sounded like she was having a hard time.

Axl timidly took a few steps back, before opening his mouth to speak. Johnny managed to wedge in a greeting before Axl could say anything, so Axl sealed his lips and crossed his fingers that Johnny would make some kind of sense. It was a foolish thought.

“Hola, comrade!” Johnny chimed. “I’m here on a special quest, one that I take very personally.” He took a few noble steps closer to the androgynous dealer before continuing. “You see, I’ve traveled several miles by dogsled to get here, and finally I can say with great pride and relief that I have brought all of your eight children their tuberculosis vaccinations!”

Axl stood by silently, more ashamed that he let Johnny speak than by what Johnny had said. He waited to see if the trailer troll would respond, if at all possible, but she just stood there. At this point, Axl wasn’t sure she was still alive. He walked up to Johnny and dragged him back to the car before addressing her himself.

“By that, Johnny here means that we heard you were carrying, and we’re interested.” He probably meant that. Axl tried his best not to irritate her, realizing that he was, in fact, intimidated by her. She stood there, still and silent, for a while longer, before coughing loudly and heading back inside. Axl felt his heart break a little bit.

“Were…were we just refused?” Axl asked Johnny, who seemed as confused as he was.

“Could be. Could be not,” Johnny replied as he sat on the hood of the car, which was painted brown from bugs.

“Now look what you’ve done. You’ve freaked them out.” Axl slumped back to the car and leaned against the driver’s side window. “Now we’ve gotta go all the way—“

But before he could finish his sentence, the lion-print chick—no he was a dude, he was too flat-chested to be a chick—came back outside. Only now, he was holding a shotgun in his hand.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Axl stumbled and shuffled backwards, his hands outstretched in a plea for mercy. “We—we don’t wanna cause any trouble! We just want some drugs!” He cowered behind the car and found Johnny already there. Johnny was smiling. The lion guy just stood there in the doorway, shotgun in hand. Axl could only keep asking himself why this kept happening to him. How did he keep finding himself in this situation?

“Dude, relax!” he pled from behind the car. “We just want some drugs!” Johnny was giggling away. Axl slowly poked his head out from the left side of the car. The lion hacked up another lung and hoisted the shotgun up and cocked it.

“Shit!” Axl squealed, squirming as far to the other side of the car as possible. A gunshot reported, echoing over and over. Axl was brought back to the warehouse. The blood, the bodies. Big Boss. But we found an escape to his happy place, and came back to reality. The left tire was completely flat, and there holes in the bumper.

“Shit! You gave me a flat!” That was when Johnny stopped giggling. “Do you realize how far I have to drive to get home?”

The voice inside the trailer barked again. “Motherfucker! What the fuck d’you think you doing?” The trailer door slammed. “What the fuck are you doin’ with the fuckin’ shotgun? I told yo’ ass this was for motherfuckin’ emergencies only! What the fuck don’t you understand about a motherfuckin’ emergency, huh? Shit! Gimme that!”

Axl poked his head out to the right side, a bit more apprehensively than before, to see who had just come outside. It was a man, definitely this time, with dark skin and hair like black licorice. He too was masked, but with a checkered black and white bandana. He was wearing a black, sleeveless hoodie with a gray, 8-bit skull design on the front over a shirt with white and silver sleeves. His gray pants were tight, very possibly too tight. The lion coughed—that cough was definitely female, he really was a she—and pointed in the direction of the car. Axl’s heart jumped. The silver-sleeved man looked Axl right in the eye, looked back at the lion.

“Nigga, this is a fuckin’ customer!” he yelled. “You don’t fuckin’ shoot at the motherfuckin’ customers!” The lion wheezed, and then coughed wetly.

“Where is yo’ goddamn mind? How many fuckin’ brain cells you still got?”

The lion coughed.

“This is a fuckin’ business I’m tryin’ to run here. You understand that?”

The Lion coughed again.

“No, you don’t. ‘Cause if you did, you’d realize that the first rule of business etiquette is that the customer comes first. And the customer can’t come first if they fuckin’ head blown off, right?”

The Lion was silent.

“Right?” Silver-sleeves persisted.

The Lion coughed.

“Right. So if that motherfucker is still alive, I want you to apologize, sincerely, for tryin’ to fuckin’ blow his brains out. Okay?”

The Lion wheezed, and then coughed.

“Okay. And get yo’ ass some motherfuckin’ Robitussin or some shit,” Silver-sleeves snapped, “I’m gettin’ fuckin’ tired of hearing that shit, and whatever the fuck you have, I don’t want it.” He turned back to face Axl again. “Look, I’m sorry, man,” he said sympathetically, “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just this motherfucker ain’t got no goddamn sense.”

Axl dropped back down behind the car, and turned to Johnny. Johnny asked, “Should we stand up?”

“Pfft!” hissed Axl, “Only if you want to die!”

Johnny furrowed his brow and looked down at the ground, the look Johnny always gets when he makes a decision of any kind. Then, much to Axl’s dismay, he stood up and approached the two. Axl watched nervously from behind the car.

“You’ll have to forgive good ol’ Spike,” Johnny said. “He’s a good dog, but he’s been rather confused since the accident.” The silver-sleeved dude extended an arm and gave Johnny an apologetic pat on the back, looking somewhat unsure if he had heard Johnny correctly. The shotgun dragged on the ground in his other hand. The lion-pattern person was on look out—that’s when Axl noticed something. Follow the yellow brick road, lion patterns, silver sleeves…They were in Oz, and they had just come face to face with the Lion and the Tinman. Very clever on their part.

“Yeah, whateva’,” The Tinman responded. “How much are you lookin’ for? All of our shit is homemade, jus’ like mama used to make.” He chuckled lowly, nervously.

The Tinman continued chuckling and making small talk with Johnny, making football puns and chatting lightheartedly about the weather. Axl was unsure of what he was hearing. Were they actually inviting him inside? Hadn’t they just tried to kill the both of them? His heart was still pounding like a speed metal drum solo, and his mind was racing. In the face of danger yet again, and barely even a week. He could hide there and wait until they had given Johnny what he wanted, but what if that wasn’t their attention at all? He watched as the dread-head made one-sided conversation with Johnny, patting him on the back heavily, Johnny listening intently. The Lion stood behind Johnny watching them, or at least looking in their direction. The way that chick looked, tussled red hair and bloody mask, Axl could only imagine all the different levels of crazy that chick was on. She was probably nuts before the drugs fucked her up, and now here she was, insane as shit, scoping out Axl’s best friend. Was she capable—could she eat him? No, that was too crazy. She wasn’t that crazy, even if she tried to kill them.

The three of them turned around and started towards the trailer, the Tinman’s arm around Johnny’s shoulder, still spouting off apologies and excuses. The window to react was getting smaller. Axl flipped a coin in his head, and when it came up heads he cursed and stood out from his hiding place.

“H-Hey, don’t forget about me, dudes!” he called reluctantly. The Lion stopped dead in her tracks and turned her unnerving gaze onto him. The Tinman tried to fit in a few more compliments and excuses before turning himself and Johnny towards Axl. He looked up at the scrawny blonde with eyes that seemed welcoming, the eyes of a used car salesman or one of those guys on the television infomercials. But even so, something seemed off in them, something Axl couldn’t quite put his finger on. But then it was gone, in an instant, and replaced with a look Axl was very familiar with. Furrowed brow, sweating, widened eyes. It was the look of someone about to go on the attack.

“Oh, shit,” the Tinman said breathily at first, but then proceeded to shouting, “Oh, shit! You that nigga that killed Big Boss!” His free hand clenched into a fist. The other clenched around the shotgun.

The warehouse popped back into his mind. He saw the killer in his flashy attire, wielding his strange glowing weaponry, standing amidst the endless heaps of bodies. Only, it wasn’t the killer, the face was too familiar—it was Axl standing there. But it wasn’t him who killed Big Boss, right? No, he had just witnessed it! Something wasn’t adding up. Not that Axl could add in the first place.

“Whoa, hey!” Axl squealed. “I d-d…I didn’t do shit--” But before he could even finish his plea, the barrel of the shotgun was aimed directly at his bony chest, and the Tinman was cocking it. Axl flinched at the sound, and reflexively dove back behind the car. His hands and knees skid across the sand and gravel, probably scraping him up pretty bad. But the sudden blast that followed right behind him engulfed any pain he might of felt and replaced it with fear. He flattened his back against the back of the car and saw the dozen little holes in the ground in his car and on the ground.

“No, dude, no!” Axl was screaming, “I have to fuckin’ drive home! Don’t you understand that?” Another round was sent his way, spitting another cluster of holes into the side of his car. Axl scuttled closer to the other end of the car, hugging his knees close to him.

“Hey, take a chill pill dude!” It was Johnny’s voice. “Don’t get mad, get glad! Don’t worry, be happy. Don’t trip, tie your shoe. You know?” He was probably trying to say, “That’s my friend there, and he’s telling the truth.” Probably. There was a short moment of silence, just long enough for Axl to take a breath in, but he held it when the Tinman’s voice growled again.

“You in cahoots with that motherfucker, huh?” He barked. The Lion broke out into a series of wet, throat shredding coughs. “You tryin’ to play me like a bitch, ain’t you?”

Johnny’s voice was shaky. In a last attempt to soothe the angry shooter, he broke out into song. “Don’t worry! Be happy! ‘Cause every little ‘ting, is gonna be alright!” The song then turned into rhythmic low-toned hums and clicks of his lips, and Axl couldn’t help but to feel a little bit cheerier.

“Nigga, get yo’ junkie ass outta my face!” The shotgun clacked twice. Panicked footsteps drew closer. There was another report, and then Johnny was sitting right beside Axl, his arms wrapped around his legs.

“Bobby McFerrin didn’t work!” Johnny wiped the sweat from his brow. “Bobby McFerrin always works!”

The Lion’s coughs got heavier and deeper, and the Tinman put a few more rounds into the car. With every little pop of bullets piercing the car doors, Axl cringed. He kept thinking about those poor fuckers who had to build those roads in the middle of nowhere. Oh, how hard they must be laughing right now. The Tinman shouted threats at them between gunshots.

“I’m gon’ kill y’all’s motherfuckin’ asses!” Bang. “You thought you was tough shit!” Bang. “Well, you ain’t so tough now, is you, motherfucker?” Bang! “Huh?” Bang! Bang!

By this point, Axl had given up all resistance. He just wanted to throw in the towel and surrender, and cross his fingers they wouldn’t kill him. Sitting next to Johnny, it was the way he hoped he’d always go. Maybe his vision didn’t include dying in the desert, or getting blasted to bits by a pump-action shotgun, or dying on a drug run, but Johnny was definitely there, so it was better than nothing. Axl looked at him, and Johnny was laughing again, only this time he seemed so much more relaxed. Axl reached deep into his pockets for some kind of tissue or bandana he could use as a white flag, but he managed to pull out was a fist full of pocket lint. His socks would be good, but they were so small the Tinman might not see them and blast his hand off. He patted himself down for anything useful, but the unending barrage of gunshots and vulgar threats and deathly coughs broke his train of thought. His pat down his legs. His pockets. His waist. When he got to the back of his waist, his fingers stubbed on something he forgot he even had.

The oversized gun with the initials “B.B.” inscribed into the sides was tucked into the back of his waistband, waiting patiently for Axl to get some goddamn sense.

“Fuck yeah,” Axl whispered. He pulled out the gun and held it high above the safe area of cover, high enough for the two offenders to see the spectacle. And they did. They suddenly saw everything, and the shooting stopped, the coughing stopped, and everything but the wind and Johnny’s laughter had become silent.

“Oh, shit,” breathed the Tinman.

The Lion wheezed.

That was cue enough for Axl.

“’Oh, shit’ is right!” He piped as he sprang up from his cover. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

The Lion and Tinman were both statues. Axl lowered the gun from the sky to their faces; the gun drooped a little lower than he anticipated, and he raised his arm a little higher. This was the position of control. It felt good.

“You know what I can do with this.” His voice was menacing.

“That’s Big Boss’ gun,” the Tinman said. “You really did kill him.”

Axl was back in the warehouse. The killer that was him standing in the bloody mess. Checkered houndtooth vest. Black tie. He was smiling. He was no killer, but…

“Yeah! Y-Yeah!” How could a scrappy little shit like him kill the legendary Big Boss? “That’s fuckin’ right, I did.” Johnny tried to stifle his laughter, but only managed to reduce it to a bunch of snorts and giggles. “A-And you’re next. You don’t know who you’re m-messing around with.” Axl could barely keep the gun still in his hand. He wasn’t sure of what was going on, but he was going to play along.

“Hey!” It was one of those Fonzie ‘heys.’ “Hey, yo, my bad!” The Tinman held his trembling arms outstretched, still holding the shotgun. “My bad, man! We just got off on the wrong foot, that’s all!”

“Drop the shotgun,” Axl said. Johnny, finally able to keep his laughter down, came to his side and put on his best ‘mean face.’ The Tinman followed his order. Clouds of dust stirred up from the fallen firearm. “Kick it over here.” Again, the Tinman obeyed.

“Let me explain—“ the Tinman started.

“Shut the fuck up,” snapped Axl. He was a bad ass now. He grinned a little bit. “Now, c-c-c-can we get some drugs, or what?” He whispered for Johnny to pick up the gun, so Johnny listened. He even checked to make sure it was loaded.

“Yeah, how much you want?”

“Enough to last me for the rest of my fucking life.”

The Lion responded swiftly and disappeared inside the trailer. Axl warned the Tinman that if she tried anything stupid, he would die—he couldn’t think of a clever and violent metaphor for dying. The Lion soon came back outside, holding several small bags of the drugs to present to them. Johnny stopped her from getting too close with a cock of the gun.

“Hold it, sparky,” he spat. The Lion stopped in her tracks and tossed all of the bags at their feet. Johnny round them up and scurried to the car to toss them in, then came back with a hard-edge scowl, turning the gun back on the Lion and Tinman. Johnny was definitely getting a kick out of the situation; Axl had never seen him look so intimidating since he met the guy. He could almost pass for a younger, more strung-out Shaft. Axl couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying it too, despite how frightened and nervous he was. For once, he was the top dog, if only for a few moments, and if only just pretending. It was liberating.

“N-Now, you listen up,” he said, his raspy voice cracking, “I’m the new boss around here. So d-don’t give me any shit!” He jabbed the gun at them, and his wrist flopped around like a rag doll. He stumbled toward the car keeping his eyes and aim focused on the dealers, signaling Johnny to do the same with a bump of his shoulder. He glanced over at the car for a second, but that’s all that was needed to see the damage done. The entire side of the car was peppered with little black holes. There were bullet-holes upon bullet-holes upon bullet-holes going deep into the side panels. The glass windows were all in shards on the ground, and only two-thirds of the windshield was still there. There wasn’t much left of the rear tires, just bits of rubber. Axl groaned in despair. His feet were already beginning to hurt.

“Dammit, dude,” he groaned. “How are we gonna get home?” Axl wondered silently if the car could still be driven, but he doubted it at the same time.

“I’m not walking,” Johnny said sharply, “the hell with walking.”

The Tinman raised a mousy hand, his shoulders lifting just a bit. “Well, uh, we got a ride behind the trailer,” his voice trailed off. The Lion hacked out another angry cough and punched the Tinman in the shoulder.

“Gimme the keys!” Axl squeaked shakily. The Lion dove deep into her oversized jacket pocket until it started jingling, and whipped out a ring of glistening silver keys, tossing it to the frazzled junkie. She stood looking at the Tinman for an awkward moment, then punched him again. The Tinman flinched, but he took it. Axl chuckled under his breath.

“If you even think about pulling something,” Axl started, “then we’ll blow your fucking heads off!” He was starting to think they were getting his point.

“And we know the Russians,” Johnny adding, cocking the shotgun.

“What are your names?” The dealers remained silent, looking back and forth between each other and Axl. Eventually, their eyes settled on Axl in resignation. “That’s fine,” Axl said. He pointed a narrow finger at the man with the dreadlocks and said, “You’re the Tinman.” He shifted his finger in the direction of the redhead hiding in the lion-printed coat and said, “You’re the Lion.”

The Tinman looked down and said mutedly, “I never even thought of that….”

“I’ll be watching out for you two,” Axl snarled. He signaled for Johnny to go to dealers’ car; he followed close behind, not breaking eye contact with either of them until the disappeared on the other side of the trailer. The car that Johnny and Axl found wasn’t much, but it was what they expected from two drug dealers living in the middle of the desert. It was painted the most awful shade of brown Axl had ever seen in his life, and it looked to be maybe twenty or thirty years old. He tried to make out the kind of car it was, but he couldn’t see it clearly. He then realized it was because it looked to be in Russian print.

“Is that…?” he asked Johnny.

“I told you we know them,” Johnny replied.

The sound of panicked voices came from around the corner, cueing Axl to hurry up and get inside. He whipped around to the drivers side and dove in. But once inside, he was baffled to discover that where the steering wheel should be there was only shoddy wood paneling. It was as if a steering wheel had never existed in the first place.

“Shit, dude, there’s no steering wheel!” Axl exclaimed. He looked over at Johnny, who was sitting behind the steering wheel with a concerned look on his face.

“There isn’t?” Johnny asked.

“Nevermind, switch places,” Axl said as he got out of the car. Once the two had flipped sides, Axl kicked on the ignition and jetted in reverse. How smooth the great Axl is, he thought, how very smooth indeed. Dodging death like Neo dodges bullets, and twice in the same week. Not only that, he was getting away with more drugs than he came to get! Looking in the backseat, Axl could see the old bucket was more of a wreck than it appeared to be. It was a four-seater—no, it was a three-seater, as one of the rear seats was missing, leaving a pile of stuffing and metal scraps in its place, where the bags of dope were now. Axl’s sweat of relief was just beginning to dew his brow when the Lion and Tinman suddenly darted behind the car screaming and shouting and coughing up lungs.

“Shit!” Axl cursed, grinding on the gas. The Lion and Tinman both sprung out of the way of the car in opposite directions, still cursing and coughing. Axl wrestled the wheel to wrap the car around the corner of the trailer and out of the way of the more than disgruntled druggies. He fumbled with the gear shift to get the car into drive again, cursing as the anxiety came down over him again, but Johnny helped and the stick lurched forward. Axl hit the accelerator as fast as he could, and the car sped off in a cloud of dirt, leaving the trailer of Oz and the Tinman and Lion behind. Johnny turned around in his seat to watch them disappear into the horizon after futilely trying to chase he and Axl down.

“That’s how you do it, Ax,” he cheered. Axl laughed. The road they were on led to a much needed, highly anticipated break time; to nights on the sofa watching television or playing video games; to mornings he didn’t wake up from nightmares. Surely, he was an unbelievably lucky kid, being able to survive a massacre, and then survive two batshit drug dealers with guns right afterward; although, he was certainly unlucky to have found himself in those situations to begin with. He took a glance in his rearview mirror to make sure there was nothing but desert behind him. The only thing he could see was sand and asphalt. He found it funny how that same sight had made him feel sick to his stomach on the trip there. Now everything was as topsy-turvy as the Russian shitbucket they were driving, and the warm feeling inside of him seemed to make the desert heat go away. Suddenly, the whole interior of the car was roaring with laughter, and it startled him. But as he looked over at Johnny, who was watching the desert flats out the window, he realized that the howling had come from his own mouth.

It had been just over an hour since they had departed from the trailer, and they were about halfway through the return trip back to Santa Destroy. Johnny had since fallen asleep with his head against the cloudy window. The sun was beginning to set, and the silence had left Axl’s mind free to wander and ponder all of those things the city noise kept him from ever having to worry about. At that moment, he had taken another mental visit back to the warehouse. He couldn’t figure out how the Tinman and Lion knew about him being there at the warehouse, as he hadn’t made a peep about it to anyone other than Johnny. Johnny couldn’t have told anyone about it, he couldn’t carry on a conversation for that long without his imagination making the better of him. And no one could have overheard him telling the story, unless of course someone had been sitting outside his window listening in on his every conversation. It wasn’t unheard of in Santa Destroy, but if anyone was going to listen in on anyone else, why to him? He was just some punk kid who had failed at life before even hitting thirty, there was nothing going on with him that was worth the effort. The question had Axl scratching his head in confusion and twirling his hair in bafflement. That was only half of the mystery, too.

The other half was why the Tinman believed that he was the one who killed Big Boss and everyone else in that warehouse. Axl didn’t have the appearance of a mass murderer, and if he was barely able to hold his own against two lowlifes, how would he stand a chance against one of the most feared names in crime? None of it seemed logical, but he still couldn’t come up with any idea of how they could have possibly got the notion. He was hiding behind Big Boss’ patchy, red throne the entire time, he couldn’t have seen anything, let alone done anything. The only time he noticed anything was when he stood up and when to examine the death around him—

There it was. It hit him so hard in the face—how could he have forgotten something like that? After tiptoeing his way around the carnage, another survivor made his presence known. Yeah, he was the large, pisspants black guy who had squealed like a girl and scared Axl off of his feet. He must have been doing the same exact thing Axl was doing, hiding and praying for his life. He most likely didn’t see a single person get killed, and definitely not who killed them all. But when he took that step from behind the pillar and saw Axl standing there in the midst of the bodies of all of his chums (who were now literally chum), it must have looked like he did all of it. No wonder he screamed like a puss. He must have run off while Axl was getting remotely licked by dead folks.

So this guy went around telling everyone that Axl had killed Big Boss, and the rumor spread like herpes in a room full of celebutants. It probably had traveled from one edge of the town to another, and since the Lion and Tinman are outside of Santa Destroy borders, they could have spread the rumor to all of their customers who came from all different corners of the earth to get some drugs from one of the few sources still left. All over the town, the state, the country, people could be thinking that Axl was the one who took down the feared and respected Big Boss, the legend who had a monopoly on crime. The kingpin. Axl could only think of one thing, and he heard his slip from between his lips.

“Fuck yeah.”

Finally, after several stops at Luchaco to fill the tank (as small as the car was, it was a real gas guzzler), they had arrived back home in quaint little Santa Destroy. Johnny was up and running and he didn’t show any signs of slowing. He had dipped into one of the bags on the way back and was now ready to party. Surprisingly, there were still lots of cars on the streets, but strangely they were all polished and decorated with different patterns and designs on them. Some of them even had lights underneath them that would illuminate the street and they drove along. Axl had never seen anything like this in Santa Destroy; it was rare that any car made after 1997 was seen on Santa Destroy’s streets. He was admiring a bright yellow muscle car with black racing stripes, when Johnny abruptly shouted, “Ax!”

Axl shot his attention back at the road in front of him, and standing in the beam of his yellowing headlight was a gangly looking young man wearing a gray hoodie and black high school gym shorts. His face was stoic, just staring the approaching car down. He didn’t even move, he just stood there, as if to say, “Your move, you fucker.” Axl pounded the brakes, and the entire car screech to a halt just inches away from hitting the kid.

“What the fuck?” Axl was screaming. “What the fuck?” He crawled out of the car sizing the kid up, glaring at him from top to bottom. He had dark hair, but his bangs were dyed an unnatural-looking shade of blonde. His jacket had a unique pattern on it: a nasty looking dog that had been run over spitting out a speech bubble that read ‘ROAD KILL MANIA.’ Axl tried not to pay it any mind. The kid just stood there and glared back.

“What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the road, kid?” Axl barked. “Pay some fucking attention, huh?”

The kid disregarded it. “Can I have a ride?”

He only wanted a ride? What ever happened to just putting out your thumb? Just looking at the guy, Axl could tell he liked to live dangerously. He found himself answering before he could even think about it.

“Yeah, hop in.” He wasn’t sure what had come over him just then, or why he had let a complete stranger in his car and had agreed to do him a favor. Maybe it was the fact that he had gone through so much trouble he felt a sudden wave of compassion. Maybe it was because he was delirious from driving so long. Or it could have been that it wasn’t his car at all. Whatever it was, the kid had already hopped inside the backseat with all of the drugs and was waiting for Axl to get behind the wheel. Axl sat himself on the would-be passenger’s side and adjusted his mirror so he could see the kid.

“Where are you going?” Axl asked.

“The motel,” he replied quietly. His voice had a twang in it, and it stung Axl’s ears.

“Yeah, you don’t live that far from us,” said Axl.

“I dun’ live there.”

“Er, oh.”

“Where d’you live?”

“A few blocks down the way.” Axl didn’t want to say more than he needed to. This kid seemed out of place. What kind of high school student was out that late, anyway?

“This is a lot of drugs,” the kid said.

“Yeah, I know,” Axl responded. He navigated the streets, speeding past the multicolored light show of cars on the road, until he arrived at the shabby motel NO MORE HEROES. The giant Santa Destroy flag posted just behind the motel was still waving, though there was relatively no wind. Axl pulled up just outside its gates and unlocked the doors for the kid to get out.

“Thanks fer the ride,” the kid said as he stepped outside the car.

Axl nodded his head once. Johnny did the same. “No prob’,” Axl replied.

Gritting his teeth in an unattractive underbite, the kid added, “And watch where yer goin’ next time, dipshit,” and slammed the door shut.

Axl shouted through the windshield, “Yeah, well, fuck you kid!” The kid heard for certain, but just kept trooping across the street paying Axl no mind.

“You really should pay more attention,” Johnny said.

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“Just saying, next time he could be a land mine—“

“Shut up.”

“—Or a dog, or an alien, or something—“

“Shut up.”

“--You never know.”

Tired, defeated, confused, excited, and eager, Axl drove them both home and was in bed before he could even get out of the car.

The next morning, Axl awoke from a dream about the kid he had met the night before. The kid was driving home with he and Johnny, and he had been quiet for the most part, until halfway through the trip when he pulled out a giant knife from his hoodie and stabbed Axl in the throat, He blacked out after that, but when he regained consciousness, his wounds were miraculously healed and he was tied up in a chair in the warehouse sitting next to Johnny. Johnny was dressed up like Solid Snake. He too was tied up. The kid was standing in front of them with a plate full of Axl’s favorite breakfast, blueberry pancakes. There had to be at least twenty in the stack, and they all looked perfectly made. In the kid’s other hand was a lighter.

The kid had asked, “Do you want to give me a ride?”

Axl spat back a passionate “Never!”

The kid opened his mouth, only a ringing came out of his mouth. “Ding, dong!” He took one of the blueberry pancakes from the top of the stack and held it over the lit flame dancing on the top of the lighter. The pancake instantly caught fire and disintegrated.

“You bastard!” Axl cried. He could actually feel the tears.

“Do you surrender?” the kid asked menacingly.

“Never!”

“Ding, dong!” Another pancake from the stack instantly turned to ash.

“Why are you doing this?” Axl pleaded pathetically.

“Because the door!” He laughed maniacally and took the entire stack into both hands. There was a large industrial-age oven behind the kid that Axl hadn’t noticed before, and the kid was now wearing Russian soldier garb and an eyepatch over one high. He moved closer to the oven, the flames inside roaring and licking at the edges. “Ding, dong!” he cackled, “Ding, dong!”

That was when he woke up.

The doorbell was ringing, and frequently. Johnny was groaning, “The door!” Axl rolled out of bed and wobbled his way to the living room and saw Johnny lying on the couch, still rolled in a blanket. “Ax, get the door!” he was grunting. Lazy bastard. Axl walked over to the door and peeked through the peephole.

The man standing on the other side had a smile as big as God’s tits. He was wearing a perfectly creased, brown suit with a matching fedora set snugly over his slick, black hair. He wore a cornflower blue tie that Axl thought threw off his entire outfit. His blue eyes looked five times bigger than they were in the lens. He was presenting Axl with what looked to be a very retro looking vacuum, maybe from around the fifties. In fact, everything about the guy looked like it was from the fifties. It gave Axl the chills.

“What do you want?” Axl called.

“Howdy, neighbor!” The man chimed back. There was enough happy in his voice to make Japanese pop sound like funeral songs.

“My name’s Benjamin Frick, and I’ve got a very exciting offer for one mister Axl Rose Donovan!”

chapter 1: kicking and screaming.

The gunshot exploded in Axl’s ears as it ricocheted off of the walls and echoed over the sick sound of blood splattering against concrete. There was gargling, gruesome and almost inhuman, and then the only sound he could hear was blood trickling down into a puddle. Axl’s heart was erratically pounding against his ribs, his entire body trembled, his face felt cold. The sound played over and over again in his head; he tried to force it out, clenching his eyes shut so tight he saw colors. His scalp was stinging, and he realized that he had been pulling on his own hair the entire time. He was too scared to stand up from his hiding place behind the tattered reclining chair, but he knew that staying the same place was going to get him killed—that is, if anyone was still alive out there. He couldn’t even begin to conceive what had happened, or why, but he knew that whatever it was, it went horribly wrong.

Gradually, Axl worked up the strength and courage to come out of his coil and finally see the damage that had been done. He lifted himself just enough for him to see over the back of the chair, his knees buckling as he did so. He was so close to the antiquated chair that the stale dust from off of it filled his lungs. It smelled like coffee, cigarettes and blood. The entire warehouse was a bloodbath. He couldn’t see much—the only lighting there was in the room was the glow of the city and the moonlight outside beaming in from the dingy windows on the second level—but he couldn’t spot a single person who still seemed to be breathing. Thugs that had seemed unstoppable earlier lay scattered across the dusty concrete, different limbs in different areas. Axl thought he could see one of the thugs’ arms in a puddle of blood next to another one of the thugs’ head, but he didn’t want to look, in fear that the head might be looking back. There was so much blood on the ground he’d have to hop from spot to spot to avoid it all. The thought of it made him sick.

In the middle of the swamp of corpses, severed limbs, and displaced entrails lay the bodies of Big Boss, Axl’s employer, and the unnamed man who had barged in only moments ago. Axl’s heart started pounding again, and he could feel the sweat forming on his brow. Big Boss had been murdered. That alone was something that could strike terror in the hearts of many, knowing that there was someone out there who was strong enough to take Big Boss down. He was no push over: his dark skin seemed to be on the verge of rupturing with muscle, and he always wore an intimidating scowl. He’d acquired a reputation of being the toughest hustler on the streets. He never lost a fight, and killed anyone who got in his way. But here he was now, so fucked up he was barely recognizable. His lower jaw was missing, as was his tongue, apparently cut clean off. The wound was smoking. From his lookout chair Axl couldn’t even begin to try and find where it could have flown off to, so he figured it would be best to take his mind off of it.

The killer, the man responsible for all this, may have been able to take down one of the most ferocious human beings on Earth, but he sure as hell didn’t live to tell the tale. His body was sprawled out at Big Boss’ feet, contorted into a shape that reminded Axl of a swastika. He had two strange metal contraptions wrapped around his arms, two small cylinders going down the length of his forearms. He wished that he had managed to get a good look at the killer’s face, just once, because now he certainly lacked one. There were pieces of skull and tufts of hair and mangled pieces of flesh—Axl shut his eyes again. It was absolutely disgusting. He’d seen dead bodies before, but never anything like this. Big Boss always carried around the same gun, but Axl had never seen him use it. Looking at the killer, his clean black and white hound-tooth vest stained black with blood, he was glad he hadn’t.

“W-w-w-,” Axl stuttered, “w-w-w-what the f-f-f…” He was so shocked he couldn’t even get on the same page with his own tongue. “W-w-w-what th-th-the f-f-fuck hap-p-pened…?” It was a stupid question, but he asked it more as assurance that he was still alive than as a way to seek an answer. He knew what happened. He just couldn’t believe it.

He took five or six cautious glances of his surroundings, to the left and the right and even behind him even though there was a wall there, before trying to balance himself on his wobbly knees and stand fully upright.

It took him a while to get there, but once he did, he felt a lot safer. Something was warm on his leg. He knew what it was before he even looked down. There was a dark spot on his worn blue jeans. He had pissed himself. He swallowed. Then he swallowed again, hard.

Axl needed to leave, and immediately. Someone might be waiting outside for the killer, or there could be more just like him on their way to finish off anyone who was left. Timidly, he tiptoed from behind the chair and carefully rested his feet on the areas of the floor that weren’t covered in blood. The body count was huge—there were at least ten men dead on the ground, some of the men all over the ground, and that wasn’t even counting Big Boss and the killer. The rest of the men must have managed to escape somehow. Lucky bastards. He took a few more precautious steps into the mess, using his skinny arms for balance. He was sweating so much that sweat had gone straight through his hoodie.

“Fuck.” This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

If indeed there was someone coming back, Axl would need a weapon. Who knew what that bastard’s reinforcements could be wielding? Some crazy, futuristic weapon straight from out of a science-fiction movie or a comic book. He didn’t see what the killer had used to massacre Big Boss and his entire force, but it glowed. It made light. Lots of light. Before every bloodcurdling scream was cut short, there was a flash of light. What was it….? No, none of that mattered. He just needed to get a weapon and get the fuck out of there as fast as he could. Some of the blood around him was trickling closer to his feet, so he hopped a little swifter, drawing closer to Big Boss’ mangled corpse. If only he could get his hands on that gun, that handcannon, he’d never have to worry about security ever again.

Axl’s legs were still trembling. It was getting harder and harder not to step in the blood. The little patches of dry concrete were getting progressively smaller and smaller. There was a smell, a nauseating stench that he had never smelled before, and he surmised that it was the smell of death. He could feel his stomach trying to push itself upward through his throat, but he covered his mouth and kept it down. It went down harshly, stinging his throat and leaving a terrible taste in his mouth.

But as he finally reached Big Boss, it forced itself up again so suddenly that it caught Axl off guard and he couldn’t catch it in time. He turned around and blew chunks into another puddle of blood. It met the floor with a loud and wet slap. He coughed so hard he thought his lungs were going to come up with his lunch.

Big Boss was completely mutilated. There was no avoiding stepping in the blood. Up close, Axl could see the extent of the damage. He could see all the way down Big Boss’s throat; what was left of his tongue dangled lazily off to the side. One of his molars had been cut clean in half, and its gooey inside was in plain sight. His eyes were wide open, still stuck in an expression of surprise, only his right eye was rolled straight up, almost into the back of his had, and the other stared endlessly at the dingy warehouse ceiling. His wound was still smoking, and the stench of the burning death found its way into one of Axl’s nostrils. He thought he was going to lose it again. He swallowed hard and pressed on, his stomach roaring and violently gurgling. Big boss was still holding the gun in his left hand, which was outstretched in the opposite direction. Axl just need to cautiously step over the body to get to it…

“What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing?” He hissed. He asked himself the same thing in his head.

Axl lifted his right foot and slowly crossed it over Big Boss’ body, blood dripping from his sneaker across the dead dealer’s torso. The stench was stronger than ever—smoke was twirling its way upward directly into his face. Axl held his breath, which he was already short on. He knelt over the body and leaned closer to the gun. Big Boss stared disapprovingly. To think that only moments ago he was going to be pummeled to death by this same man. Even after death, he had a way of making the kid want to piss his pants.

Again, anyway.

He felt something hot, something made of metal, and snatched it instinctively; staring contests with the dead wasn’t something he felt too comfortable with. Axl rose again, still looking into Big Boss’ eyes. He felt almost sympathetic towards the man, not because he was dead, but because of the way he had to die, and the circumstances. For such a respected, feared, intimidating man, it was a rather shameful way to die. But he did go out with a bang, Axl could attest to that. Such a bang his ears were still ringing. He held the gun in his hand, the hilt covered in blood. If someone were to walk through that door right at this moment, if he could land just one hit, he was sure that would be enough to put them down for good.

“Aaaaaugh!” A bloodcurdling scream of terror rang out and reverberated off the walls, making it sound like a ferocious roar. Axl flinched and about faced as fast as he could, but forgot that there was a body between his legs.

It all happened in slow motion.

He could feel himself beginning to lose balance, tipping over to his right into the pool of blood. He screamed in his head, Don’t fall! Don’t you fucking fall! But he knew he was going to. It was inevitable now. As the bloody floor rose closer to his face, Axl caught a good glimpse of who it was that made the noise that left him in the predicament he was in. It was one of Big Boss’ thugs; he must have come from behind one of the pillars in the shadowy area of the room. He was a large man, maybe about six-foot three, black, wearing a white tank top that was dotted with blood spatter. He looked absolutely terrified. He seemed to be crying.

But before Axl could notice anything else, the floor hit him hard in the face, making a huge splash as the blood collided with him. The blood splashed into his mouth and nose. It tasted like metal. His stomach wasn’t going to take it anymore. This was the limit. He couldn’t hold back any longer. There was no stopping it now. Axl let out a shrill, scratchy wail of disgust and terror as he righted himself, having to put his hands in more blood, which only made him want to scream even more. His cheek was cold and warm at the same time. It was such a grotesque sensation, and he couldn’t shake it off at all. He looked down at his hands, which were now dark red. The gun, still in his hand, was completely coated. He screamed louder. The thug that had startled him was nowhere to be seen, and Axl was going to fucking follow suit. He ran towards the warehouse doors as fast as he could slipping on people’s blood and tripping on intestines, screaming all the way. And his face felt really fucking weird.

“Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Sh-!F-! Shhhhhit! FUCK!” He cursed frantically. He felt as though the more he cursed the higher his chances were of going back in time to when the entire ordeal never happened. And his face! What the fuck was up with his face?

He lifted his empty hand up to his cheek and felt it. There was a cold, meaty lump where his cheek should have been, and his first thought was that his cheek had been shot off after all. But then he realized he would have noticed sooner, and stopped dead in his tracks. For the first time since he was a little kid, Axl prayed. He prayed that the meaty bit wasn’t what he thought it was.

He reached up to touch his face again, and peeled the cold flesh off.

Reluctantly, he looked down.

It was Big Boss’ tongue.

Axl opened his mouth to scream again, but instead another batch of vomit came up and rolled down his face onto his hoodie and the floor. He paid no regard to it though, he just kept running and screaming, bursting through the warehouse doors with such force they nearly swung off their creaky hinges.

He was screaming at the top of his lungs, running down the street covered in blood and vomit, and he was carrying a gun.

It was the beginning of an adventure.

Axl exploded through the door into his home, tears in his eyes and still shrieking, though his voice was starting to fail. It was a miracle that no one stopped him on the trip home, but it didn’t matter. He was home now. He pressed his back against the door as he slammed it shut behind him. Everything was so safe now. The air was safe, the house was safe, he was safe. It felt so good so began to laugh—or cry, he couldn’t tell—but it wasn’t important. He needed a shower.

He bolted to the bathroom as fast as he could. He still felt as if he were going to vomit again at anytime, even though there was nothing left to vomit. He needed a shower now. He wrenched on both of the shower knobs—fuck the temperature, so long as it was fucking water—and dove into the tub fully clothed and sat there letting the lukewarm water wash him clean of the entire night. Finally he felt as if he could stop screaming, and reluctantly, as if afraid of what could happen if he did, stopped.

The images were stuck in Axl’s mind; the killer’s demolished head, the face that Big Boss had left, men cut clean in half with their innards hanging out of them, switching limbs, the stench—his stomach spasmed, so he tried to take his mind off of it. What was the song? The song he was listening to on the way there…something to do with bells, something in French—suddenly a leg. An arm. A torso. A head. Why couldn’t regression be an instant thing? Axl took himself to

Amsterdam, a place he had always dreamed of going. He met a nice girl there, a prostitute, and he took he back to his place. She began to take her clothes off, but there was blood all over her and it was pooling around his feet and he couldn’t step over it and there was a tongue on his face and—

“Are you okay?” A voice asked. It rocketed Axl back into reality and nearly scared the life out of him, or whatever life he had left.

“FUCK!” He jumped and slid lower into the tub, but flailed around until he righted himself again. It was his best friend Johnny, standing in the bathroom doorway with a cup of soda from a fast food chain. “N-no, I’m not okay! Can’t you see I’m having a c-crisis, here?”

“Mmm,” Johnny furrowed his brow and looked down, as if being hit by a sudden revelation. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What happened?”

“Oh, God,” Axl moaned, “there was so much blood, and some dude—and then a dead guy licked me, and there was so much blood!” With every word water would fill his mouth. He spat it out, but it just filled up again. He could feel the tears building up again, but he choked them down.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny replied, his brow still furrowed. “D’you want a towel?”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just gonna f-fucking go to sleep soaking wet. J-Jesus, yes, I need a towel.” For a guy who always walked around in a white-collared shirt and tie, Johnny wasn’t too sharp. In fact, Johnny wasn’t sharp at all. Johnny was very dull. Axl stretched his arms forward and twisted the shower knobs until the water stopped flowing.

“Yeah, okay,” Johnny said. As he trotted down the hallway, he took a heavy slurp of his soda, which by the sound of it, was empty. Axl let his head fall forward on his knees.

“—So, I just ran all the way home,” Axl whined. He was sitting on their dodgy, sepia couch in the living room with a towel and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He had just finished describing everything that had taken place at the warehouse to Johnny, who lie in the middle of the living room floor with his hands folded across his black and red striped tie. Johnny looked virtually unphased by the story, but Johnny always looked apathetic. After knowing him his entire life, Axl had learned to tell what tiny gestures meant what emotions. Right now, Johnny was tonguing in the inside of his cheek, which meant that he was worried.

“It’s okay, though,” Axl added, “I didn’t get hurt at all, ironically, and I think I’ve finally chilled out a bit.” He had. He wasn’t thinking of any of the gruesome sights at the warehouse as often, and his stomach had finally settled. He was still completely drained, and his head and ears hurt like a bitch. Johnny raised himself to sitting with his legs crossed, propping himself backwards on his hands.

“So, who was that guy? The one who broke in?” Johnny asked, his eyes rolling from one part of the ceiling to the other. At the mention of the killer, Axl could feel himself getting light again, but coming back down. It was that one moment when the two of them stood face to face that Axl would have the hardest time forgetting. He had been frozen stiff at the time the killer broke in, his eyes shut tight and his arms raised, bracing himself for the painful death that could come at any moment. But it never did come. It was merely a husky growl that breathed in his ear.

Step aside, Buttercup.

So Axl did. He shot off to the nearest hiding spot, behind Big Boss’ throne. The voice haunted him, playing itself in an infinite loop in his head. It sounded as if the killer were standing right next him.
Step aside.

“I—I don’t know who he was,” said Axl quietly, “and I don’t think anyone else did, either.” Axl watched Johnny watching the ceiling. The fluorescent light overhead made it easy for Axl to see that Johnny’s eyes were red and that he had rings around his eyes so deep-set they were noticeable even despite his dark skin. He probably hadn’t slept in a long time. He looked at his watch—two forty-six.

Johnny went to work again in another three hours.

“C’mon, dude,” Axl said, “go get some sleep. You’ve got work in the morning.”

Johnny looked back at Axl as he stood up and stretched his arms toward the low, spackled ceiling. “And a war to fight,” he chimed.

“And a war to fight,” Axl rang back. Johnny slumped down the hallway, giving Axl a friendly wave without turning back to face him. Axl wished him a goodnight, and he was gone inside his bedroom.

The house wasn’t exactly luxurious; with only one bedroom, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and the living room, it was just barely passing for substandard. The white paint on the walls was beginning to crack and flake in places, and it was dotted with holes from nails from painting and things the previous owners had hung up. It had brown shag carpet that was stained with drinks and food, and those were only the stains that Johnny and Axl had created since they lived there. Who knew what the others were. The couch Axl sat on was a freebie, something someone had dumped in the desert. It had since become Axl’s bed since he moved in. There was a shabby-looking wooden desk off by the wall with a cheap desktop computer whirring away on top of it. The computer rarely worked, and it wasn’t surprising at the price Johnny bought it for. The kitchen was a kitchen; fridge, oven, sink.

Nothing about the house was particularly special or valuable, but it didn’t have to be. Johnny had been letting him stay there for years, and at that moment it couldn’t have been any more comfortable. Before that night Axl didn’t know that a person as violent, murderous, cold-hearted, and frightening could even exist. Certainly a team of people could take down Big Boss and his troop of oversized thugs, but a single man? But whatever. Just knowing that he had no more debts to pay off to his boss, no one else to answer to, and that he was far, far away from anyone who could hurt him made him feel more secure than he had ever been in his life, even when he had been living with his parents. Right now, meeting Johnny had to be the best thing he had ever done.

Axl rolled back onto the sofa, wrapping himself in the blanket. But just as his head was about to hit the cushion, his cell phone rang in a high pitched chirp out from the kitchen. The phone whirred as it vibrated on and off on the counter. Axl shoved the blanket off of him and stumbled around until he got to the kitchen. He always told Johnny that your phone rings when you least wanted it to. If only he were awake right now to see his undeniable proof. Axl picked up the phone and flipped it open. The number on the display was blocked. Who blocks their phone number these days? He pushed a little green button and held the phone to his face, curiously greeting the caller as he did so. The voice that responded to him was uncomfortably clinical, male, and a bit too awake for three in the morning.

“Good morning,” greeted the voice. “Axl Donovan, I presume?”

“No, Santa Claus,” Axl snapped. “Wrong number.”

“Clever,” the voice replied, half chuckling. “Well, I’m calling to inform you that on behalf of the U—“

This conversation didn’t sound like it was going anywhere Axl wanted to go at this time of the night—or morning. “It’s three in the morning,” he interrupted.

The voice merely cleared his throat lightly and continued speaking. “—On behalf of the United Assassins’ Association that you have are now a seventeenth ranked assassin—“

“I’m a what? Whose association?” Axl responded so rapidly, he bit his tongue as the words came out of his mouth.

The voice disregarded his astonishment, and continued smugly, as if the news was a reprimand for Axl’s rudeness. “I wish you the very best of luck and have a nice day.” Axl heard a tiny click, and then the conversation was over.

“Who the fuck was that?” He had put his thoughts into words without realizing it. The voice had called him what? An assassin? It had to be a wrong number. But he had said his name…

Axl Donovan, I presume?

Axl’s nerves were starting to flare up again. United Assassins’ Association…Assassins had their own organizations? He stood there holding the cell phone in his hand just waiting, waiting for the strange man to call back and tell him it was all a joke or that there was something he wasn’t understanding correctly. But after a good five minutes, there was no call, no clarification. That call was meant for him.

Axl crawled back under the blanket with everything still spinning and racing in his head, hoping that when he woke up, he’d be back in Kansas again.