BUTTERCUP!

chapter 4: fish for breakfast?

2009-09-09T06:50:00.000-07:00

“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.

2009-01-18T18:18:00.000-08:00

“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.

chapter 2: niggaz done started something.

2008-11-16T03:18:00.000-08:00

“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.

2008-11-16T03:06:00.000-08:00

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.

prologue.

2008-11-16T02:43:00.000-08:00

He's a cold blooded-killer, they say. He's got no soul, no mercy, no remorse. They say the only time he ever cared for someone was the day he was born, and even that was only for the doctor for taking him out of his mom's womb.
They say his rage is hot enough to set people aflame even from across the room. He's got hot, fiery eyes that can make a bear piss himself.
They say his ball's hang lower than Guy Fawkes on the 5th of November.
They say.

But rumor, rumor ain't got shit on eyewitness testimony. I've seen this dude in real life, and I can tell you firsthand that everything they say is a lie. That's right.
He's even worse than that.
He carries around a gun the size of Zeus' dick, with all of his wrath included. I've seen him put holes the size of basketballs in people, blowing off entire limbs with a single shot. And get this--he calls that devastating handcannon of his "B.B." Like it's his kid sister or something. Sadistic fuck.
If there's one thing that gets this guy pissed, it's implying that there's something feminine about him. He's a total homophobe. His murderous personality is fueled by his hate for homos, so it would be the biggest mistake in your life to claim that he's a gay.
But it get's even better.
He calls himself--come closer, you don't want him to hear--he calls himself "Buttercup," and always wears these fairy wings, like a dare for someone to challenge his masculinity, challenge his power. They say whoever says his name dies shortly after. Yeah, I agree, it does make him look kind of...gay. But that's what makes it so sick. He loves killing so much that he gives everyone the impression he's a gay so that way he has an excuse to kill you. Not that he needs one.
It's just what gets him off.

It all started about a year ago, when he was still just a punk junkie dealing drugs on the street. He'd always had a tough life, and shit only got tougher that day. Being the junkie he was, he couldn't resist digging into the goods he was selling. Stupid kid, yeah, I know. But very sick in the head.

One day, his boss calls him down, says, "I know what you've been doing. And you knew you couldn't get away with it."
And the tension, the stress, just keeps building up inside the kid.
He says, "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I'm straight."
So the boss says, "That's not what I've been hearing from my clients." He says, "You know I don't take no fucking shit from no pissy grunt."
The kid is boiling, about ready to blow. But right at that moment, someone comes crashing through the door. No one knows what he looked like, but he was there for the kid. To kill him. No one knows what the kid that would be severe enough for someone to send a hired gun out to kill him, either. Rumor is he killed everyone in that ghost town out west, but that's just what they say.
But that's beside the point. After the killer burst in, he had the audacity to call the kid Buttercup--where he got the name from--and the kid just lost it. Before either the boss or the killer could bat a lash, the kid pulls out that gun of his and blasts them all to hell--the killer, the boss, and the three guards standing by in the room.

From that day forward, he's never been quite right in the head. Some say it's the drugs that make him so fucked up, but I've never heard of meth making someone that fucked up. Some think it's his bad upbringing, but no one knows about his parents, so that's bullshit. I think he's always had something loose upstairs, and that day threw off the entire fucking clockwork. But whatever it was, he's a loose cannon now.

They say he goes around randomly, killing whoever he feels killing, just for the hell of it.
They say he's become an assassin, killing punks kids like himself who got into the deep shit.
They say.
But I say--whatever he does to fill his time with, kill people, do meth, or plan out fucking tea parties with his BFF Jill--if I don't concern myself with him, he won't concern himself with me.

But that's just what I say.