5-The Same Mistake

5

The Same Mistake.

Creegan stared at her as she moved across the waiting room towards him.  He could already remember her scent.  This led his brain into a premature fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his one arm slipping around her waist and pulling her tight.  His other gently moving through her hair.  He would stare into her wide, deep, brown eyes, and then kiss her deep and full until…

…Creegan suddenly shook his head as he remembered.

He remembered how she had deserted him in high school after his career ending injury.  He remembered the RTA incident, and how she had dragged him into that insanity and almost gotten him killed before, again, abandoning him in his time of need.

These memories led Creegan into a different fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his right arm slipping around her neck tightly, quickly followed by the left.  He would stare into her deep brown eyes and throttle the life out of her lying…

Creegan shook his head again as Maggie came to stop three feet away.  Her eyes pleading, she opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.

“No.”  With the one word, Creegan brushed past and started for the door.

Maggie frowned, “No? I haven’t even asked yet!”

“I’m cutting out the middle man.”  Creegan answered as he continued to the door without turning.

Maggie huffed and ran after him, passing him and standing between in his way of the door.

“Now hold on a damned second,” Maggie began.  Creegan stopped and she stared angrily at him.  “I just bailed you out of jail!  Isn’t that worth something?”

He took a deep breath and considered her question.  He then looked at her, “You’re right.   It is.”

Maggie smiled and nodded.  “That’s more like it.”

Creegan then took her hand and shook it, “I sincerely thank you for bailing me out of jail.”

He then shoved her out of the way and walked out the door.

Creegan’s resolve was a wall.  One made of brick.   He had to keep it up and focus on the fact that every time he got involved with Maggie, he got burned.  He had to try not to think of her full lips, the way she begged for a kiss to be deeper without using any words, the way that when she was on top of you she would….

He shook his head again.

Maggie stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk behind him, “TWENTY-THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

Maggie yelled the amount and Creegan suddenly found it impossible to keep walking. Something about the number made it physically impossible for him to move forward. Maggie stormed down the sidewalk and moved, yet again, in front of Creegan.

“Twenty thousand dollars.  I will pay you twenty thousand dollars.  Five grand now, fifteen when the job is done.”  She said this while staring at him in the eyes.

She looked sincere but, then again, she always had.  Every time she had promised Jim something.  Every time she had left him twisting in the wind.

“What do I have to do?”  Creegan asked, resenting himself as he did.

“Just keep me alive until the deal is done.”  She replied, hope rising in her voice.

When Creegan didn’t answer, Maggie pleaded.  “I know I have screwed you over in the past Jim, but I’m in some real trouble this time.  I need you Jim.”

Jim took a deep breath and grimaced, “When don’t you Mag’s?  When aren’t you in real trouble?”

Maggie smiled.  “Never seemed to bother you that much before…”  Her voice took on a sultry tone and she stepped into him, as if to kiss.

Creegan put his arms on her shoulders and shoved her back.  “No!  None of that shit. Keep your hands and mouth to yourself.”

Maggie frowned.  “Alright, fine.”  She pulled herself out of Creegan’s grip.  “So are you in, then?”

It’s a funny thing about people, they love to make the same mistake over again rather than find new ones to make.  “The five grand up front?”

Maggie smirked and nodded toward the station.  “How do you think I got you out?”

Jim nodded.  “Figures.  Alright.  You have a car?”

Maggie nodded.  “Yeah, I’m parked over here.  We’ll head to my place.  I have an apartment not too far away from here.”

Maggie turned and began to walk in the direction of the car and Creegan’s gaze helplessly dropped to her butt, the way it shifted within her tight jeans conjured up feelings…

“No!”  Creegan said it out loud as he shook his head and followed.

 ****

The Cook was always happier when he got a house to himself.  It made things so much easier.  When the mark was home, you were always taking a risk getting in and cooking.  So that it didn’t wake them up meant a level of quiet which The Cook felt hindered his abilities… at least his culinary abilities.

Today however he had gotten lucky that Margaret Oats had not been in her second floor mid-town apartment.  With a quick popping of the lock, he had entered and gone about his business of preparing Margaret’s favorite dish, a rather complicated salad, at least as far as salads go.

He had taken his time preparing the fresh lettuce and the organic vegetables to put into the dish before then taking out his premium cheese and beginning the process of turning the ingredients into, what would be, Margaret’s last dish.

It hadn’t been hard to find Margaret.  After The Cook had located that rather sad “Dear John” letter, he had cross-checked the unfortunate Hank’s expenses with the name Maggie.  Lo and behold, he had found this apartment which had been cosigned by the late Hank with a Miss Margaret Oats. The rest is history.

He smiled at the salad in front of him.  He had only but to add the final touch, an Italian dressing that he made from scratch at home before making the trip.  The Cook slowly drizzled the dressing onto the salad then sat back on one of the stools surrounding Margaret’s breakfast bar.

He pulled out his gun, a 93-r machine pistol, and placed it in front of himself on the counter.

His wait was short.  He heard the key hit the lock and some mumbling as she made pleasantries with a neighbor, then she entered and the door shut behind her.  For a split second, The Cook’s trained hearing seemed to pick up a second set of footsteps.  He discarded this thought it as nothing.

The Cook heard her walk toward the kitchen and he smiled, mentally preparing his speech.

The light flipped on and he raised the gun.  Maggie stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the evil looking pistol, her vision moving quickly from the small smiling man behind the gun to the gun itself.

“Hello, Ms. Oats.  May I call you Margaret?”  He asked with his usual pep.

Maggie raised an eyebrow, “Well, you have the gun.  I guess you can call me whatever you want.”

The Cook considered this, then responded in his heavy British accent.  “I’m going to take that as a yes, now please have a seat.”

Maggie slowly sat down, noticing the bowl in front of her. She became confused.  “Is that a salad?”

The stranger’s face lit up.  “Why, yes it is!  Your favorite type of salad, I believe.  Please have a taste.”

Maggie’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened.  “You made me a salad?”

 The man nodded

“What kind of weird ass, mother fucker makes someone a salad before they kill them?” Maggie asked with disgust on her face.

The cook was taken aback.  This reaction was new and he didn’t know where to begin.

Maggie, however, didn’t know where to stop.  “So, you break into my apartment with that giant ass gun to kill me, but before that you have to make me a salad?  Is that how you get off or something?  Oh shit, you aren’t going to… like… touch yourself while I eat it, are you?”

The Cook was officially offended.  His face contorted into anger.  “I will have you know, Madam, I AM NOT limited to salads! I can-“

The toilet flushed.

Why did the toilet flush?

 The Cook scooped up his gun and had a moment of panic.  The second set of footsteps, he remembered.  Someone else was in the apartment.  “Don’t move.”

With his words to Maggie, The Cook stood, gun out in front of him, and moved into the living room.  Across the small room, on the other side of the couch, a door opened and out walked a man drying his hands with a towel.

Bloody hell.

The large man’s eyes came up and he froze as he caught his sight on the gun and then the man behind it.

“I do say chap,” The Cook began, “I do hope you like salad.”

4-Patty

4

Patty

Patty stood.  The bus had come to her stop and the clock was running.  She walked to the front.  Paying the toll, she exited the mass-transit vehicle.  Her feet hit the suburban sidewalk and kept stride, her camouflage cargo pants making a faint ‘zip’ noise in the quiet night air.  She reached into the pocket of her studded black leather jacket, feeling her hands around the brass knuckles to find the elastic hair-tie.  She drew her hands up as she walked and pulled her long, curly, red hair from her face and off of her neck into a high pony tail.  This revealed her nearly bone colored white face which was littered with piercings, two in the eyebrow on the right, one in the left, a stud in the nose and her ears where more metal then flesh.

Patricia Katelyn O’Shaughnessy was an Irish born national, here illegally in the country and she was here to hurt people.

Patty rounded the corner and could now hear the sounds of a loud and unruly house party in the distance.  She smiled as her business stride continued.  She was in the right place.  As she approached the house party, she went into a different pocket and pulled out a picture.

Patty examined the picture.  It was of a man in his late twenties, short brown hair with heavy bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in months.  Patty flipped the picture over, reading the words written on the back.

Matt George - $1500

Patty committed the name, face and amount to memory, then she placed the photo back in her pocket as she approached the house.  The house itself was a disaster.  Garbage littered the lawn, which included but was not restricted to plastic disposable cups, toilet paper, a frying pan, vomit, and unconscious people.  Patty did not stop.  Instead, she shook her head as she stepped over one of the victims of alcohol poisoning and made her way toward the front door.

The music was ridiculously loud.  Deafening even before she entered the house.  Patty had tempered herself to be used to situations like this.  It wasn’t the first and certainly would not be the last.

Patty moved through the rooms of the house systematically looking for the target.  Stopping in each one for only a split second as she visually swept the faces before moving on.  After finishing the kitchen, she moved to the stairs and then to the second floor.  She found the master bedroom first and would have startled the couple in the room, had they not been so into what they were doing.

She closed that door, ‘How did she get her leg that high?’  Patty briefly wondered and then moved on, opening the next door. This was the door that she needed to open.

On the other side of this door was what had, at one point before the party been a den. In the center of the room was a coffee table.  To each side, parallel to the table and to each other, were two sofas.  On the one sofa sat Matt George, shirt off, making out with two women, one to either side of him.  On the couch across was another man.  Short and angry looking, he had creepy beady little eyes that just stared at his friend across the table.

Patty stood there for a three second count before she was noticed. In that three seconds, she noticed the creepy guy had a pistol stuck into the front of his jeans.  It was as if to broadcast the fact that he was cool, simply because he had a gun.

Patty did not think he was cool.  Patty thought he was a moron for having a gun that close to his dick.

The creepy guy was the first to notice Patty.  He gave her the once over.  Patty was five-feet, seven inches and frumpy with large legs and a big butt.  The coat hid her arms, however.  Those were pure muscle.

“Well, you’re a little fat for me but I’ll throw you a fuck if you want,” the creepy guy said, before laughing.

The laughter got Matt’s attention.  He broke away from his tongue-fest to laugh loudly at the non-joke from his buddy.

Patty was not laughing.  She put a foot to the coffee table and aggressively shoved it across the room, sending it into the wall with such a force that it broke at the legs and crumbled to the floor.

Patty stepped in-between the couches and looked down at Matt, whose laughter had started to fade into confusion, “You owe Elmo Kincaid fifteen hundred dollars.”

Patty’s accent was a constant problem in the negotiations part of the business.  Lucky for Patty, she didn’t much care for that part.

Matt looked confused and stood.  Patty’s hands moved into her pockets as this happened.

“I what, the who?” Matt asked confused.

Patty sighed and very slowly said, “E L M O    K I N C A I D.”

Matt started to smile, “Kincaid?”

Patty nodded.

“Kincaid sent you?”  The sarcasm was heavy in Matt’s voice and Patty forced herself not to smile.  Her favorite part was coming.

Patty nodded.

Matt started laughing and his creepy friend with the gun started laughing too.

Patty was still not laughing.

“Ok, look Lucky Charms, you go back to Kincaid and tell him he’s gonna have to do better than you if he wants to scare me into paying.”  Matt said this before he went back to laughing.

Patty smiled.

This was the part she liked.

Patty’s right hand came out of her pocket with the brass knuckles lining her fist and into a beautifully executed hook-punch.  The blow struck Matt on the cheek and the impact dislodged a tooth and simultaneously broke his lip open.

Matt’s head floated in mid air for a half second before falling backward.  His eyes rolled back in his head from the devastating punch.  Patty spun in the second that followed. Mr. Creepy had yet to understand what was going on and Patty still had the drop on him.

He reached for his gun but Patty stepped forward and on to gun in his crotch.  He wailed as the barrel smashed his genitals.  Patty then swung with the metal lined hands; a right cross, then a power left hook.  Mr. Creepy rolled into the fetal position onto the couch.

One of Matt’s women screamed bloody murder and exploded off the couch toward Patty’s back.  Patty twisted with an open hand and connected with a thunderous backhanded slap.  She staggered and fell onto all fours, blubbering like a baby.

Patty then fixed her hard vision on the remaining girl who stared back, wide-eyed.

“Well?”  Patty asked, her accent giving the word a hard edge.

The girl stood slowly, then scampered out of the room.

Patty picked the gun out of Mr. Creepy’s pants and disassembled it.  She then went through his and Matt’s pockets and wallets cleaning them out - cash, cards, and even driver’s licenses - making it impossible for them to get away from Elmo Kincaid now.

She then pocketed the goods and walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house.  Her stride continued.  Down the street, the music from the party began to fade behind her.  Patty turned a corner and came to a bus stop.  She breathed into her hands on the cold September night, then she rubbed her knuckles a little.

The bus arrived a moment later and she got on and sat down.

She sat on the bus and waited.  In the course of the trip, she hummed the song that played on the bus’s internal radio and eyed the other passengers.  She chuckled to herself when she went over the events in her head and remembered one of the women leaving.

The bus stopped and Patty stood.  She moved to the front of the bus, paying the fare and getting off.  She continued her stride as her foot hit the sidewalk pavement.  She moved up the street then crossed at a cross walk and headed into a parking lot.  Still in the suburbs, she moved to a black car that was parked at the far end and got in.

Inside sat an older man in his late forties; he still took good care of himself.  He wore a loose button up shirt and had a receding hairline, peppered with gray.  He was big and broad-shouldered and smiled at Patty when she got in the car.

He had a lover’s smile.

He had a killer’s smile.

Elmo Kincaid

“How’d it go?” he asked, in a low gruff voice.

“Just fine.  Got your haul right here,” Patty said, her accent thick, as she pulled the stash out and handed it to Kincaid.

 “You’re going to find that he still owes, but he ain’t going nowhere without his car,” she said as he counted and took inventory of Patty’s cache.

“Good.  Good.”  Elmo began, “This is good, but I have another job for you.  It’s important.”

 Patty’s eyebrow raised, “Already?  Just got done with this one.”

Elmo nodded.  “Someone took something of mine and it needs to be returned to me.  This is important.  Double your take.”

“That’s a lot of money.” Patty said with wide eyes.

“It’s nothing compared to what I lose if I don’t get it back.” Elmo said, a ring of desperation in his tone.

Patty thought a second.  “I’m in.”

Elmo nodded and smiled before handing her a package.  “Those are the targets.  The item is a thumb drive.  Small, portable computer device used for storage.”

Patty frowned, “I’m from Ireland, not Alabama.  I know what a thumb drive is.”

Elmo smiled, “Of course.”

Patty then opened the door and got out.

Elmo leaned back and took a deep breath.  He then took out his phone.  He dialed a number he never thought he would dial again.

The other side picked up, but no one spoke.

“Stone.  This is Kincaid.” He said into the dead air.

The other side spoke quietly and cautiously, “Thought you were done with us after what happened at the RTA incident?”

Elmo remembered the incident well and had never intended to work with them again.  They were insane.  “Desperate times, Stone.”

“What’s the job?”  Stone asked, all business.

“I’m putting a reward on an item.  If you get it back, you get paid big,” Elmo began then took a deep breath before the next part, “and its first come, first serve, Stone.  Whoever brings it to me will get the money.”

3-Omelets and An Evil Bitch

3

  Omelets and an evil Bitch.

The smell was heavenly.  Hank’s eyes slowly came open and he took in the beautiful morning.  He smiled and rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxer shorts.  He walked out of the bedroom and called down the stairs ahead of him.  “Damn that smells good, Maggie.”

He slowly plodded down the stairs scratching his head through the messy brown hair.  Hank had gotten laid the night before by Maggie, his partner in crime and a true professional in the sack.  Top that with the fact that within 48 hours, they were going to be very rich.  And now, the hot porn star in the bed last night was in the kitchen creating whatever it was that had birthed that God-like smell.

Hank was a happy man.  Of course, he was totally wrong about almost everything, but for the following twelve seconds that it took him to move from the bedroom down the stairs and into the kitchen, he was a happy man.

Hank turned the corner to his kitchen and his face dropped.  Standing in front of him was not the naked woman of his dreams, but instead, a man; a man standing about 5 feet, ten inches, with neat, clean, short hair and the angled nose of a British born.  He had been wearing a business suit, but the coat was removed, folded and placed over a chair.  The sleeves of his white under shirt folded up to make the task at hand easier.

He was the one cooking.

Hank frowned and began to yell. “Who the fuck are-“

Hank stopped talking as the man snapped out his right hand to the handle of a gun and raised it to point at Hank’s head.  The gun looked like a Berretta 9mm that had been bit by a radioactive machine gun and gained its powers.

Needless to say, Hank was no longer a happy man.

The cook smiled suddenly, a very wide and inviting smile.  He then spoke, his British accent making him sound even more mannerly then he was trying to be, “Ah, Mr. Tomec.  Can I call you Hank?”

Hank stared down the barrel of the gun and slowly nodded.

“Wonderful!”  The Cook was excited by this.  “Now, please have a seat.”

Hank slowly moved to the breakfast table and sat down, watching the man and his gun. After he sat down, the Englishman put the gun back on the counter and retightened the black leather driving gloves which he wore on both hands.

“Now,” the Cook began to speak as he went back to finishing his project, “I would assume, that given the current situation, coupled with the actions you took yesterday, that with your powers of deduction you have figured out what I do for a living?”

Hank was quiet at first, not sure if he should answer the small man with the gun and the spatula, “You're… you’re a hit man.”

“Well done.,” the cook complemented, smiling.  “Now that I am sure you understand that, I am going to tell you a story.  This story will be followed by a question, after which you and I will reassess and decide the best way to proceed with our business.  Understand?”

Hank nodded.

“Good,” the cook said, as he moved to a different pan and began to flip pancakes. “I am, without a doubt, a very good hit man, as to say I kill other people.  And I do it very well.  I am aware that is a rather cliché opening to this story but bear with me.  It does become much more interesting.  You see, when I began my career I was in the military.  After that, Her Majesty’s secret service, and when I was with these organizations, I had no problem killing because I was a patriot.  Still am, in fact.  God save the queen and all that.”

The cook chuckled and Hank stared in confused awe at the man in front of him.

“Yes, well,” the cook continued as he returned to his first pan of hash browns.  “In any case, things happened and I found myself no longer in the good graces of the Monarch Supreme, with nothing left but these skills of a rather appalling, violent nature.  So, suffice to say, I had a crisis of self, much to my dismay.  I had a hard time killing someone without the beautiful justification of patriotism.  Do you understand?”

Hank considered if he should answer or not.  “You didn’t like killing people for no reason.”

The cook made a sound of happy amusement.  “Well, there it is, isn’t it?  That’s what I love about you, Americans, you just trim everything down to brass tacks.  No lousing it up or beating around the bush, so to say.  Such a direct use of the language we have created.”

The cook looked up at the cupboards then back to Hank, “Plates?”

Hank pointed at a cupboard and the cook pulled out a plate.  With practiced skill and speed he prepared the plate with hash browns and an omelet and two silver-dollar pancakes.  He then turned and brought the plate in one hand and the gun in the other to the table and placed the food in front of Hank.  Even given the situation, Hank could only think about how amazing the food smelled.

“Please,” said the cook as he handed Hank a fork and motioned toward the plate with his hand.

Hank took the fork and stared, unsure of what he should do.

The cook sighed.  “I brought the gun for a reason, Hank, and beside, poisons would change the favor index.”

Hank slowly put the fork into the omelet and broke a piece away, his eyes never leaving the cook who just stared back smiling anxiously.  He then speared the segment and slowly lifted it to his mouth.

The food was amazing.  Hank had never tasted anything like it.  His face curled uncontrollably into a smile.

“Pretty good, eh?” the cook said.  Hank could only nod as he dove in.  Each flavor better than the last, the pancakes were fluffy and light with a hint of cinnamon that dragged him to continue.  The hash browns were perfectly crisp and not over cooked.  The omelet was cooked to perfection and the inside filling had been pre-sautéed.

The cook just watched with a smile as Hank ate until he was about half way through the meal.  “To continue, in any case, I had to find some way to ease my troubled state of mind over the killing and finally, I came upon it.”

Hank nodded as he shoveled the delicious food into his mouth.

“So I decided to cook for them.” The cook finished as he sat there smiling waiting for it to sink in.

Hank’s eating suddenly slowed.  He looked up into the ace of the harbinger of his doom as he swallowed.  He put the fork down, his appetite suddenly gone.  The cook continued to smile, warm and inviting.

The cook continued, once he had regained Hank’s full attention.  “When I am researching the job, I also research their favorite meals and eating habits.  I only got the order yesterday for you, so needless to say, I was worried.  I am glad you enjoyed it, though.  Well this concludes the first part of our business, now on to the second and most important.”

The cook took a deep breath, tightened his gloves, and picked up his gun.  He pointed it to Hank’s forehead.  Hank’s face went white with fear.

“Where is the thumb drive?”

Hank stammered, “Up-stairs in the bedroom.  In a shoe box in the ventilation shaft.”

The cook dropped the gun and smiled.  “Well that is wonderful, I have to say Hank, not always do I have such cooperative marks.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”  Hank asked, starting to relax.

The cook raised his eyebrow.  “Silly boy.  You really think they paid me to cook for you?”

A look of realization came over Hank’s face.  The cook then raised the gun and pumped two - three round bursts into his chest and head.  The cook then lowered the gun to his side and reached out to feel for Hank’s pulse.  Nothing.

The cook turned and moved with efficiency and purpose up the stairs to the bedroom then to the ventilation cover.  He popped it off and removed the shoebox.  The cook opened the box and frowned at what he saw.

No thumb drive.  Instead, a Post-it note, stuck to the bottom of the box.

“Hank -  Sorry.  Last night was fun –Maggie.”

The cook frowned and dropped the box before pulling out a cell phone and pressing a single number.

A voice picked up on the other end.  “Do you have the cupcake?”

The cook rolled his eyes at the code words, how silly.  As if anyone was listening.

“No, the egg is scrambled but the cupcake is on the run.  However, I have a lead.”

The voice did not sound happy.  “This is priority number one.  You have 24 hours to bake the cupcake.”

The cook could take no more, “Really, bake the cupcake?  Like anyone out there who would be listening can’t figure out that we are talking about murder?”

The voice on the other end became aggressive.  “You have 24 hours or we send cleaners.  Is that clear enough?”

The cook frowned, “Consider it done.”

2-Jim Creegan

2

 Jim Creegan

 The door opened at the far side on the non-descript police interrogation room.  This excited Jim because he had been sitting alone in the room for what felt like hours, waiting to have the police come in and get the next part over with.  The condemnation part.

The cop was young and in full uniform.  This wasn’t a detective-thing, so he was here to get Jim’s statement before throwing him back into the holding cell where Jim would much rather be.

“Do you know why you are here Mr. Creegan?”  The officer asked in a low, squeaky voice that sounded nearly pre-pubescent.

Jim’s blue eyes rolled and his defined jaw worked. ‘What a dumb fucking question’ Jim thought to himself.  “Yeah.”

The officer raised his eyebrow.  “Well, I ask because these are relatively heavy charge, and you waved your right to an attorney.”  The officer continued.

“Look,” Creegan’s voice was heavy handed and stern, “I know what I did.  I don’t think it was wrong.  As far as an attorney goes, I have been in this situation before and there ain’t a whole lot an attorney can do for me.  So, turn on the recorder and I’ll give my statement and get out of this room.”

The officer shrugged then turned on the recorder.  “Please state your full name and occupation.”

Jim began eagerly, “Jim Creegan.  Bouncer.”

“Alright Mr. Creegan, please take us through the events of Monday January 12^th,  at ‘The Bent Elbow’ bar?”

****

10:15 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow…

The bar was sparsely occupied.  Only three or four table’s worth of people.  Paul was bar tending and Lisa was alone on the floor. 

This was Jim’s third job in the course of four months and he couldn’t be happier.  Jim had been having a hard time since he had lost his long-standing job at a freezer warehouse.  Although, in all honesty, he hated that job too.  In high school, he had been a damn good half back.  A tackle gone wrong had made his knee Swiss cheese.  Jim now walked with a slight limp and, needless to say, could no longer play football.

Out of high school, he had gotten a job at the same warehouse driving a tow motor and moving 50 pound cases of beef around for the better part of his life.  He was 26 now and after the frozen juice guy had made the wrong comment, and Jim had summarily broken his nose, he had been fired.  His father had disowned him and it had gone downhill from there.

Jim was oddly happy, though.  He had found a job that he loved and was starting to pull himself out of finical debt.  The owner of the bar, Mike Miller, had even given him a loan to keep his apartment up until he could get on his feet.

“COME ON!  You know we are gonna tip well!”  Jim’s smile faded as he paused from clearing bottles from a table and looked to see a table of four men in the corner table.  They were badgering Lisa for the third time tonight.

The lead jack ass was grabbing at her ass and laughing.  She looked very unhappy with the situation.  The four were dressed in jeans and camouflage and were all in their late twenties or early thirties.  Jim figured they were coming back from a hunting trip of some kind.

Yet again, the man grabbed at her and this time the cute, young, brown-haired college girl dropped her tray.  Beer bottles went crashing to the floor.  This seemed to make them all laugh even harder.

Creegan put the bottles back down and flexed his jaw.  He stood six-foot, four-inches and had a lot of mass that used to be muscle in his younger days but had lost definition, as he had stopped working out so much.  His ‘Staff’ t-shirt was a size too small, and although he looked oddly shaped he still looked like a force with which to be reckoned.

****

“So, you approached the table.  Did you identify yourself?”  The Officer interrupted Creegan’s retelling.

Creegan just sat there.

“Did you ask the table to leave quietly?”  The officer’s questions continued.

Creegan continued to stare at him.

“Did you let this table know who you were and that they should leave in any way?”  The officer built to his perceived climax.

Jim suddenly could no longer suppress a grin.  He leaned forward…

“There is no doubt in my mind, officer, they knew who I am.”

****

10:17 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow

Jim was suddenly behind the lead man like a shadow or a specter called forth for vengeance against these four idiots.  Jim brought his elbow downward in a perfectly fluid motion, connecting with the outside of the man’s right collar bone.  A wet crack followed and Jim quickly followed up with a fore arm to the side of the man’s head.  Jim then wrapped his arm and neck from behind and dragged him out of his chair, before twisting and hurling him through the air and into a table and series of chairs with a crash.

Jim turned back to the three remaining twits.

They stared back, their alcohol soaked brains unable to catch up with the events that were transpiring around them.

One of them mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” to his friends.

Then, the moment was over and they were all in motion.  The man to the right of the table got to his feet first, attacking with a wild and wide Haymaker, which Jim countered with a block while his over hand, curled into a fist, struck the inside of his elbow.

The pop that sounded was telltale dislocation.

The man’s scream was cut off mid way as Jim stabbed his elbow into the man’s nose in the half-second that followed his first blow.

The man’s screams turned to whimpers and he fell to his knees, blood pouring out of his nose.

Jim quickly kicked the table sending it into the man who had been sitting back to the wall.  The table struck his groin and with an expulsion of air, he bent over.  Jim snatched his hair and slammed his face into the table.

The man to the left of the table was still just sitting there, staring at Jim as he dismantled his friends.

He just shook his head again and mouthed the words, “What the Fuck?”

Jim snatched the mug of beer out of his hands and then brought it down over the back of the man’s head.  It shattered and beer flew everywhere.

Jim turned back to the man he had struck in the nose, ready to counter another attack but no attack would come.

He was still on his knees holding his nose.  Weeping.

****

“Weeping?”  The officer asked.

“Yeah, weeping.  You know, crying.  With tears and sputtering and everything,” Jim answered sarcastically.

“So, you are saying you hit this guy so hard he started crying?”  the officer asked in disbelief.

Jim shrugged.  “I really didn’t hit him that hard.”

The officer shook his head, “Okay, please continue.”

****

10:19 pm Monday January 12^th at the Bent Elbow

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”  The scream was high pitched and cracked, like the scream of a nerd who is picked on so much that he finally attacks.

Suddenly, Jim was struck in the back of the head by a fist.  The man sitting to the Left had finally figured out what was going on.  Jim staggered forward.  Surprised by the blow, he stumbled over a table and some chairs while trying to turn to face his attacker.  The twit stepped in and threw a terribly awful punch to Jim’s gut.  He  brought his hand back to punch again-

-Jim stepped in and swung his head forward, the thick bone in his fore head striking the top of the man’s nose, crushing it instantly.  The man staggered and fell, hitting the floor.  Out like a light.

****

“Then, I dragged them out the door one by one and left them in the street.”  Jim finished.

They had, of course, then called the police from the road and Jim had been taken into custody.  The officer nodded and clicked off the recording.

“Alright, that’s all I need.  Someone will take you back shortly.”

This happened.

Jim found himself back in the holding cell.  The night’s events hit him now, and he was truly depressed.  Another failure.  Jim’s whole life had been a failure, just one after another.  His football career, Maggie, his father, the warehouse and all of the jobs after that.  And now, the Bent Elbow, for which he would probably get sued.  Not to mention, Jim would surely get fired.

“Well shit.”  Jim said to the wall before lying down on the bench and resting his eyes.

****

“Creegan.”  The officer’s loud voice brought Jim back.  “Creegan, you have made bail.”

Creegan sat up and then stood.  “Are you sure about that?”

The police officer took a deep breath.  “No, I’m not sure, I just make a hobby out of randomly letting criminals out of the jail so that we can chase them back down later.  It’s a little game I play called ‘terrible cop.’”

Creegan nodded at the sarcasm, “I feel like you planned that speech.”

The officer smiled, “Funny you should think so, ‘cause that’s my other hobby.  I make up long winded sarcastic speeches, just  in case the guys I’m letting out ask stupid questions like, ‘Are you sure you want to let me go?’”

Creegan stared at the officer for a second, “I should just stop asking questions.”

The officer’s eyebrows bobbed, “I got a million of these.”

Creegan surrendered to the officer’s superior wit and followed him out through the processing area.  They gave him a speech about when he would have to return to court and then, they set him free.

She stood in the waiting room, dark, blood-red hair to shoulder length, dark brown eyes and a full figure.

Maggie…