Birthday at The Big Bucket

The human mind was like a piece of cloth. Flexible. Stretching, bending, twisting to make sense of the world around it. For many of the folks of Pitstop who lived side-by-side with death and destitution, their reality was far too cruel to wrap their heads around. Outsiders knew they lived in poverty. But it was sanity that was the shortest in supply.

Making up for that deficit was booze. For every cup of water, there was a barrel of beer. Ever since The Mids banned the substance, the gangs that ran the breweries ran the town as well. Fortune followed where alcohol flowed. And as it overflowed in Tim’s veins, it came out together with the contents of his stomach.

Sweat trickled down Tim’s chin, mirroring the leaky tap in front of him. His sore knees buckled as he tried to steady himself. Even a slight breeze could send him falling face-first into the rusty water pipe in front of him, or worse, into the pool of vomit beneath it.

But he was no stranger to this feeling, or lack thereof. The high. The numbness. Even as the world spun and his vision lagged seconds behind, he welcomed the assault on his senses with open arms. He didn’t want it to end. But this time, something was wrong.

Slamming his balled fist into his chest, his body purged the afflictions within. Gone was the dizziness and the floaty feeling accompanying it. The veins in his eyes vanished, relaxing into white. The insides of his mouth shed the black stains left behind by the unholy brew, escaping as a vapor of smoke alongside his rancid breath. Not a single trace of alcohol was left in his system. Yet, he couldn’t breathe. He could do it from his mouth, but not his nose, which left him perplexed. Blowing hard, his nostril turned into a barrel that shot out the bullet lodged in his head earlier. His eyes lit up seeing it land in the dirt right between his shoes. He’d been shot in the head too many times to count, but this was new.

First, surprise. Then, laughter. Finally, inspiration. His bones tingled at the thought of incorporating this as a new party trick. Shoot himself in the head. Blow the bullet out through his nose. Heck, why not give it a shot?

His hand reached into his coat, pulling out a revolver and aiming it at his temple, a move that was almost second nature by this point. Cocking the hammer with a “click,” his finger edged dangerously on the trigger. It tempted him to pull. The weapon, engraved with the words “Lonely Lucifer,” seemed to almost beg him to use it. Screw the party trick. Do it. Just kill yourself.

Maybe it was right. Maybe this would be the time he wouldn’t wake up with his brain intact. He would finally get to rest.

But he hesitated. He didn’t fear death. He feared life. But more importantly, this time, he had someone to go home to. And he made a promise.

That alone was reason enough not to waste his life away.

Holstering his weapon, the whispers in his head finally stopped. Not only could he breathe again, but he could think. And there was a lot to take in. With his senses now fully unclogged, he had to make do with yet another vengeful bit of stimuli.

Pitstop, in all its stinking glory.

The wind didn’t blow here. It sucked. The stench of garbage and bodies suffocated the oxygen on the streets. And each time Tim reset his body with his Gift, his brain treated the stench like it was the first time he had ever encountered it, even though he knew otherwise. An unfortunate side effect of his ability.

Fortunately, his eyes were spared from the same punishment. The rundown shacks and beggars lying around didn’t bother him. Neither did the flames from the open burning at the town square a few blocks south, peeking from the corner of his vision. With the sun absent, the heat was much welcomed, even if it was fueled by rubbish and roasted flesh.

And yet, despite the warmth embracing him, Tim’s fingers started shaking. Vibrating. Nails shivering within their grooves. Another withdrawal. His regeneration just wasn’t working as it used to before.

He cursed himself for being a slave to booze, so he took out a cigarette from his pack instead. One vice after another. Like a cheater falling out of love with his wife, alcoholism, only to turn to her sister, nicotine addiction. Gambling disorder was there, too, but she lined up patiently behind her siblings. That itch in his ankle could wait.

Now, if only he could find his lighter…

-----

The moist wooden walls of The Big Bucket were colder than usual, as if it were nervous sweat instead of condensation. Even with all the liquor and beer around and inside them, Eunuch Johnson’s men were tense. Loose lips turned tight. Less gossip, more goosebumps. The three bounty hunters who came in were not welcome, but even more so because of the agenda of the day.

Lucy played it cool, but even she was feeling the heat. Despite her telling them to go ask the guy who ran outside, Sam, Bart, and Jen were glued to their stools. There was no end to the bounty hunters’ questions. She kept one eye on them as she pestered them to leave, and another on a table in the corner.

“Everyone!” One of the gangsters at that table stood up, the floor creaking in pain from his sheer weight. Ducking under the support beam above him, Big Jim nearly tripled in size just from standing up. “I have an announcement to make.”

His bald head, shaped like an egg, started to resemble that of a watermelon as his face turned slightly green. His eyes went red as tears hung on for dear life onto the corners, desperately trying not to fall. And with the gangster next to him suddenly running away, the bounty hunters thought he was about to throw up.

“Today is my brother’s birthday,” he said, raising his cup to the lanky fellow sitting across from him at the table who wore a smile of missing teeth. “My momma, god rest her soul, found Slim Jim in a trash bucket when he was a baby. Hell, this bar our asses are in right now was named after that miracle, ain’t that right, Lucy?”

A stilted laugh left the proprietress’s mouth, unable to mask the unease from leaking out.

“And as you know,” he continued after wiping the tears and snot streaming down his face. “We’ve gone through hell and back for the boss. If I’m the brawn, he’s the brains of his entire operation!”

“Hear! Hear!” A voice from the other side of the room called out.

“Sadly, the boss couldn’t make it here today, but he prepared a gift. He—”

Unable to hold back his tears, Big Jim covered his face with his left hand, wheezing. With his right, he called over the gangster who left moments ago. All eyes were on the gift in the gangster’s hands, a wooden box with the words “Johnson’s Distillery” written at the front. While all the gangsters knew the usual cardboard packaging used to ship cheap swill, only the more experienced members recognized this container, one reserved for premium liquor.

With the box laid down in front of him, Slim Jim was over the moon, smiling ear to ear, a complete contrast from the sobbing mess of his brother. As the man of the hour lifted the lid of the box, he stumbled backward in sheer disbelief, unable to process his boss’s generosity.

The bounty hunters couldn’t believe their eyes. The gift rolling out of the box was a human head.

Crying, Big Jim drew his submachine gun, pointing it at his brother. Gangsters loyal to Slim Jim drew theirs. Then, Big Jim’s men. In an instant, everyone in the room had a barrel aimed their way.

“Leave. Now!” Lucy told the trio in front of her, finger already on the trigger of her rifle.

“Nobody leaves! NOBODY. LEAVES!” Big Jim bellowed.

Stunned, the bounty hunters could only watch as several gangsters pointed their weapons at them, too. Silence screamed in the room, begging to leave as the pressure grew unbearable. Hearts stopped. Beer spilled. Gunpowder seconds from turning The Big Bucket into a powder keg.

Lucy appealed, “Boys, please, let’s not do this!”

“I’ll do whatever the hell boss wants me to!” Big Jim fought back his tears. “Why can’t you do the same, bro? Why?!”

Slim Jim yelled back, “W-What the hell is all this about?! Why’d the boss give me Tommy’s head—”

“Tommy’s the rat!” The giant of a man raged. “He snitched! Why bro? After everything the boss did for you, why’d you gotta turn your back on us, man?!”

“I didn’t do nothing! The botched job with Dirty Eyes ain’t me, I swear!”

“Umm, guys,” Bart pleaded, his face losing all color as everyone’s attention fell on him. “M-Maybe we can ta—”

His head was blown wide open. Blood splattered. Bullets flew. Bodies fell. All hell broke loose. And it only lasted mere seconds.

Holes filled The Big Bucket and the corpses inside. Shattered glass littered the counter, still vibrating from the gunshots and screaming as they lay beside Lucy’s body. Her blood oozed to Jen, crushed by a pillar as she drew her last breath, cursing her rotten luck.

Dozens of bullets piled up at her feet, stopped midair by her Gift moments ago, only for the building’s failing structure to do her in. Her eyes, still wide open, reflected the empty casings scattered around the room. But no matter how much she refused to die, death did not give her special treatment.

From behind a toppled table, Big Jim pulled himself up, blood dripping from his gut to his trousers. His hands trembled. Vision blurry. But with whatever strength he could still muster, he scanned his surroundings with his weapon. Except for the beer flowing out of the bullet holes from the kegs and the sound of his own breathing, there was nothing else moving or making sounds.

That was, until the bar doors politely opened.

Dressed in maroon from head to toe, the man’s shoes blended in with the blood he was stepping on. Even with all the carnage laid out right in front of him, there was zero reaction from his scarred face.

“Boss!” Big Jim croaked.

Eunuch Johnson paid no heed to his subordinate. Proceeding further into the bar, he took out his pistol and started shooting the bodies lying around. His apparent cruelty was made even more jarring by his lack of expression, like a cashier at a checkout counter making sure every item was accounted for.

“E-E-Everyone’s dead, boss…”

“Not yet.”

Big Jim collapsed to the ground as his boss put a hole in his head. Several more body shots followed. All the while, he did not even bat an eye.

As he approached the counter, a voice cried out from behind. “W-Wait!”

Having held his breath all this while, Sam gasped for air, lungs fighting for oxygen that had been seeping out of the hole in his thigh. Salt from his sweat stung his wound even further. Fighting against the pain, it took him everything to speak as the man in maroon approached.

“I got nothing… to do with this. Please.”

Johnson stared at Sam with a curious look. Puzzled, even. The mob boss asked, “Are you a bad guy?”

It was a question that caught Sam off guard. What even was that kind of question? But with his time running out, he didn’t try to ponder further.

“N-No!”

“Oh,” Johnson merely responded. “I’m sorry.”

Kneeling down, he got closer to the wounded man, fear audible in his breath. But what happened next was something he’d never imagined possible.

Eunuch Johnson shrank. His body, his clothes, everything on him started to morph. A whirlwind of flesh and fabric wrapped around him, reshaping him into the form of a young girl.

The Skinwalker.

Sam’s blurred vision cleared up momentarily, jolting him awake. The monster that had been targeting the gangs of Pitstop was a child who could pass off as his granddaughter. And now, she was bandaging his thigh using the cloth Lucy used to wipe all the glassware.

“I know someone who could help,” she said. There was concern in her voice, but otherwise it was calm. Robotic even. He was starting to doubt if this girl was even the Skinwalker’s true self.

“I-I need to b-breathe,” Sam uttered. What he actually wanted was a breather. To give his mind some room to rest. His shaky hands pulled out a cigarette, together with his new lighter. But as he brought it to his mouth, the girl stopped bandaging.

“That lighter,” she pointed out, eyes locked on the engravings. She paused. Her expressionless face warped with pure, unadulterated rage.

“You lying THIEF!”

Sam gurgled blood as she slit his throat with a knife, before ramming it repeatedly into his gut. The squelching of flesh being torn apart repeated like a broken record. The little girl kept stabbing into the lifeless corpse like it was a pincushion.

Until the doors gently opened and Tim stepped in.

“Holy mother of—Mia! You’re supposed to be doing your homework!”