It was a typical Tuesday night; I managed to drag my sorry old ass out of my apartment, and plant it in the same stool of the shit-hole bar across the street. This was forged into a routine now. I’d wake up several minutes before the bar opened up, drink until I couldn’t properly enunciate my words and finally end up getting physically kicked out, only managing about half the time to make it up to my apartment, and even less likely I’d make it to my bedroom. Then wake up with some monstrosity of a hangover, which could only be cured by another bottle or four. This was the life of the self-loathing ex-criminal that I was. It wasn’t as though I created this routine out of some kind of depression, or anything of that magnitude. The only explanations I can manage to put together are either I’ve got nothing better to do these days, or I’m an alcoholic. Frankly they both sound particularly accurate to me.
Today however, this routine that I’ve created wasn’t going to continue in any way that I’d like it to. Everything was going as usual, I was drunk by 9:00pm, the bartender made his usual attempt at cutting me off; I insisted on more and obviously was given more as he whispered something along the lines of “It’s your funeral mac.” A typical night, until a group of jackass thugs walked into my bar, rabbling on about some non-sense that no one gave two shits about. But they certainly wanted everyone to hear them that’s for sure. I tried my hardest to ignore the little shits, I truly did. But they decided they were going to look and cause an elder such as myself some grief. “Hey old man, you’re in our seat.” Some 6’4’’ Russian asshole built like a brick shit house stood over me, clearly the leader of this group of degenerates. Not wanting to spoil a good drunken stupor I politely ignored them.
“You listening old man?” Through his broken English he grabbed me and lifted me out of the chair. I just smugly replied “You really should learn to respect your elders.” He laughed loudly, spit was spewing from his mouth, spattering across my face. ”Hahaha, or what? You have to give my boys and I a spanking?” Their laughter floated throughout the bar, at least until I decided I was looking to knock the blockhead out. This was probably the biggest mistake I’d made in quite some time; you see it wasn’t like in those movies you watch where I manage to knock him and all of his buddies out. Sadly this was reality, and I found myself dragged into the alleyway, and beaten into the concrete. It goes without saying that this was one of the nights that I hadn’t made it back to my apartment.
I’d awakened still partially drunk and hung-over worse than usual, laying in heap of trash and blood. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the brutal beating I’d received just before passing out. The sun was out shining down on my face, I wasn’t accustomed to seeing that yellow bastard all too often. It was bright as hell, blinding my eyes worse than a flash bang. I looked at my watch and it read 12:07A.M. “What…the…fu…” My memory can’t process a time that I’d been up this early in quite some time. Logic was telling me that since I’m already up and plan on drinking, and the fact that the bar is closer than it usually is, that I should go have a drink. Now that’s some smart thinking if you ask me. Unfortunately the bar was closed. Luckily I keep a bottle or two in case of emergencies like this up in my apartment, so I headed that way.
Arriving to the door of my apartment I walked straight through the door that had already been unlocked. There wasn’t any need to lock my door when there wasn’t anything worth protecting in my apartment except maybe my emergency bottles. In any case my home was a piece of shit, and was used primarily to bathe and sleep in. “Home sweet home… I guess.” I popped the bottle and didn’t even bother to pour it into a glass, sliding the flask I keep alongside the bottle in my jacket. Each drink helped relax my aching body and head, I needed it. I was getting far too old now to be getting into bar fights. It wasn’t much longer after I finished the bottle that I drifted off to sleep.
It had been a few hours that I’d been asleep, too sober to function at this point. Pretty shitty way to live right? Wrong, well from my standpoint at least. Looking down I see the broken bottle I dropped upon falling asleep, this reminded me that the bar was probably open and I needed to get down there. Before I left my house I walked over to my dresser drawer and retrieved my gun, I didn’t need to have a repeat of last night, because chances are it was going to be worse if they happened to show up again. Leaving my apartment I walked down the hallway, hearing what I thought sounded like my apartment being blown to hell with an RPG. Sadly, that’s exactly what it had been.
A Gun in One Hand, A Drink in the Other
Piercing Weapon: standard (rank 1)
- Ranged Attack
If I’d have guessed that I was to be terminating my retirement early, I can’t honestly say that this is the first reason that would have come to mind. Lying on the ground slumped up against the wall, I just stared at the smoldering heap that was once my home. To be fair it was a piece of crap, and it was probably for the best that it was eradicated from existence. But shithole or not, it was my god damned shithole, and someone was going to have to pay. Unscrewing the top of my flask, I took that long sweet sip of nectar and headed toward the fire escape. There was a feeling in my gut that the front door was in other words preoccupied.
Making my way down the fire escape was much more difficult than it should have been. Between my slight buzz from before I fell asleep and the flask gulp I’d taken, climbing down the last ladder I’d slipped on one of the rungs, slamming my back into the ground knocking the wind out of myself. As if that hadn’t been bad enough two goons came around corner with guns pointed in my direction ready to fire. Sliding my big ass off the ground I’m what I’m going to call ran in the other direction to find myself some cover. Whoever these guys were hadn’t a clue that I was armed, and I was going to take full advantage of that. Making my way around the corner of the alley I took cover behind some sour dumpster, regaining some of my wits. Hearing their footsteps rushing in my direction I turned the corner emptying my clip into the two. Hell, I looked like I hadn’t even known what guns were the way I was shooting, but it got the job done.
Sitting in the alleyway, I took my jacket off and put my gun back into my pants waist after reloading it. My body hadn’t done any physical activity aside from drinking and walking to the pisser in some time, I was beat. I unscrewed the flask one more time guzzled half the damn thing. I figured I needed to hydrate after such a feat of endurance. Adrenaline wearing off, I noticed I’d actually taken a grazing shot across my shoulder. There wasn’t going to be any real damage, but good lord did it sting, I managed to wrap it up in a half assed way, enough to stop the bleeding for the most part. Getting up off the ground I began walking toward the nearest hotel I could find, that was until I heard quite an unpleasant one liner, “Goodnight my friend.” The heavy blow of a pistol was felt in the back of my head, and the only thing I remember before that was the heavy smell of vodka.
A Bottle A Day Keeps the Pain Away
Iron Will: superior (rank 2)
“Wake up sleepy head!” Waking up from a foot in your gut isn’t as nice as it may sound. Especially when it’s from the same guy that beat your face into a bloody pulp the night before. “You’ve got to be kidding me. “ I just stared in disbelief, trying to piece the puzzle together and still no answer. “So let’s get this straight. I punch you in the face with some limp armed strike, and your retaliation is to beat me into the ground, blow up my apartment, have your goons shoot at me, and now have me tied up and beaten again? THAT, seems to be a little overboard don’t you think?” The Russian man paced back and forth periodically taking a drink from his bottle of vodka, laughing at my comment. I’m glad someone finds my misfortune funny, because I didn’t see the humor. “You really think this is about some pussy bar fight?” He chuckled one more time. “You’re the one who killed Ivan Petrov, my father.”
Remember when I mentioned something about being an ex-criminal? Well that name has something to do with my criminal background. You see I used to work for the Syndicate, as sort of a mercenary if you will. They had me doing the jobs that they were too busy to take care of, or hadn’t had enough invested into it to waste their time. Little things like killing mob bosses, retrieving money from store owners, the minor things that still brought in even a little revenue. One day they sent me on a mission to eliminate Ivan Petrov, some Russian mob douchebag. It wasn’t a difficult job, get in and shoot the bastard. When the job was done and I’d laid a bullet in between his eyes, I turned and saw a boy staring at me, tears streaming down his cheek. I hadn’t said a word to him, just merely walked out of the room. No regrets, no remorse.
Well at least until right this moment when the kid was staring down at me now with bloodlust in his eyes and alcohol in his gut. Maybe I should just apologize now, better late than never I suppose. “Your father had it coming.” Or I could dig myself into a deeper hole. He chuckled again, much more lightly this time, he finished drinking the bottle, then slung it across the room at me shattering it against my face. “You kill my father, and treat it as some sort of joke?” He began pounding on my face, like a boxer does a leather speed bag. When he was finished he kicked me in the chest, sending myself and the chair I was strapped to across the room. I coughed blood up on the ground in front of me. The blow had knocked the wind out of me, but it also broke the chair I was strapped to. While he was catching his breath, I made a run for the door.
No Such Thing As A Fair Fight
Martial Arts: standard (rank 1)
I hadn’t made it far from the little shack. We were in a construction site, not far from my now smoldering apartment. There wasn’t anywhere to go whilst he was armed, I ran behind some iron beams clutching my gun breathing heavily, it was a god damn miracle that I wasn’t dead by now. “Come out, come out Mr. Frank!” He fired a round into the air, then another. Inching my way to the side of the beams, I came out gun blazing. The outcome was far less than spectacular. Then there was the sound of the end, I knew this fight was over and who was going to come out on top. Click, my gun was empty. He fired a shot into the meaty part of my thigh dropping me to the ground, I wasn’t going anywhere.
He walked straight over to me, lifting me by my jacket and placing me on my knees. Gun pointed down between my eyes. I guess this is the life I chose to live, a life that ends with me having none of my dignity on my knees gun barrel pressed against my forehead. But hey, it was one hell of a run. “Any last words, before I kill you like you did my father.” I was silent for a few moments thinking back to the gun fight. Your standard 9mm carries a capacity of fifteen rounds and one in the chamber, much like the one had was wielding. “Yeah I got something to say.” I smirked for a few moments hoping my quick math wasn’t wrong. “You Russians are really as dumb as you look.” He scowled ready to pull the trigger when I was finished. “You need to learn how to count. You fired your last round into my leg.” The look in his eyes was priceless. He pulled the trigger and to his dismay heard the same click that I had before, it was then that I did what any man left with no pride or dignity left would do, where there was still no real hope of escape. Groin punch. It dropped him straight to the gravel. It’s like my father always told me, there’s no such thing as a fair fight, especially when you’re losing.
Shoot to Kill, Drunk or Not
Marksman: superior (rank 2)
That little bout of world class boxing had given me just enough time to put some distance between myself and the hulking menace. I’d headed down an alleyway hoping he hadn’t caught a glimpse of where I’d gone. Hiding behind a dumpster I’d taken out all of the ammo I’d had left, three shots. That’s great, between the alcohol and excessive blood loss, it was going to take a miracle for me to regain enough composure to properly aim and hit my mark. “You think you’re going to get away that easy?” He was slurring his speech, the odds were a little more even now that he was drunk himself. Taking a deep breath I’d turned the corner trying to remember what it was to shoot like a professional. Everything seemed to have slowed down around me as I squeezed the trigger letting all three bullets fly. It was a clean shot, two in the chest one in the head. There’s no way I could have done that sober. I dropped the gun and walked towards the exit with one thing in mind, another drink.
I walked into the bar, blood still dried to my face, bullet wound in my leg, a few glass pieces still lodged in my face. Sitting down in my regular stool, I notice that everyone has gone quiet, they were obviously staring at me. The bartender turned around “What can I get for yo….Holy shit! What the hell happened to you?” He nearly dropped the glass he was washing. I smirked and replied “You wouldn’t believe me even if I’d told you. The regular please.” He began pouring my drink, his hands were shaking. As I grabbed the glass and raised it to my mouth, I paused. Police sirens could be heard in the distance, headed in this direction. As I got up and adjusted my jacket and such, I walked out the door whispering to myself,” Damn, there really ain’t no rest for the wicked.”