Chapter 0:
Like the slowest tune in the slowest night
Bullet Gloryhole!
Let me ask you… do you like Young Adult novels? Oh, you do? That’s a shame, because I don’t. You know, all that nonsense about a 'generic teenage female protagonist with a rebellious streak and dead or absent parents, living in a dystopian future, overthrowing a totalitarian government while two side characters fight for her love.' God… that sounds utterly idiotic, even for fiction. I don’t get why it’s so popular.
Extreme escapism, you say? Probably, yeah. That, or a vomit inducing collage.
Now, who thinks about absurd fictional clichés? Plenty of people.
Who thinks about absurd fictional clichés when one of their molars has just been yanked out? That list shrinks considerably.Who has an internal monologue about all this? Me, of course.
Why? It’s relatively simple—it’s a way to lighten the weight of having a gun pressed against my forehead.
Though this has become somewhat routine, like the spider in the corner of the bathroom wall. The more you see it, the less it scares you, but that doesn’t stop you from hoping someone shows up with a rolled-up newspaper to squash it.
That’s my situation right now.
How does someone end up in a mess like this?
Simple: a chain of bad decisions that, objectively, were bad, but even if I could relive every moment, I don’t think I’d change a thing.
Wrong place, wrong person, equals bad outcome.
Though… I don’t buy that 'wrong person' bit.
Still, one thing’s true: saving someone—put ironic air quotes around saving—in a life-or-death situation makes you something of a hero.
Ten bonus points if it’s a cute girl.
Now take my ten points and subtract five, because you’re not a hero if the other person isn’t a heroine.
Subtract fifty points if the other person isn’t just not a heroine, but also not a victim.
Subtract a hundred points if they’re neither a heroine nor a victim, but a victimizer.
One last time: subtract another hundred points if, despite all that, you decide to follow that person. Do the math, and you’ll probably get a pretty high negative number.
That’s my luck level.
So why am I rambling so much in my head while the guy in front of me, after beating me to a pulp, demands to know where the money I stole is?
Simple, very simple, actually. I have to pretend to be unconscious to buy some time—that’s one reason. The other is that when she shows up, these guys will probably end up with one or two holes in their bodies, and then I won’t have time to monologue.Hell, I might end up with a few holes myself if she comes in like a total lunatic.
For now, let’s keep this going while I pretend the pain is just mental and start a countdown. Either it gets interesting, or my brains end up splattered against the wall.
“Why do you guys always pull this nonsense? You know full well that if you kill me, you’ll never find out where it is.”
“Then just—”
“And if you torture me until I pass out, it’s the same deal. How many times have I fainted? I’ve lost count…” I continued, talking over him.
I probably should’ve seen the broken nose coming. You can’t poke a bear in the butt with a toothpick and expect it to wake up happy.
“Okay… okay, my bad, sorry… but with all this, I can’t think straight. I can’t exactly blame you, though on the other hand…” I said, shaking my head side to side. “It says a lot about you that you enjoy this… but hey, I’m not judging.” I squinted with a chuckle.
Ah… pressing the gun barrel against my forehead. Why do they all do the same thing?
“Alright, alright, chill. There’s no point intimidating someone who’s already tied up, God… Five hundred thousand? A million? I don’t even remember… Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep up with a compulsive buyer? I mean, to save you the trouble of beating me more… your money…” I finished with a puff of air. “Got it, right?”
He raised his fist but didn’t swing. He took a couple of steps, muttering something I didn’t bother to hear, and pointed the gun at me again.
And then the idiocy… cocking an automatic pistol? A cheap, absurd threat tactic. It’s an automatic, damn it—you don’t need to cock it.
“In that case, I think this conversation’s over,” he said. Whether he believed me or not, I could tell he was as fed up with me as I was with him.
You know... when the bald guy in the group asks the others if they also heard 'that sound,' it means two things and two things only.
First: he’s going to be the first to die.
Second: …
“I think so… I mean, they’ve come for me,” I replied, leaning back against the chair.
Extreme escapism, you say? Probably, yeah. That, or a vomit inducing collage.
Now, who thinks about absurd fictional clichés? Plenty of people.
Who thinks about absurd fictional clichés when one of their molars has just been yanked out? That list shrinks considerably.Who has an internal monologue about all this? Me, of course.
Why? It’s relatively simple—it’s a way to lighten the weight of having a gun pressed against my forehead.
Though this has become somewhat routine, like the spider in the corner of the bathroom wall. The more you see it, the less it scares you, but that doesn’t stop you from hoping someone shows up with a rolled-up newspaper to squash it.
That’s my situation right now.
How does someone end up in a mess like this?
Simple: a chain of bad decisions that, objectively, were bad, but even if I could relive every moment, I don’t think I’d change a thing.
Wrong place, wrong person, equals bad outcome.
Though… I don’t buy that 'wrong person' bit.
Still, one thing’s true: saving someone—put ironic air quotes around saving—in a life-or-death situation makes you something of a hero.
Ten bonus points if it’s a cute girl.
Now take my ten points and subtract five, because you’re not a hero if the other person isn’t a heroine.
Subtract fifty points if the other person isn’t just not a heroine, but also not a victim.
Subtract a hundred points if they’re neither a heroine nor a victim, but a victimizer.
One last time: subtract another hundred points if, despite all that, you decide to follow that person. Do the math, and you’ll probably get a pretty high negative number.
That’s my luck level.
So why am I rambling so much in my head while the guy in front of me, after beating me to a pulp, demands to know where the money I stole is?
Simple, very simple, actually. I have to pretend to be unconscious to buy some time—that’s one reason. The other is that when she shows up, these guys will probably end up with one or two holes in their bodies, and then I won’t have time to monologue.Hell, I might end up with a few holes myself if she comes in like a total lunatic.
For now, let’s keep this going while I pretend the pain is just mental and start a countdown. Either it gets interesting, or my brains end up splattered against the wall.
“Why do you guys always pull this nonsense? You know full well that if you kill me, you’ll never find out where it is.”
“Then just—”
“And if you torture me until I pass out, it’s the same deal. How many times have I fainted? I’ve lost count…” I continued, talking over him.
I probably should’ve seen the broken nose coming. You can’t poke a bear in the butt with a toothpick and expect it to wake up happy.
“Okay… okay, my bad, sorry… but with all this, I can’t think straight. I can’t exactly blame you, though on the other hand…” I said, shaking my head side to side. “It says a lot about you that you enjoy this… but hey, I’m not judging.” I squinted with a chuckle.
Ah… pressing the gun barrel against my forehead. Why do they all do the same thing?
“Alright, alright, chill. There’s no point intimidating someone who’s already tied up, God… Five hundred thousand? A million? I don’t even remember… Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep up with a compulsive buyer? I mean, to save you the trouble of beating me more… your money…” I finished with a puff of air. “Got it, right?”
He raised his fist but didn’t swing. He took a couple of steps, muttering something I didn’t bother to hear, and pointed the gun at me again.
And then the idiocy… cocking an automatic pistol? A cheap, absurd threat tactic. It’s an automatic, damn it—you don’t need to cock it.
“In that case, I think this conversation’s over,” he said. Whether he believed me or not, I could tell he was as fed up with me as I was with him.
You know... when the bald guy in the group asks the others if they also heard 'that sound,' it means two things and two things only.
First: he’s going to be the first to die.
Second: …
“I think so… I mean, they’ve come for me,” I replied, leaning back against the chair.
Please sign in to leave a comment.