A Neon Rattrap - Part 6
The privacy door mechanically swings open generating a low grinding sound like an overweight handicap’s electric wheelchair. Another poorly dressed thug makes his appearance grinning and staring at the floor while he makes his way through the threshold. His head pops up in alarm at realizing I am standing there, and three other bodies follow closely behind him. The two in the middle are another set of my rivals: Fish, and the third is yet one more poorly dressed and underfed henchman.
Fish are both bound with their hands behind their backs. They have a reputation of not being ones who play by the rules. The sight of them being ushered relatively quietly by a mere two thugs lead me to believe that there are more of The Pimp’s men in the Lobby. My competitors are twins, one male and the other female – though you wouldn’t know which is which without a full body cavity search, something Rocco would have gladly assisted with. They go by the single name Fish. Or is it plural? Fish is hard-core “kill your momma for not cutting the crusts off your sandwich” and have silently beaten me to the mark on several assignments. Truth be told, I like Fish.
Taking the human arm I have slung over my shoulder, I use it as a fleshy nunchuck to break the staggering leader of the pack. He sprays a line of blood from his nostrils whipping his head back trying to roll with my swing. Fish act in unison upon seeing the first drawn blood hit the stucco. One of them grabs the skinny hombre by the belt buckle as the other delivers a fierce kick to his face. The crack of skull, cartilage, and boot tread makes all of us take a quick pause. The stooge hits the ground and doesn’t move, not even to cover his head or face. Fish rhythmically crack his ribs and bruise his kidneys while I continue to subdue my victim.
Mine finally slumps against the wall unconscious and breathing heavily through a gurgle of bubbling blood in his throat. Fish ignores him when they come over and turn so that I can see their bonds, expecting that I would release them. I do. Fish turns with a grin and drops a kiss on my lips, holding long enough to instinctively force me to reach out for an embrace. Cool almost clammy lips and the tip of a hot tongue is all I get. Fish pulls back, grin wiped clean and returns to the other and they walk back out the stained privacy door.
I’m a professional, so I collect my thoughts and items quickly and prepare to follow the duo. Rigor has set in my pants from the kiss, but not in the limp arm I toss back over my shoulder, its wrist having been broken and the elbow now fully articulating. I make quick passage for the still-closing mechanical door and let the thoughts linger in my forehead: “I hope that was the chick that kissed me.”
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Much salutations and i may come for your further revisions.
Thanks for your kind words. Do really value the appreciation.