Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller

by Jeff Menapace

  I spun in panic to meet the new offender…momentarily forgetting about the naked offender behind me.

  “Ahueyet!?” I heard the naked offender behind me yell, a split-second before he knocked me out.

  50

  “Whoosee?”

  “Idono.”

  “Whoosafuckisee?”

  “Idonfuckino.”

  It felt like I was underwater.

  “Whosafuckisee?”

  “Idonfuckino.”

  And then I began floating upwards, like the anchor had been cut, the surface clarity my reward.

  “So who the fuck is he?” Annoyed American voice.

  “I don’t fucking know.” Annoyed Russian voice.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” Annoyed American.

  “I don’t know.” Annoyed Russian.

  Shuffling around me, followed by angry American saying: “Get him up. Get him on his feet.”

  I was snatched by the hair and belt and yanked to my feet, then backwards into the lockers with a metallic bang, a forearm pressed into my throat and staying there. Things were still fuzzy, but the haze was fading quickly.

  I was in the locker room. I’ve made a colossal fuck up of the entire plan, and I’m looking at three pissed off gentlemen who I’d assume are Mr. John, Yuri, and Vlad.

  Mr. John was wearing a white undershirt and boxer shorts. Probably the first thing he grabbed after hearing the commotion in the locker room. He’s about average height, dark hair and eyes, handsome-ish. He truly did look like your average American Joe that could be your neighbor.

  His Russian buddies did not. Yuri and Vlad would be cul-de-sac chatter the second the U-Haul arrived. Both bald, both frowning lumps of muscle, both with eyes cold and gray. The one with the tattoos had since (thankfully) slipped on his swim trunks, but remained shirtless. The other was dressed the same; shirtless and swim trunks.

  Mr. John was seated on a bench, my gun in his hands, the knife lying next to him.

  “So who is he?” Mr. John asked.

  Both brothers said nothing.

  “So who are you?” Mr. John asked me.

  I squirmed to relieve some pressure from Vlad or Yuri’s tattooed forearm against my throat. “You know who I am,” I managed.

  His eyebrows went up. “Do I? Well please enlighten me. Because I must say, I haven’t the slightest clue.”

  I squirmed some more; it felt like a baseball bat was being pressed into my neck.

  “Vlad?” Mr. John said patiently. “If he passes out, I won’t get my answers.”

  So tattoo was Vlad. He lightened the pressure—a little.

  “I work for you,” I eventually said.

  “A disgruntled employee?” He smiled. “I have many people working for me. What makes you so special?”

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “Oh, I can see that. Still, I need to know why an insignificant such as yourself would risk coming in here, after hours, to attack an innocent businessman and his two associates. Were you after a raise or something?”

  His comment made Vlad chuckle. Yuri stood in the background, scowling, arms folded.

  “Businessman?” I said. “You’re a sick fuck.”

  Forearm still on my throat, Vlad looked over his shoulder to gauge his boss’ reaction to my comment. Mr. John did not look upset. He merely shrugged his shoulders and started nodding.

  “I see,” he said, still nodding. “Well…you must be a pretty tough guy to come in here all by yourself.” Addressing Vlad and Yuri now: “What do you guys think? He look tough to you?”

  Yuri and Vlad said nothing.

  “Well come on, boys—this is what I pay you for. Can I please find out how tough this guy is?”

  51

  Vlad took his forearm off my throat and took a step back. I bent over and started coughing, pretending my breathing had suffered more than it had. A possum at play if there ever was one. The element of surprise would add to the effectiveness of my shot; as the old—and very apt—saying goes: it’s the punch you don’t see that knocks you out. Once Vlad was asleep, I’d continue nurturing that element of surprise and start cracking every fucking thing that moved. My only hope was that I put Yuri out before Mr. John remembered he was holding my gun.

  I coughed some more, still bent over.

  Vlad flicked the top of my head. “Cough, cough, little baby.”

  I launched myself upward, my right fist rocketing towards his jaw with every ounce of juice I had…

  …And Vlad parried it easily, countering with his own right, shattering my nose. I dropped to all fours, my nose—or what was left of it—a bloody faucet.

  “Oooohh…” Mr. John said. “How you doing, tough guy?”

  I cupped a handful of the blood pouring from my nose and flung it towards Mr. John.

  Vlad immediately ripped me to my feet by the hair and fired three sledgehammer uppercuts into my body. I dropped to all fours again and puked up my Mom’s stew.

  I heard Mr. John laugh, and I was pretty sure Yuri and Vlad started laughing too.

  “What the hell?” I eventually managed, squinting upward as though looking into the sun, “I thought you were a grappler…”

  “You want grapple!?” With a sudden burst, Vlad ripped me to my feet yet again, ducked then snaked his free arm between my legs, and hoisted me up and onto his shoulders in a classic firemen’s carry. I wiggled and fought to no avail; he was a fireman saving a child. I lay draped across his massive shoulders like a human scarf, waiting to be spiked head-first onto that hard tile floor, hoping I’d die on impact as opposed to becoming another notch on the brothers’ quadriplegic post.

  Of all people, it was Mr. John himself who saved me from becoming that notch. “Vlad…” he said calmly.

  Vlad, still holding me, keener than ever to get to the spikin’, gave a reluctant glance over his shoulder.

  “Vlad, put him down and give Yuri a turn.” Mr. John spoke as if they were his children. You’ve played with it enough now; give your brother a turn.

  Vlad dropped me. Better than being slammed, but still no fun. I rolled to all fours yet again.

  Yuri approached. “Get up.”

  I stayed put, surrounded by my own blood and vomit.

  Yuri nudged me in the side with the toe of his foot. “I say get up.”

  “I say fuck your mother.”

  (What!?)

  Yuri exploded downward with a pile-driving punch into my kidney. I cried out and rolled onto my side. The pain was so intense, I almost puked again.

  “Kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that,” Mr. John said.

  Still on my side, still writhing and grimacing and clutching at a kidney I feel has burst, I for some reason asked: “You wanna borrow them?”

  A brief pause. And then finally a little chuckle. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea,” Mr. John said, setting the gun aside and then picking up the knife.

  (You FUCKING idiot…)

  And the male ego’s foresight remains forever blind.

  52

  Mr. John tossed Yuri the knife. He caught it by the handle, squatted and started waving it in front of my face, grinning. “I take one first, or both at same time?”

  Obviously, I said nothing.

  “I don’t think he’s listening,” Mr. John said, now propped casually on his side by an elbow, the bench his sofa, my plight his film. New ground for him, I’m sure. “Can you please check and see if he’s listening first?”

  Yuri, still squatting in front of me, still grinning, gripped my left ear and sliced it clean-off.

  The pain was awful, yet not as bad as the kidney or the broken nose. Huh. Still, I could not help but moan and place a hand over the new hole in my head.

  Yuri wiggled my severed ear in front of my face. “Look what I haaaaave…”

  All three of them laughed. Yuri tossed the ear and wiped his hand on me.

  “Think he’s listening now?” Mr. John said.

  “Maybe we take th
e other?” Vlad said.

  Yuri slapped me, then jerked my head so he could get to my remaining ear. He gripped it tight between his thumb and index finger.

  “Are you forgetting his offer?” Mr. John said.

  Yuri looked over his shoulder.

  Mr. John gave a theatrical splay of the hands. “I have no balls, gentlemen. He’s willing to lend me his.”

  Yuri grinned again. Traced the knife down my curled body until it arrived at my groin. Started tapping the blade against my hip, breaths of anticipation coming out that grinning mouth like he wanted to fuck me.

  More laughter at my squirming.

  “Pussy,” I said. It was soft and labored, but they heard it.

  The laughter stopped.

  “Come again?” Mr. John said.

  “I said pussy. You’re a fucking pussy.”

  Yuri stood upright. Both he and Vlad looked at Mr. John; this was never in any of the scripts they’d read.

  “Really?” Mr. John said. “We’re pussies, are we?”

  I inched on my side until my eyes met Mr. John’s. I had no ear; my shattered nose was still a painful, leaky mess; and my entire body throbbed like a hangover. Yet I made sure when I locked eyes with this prick, he saw none of my pain, only a willful man stating an absolute fact. “No—not them. You. You’re the pussy. One…big…giant…pussy.” I then rolled onto my back and started laughing. Light at first, and then loud and uncontrollable, like a lunatic.

  Behind my tears, I could make out Yuri and Vlad still exchanging looks as if they’d been asked a riddle. Mr. John’s expression was a far different read. He was livid. In one furious movement, he snatched the gun, leapt from the bench, and jammed the barrel in my face. Still laughing, I closed my eyes and waited to die.

  It never came. Two loud knocks on the locker room door came instead.

  53

  Mr. John took the gun off me and whipped it toward the locker room door. No one breathed.

  Two more knocks.

  “Who is that?” Vlad said.

  Mr. John said nothing. He inched toward the door, gun now held behind his back. Yuri went to follow but Mr. John held up a hand, stopping him.

  Three knocks now.

  “Who is that?” Vlad asked again.

  Mr. John spun on his man. In a loud whisper: “Shut up! Whoever the hell it is, we don’t want them coming in here and seeing THIS.” He waved an arm back and forth over my mangled body. “Just shut up, and maybe they’ll go away.”

  More knocking.

  Mr. John cursed under his breath, tucked the gun into his shorts, pulled his undershirt over it, and headed towards the locker room door. He was a few feet away when he turned back to us.

  To Yuri and Vlad: “Stay right there and don’t make a sound.”

  To me: “You’re still alive. You can stay that way. But if you make so much as a fucking fart, the three of us will pull an all-nighter taking you apart piece by piece. Up to you.”

  I said nothing.

  Mr. John turned back to the door. Approached cautiously. Opened it a crack and poked his head out. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  Still nothing. He glanced back at us. “Stay here.” He slipped through the crack and left.

  All three of us stared at that door. Yuri and Vlad’s thick chests heaved in anticipation, Yuri’s a stark white, Vlad’s a mural. My breath was no less anxious, my nose forcing me to breathe through my mouth.

  Seconds passed. A minute. Nobody’s eyes left the door.

  “I don’t like this,” Yuri said. He began backing up towards the bathroom stalls.

  Vlad glanced back at him. “Be quiet.”

  Yuri kept backing up. “Something is wrong.”

  “Shut up! It’s nothing.”

  Yuri shook his head slowly, his gray eyes narrowing, one fist clenching and unclenching, the other forever clenched on the knife as if it were his lifeline. “No…prepare, brother.”

  Vlad spun, angry. “Zatknis' na hui!”

  The locker room door opened. Paul entered wielding a gun. He fired two shots into Vlad’s chest, launching him backwards into the showers, Vlad’s dense, tattooed body hitting the tiled floor with a wet and heavy slap.

  Paul’s eyes, frantic and scared, then fell on me; and I looked up with eyes equally frantic and scared—and completely dumbfounded. Paul dropped to my side instantly and began checking me.

  I pushed him off. I wanted him to leave. Yuri was still here, lying in wait—a true trapdoor spider. Even with a gun, Paul had no chance. My words came out all wrong though:

  “There’s still one more, man. Back there by the toilets. There’s still one more,” I said. It was a warning, not an order. But Paul sprang to his feet. He’d heard no warning; he’d heard an order to continue forward, to charge those stupid fucking toilets and eliminate the final threat.

  “Paul, wait!”

  Yuri appeared out of nowhere, snatching Paul’s gun-hand by the wrist and forcing it skyward, Yuri’s free hand, his knife-hand, driving up and into Paul’s gut, the gun falling from Paul’s hand and to the tile floor with a clatter, Yuri then jerking the long blade free, gripping a slumped Paul by the shoulders and tossing him aside as though he’d lost interest, Paul falling hard to the tile, eyes closed, blood painting his mouth and chin, his shirt already awash in wet red.

  I will never forget these images.

  What happened next was harder to recall. Rage has a way of muddling things.

  I know that I was on my feet without realizing, diving for the discarded gun. Yuri dove too, the knife coming down with him, catching me in the shoulder, the blade hitting my scapula, scraping bone. The pain was like a drug; it made me energized and manic. I scrambled for the gun, Yuri on top of me, raising the knife again. My right hand reached the pistol and I managed to spin under his weight and face him. My sudden spin affected his aim; the blade came down and missed, hitting the tile inches from my face with a clank. I jammed the gun into Yuri’s throat and pulled the trigger. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened without words. He coughed blood and it sprayed my face. I bucked him off and he rolled onto his back, dropping the knife, clutching at his throat, eyes wider. Coughs of blood now sprayed his own face as they were expelled up, and then inevitably down.

  I hurried to my feet, wiped blood from my face with the back of my forearm, and shot Yuri up and down his torso until those wide eyes never blinked again. Then a few steps over to Vlad, and a few more bullets into his chest, just to make sure.

  Paul.

  I dropped the gun and rushed to his side, adrenaline still anesthetizing my pain. His shirt was soaked in blood, his eyes still closed. I placed my good (only) ear to his face and listened. His breath was a shallow wheeze, but it was there.

  I gripped his shoulder and shook him. “Paul…Paul…”

  He opened his eyes. “I’m here.”

  I felt like breaking down and sobbing right there. “What the fuck, man?”

  He coughed. It had a wet, phlegmy gurgle to it that wasn’t phlegm. “Did we get them all?”

  I nodded. “They’re all—” A sudden realization slapped me. “Mr. John. Where’s Mr. John?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy! The guy who went looking for you!” I started to my feet. Paul grabbed my arm.

  “It’s okay, man…he’s out…I knocked him the fuck out…how do you think I got the gun?”

  “He’s not dead?”

  Another wet cough. “I don’t know. I got him pretty good with my crowbar.”

  Paul kept a big crowbar with duct tape on the handle in his back seat. I used to tease him about it, calling him a wannabe tough guy and such. I couldn’t be more grateful for the damn thing now. Still, Mr. John could be alive. Worse still, alive and awake.

  I ran a hand over Paul’s sweaty brow. “Stay here and hold on for me, brother, okay? Can you do that?”

  More wet coughs. “Where the hell am I going?”

&nb
sp; I got to my feet, spotted the gun by Vlad’s corpse, snatched it, and hurried out the locker room door to find Mr. John.

  54

  To my delight, Mr. John was still asleep. Flat on his back by the hot tubs, eyes closed, mouth open. I saw Paul’s crowbar lying next to him. I smiled, but only for a second. The crowbar’s nostalgia for my friend brought with it a far more significant recall: Paul was hurt badly; I needed to hurry.

  * * *

  I kicked open the locker room door, dragging Mr. John along by the ankle. He was still fast asleep, head bumping and lolling lifelessly as I dragged him towards the toilets.

  I glanced over at Paul. “Still with me, brother?”

  He gave me a thumbs-up, but he was looking paler by the second.

  (Then save him. Stop this shit and get him the hell out of here.)

  I can’t stop. I can’t leave Mr. John alive and you know it. We’ve come this far. The hard part is done.

  (The hard part will be knowing you waited too long to save your friend.)

  Shut the FUCK up.

  I dragged Mr. John to a urinal, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his face into the porcelain mouth, my free hand on the silver handle, flushing repeatedly. He eventually stirred, then started to gasp and choke as the water flooded his nose and mouth. I kept him there a tick longer, then ripped his head free and tossed him away.

  His wet face embellishing the look of a frightened child’s, Mr. John scooted backwards on his ass, one hand out in front, pleading. “Whatever you want…whatever you want…”

  “The money. Where is it?”

  His frightened face shifted; he looked confused.

  “The fucking money you bring here to make deposits! Where is it!?”

  The confusion shifted back to fear. He stammered and fumbled his words. “I…it’s in the front office…in the desk.” And then a sudden look of self-reprimand. “I mean under the desk, it’s under the desk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Another demonstrative face of self-reprimand, as though his earnest attempts might be taken into consideration come sentencing. “Sorry—it’s on the underside of the top drawer. It’s in a carrier belt attached to the underside of the top drawer. Take whatever you want…take it all.”