Chapter 9:
Shakesperean Crocodile Dundee
Bullet Gloryhole!
“Hiro…” Aya muttered, eyeing every single vehicle, that childish attitude vanished the second the cars stopped in front of the hotel.
“I know, I know… go shut off the room lights.” I said, sliding to the window edge, guts were twisting, I had a really bad feeling about this. “Cher!”
“Coming! Don’t fucking yell! Shit…” She burst from the bathroom half-dressed leaving a steam cloud trailing. “Count bullets?” she asked, dumping all the mags on the bed.
Four SUVs, three to six per vehicle not counting drivers—who could be armed too. Three assault guys, worst case those plus three backups… assuming the same amount of people per vehicle.
Couldn’t cut elevator power, the time to find the breaker box would outlast their climb.
If they took elevators, they’d hit fast, sweep the whole fucking floor in seconds—but it’s a double-edged sword: iron coffin if we ambushed the doors.
“Aya, grab every liquor bottle from the minibar.”
“You gonna start drinking again? In this fucking situation?”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, I’m gonna—”
I want to believe everyone had that idiot classmate who clapped right by your ear one day?
Remember that stabbing pain for seconds? The dizziness, white noise knocking you off?
“F-Fuck… almost didn’t make it…” I muttered, hitting the floor and dragging Aya down with me. “You good?”
“Y-Yeah… yeah… but…”
“I know.” I wiped the blood off my cheek. “Almost blew my head off…”
“Uhm… guy’s good, huh…” Cher said, like she’d just seen a sick basketball dunk. She kept checking ammo while eyeing the bullet hole in the wall corner. “Hey…”
“Nah, don’t say it—I noticed it too.” I cut her off.
We’re on the twelfth floor, bullet missed my head by millimeters. Factor shot direction, wall hole—simple: They’ve got at least one fucking sniper.
Even assuming just one, we’re screwed, they nearly nailed me in a dark room. But no idiot rolls this heavy.
Hate to say it… these were not amateurs.
“Didn’t know your crew was so… professional…”
“They're not from my group,” Aya said. She tried peeking the window, but I yanked her head down first. “Okay, okay… staying put…” Tried sounding pissed, but her body was so tense a blind man could see she was scared shitless. “We move guns here to there… come on, we’re fucking smugglers, not this logistics-level shit.”
“Yeah I thought so… now how about hitting that goddamn minibar and grabbing every bottle?”
“What the fuck you planning?”
“Coctails…”
“Hiro.”
“The exploding kind, Aya,” Cher added over me with a laugh. “Good news, mags full, extras got eight rounds.”
“Doesn’t fix much against these guys…”
If you ask, I wouldn’t lie but admitting it’d suck: Couldn’t read them.
They didn’t operate like expected.
Normally, they’d storm like drunk soccer hooligans blasting everything, but this whole silence? That fried my brain with static.
Couldn’t stand to check—'cause headshot waiting—so just calculate, assume entry time.
“Idiot, snap to reality,” Cher said, sliding the P30L my way.
Checked the mag, just an habit, not doubt. “The other too.”
“Huh? Akimbo?”
“Fuck yeah.” I grinned.
“Sweet, I’ll take the 1911…” She rubbed the pistol against her cheek.
“Hey, hey… just pistols?” Aya asked, ripping a bedsheet and stuffing cloth into bottle necks.
“What the fuck you expect? An arsenal? When’s the last time we needed more than these?”
“Ugh, right, someone should have tossed an M15 inside the trunk or something… fuck my goddamn—” The room phone rang once.
“I ain’t answering, hate phone talks,” Cher said, flopping on the bed. “And Aya’s our firebug, better stay prepping bottles.” It rang twice.
I crawled under the window, out of line of fire, tucking the guns in my belt.
Picked up on the fourth ring but said nothing.
[G'day mate, fair dinkum pleasure to yarn with...?]
“Hiro…” I answered, then covered the mouthpiece. “No fucking clue what she’s saying, think she’s drunk,” I said.
[Ahh... interestin' name, bloody ripper... g'day, I'm Ashley.]
“Huh?”
[Ashley, ya drongo.]
“No goddamn idea what you’re saying.” Covered again. “Nah, not drunk: Australian.”
[Oi, my fuckin' name's Ashley, ya galah piece o' shit—get it now, ya mug?]
“Uh… Ashley, yeah, got that.” Missed half the insults after. Sounded like a pissed off kangaroo.
[Look, I'm comin' up, gonna cut ya fuckin' balls off while ya still kickin', make ya scoff 'em down, then grab that sheila with ya and drill so many holes in 'er, my blokes'll use 'er as a bloody gloryhole, fair go!]
Roll credits, folks, she said it, dropped the fucking title, you don’t do that.
And translators? Seriously, can’t parse that damn accent, half the words sound like she’s gargling gravel.
“Okay… okay… got it, you come up, we shoot it out, ends bad for everyone, wanna grab a coffee and talk our way out?”
[Way past fuckin' yappin', ya coot... that slut mate o' yours knocked off me brother, so I'm fixin' ya shitty narrative with lead... no dramas, eh... just fair dinkum constructive criticism, ya mongrel.]
“Yeah… thing is… two chicks here, neither sluts but one wasted tons of idiots, can’t know which idiot was your brother…”
[Look, ya bloody drongo...] Heard her steady her breath. [Chad.]
“Huh?”
[Me brother. His name, ya dickhead.]
“Sounds like a dick-taster name…” Couldn’t hold the laugh. “Look, yeah, I don't know… come up, do whatever, can’t with that name.” Tried stringing words, but couldn't contain the laugh.
[Ya brainless cunt, I'm gonna—]
Hung up, stared at Cher while killing my laugh.
“The bar dumbass,” she said, cracking up. “Forgot that shitty name.”
“The Martini moron? Now I see who made the better family business.”
Just to clarify: shit's about to go down.
“I know, I know… go shut off the room lights.” I said, sliding to the window edge, guts were twisting, I had a really bad feeling about this. “Cher!”
“Coming! Don’t fucking yell! Shit…” She burst from the bathroom half-dressed leaving a steam cloud trailing. “Count bullets?” she asked, dumping all the mags on the bed.
Four SUVs, three to six per vehicle not counting drivers—who could be armed too. Three assault guys, worst case those plus three backups… assuming the same amount of people per vehicle.
Couldn’t cut elevator power, the time to find the breaker box would outlast their climb.
If they took elevators, they’d hit fast, sweep the whole fucking floor in seconds—but it’s a double-edged sword: iron coffin if we ambushed the doors.
“Aya, grab every liquor bottle from the minibar.”
“You gonna start drinking again? In this fucking situation?”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, I’m gonna—”
I want to believe everyone had that idiot classmate who clapped right by your ear one day?
Remember that stabbing pain for seconds? The dizziness, white noise knocking you off?
“F-Fuck… almost didn’t make it…” I muttered, hitting the floor and dragging Aya down with me. “You good?”
“Y-Yeah… yeah… but…”
“I know.” I wiped the blood off my cheek. “Almost blew my head off…”
“Uhm… guy’s good, huh…” Cher said, like she’d just seen a sick basketball dunk. She kept checking ammo while eyeing the bullet hole in the wall corner. “Hey…”
“Nah, don’t say it—I noticed it too.” I cut her off.
We’re on the twelfth floor, bullet missed my head by millimeters. Factor shot direction, wall hole—simple: They’ve got at least one fucking sniper.
Even assuming just one, we’re screwed, they nearly nailed me in a dark room. But no idiot rolls this heavy.
Hate to say it… these were not amateurs.
“Didn’t know your crew was so… professional…”
“They're not from my group,” Aya said. She tried peeking the window, but I yanked her head down first. “Okay, okay… staying put…” Tried sounding pissed, but her body was so tense a blind man could see she was scared shitless. “We move guns here to there… come on, we’re fucking smugglers, not this logistics-level shit.”
“Yeah I thought so… now how about hitting that goddamn minibar and grabbing every bottle?”
“What the fuck you planning?”
“Coctails…”
“Hiro.”
“The exploding kind, Aya,” Cher added over me with a laugh. “Good news, mags full, extras got eight rounds.”
“Doesn’t fix much against these guys…”
If you ask, I wouldn’t lie but admitting it’d suck: Couldn’t read them.
They didn’t operate like expected.
Normally, they’d storm like drunk soccer hooligans blasting everything, but this whole silence? That fried my brain with static.
Couldn’t stand to check—'cause headshot waiting—so just calculate, assume entry time.
“Idiot, snap to reality,” Cher said, sliding the P30L my way.
Checked the mag, just an habit, not doubt. “The other too.”
“Huh? Akimbo?”
“Fuck yeah.” I grinned.
“Sweet, I’ll take the 1911…” She rubbed the pistol against her cheek.
“Hey, hey… just pistols?” Aya asked, ripping a bedsheet and stuffing cloth into bottle necks.
“What the fuck you expect? An arsenal? When’s the last time we needed more than these?”
“Ugh, right, someone should have tossed an M15 inside the trunk or something… fuck my goddamn—” The room phone rang once.
“I ain’t answering, hate phone talks,” Cher said, flopping on the bed. “And Aya’s our firebug, better stay prepping bottles.” It rang twice.
I crawled under the window, out of line of fire, tucking the guns in my belt.
Picked up on the fourth ring but said nothing.
[G'day mate, fair dinkum pleasure to yarn with...?]
“Hiro…” I answered, then covered the mouthpiece. “No fucking clue what she’s saying, think she’s drunk,” I said.
[Ahh... interestin' name, bloody ripper... g'day, I'm Ashley.]
“Huh?”
[Ashley, ya drongo.]
“No goddamn idea what you’re saying.” Covered again. “Nah, not drunk: Australian.”
[Oi, my fuckin' name's Ashley, ya galah piece o' shit—get it now, ya mug?]
“Uh… Ashley, yeah, got that.” Missed half the insults after. Sounded like a pissed off kangaroo.
[Look, I'm comin' up, gonna cut ya fuckin' balls off while ya still kickin', make ya scoff 'em down, then grab that sheila with ya and drill so many holes in 'er, my blokes'll use 'er as a bloody gloryhole, fair go!]
Roll credits, folks, she said it, dropped the fucking title, you don’t do that.
And translators? Seriously, can’t parse that damn accent, half the words sound like she’s gargling gravel.
“Okay… okay… got it, you come up, we shoot it out, ends bad for everyone, wanna grab a coffee and talk our way out?”
[Way past fuckin' yappin', ya coot... that slut mate o' yours knocked off me brother, so I'm fixin' ya shitty narrative with lead... no dramas, eh... just fair dinkum constructive criticism, ya mongrel.]
“Yeah… thing is… two chicks here, neither sluts but one wasted tons of idiots, can’t know which idiot was your brother…”
[Look, ya bloody drongo...] Heard her steady her breath. [Chad.]
“Huh?”
[Me brother. His name, ya dickhead.]
“Sounds like a dick-taster name…” Couldn’t hold the laugh. “Look, yeah, I don't know… come up, do whatever, can’t with that name.” Tried stringing words, but couldn't contain the laugh.
[Ya brainless cunt, I'm gonna—]
Hung up, stared at Cher while killing my laugh.
“The bar dumbass,” she said, cracking up. “Forgot that shitty name.”
“The Martini moron? Now I see who made the better family business.”
Just to clarify: shit's about to go down.
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