chapter 4: fish for breakfast?

“So what are you going to do?” Johnny asked inquisitively.

“Jesus Christ, how many times are you going to ask me that?” Axl snapped anxiously. The strange man he had spoken to on the phone had given him twenty-four hours to come up with some kind of answer, and already he was creeping into the twenty-third and still wasn’t entirely sure what the question was. The entire situation seemed far too incredible to be legitimate. Being someone’s hired killer? Murdering people for pay? The most criminal thing he’d ever done was hold up a few people at gunpoint, at least before yesterday morning, and even then it wasn’t like he killed them...Benjamin Frick’s guttural, maniacal laughter erupted in the fatigued little addict’s head. Axl wanted to believe that yesterday morning hadn’t even happened, that it was all part of a bad trip or he had a terrible nightmare or he was losing his mind. But the laughter wouldn’t die, and the memories wouldn’t fade. He checked his watch, ridden with anxiety, and the plastic thing slid around his bony wrist to the other side of it as if to protect him from further worry. He readjusted the watch so he could see its face, and flinched when he saw that he had only thirty-eight minutes before he was to receive a very important phone call.

Axl drove the beat-up, barely functional foreign car down an empty Santa Destroy street before pulling into the drive-thru lane of the Burger Suplex fast-food restaurant. Burger Suplex was a popular burger place in the shambled city, only because it was the only burger place there. It was new and exciting looking, with a giant cartoony burger complete with lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese resting on the roof behind the eccentric lettering of the chain’s name. For all its glorious outward appearance, inside it held likeness to a wrestling-themed lavatory, with a pungent smell and ambiguous stains turned black from the staff’s refusal to acknowledge them. The employees were notorious throughout the town for their horrible service, but they always got the order right somehow. Axl always told Johnny there must have been a good fifteen mental disorders between the six of them. There was a rumor that a young woman actually wrote in a letter to the company and complained, but the CEO gave her the ultimatum to sit down, shut up, and enjoy the meal, or lose the only fast food burger place in Santa Destroy. No one says anything about the service anymore.

“Welcome to Burger Suplex,” the voice droned, emanating from the blue speaker in front of the menu (he must have been around seventeen), “home of the Knuckle Sandwich. What do you want?” Axl could hear him sigh from the driver’s side of the car, which would be the passenger’s side if Europeans weren’t so fucking wonky.

Johnny stuck his head out of the window for a better look at the menu, his ornate red tie dangling from his spotless collared shirt on the side of the car. His head bounced from side to side, up and down as he scanned the different meal possibilities Burger Suplex had to offer. Finally, he responded, “Yeah, I’ll take a Chokehold Chicken Sandwich, extra sauce, hold the roaches.” He snickered jovially as he reentered the car.

“Funny,” the box spat sarcastically. “Anything else?”

Johnny turned toward Axl, raising his eyebrows and pointing a thumb out of the window toward the menu. “What d’you want?” he asked.

“Just get me the usual,” Axl replied, nervously fumbling with his phone in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. Johnny nodded and ordered him his usual breakfast sandwich, the Flying Fish of Fury, extra tartar sauce. It was the best Santa Destroy had to offer, in his opinion. Now that he thought about it, there wasn’t much the California city had to offer. Sure, the weather consisted mainly of sunny skies and a delightful temperature, but it wasn’t like anyone cared enough to actually go out and enjoy it. The beach was always empty; the only time people stepped outside of their homes was to go buy something at one of the poor quality stores. There was even a baseball team, and their own stadium to boot, but they sucked more shit than scat porn so no one went to see them play. But at least Santa Destroy had palm trees. What the fuck would Santa Destroy be without palm trees?

After Johnny retrieved their bags from the disgruntled and grumpy grunt at the second window, Axl began driving them the short trip back home. But his mind was anywhere but home. There was so much riding on his decisions in the next twenty-seven minutes. There were so many questions that needed answering. Time ticked away. Why did he get that phone call in the first place? Axl was hardly a successful drug addict, what made that guy think he would be a good assassin? An assassin—hard to believe he was even considering killing people for money. But, he sure could use the money, and he was sure that he’d only be killing people who—

“Brakes!” Johnny screamed, spilling his drink all over the shredded upholstery. Axl’s foot pounded the brake as fast and hard as he could, not even knowing what was happening. In the road stood the same kid from before: stoic face, dark hair with blonde bangs, wearing gym shorts and that unique jacket with the run-over dog and the slogan ‘ROAD KILL MANIA’. It was as if the kid really did have a death wish.

“You know, you little shit,” Axl spat, marching out of the car, brandishing a menacing finger, “the next time you jump in fucking front of me l might just fucking hit you, and it’ll be you on that jacket!”

The kid stood his ground, unfazed. His pouty lips opened slightly as if to say something, and then said, “Can I have a ride?”

“A ride?” Axl yelled. “You want a fucking ride?” His bony finger prodded deeper into the kid’s chest. “If you want a ride, you can call a fucking taxi or stick out your thumb or take the bus, but you aren’t going to pull this psycho shit to bum one off of me.” Axl made it a point to accentuate every consonant; as close as he was to the kid, he was sure that he’d spit on the kids face, even just a little. Johnny watched silently from inside the car, like the entire ordeal was an episode on a soap opera.

The kid’s under bite shifted a bit, then back to its normal position. He lifted a sleeve up to his face, wiping away the leftovers of Axl’s speech. His lips parted again, and then more words came out. Thick, southern words. “I just need a ride. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Look, dude,” Axl started, “what’s your name?”

“Hiki,” the kid replied.

“Hiki,” Axl started again, placing a hand on Hiki’s shoulder, “I can understand your troubles. There was a time when I didn’t have a car and needed rides. And I appreciate you choosing me, out of all the people in the city, as your driver. But I’m not sure I’m ready to be your personal taxi service just yet, so until I am, why don’t you just go find a pay phone and call a real taxi and I promise you they’ll be a lot more willing to take you places than I am. Hmm?” He smiled, bearing all of his yellowing teeth at him.

But in a flash of flesh, knuckles, and momentum, Hiki’s fist collided with the side of Axl’s face, right into a bruise left from his fight with Benjamin Frick. He fell to the ground, watching the punk dash around him and into the driver’s side of the car. The wheels screeched, and before he could get back up the jalopy was off, with Johnny asking excitedly, “Oh, where are we going?” Axl watched helplessly as the car roared off down the street, and around a corner.
“Johnny!” he screamed, bolting down the road at full speed, but he knew no matter how fast he ran he would never catch up to that car. Though it made him feel pathetic, he resorted to actually calling for help. “Hey! Someone! That dude just stole my car!” he shouted, his head darting from side looking for someone who had actually acknowledged him. Out of the four people on the sidewalks nearby, only one looked his way, and just as quickly went back to his business. This meant it was time to get specific.

“Hey! You!” Axl shouted, pointing his finger at an overweight man wearing a baseball cap across the street. “Call the cops! Some fucker just stole my car!”

“Fuck off,” the man snarled, and continued down the way.

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too! You prick!” Axl spat. It seemed hopeless. He had heard somewhere that if a person didn’t get their car back within the first forty-eight seconds of it being stolen that the chances of it being demolished in an accident went up by five-hundred percent. That meant that poor Johnny would be in much more danger than he realized. Any second now, Axl would hear tires screeching and then the sound of metal colliding with metal, followed by the agonized screams of his best friend. Johnny was practically dead. No more playing video games together, no more snack runs, no more shaping Johnny’s mohawk, no more fun. It was tragic. There was nothing left to do other than begin the long, lonely, and miserable trek back to the house to plan his funeral.

“Oh, Johnny, you were so young,” Axl moped as he began his sorrowful march. That was when his cell phone began to ring in his pockets. Johnny was alive! He was calling to say he was okay! Axl whipped the phone out as fast as he could and held it to his ear.

“Johnny?” Axl asked anxiously.

“Ah, Buttercup, how are you, my friend?” It was the man from yesterday. Axl’s heart sank.

“You,” he groaned. “I thought I had at least twenty-something minutes left.”

“Yes, well, er, I was getting rather excited to hear your decision,” the voice said bashfully. “So what about it, eh? Will you be my personal assassin?” There was such a genuine enthusiasm in his voice that rubbed Axl the wrong way.

“Look, now’s not a good time,” Axl said woefully, “my friend was just kidnapped and he could be dead, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop calling. I’m not taking the offer.”

The man’s disappointment could clearly be heard in his stereotypically English voice. “Oh, blast, Buttercup, I was really hoping—“

There it was again. Buttercup. Why does everyone keep calling him that? “Wait, stop right there. Buttercup? Where the hell is this coming from, dude? Why does everyone keep calling me that!” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and some little kids ran by and snickered.

“Is that not what you wish to be called?” the voice inquired. “The story refers to you as Buttercup. Well, maybe I’m just getting it wrong. Lily, is it? Or is it, Pansy, or Petunia—“

“I’m none of those!” Axl roared. Then something struck him. “Hold up, a story? There’s a story about me?”

“Well, of course there is, my good sir!” The voice rang like a choir of bells. “I’ve never been too good with telling stories, but I do have a mighty good ear, and I picked up your story from a few of the local criminals in your area.” It must have been the only other survivor of the massacre at Big Boss’s hideout. He must not have seen any of the actually killing happen. Lucky bastard.

“It goes that there was a man, you, who was so deranged and mentally troubled that the littlest things would send him into fits of unbridled rage. This man worked for a man who was the head of all crime in the city, aptly named Big Boss. Big Boss would regularly antagonize the deranged man, and the deranged man’s rage would build up inside of him. Am I heading in the right direction?”

“Uh, continue,” Axl replied.

“Then one day, Big Boss pushed the deranged man’s, your, limits. Instead of politely asking him to move, Big Boss scowls at the man, and barks, ‘Outta my way, Buttercup! Or maybe it was Pansy after all—“

“Please,” huffed Axl, “just keep going.”

The man cleared his throat on the other end of the line, and continued. “Yes, er, ‘Outta my way, Buttercup!’ It was the last straw for the deranged man. He took Big Boss’ gun and blew him and his entire entourage to tiny bits in a bloody explosion of hatred and rage. They say that at that moment, his hatred became a force so thick in the air that it forced people out of consciousness. No one was spared except for a single man, and even then the bastard was only allowed to live to spread the story of the carnage. Legend goes that from that day forward, the deranged man, you, assumed the moniker Buttercup, as a challenge for anyone to dare address him as Big Boss did and an invitation to share his fate. Those who call his name die. In fact, if you stand in the toilet in complete darkness while staring at the mirror and say ‘Buttercup’ three times, he’ll jump out of the mirror and—“

“Yeah, yeah, that’s enough,” Axl snapped. That story was quite different from the actual event that took place that night. The story must have made its way around a few times before reaching the ears of the man on the phone…It was shocking that there was even a story at all, a story involving him and one that glorified him, no less. It was a serious rumor going around, one that could land him in a lot of trouble if it reached the wrong ears. But what was he supposed to do? He can’t just simply tell people to stop telling the story, because honestly, it was a really compelling story and he might have told it himself if he were not the center point. And the truth? No, the truth wasn’t an option, at this point. He had already earned a name for himself, albeit a name he didn’t choose, and he was so close to being at the top of the food chain. No—no, that’s just stupid. There shouldn’t even be a debate about what he should do. Just tell the truth to the man, he’ll hang up and go away. Forever. The end. But everything made sense now, why the Lion and Tinman were so intimidated by him, why Benjamin Frick attacked him, why he kept getting strange phone calls from an Englishman…It was all because he killed Big Boss—no, because everyone thought he killed Big Boss. All because of that pisspants grunt and his storytelling, Axl had been made the king. And without even knowing it.

“Yeah,” Axl said proudly, “that’s me alright. I’m the one that story is about.” Walking down the sidewalk, it seemed as if everyone now viewed him in a different light. He wasn’t just some punk junkie cruising the streets in their eyes anymore. He was a respected, feared, revered killer who would stop at nothing to get his way. They all saw this long ago, and just now had Axl been awakened to it.

“Oh, good,” the man chimed, “I was hoping I’d tell it faithfully. Anyhow, I’m awfully sorry about your dear friend, and I hope peace comes to your house soon. I regret that you were unable to help, but I thank you for considering it—“

“No!” He couldn’t hang up now! Not when everyone was expecting him to stand up to a challenge and show the world what he was worth! “I’ll do it! I’ll do the job, I’ll kill those people.”

“You will? Oh, excellent! Thank you so much, Mr. Buttercup, I really do appreciate your help,” the man on the other end cheered. He must have been really excited to have a killer like Buttercup on his side.

“Y-yeah, uh, no prob,” Axl replied. “But, uh, how much money are we talking about here?” No, no assassin would ask his client how much he wanted to pay. He would demand the amount. “’Cause i-it better be a lot! I-I’m talking, like, like, millions!”

“Of course!” It seemed the man was prepared. “Five million per target. Sound like a deal?”

“Five million per kill?!” That was more money than he’d know what to do with! “Holy fuck on ice, th-that’s perfect! That’s more than perfect!”

“Glad to hear it! You’ll be hearing from me shortly about your first target. I’ll call you. Take care, Buttercup.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?”

“Well, certainly you can’t expect me to reveal my name—“

Axl coughed. “Pfft. Fuck no, I’m B-Buttercup, I know that sh-sh-shit. I meant like, uh, codenames, and stuff.”

“Yes. Well considering that I am working as a spokesman for a third party, I suppose you can call me the Associate. Fitting, yes?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, cool.”

“I’ll be in touch with you soon, Buttercup. Take care.”

And that was it. The voice was gone. Axl stood in front of the door to his house. No, his old house—his new house was waiting for him in the future, in his future as a millionaire assassin. He twirled and pirouetted across the threshold in a dance of joy and excitement, crashing onto the couch in relief. He was an assassin now. That was his job. No more drug runs, no more bullshit from lunatics living in the desert; he was living the high life now. Someone else would take care of his problems for him. Sure it might be a bit dangerous, there might be a few risks involved, but what’s the worst that could happen? Axl stopped. What was the worst that could happen? He could die some painful horrible death after being tortured slowly over a period of days for information. He could be set on fire and push into a room full of bees and tear gas, and there would be thumb tacks and mouse traps on every inch of the floor…but none of that mattered. He was almost rich now. Filthy fucking rich. Now to rest.



A familiar sound approached the outside of the house. A helicopter, maybe? Bright lights shot through the blinds, striping the walls (they must have been really bright if they were that strong, it was still broad daylight). They were already out to get him! They didn’t want to risk him thwarting their plans! Axl dove behind their new couch with B.B. ready to fire. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

The door opened slowly. A shadowy figure approached. Now was his chance. Axl dove from the side of the sofa shouting, “Die, you motherfuckers!”

“Whoa! Whoa, Ax! Chill out!” the figured screamed in fright. A familiar voice.

“Johnny?” Axl cried. Johnny waved back at him.

“Oh, God, where the fuck have you been?” Axl whined, dashing up to the tall lad and embracing him in a hug.

“With Hiki!” Johnny replied.

Outside, Hiki was leaning against some sort of muscle car, painted lime green and its engine raised out of the hood. He scratched his square jaw, and said, “Sorry, ‘bout that dude.” He walked toward the two of them and added with a slight grin, “Hope you weren’t too worried, were ya?”

This guy was fucking asking for it. No more bullshit. Axl ran up to the punk, picked him up by the front of his ugly jacket, and swung at him as hard as he could. But the only thing his fist made contact with was the space where Hiki’s head should have been. Hiki was actually a lot faster than Axl anticipated, and unfortunately Axl was just as slow as Hiki had anticipated. He had ducked that punched long before Axl knew he was going to throw it, and now his fist was planted firmly in Axl’s gut. Axl doubled over onto his hands and knees, but he had something that Hiki could never dodge—a bullet. He aimed B.B. at Hiki, his trigger finger itching.

“Stop!” Johnny yelled. The two of them immediately focused their attention on him. “It’s okay,” he said to Axl, “we only went for a quick race, and we won this car. It’s cool. It’s fine. Hiki can be pretty cool, man. Plus we never got to eat, dude. So let’s not fight, kay, Ax?”

That name…“Shh,” Axl said to the floor, “don’t call me that anymore.”

“Don’t call you what, Ax?” Johnny asked.

“That! That name! Don’t call me that. I’m a new person now.” He was a completely new person now. He was a completely new and completely rich person. “Call me Buttercup.”

It was silent.

“Hope you don’t mind me staying here,” Hiki added.

“Buttercup? Really?”

chapter 3: everything sucks.

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



“Axl Donovan!” A shrill, female bark shredded his eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. The voice had a tone of crunching gravel and grinding metal underneath the female timbre. “You pay attention to me when I’m talking to you!”

Axl shot his attention from the building lighting up the scene across the street back to the woman standing before him. Her fluffed, blonde hair rustled in the nighttime breeze, sending an aerosol cocktail up into his nostrils. Her jagged face was drowning in mascara and choking on rouge, her eyeliner blotted out her blue eyes. Thin, cracked lips turned into themselves as the woman glared at him coldly. This woman was his mother, and looking her up and down in her tiny, red scraps of cloth and high heels, he began to regret it.

“If you ruin this night for me,” she hissed, “I will make you hurt more than you’ve ever hurt before.” She bent down and grabbed Axl’s small arm tightly. Her arm was jeweled with sick little marks that matched the rest of her ensemble. “Do you understand me?”

“But I didn’t even do anything,” Axl pleaded.

“I said do you understand me?” Her grip tightened. Cars whizzed past on the street behind her, disappearing as fast as they came.

“Yes,” the boy groaned, and his mother let go of him. He could still feel her bony, ringed fingers wrapped around his arm. The bright building roared and flashed and growled. Headlights brushed against its face as cars and trucks and motorcycles grumbled by. The swish of tires on pavement came and went.

“Now, if I find you doing something stupid again, I’ll beat the lights out of you. So just sit here and wait ‘til the show is over.” She brandished a red-nailed finger in his face. “Don’t get yourself kidnapped.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he groaned.

“Good.” She stood upright, straightening out what little there was of her red dress. “Wait in the car. I’m going to get you a daddy.” She turned away toward the flashing building, leaving a cloud of hairspray and perfume and the fading echo of clacking high heels behind her. Axl watched as she disappeared inside the building, into the noise and smoke and lights.

He couldn’t see a star in the sky, but it was only because they were all on the ground; everywhere he turned to Axl could see a different kind of light. Neon signs blinking wildly, streetlights beaming down on passing cars—the skyscrapers in the distance sparkled with little lights. It was so than different home, where noting shone or shimmered and everything was dusty and rusty. If he had known this was where his mother had been going all the time, he would have begged to come along. He stood there against the car door for so long just taking everything in that he didn’t even realize he’d been there for an hour.

“What’re you doin’ here, kid?” It was a man, middle-aged and wearing a brown leather jacket and blue jeans, come to bring him back to Earth. Axl stumbled backward in surprise.

“Get the hell away from me, you creep, I ain’t free pickin’!” Axl yipped. He scowled at the man from behind his little fists. The man chuckled, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Whoa, there,” he chuckled, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” The man knelt down in front of Axl and smiled warmly. His dark brown hair was slick back to reveal the fine creases in his forehead. "You know, you almost remind me of my daughter. She's gone missing...Have you seen her? Her name's Ch--" But before the man could finish, he was tasting Axl's tiny knuckles. He rolled backwards and stared at Axl, astonished.

"I said to get the hell away from me!" Axl squeaked, caressing his fist. His hand was throbbing in pain. He didn't know punching someone could hurt so much. The man brought his fingers up to his lip then looked at them, covered in blood.

"You little--"

"Hey!" The mother interrupted from across the street. Her high heeled shoes clapped against the pavement as she strutted towards the man. "What the hell are you doing with my kid?" The man opened his mouth to respond, but before he could make even a whimper the mother already had him clutched by the front of his shirt. She was scowling at the man; Axl always hated when she scowled, her wrinkles multiplied tenfold with all the powdery makeup.

"I didn't do a thing, he just--" the man started.

"Yeah, bullshit, you didn't a thing! What the hell are you doing around him, huh?"

"Lady, listen--"

The mother's eyes widened and the lines on her forehead deepened. Her knee rocketed into the man's crotch, and the man doubled over whining loudly. Watching it all, Axl wasn't sure if he was scared, satisfied, or excited. Across the street, some strange men were cheering loudly and pumping their hairy fists into the air. The man looked at Axl contemptuously.

"Don't you 'lady' me," the mother hissed. "The next time I catch you around my son, I'm cuttin' 'em off, you hear me?" She turned to face the building across the street, brandishing her small, flaky fist at it. Her knees wobbled as she balanced herself on her high heels. “You see this?” she cried out. “I don’t need you or your stupid rock band!” The battle cry permeated the nightlife noises, the whirring of distant traffic, the dull roar of people talking. “I’m a damn good mother, and I don’t care what the fuck you have to say ‘cause in the end, it’ll be you missing out!” Axl stood impassively by the fallen man waiting for the mother to finish. At one point, her antics were a touching sentiment, but the sentimentality of it all begins to wear off when it happens all the time.

The mother spat out one last “I’m a damn good mother!” before grabbing Axl’s wrist. He grimaced as her rings dug into his skin as she led him to the other side of the car and crammed him inside. From behind the spotty glass, Axl watched the man writhe on the damp sidewalk, cigarette butts sticking to his leather jacket and hair. The engine of the car sputtered to life with Axl’s mother sitting loosely behind the wheel, now sucking cancer through her chapped lips into her withering lungs. Axl gave the man a parting smile before he and his mother left him drowning in pain, dust, and red lights.

“I don’t need him,” the mother muttered to herself. “Axl Rose Donovan,” she sighed, “what am I going to do with you?”


“Axl Rose Donovan, are you there?”



The smiling Mr. Frick stood smiling his pervasive smile through the looking glass, patiently waiting for a response. “I have a special offer just for you!” he chimed.

“Yeah, whatever,” Axl groaned rubbing his eyes, “just don’t call me that. What d’you want?”

“Only to give you the best offer out there!” Frick started with a nod. He bent down, disappearing from Axl’s view from the peephole for a moment. He could hear a rustling noise from behind the door, and a metal clunking, and then Frick popped back into view, half-startling Axl. “This here,” he said, “is the FrickVac 2300!©” He held up what looked like an old-fashioned vacuum cleaner, shaped like a teardrop and coated in chrome. It gave the appearance of an old 1950s appliance, with the metal stripes going across the sides and the familiar, boxy cursive writing with the slogan above the lines. “This baby right here can clean up any mess you can make!” He looked as if he was getting more and more excited with every word he said about the vacuum. “Picks up even deep-rooted dirt! Plus it comes with several different nifty attachments to make cleaning easier!”

Axl looked over his shoulder at the house; it was evident that they needed a vacuum cleaner, or a mop, or a broom, or soap, for that matter. But no one had the cash for any of those luxuries, especially for several different nifty attachments. “Sorry, dude,” Axl said. “Not interested.”

“Oh, but I think you are!” Frick chuckled. “The FrickVac 2300© not only functions as a vacuum cleaner, but a carpet cleaner for getting out those tough stains! If you’ll allow me to come in,” he said modestly, removing his brown hat, “I can demonstrate for you what a wonderful addition to your home the FrickVac 2300© can be!”

“No, thanks, man,” Axl said indifferently, “Don’t have any stains.” Apart from the stains that covered nearly every inch of the carpet.

“Why, of course you do!” Frick said with a gleeful laugh. Axl frowned. “Everybody’s got at least one! I bet I could find one for you, if you let me in!” He leaned in closer to the peephole, throwing the proportions of his face off so one eye was larger than the other.

“I don’t have any stains,” Axl growled.

“Not even one?” Frick asked.

“Not even one,” Axl snapped.

“What about food stains?”

“I don’t eat.”

“Fido isn’t housebroken yet?”

“Fido got hit by a truck.”

“What about the stains from spills?”

“We’re very careful here.”

“What about the trail of bloody footprints leading all the way into your bathroom?”

“Wait, how…w-what?”

Suddenly, a high pitched whine and a low roar broke out at the same time in a deafening tandem. Axl cautiously stepped back, his heart racing and his running feet ready to go. The roar became louder and louder until Axl could feel it vibrating in his chest. A deep crack ran across the wooden door from one corner to the other with a ferocious snap. It dented outward as if some invisible beast was ramming it from the inside. The crack then became several other cracks, with several other snaps following, before splintering into a million tiny pieces and disappearing. Axl dove behind the couch, the nearest method of cover around. The roar died down to a high-pitched whine again, and then it was silent again. Footsteps crunched on the bits of wood on the ground, slowly, suspensefully. Frick welcomed himself into Axl’s house, taking a deep breath as he did so. The vacuum cleaner, or what Axl had assumed to be a vacuum cleaner, was slung on his back like a backpack. A long tube connected from the machine on Frick’s back all the way to a chrome pipe in his hands. The pipe had a handle on it similar to the grip of a gun, with a second handle further down its bottom side. The slogan in the boxy cursive was glowing bright red, and it was then that Axl could clearly see that it read “Memento Mori.”

Frick scoped out the house before tossing back his shoulders and chuckling at Axl. “Oh, gee!” he giggled, tipping his hat. “There is quite a lot of cleaning up to be done here. You’ve been really careless, haven’t you, Mr. Donovan? But there’s no worry, the FrickVac 2300© can clean any mess with ease!” He took a few carefully planted steps around the dirt on the ground before continuing, “It can clean up deep-rooted dirt, stubborn food-stains, and even the lazy, human garbage that makes the mess in the first place!” Frick grinned menacingly, and the machine started whining again. “By the time I’ve finished up, your house will be spick ‘n’ span!” he yelled over the whining.

Frick aimed the pipe at Axl, who was now inching his anxious fingers between the cushions of the couch, cautiously reaching for the gun that was hidden between them.

“Now watch this, folks, as I demonstrate the deep-cleansing power of the FrickVac 2300©!” he yelled. Axl snatched the handcannon from between the couch cushions and aimed it at Frick. But before he could even pull the trigger, the machine began roaring again, and a powerful gale sent him and the couch flying backward into the wall with a thunderous thud. The couch smashed into him while he was still pressed against the wall. The collision knocked the wind out of him and the gun from his hand into the corner of the room next to the bedroom door, and gravity pulled him down to the ground again, crashing. Axl nursed his ribs as the room spun around him and the whining machine drowned out every other noise. He stumbled onto his feet, keeping his eyes on the brown blur that was Benjamin Frick.

“What a dirty trick, Mr. Donovan!” Frick said, pushing a button on the handle of the pipe. “You need to clean up your act! And, if I do say so myself, it really sucks to be you right now!” The crappy pun was all the motivation Axl needed to dart for the gun so he could blow the brown-suited salesman’s brains out. He scrambled frantically towards the bedroom door, where the gun was waiting, but he was only a foot away before the roaring continued and Axl was flying through the air towards Frick, being sucked backwards, the furniture dragging on the ground in the same direction. He collided with a wall, sending him spinning through the air towards the gravity of the vacuum, and shooting a sharp sting of pain through his shoulder. The vacuum pulled him backwards until the pipe was pushing deeper and deeper into his back and he was only the pipe’s length away from Frick, and all the furniture had stopped moving again. Axl writhed in pain, one hand behind him frantically trying to pull himself off of the pipe. He could feel his skin stretching into the chrome tube.

“What the fuck do you want from me?!” Axl screamed at Frick from over his shoulder.

“Such a filthy mouth!” Frick replied. He frowned. At that moment, something told Axl that things were about to get a hell of a lot worse. Frick flipped a switch on the vacuum. Axl braced himself for impact. Then, the machine sent him rocketing into the wall across the room face-first, pieces of plaster chipping off of it and into his hair and eyes. Axl felt as if his skeleton had imploded inside of him, and all of his organ had just turned into a soup of innards in his body. He cradled his gut and glared scornfully at spotless Benjamin Frick.

“I want to give you a one-time only deal!” Frick responded, that wide, toothy smile plastered on his face again. “This is not an offer you will find anywhere else! The FrickVac 2300© will give you the quickest, cleanest death, guaranteed!” He was the aerosol angel of death, executioner of the insanitary, the pine-scented punisher. He was out on a mission, and the mission was to kill Axl. But the tiny addict couldn't understand why Frick was in his home. Axl wiped the blood from his nose and stared at Frick in amazement. This guy was out to kill him! It wasn’t like the other times were circumstance had put Axl in danger, Frick actually had a mission to kill him! That meant that he had done something that Frick thought he deserved to die for, but he couldn't think of anything that would have anyone as bent on destruction as Frick was now.

“Look, dude,” Axl panted, “I don’t know what the f-fuck you’re looking for, but I don’t fuckin’ have it. So let’s just stop this while we’re both still alive, okay?” Compromise always worked in the movies, didn't it?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan,” Frick began, his tone dampened and his smile dimmed, “You see, you have exactly what I want.” No, compromise never works, that's right. Axl could feel his fear intensifying. He looked around for anything to protect himself with, something that might possibly stop this fight from being completely one-sided. With that vacuum of his, Frick was an exceptionally tough opponent. It had enough power to pick up Axl from anywhere in the room, since the house was so small.

“And I have exactly what you want, Mr. Donovan. What everyone wants,” Frick continued.

Axl scanned the mess of shattered glass and splintered wood for anything that might help. There was nothing. A broken lamp, a picture frame, the leg of an end table. But there, shining amongst the rubble, a diamond in the rough, the needle in the haystack, was an oversized handgun with the initials ‘B.B.’ carved into the hilt maybe two feet away from where Axl lay. Axl struggled to conceal his smile. The gun must have moved closer with all of the back and forth gusts blowing around in the house. Frick was his own undoing.

“Isn’t that all anyone wants, a quick death?”

Axl spat out a bloody loogie on the carpet. “Well, then it looks like you get what you want,” he jabbed. He dropped to one side rapidly and snatched the gun from the mess. Frick snarled and powered on the vacuum, jerking Axl closer at full power. Axl watched the world on Frick's side of the house draw closer like a slow motion sequence as he moved through the air feet forward, riding the current, struggling to balance himself, and the gun aimed at Frick. He squeezed the trigger and the explosive recoil shot all the way back to his shoulders, rattling his bones. The bullet bee-lined for Frick’s face, and Axl felt the satisfaction inside of himself building. But Axl’s satisfaction was soon forgotten when the recoil carried the huge gun back towards him and clobbered him dead in the center of his face.

The world gradually picked up speed once more, and Axl’s feet collided with Frick’s face at full speed, knocking his hat off. Frick hit the wall, grunting in pain, but kept on his feet, ready for another attack. Axl hit the ground like a sack of bricks, the familiar surge of pain making its presence in his spine. He scrambled backwards away from Frick, B.B. in hand, the other hand holding his bleeding nose which throbbed sorely. Axl held the gun near his face so he he could see past his bloodied hand. The hand holding the gun was trembling uncontrollably as if all the fear inside of him hand manifested inside of it. The hand begged, Don't do it again. But it was a plea that would have to be ignored because Frick was now standing only a hair away from him. Axl could only barely begin to hold up the gun again before Frick lunged forward with a heavy fisted punch that landed on the side of Axl’s face with such an impact it sent him even further back into a pile of rubble.

“You…you unruly brat!” Frick yelled. His perfect teeth gritted together with rage, coated with blood. Axl revealed his yellow teeth in a smile. Frick was holding the tube by its firearm-like handles—only the tube was no longer connected to the vacuum. The bullet had been sucked into the vacuum and gone straight through, and it looked as if it had grazed Frick’s arm, as he was bleeding all over the carpet and his nice suit. Axl laughed.

“You idiot!” Frick screamed, panting like a rabid animal. “What have you done?!” His neatly combed hair was now unkempt and covered in dust. He charged at Axl like a wild animal, holding the tube like a club in his bloody hands. Axl planted his feet firmly and held his ground, waiting patiently for Frick to strike. He readied B.B. and steadied his hands, preparing for a counterattack. Without the vacuum, Axl was almost certain he could take on Frick. After all, without the vacuum, Frick was just some lunatic in a suit. Some run-of-the-mill John that he saw everyday as he walked the city's streets. He was just a pansy, and being in business he had been in, Axl learned how to deal with just such guys. His finger wrapped tightly around the trigger, but before he could even realize he was disadvantaged, Frick brought the pipe cleanly across his cheek. The pain flared in his jaw, and each little tooth cried in agony. Axl tried to prepare himself for another attack, but another cold, metal blow hit him like a truck on the other side of his face. His entire mouth was ringing with toothaches. The force of the blow sent his head reeling to the side, making his neck a symphony of loud cricks and cracks. He could taste the blood emerging from the little wounds in his mouth as he swallowed. Axl was just beginning to think it was a fight he might just lose, but when Frick drove the pipe into his gut, all thoughts as well as wind were knocked from his body. Axl doubled over, desperately gasping for air like a fish out of water. His body felt like a mass of bruises, inside and out.

Benjamin Frick towered over the broken druggie, panting hoarsely. He chortled airily, kicked the gun out of Axl's hand, and laid a dusty dress shoe on his sore neck. "I'm sorry, Mr. Donovan," Frick hissed, "but this is what's best for the environment." The pressure on his neck became heavier, and Axl could feel the amounts of air he'd take in getting smaller and smaller. It wasn't long before it was completely closed off, and he couldn't breathe at all. He clawed at Frick's leg like a dying animal scrambling to survive, but it was no use. His arms weren't strong enough. Frick held the tube high above his head like a golf club, setting himself up for a far drive onto the green.

"I'm afraid this is it, Mr. Donovan," Frick chimed contently, "Thank you, and goodbye." This situation was not unfamiliar to Axl--being only moments away from death, seemingly impossible to survive. But each time, he'd managed to find a way out of it, somehow. He crossed his fingers that the same thing would happen this time as his eyes scanned the room for anything helpful. He looked Frick up and down for a weak point. There was nothing. The pipe fell from the sky like an atom bomb and collided with his skull with the same destructive force. For a moment, Axl couldn't feel anything, just complete bliss and peace. The angels' song rang in his ears, calming his soul. But in split-second, it all disappeared and Axl was racked with agony. He could feel his brain cells dying excruciating painful deaths, his brain screaming for mercy, his skull bowing in submission.

"Ow, fuck!" Axl wheezed through his constricted throat. "That fuckin' hurt!"

"Oh, dear, that didn't do nearly as well as I expected," Frick whined. "I guess I'll just have to try again, won't I?" The brown suited man held the pipe above his head again, another deep drive on the way. Axl watched as Frick brought down the pipe with great vengeance and furious anger. Closer and closer it became, at higher and higher speeds. But Axl held up a hand and caught it just in time, right before his collided with his skull.

"Fuck if I'm letting you do that again," Axl wheezed defiantly. He yanked the pipe from Frick's unsuspecting grip and vindictively rammed it into the suit-clad man's crotch. Frick doubled over and stumbled backwards, opening up Axl's throat again. Axl struggled to get to his feet. He could barely balance himself, and his vision was so out of focus he couldn't even tell what part of the room he was in. But he knew that the brown blur in the middle of his view was his enemy, and that that was what he needed to hit. So he whacked the shit out of him and jammed the chrome tube into Frick's throat. The choking noise Frick made sounded like a dying wolverine, hoarse and loud and gruesome. It meant that Axl had done his job. Frick toppled backwards over a piece of wood and landed hard on his ass, his head hitting the wall behind him.

“One hell of a job you’ve done here, Frick,” Axl smirked, blood dripping from the wound on the side of his head. “This is quite a mess you’ve made.”

Benjamin Frick’s signature smile reemerged from under the rage and dust, bloody and imperfect. He laughed lowly as he brought himself to his feet again, and Axl’s heart rose into his throat. “Mr. Donovan, you underestimate the FrickVac 2300©,” Frick said, snickering darkly. He took the vacuum off of his back and set it on the ground with no hose attached to it, resting his foot on top of bizarre machine. “As I told you before, the FrickVac 2300© can clean up any mess.” Frick kept laughing darkly, sinisterly, and Axl clenched his fists around the pipe.

“Any mess,” Frick laughed.

“Fuck,” Axl said. He ran for the bedroom door, swiping B.B. off of the floor on the way.

Frick pressed a button with foot, and the vacuum hurled Axl backwards with the power of a full-sized tornado. Tiny splinters that used to be the front door Frick had blown down were regurgitated from the machine and flew at him in midair, stabbing through his skin and sticking in his flesh. Axl shot at Frick blindly while covering his face with the other arm as the machine sent him flying through the air. The gust sent him crashing through the bedroom door, sliding backwards on the fallen door until his head slammed against the wall. Everything disappeared for a moment, but when he regained his senses, his entire body was in pain. There were splinters lining his arm and spotting his face and sticking him through his clothes. With a huff, Axl brushed the splinters off of his arm with the handgun. But upon seeing what was happening in the bedroom, all pain was subdued by the extreme confusion. Johnny was hanging from the ceiling fan, going around and around in circles.

“I swear I was going to help you!” Johnny said guiltily.

“What the...what the hell are you doing up there?” Axl barked.

“I didn’t think it would work!” Johnny replied.

“Fuck it,” the young blonde snapped, “just get down here and fuckin’ help me.” He crawled backwards and pushed his back against the wall next to the doorframe for cover. Johnny let go of the ceiling fan and dropped onto the bed, bouncing off of the mattress with a dull thud. Without aiming, Axl held the gun in the doorway and took a few random shots, the recoil nearly taking his arm off. But with each shot he would take, the powerful wind of the vacuum would send the bullets right back at him, lodging themselves in the plaster walls. “Fuck, dude, what the hell do we do?!” Axl yelled over the deafening roar.

Johnny grabbed a lamp from the dresser and tossed it out of the room, but the lamp came right back and hit him in the face. He fell hard on his ass and dragged himself behind the wall in shame. “Jesus fuckin’ shit, that hurt!” he exclaimed.

In the living room, Frick was obviously enjoying himself. Enjoying the same sense of victory that Axl should be enjoying. No matter what he could think of, Axl just couldn’t take Frick down. He had underestimated that vacuum, seeing as it was, well, a vacuum. But now he had himself in a tough spot.

“Mr. Donovan, no more playing games!” Frick shrieked. “I’m going to eradicate the human stain you call your pathetic life!” Using his foot once more, Frick pressed another button on the vacuum, and everything in the room was sucked nearer to it. Axl watched as everything he owned was sucked into it; the couch, the desk, the computer, everything the way of the powerful machine disappeared inside of it. Johnny had begun throwing anything he could at Frick in a frenzy, chucking the alarm clock, some shoes, even clothes from the closet.

“What the fuck are you doing, Johnny?!” Axl screamed, his eyes wide. “None of that shit is going to work! Grab something heavy, or something!” Johnny heeded Axl’s words and tried to pick up a dresser. Axl’s ears were popping. The wall was creaking, and dust was beginning to rain down from the ceiling. If they didn’t stop him soon, Frick was going to take the entire house down. Axl quick eyes darted around, desperately trying to find a solution. Then, when he looked at Johnny, he came up with an idea.

“Johnny, get over here! Move out of the way!” He called out.

“Your days are numbered, scum!” Frick laughed maniacally from the living room.

Axl let off a few more shots at the ceiling fan, the recoil pushing him against the wall. After three shots, he finally hit his target, and the ceiling fan came twirling down onto the bed. “Hurry, grab it by the base!” Axl shouted. He and Johnny both jumped up and picked up the ceiling fan from the metal base. Axl led Johnny over to the doorway where they stood with the fan, the blades standing vertically. The blades slowly started spinning the closer they got to the door. Faster and faster they went as the suction from the vacuum became stronger and pulled them even closer. The living room was completely barren, nothing was left unscathed. The walls everywhere were trembling and clouds of dust fell from where they met the ceiling. The fan was spinning as fast as a helicopter’s propeller.

“Do you honestly believe you can defeat me?!” roared Frick. “I’m the best salesman in the universe!”

Axl closed his eyes and prayed silently, Work, work, work, work, work. Johnny turned his face away from the powerful pull of the vacuum. Their feet dragged on the carpet, barely providing any traction.

“IN THE UNIVERSE!” Frick wailed as he pressed another button, intensifying the pull of the vacuum. The ceiling fan blades were whirring uncontrollably.

“Let go, now!” Axl shouted. Johnny looked back at him, and nodded confidently. The two let go of the ceiling fan at the same time, aimed directly at Frick. The fan jetted at Frick, spinning furiously. Benjamin Frick’s maniacal laughter was cut short when the ceiling fan’s blades cut through him like warm butter, eating away at him like a ravenous beast, slicing away piece after piece, chunk after bloody chunk, spraying blood in every direction until there was nothing left of his upper half and the fan had nowhere else to go but crash into the wall behind him and spin in a pool of blood satisfaction and diced innards. Blood splattered on the walls behind him and on Axl and Johnny’s clothes. The blades left a spiral of blood on the ceiling and floor. What was left of Frick, his legs clad in brown slacks, toppled over the FrickVac 2300© into a puddle of his blood, spilling out a tangled bunch of severed intestines.

Finality.

Axl stared at the mangled remains of Benjamin Frick. He felt a sense of satisfaction take over him, but simultaneously a feeling of disgust and guilt for the violent act he had just committed. Everything that the others had assumed about him was now true; he was officially a killer. It didn’t feel much different than being his normal self, but now there was the unusual feeling of finality to go along with it. He had killed Benjamin Frick, and in such a gruesome manner. He wanted to be afraid, he wanted to go hide and cower away from anyone else who might come for him, but the feeling—the feeling of victory was so satisfying that all he could do was stand there with Johnny at his side and stare at his work, tucking the gun into his waistband. He had done this. He had killed Frick.

“Dude,” Johnny said, “that was fuckin’ gross.”

“Yeah, I know,” Axl added.

“I mean, even for me.”

“Yeah.”

“That was pretty fuckin’ gross.”

Axl took in his surroundings: a living room devoid of furniture, a kitchen covered in dirt and dust, ceiling painted red with blood, and the carpet covered in dark red stains that would probably never come out. Victory didn’t seem like such a good thing anymore. Even if Frick would have killed them, at least he would have cleaned the place up afterward. He and Johnny would be there forever cleaning the shit up.

“So,” Axl asked, “what do we do with him—or, at least, what’s left?”

“I dunno, start a meat pie shop?” Johnny replied.

“Good ide—wait, no,” Axl stuttered. “Well, act—no, no, that’s not a good idea.” Axl saw that the refrigerator was still intact, though a bit dented and dusty. “I say we keep him in the fridge until we come up with a good idea of what to do with him. At that moment, Axl could hear a distant ringing coming from the bedroom. He walked inside to see and hear his cell phone vibrating away on the dresser. The display read ‘UNKNOWN CALLER.’ Axl was hoping it would be the same person who called the night of the warehouse massacre, because it seemed as if that person had some of the answers Axl needed. Axl held a finger up to his mouth to shush Johnny, pressed the call button on the phone, and held it up to his ear.

“Hello?” Axl greeted.

“Bravo, Buttercup, bravo!” The voice chimed happily. The man on the other line spoke with a British accent, and he sounded to be up there in age.

“Wait, who?” Axl asked, confused.

Johnny’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Is it the Kremlin?” Johnny hissed, hiding behind the bed. “Tell them I’m not here!”

“This is Buttercup, I’m talking to, is not? I watched your performance and I am absolutely amazed!” the voice continued.

“No, I’m sorry,” Axl grunted, “Don’t know her. Wrong number.”

“Do they not call you Buttercup anymore, Mr. Donovan?”

“Wait, who calls me Buttercup?”

Johnny giggled behind the behind the bed. “I call you Buttercup, Buttercup,” he said sensually.

“Doesn’t everyone?” the voice asked curiously.

“Th-th-those bastards!” Axl stuttered indignantly, blushing.

“And you even react the way they all said you would. I must be talking to the right person!” the man sighed, then continued, “Well, I suppose on to the point, then. I’ve called you with a very special offer.”

Axl pouted and responded coldly, “Hey, I’ve had enough special offers for one morning. No thanks.”

“Oh, but wait!” The voice pipped. “Please do hear me out, yes? I promise it will very much be worth your time.”

Axl seriously doubted that last statement. He had half of a dead body quickly rotting away in his living room, and his front door was sucked into a billion pieces. It was only a matter of time before some curious onlooker sticks his nose in to see what was going on. But before Axl could refuse, the man continued talking.

“I am willing to pay you large, hefty sums of cash to do exactly what you did just now.” The voice said warmly. Axl stopped dead.

“W-wait. What?”

“That’s right, son, I’m willing to make you rich if you’ll off a few more people for me! How does that sound?”

“You want me to kill for you?” Axl asked. Was this guy off his rocker, or was this a serious, legit offer? And if it was legit, how would Axl answer?

“Of course, I want you to kill for me! And I’ll pay you—in cold, hard cash. Don’t worry, if you were able to take down Big Boss and Benjamin Frick, then these bastards won’t stand a chance! It’s a tempting deal, yes?” Axl scratched his head. How did this guy expect him to just answer something like that on the spot? “And I know what you’re thinking, that this is a bit sudden. And it is. But do try to understand, this is not a response I can wait too long for. I have, however, given you 24 hours from the moment I hang up to reach a decision, which is all the time I can allow. Choose wisely! Fortune awaits you tomorrow at dawn! Goodbye, Buttercup!”



Goodbye, Buttercup.