by Drew D'Amato
They walked past the four-sided island bar. It was occupied on all sides with young people getting drinks. A bleached-blonde waitress wearing shorts that cut higher than most underwear walked past the two of them. Jericho smiled at her, and her hip bumped against an unoccupied barstool. She was too busy gazing back at him.
“Will you stop using your tricks?” Michael said to Jericho.
“As soon as you stop using yours,” he said through a half-smirk.
“Whatever. I’m thirsty, let’s get a seat.”
At the south end of the club was a spiral staircase to the VIP room. At the bottom hung a velvet rope, helping the bouncer that sat next to it to keep people out. This bouncer was white, but not overweight like the other two. He had a chiseled body with a tight, black Ed Hardy t-shirt over it and strong, black, spiked hair, along with an earpiece. He looked down at the clipboard he held in his right hand.
“This area is for VIP’s only,” the bouncer told them as they approached.
“Yes, we know; we have a reservation for Jake,” Jericho replied.
“Are you . . . Jake?” Jake. A name like that given for a reservation in one of the hottest clubs in England was an odd thing. The bouncer did not take them seriously.
“No, he’s still waiting outside.”
The bouncer looked down at the clipboard in his right hand. His eyes scrolled through the names on his list not at all expecting to actually find a Jake.
“There is a reservation for . . . Jake, but how do I know you are guests of his?” He ended with a smile that said to them: No matter what you say, I’m not letting you skinny, long-haired
hippies into the VIP.
Jericho knew otherwise.
He stared at the bouncer without blinking. The bouncer looked back in their direction but avoided eye contact. He frowned. His eyebrows pointed down in an unhappy fashion, expressing his uneasiness. The bouncer did not want any trouble from anyone, and a night without having to break up a fight, was a good night.
However, he could not let them pass. He didn’t know exactly who they were and what their acquaintance was with this Jake character. Why are they not with Jake right now? Their appearance did not help them either. One with his blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail; the other, with his long, dark, brown hair slicked back on his head, like some sort of coke dealer, or Latin sex symbol. Long hair was not really the style these days—not for the normal club-goer. On top of that, the bouncer noticed the long leather jackets that should have been checked in. He was going to make it a point to tell Chrissy in the coatroom about this. The leather jacket over the black Armani shirt was a nice outfit, but this was a club—and all the body heat in the room made this nice outfit, an uncomfortable one. They did not seem like people who planned to stay long. These two were unique characters to the bouncer, and he was not going to let them pass until he met whoever this Jake was.
Jericho and Michael did not leave their spot. The bouncer—now confused as to why they were still standing there, and why Jericho was still looking at him—decided he had had enough. Now it was time for him to threaten these two. His eyes locked onto Jericho’s and his mouth opened to make a threat.
But the bouncer’s left hand motioned—like instinct—to the hook on the velvet rope. He unhooked the rope, pulled it close to him, and opened up the path.
“Have a good time guys,” the bouncer said.
Michael and Jericho moved again, as if they were not able to affect anything in the real world. They walked up the stairs, Jericho first.
“Jake?” Michael asked.
“It’s an easy name. I figured Jake never gets any respect, so tonight he could feel like the big man.”
At the VIP level, a banister ran along the edge so people could look over and see the dancers below. The two stopped, leaned on the banister, and looked over the dance floor.
“I see Jake and them coming in now,” Michael said.
“Good, tell them to fuck with the bouncer, he’s easy.”
Michael stared over the railing, looking at their three comrades passing through the crowd. He had to lock eyes with them to send the message. After he stared at Jake for a moment, he turned back to Jericho.
“Jake said fuck you—next time they’re going in first.”
2
The VIP room had dark red velvet couches that were three-fourths of a full circle. They sat about nine if properly squeezed. Glass tables were in the middle of the couches. Underneath the glass, the stands for the tables were small aquariums with different small fish inside. An eight-inch square card, folded at the middle, rested on an empty table. The name Jake was written on the card.
Another bouncer escorted Michael and Jericho to the table. “Table for Jake,” he said with a brief wave to the table, and then walked away. A waitress, a brunette with black spandex shorts and a pink shirt, came to them.
“What can I get you guys?” she asked.
“Might as well order for everyone,” Jericho started. “Five drinks, all on the rocks with water: Jack, Canadian Club, Two Beefeaters and a Johnnie Blue.”
“We don’t have blue.”
“What do you have?” Michael asked, concerned since this was his drink.
“Black and red.”
“What the fuck?” Michael said under his breath. “I’ll take the black.”
Jake, Matthew and Paul came up from downstairs and joined them. When they were seated, Paul looked to Michael and asked, “Anything seem funny to you guys here?”
“Not really,” Michael replied. “Just try to relax. I think things are going to be cool for a little while.” He took out a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo lighter that appeared in his other hand.
“Those things’ll kill you,” Jericho said.
Jericho and Michael looked at each other, and then everyone at the table laughed.
“There are definitely some ladies here tonight,” Paul said, moving his head back and forth like it was on a swivel. “I say we don’t go home empty-handed tonight.”
“Do we ever?” Jake asked with a smile.
This group did not just like one night stands, they lived for them. They gave women a night they would never forget, and then sent them on their way, no strings attached. It was not because they had no respect for women, it was because that was the only way they could have them.
The waitress came to their table with their drinks. She gave Michael his last. “And Johnnie Red,” she said.
“Black, I wanted black.”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said, and gave her twenty pounds for a tip.
3
After a good bar tab later, the five of them started to feel a slight buzz. None of them were drunk—they had inhumanly high tolerances.
“I’m going downstairs, any of you guys want to come?” Jake asked the table as he stood up.
“You’re on your own,” Matthew replied. “Maybe I’ll come down there later.”
Jake got up from his seat and walked to the spiral staircase. He looked back to see if anyone changed their mind, but they didn’t, and he walked downstairs. Once down there, he got a good look at a woman dancing a few feet away. She danced between two guys, who looked like they spent more time at a gym than at a real job. One of the men danced in front of her, the other grinded his smaller self against her behind. Her bright blue eyes locked onto Jake. He focused on them and ignored her blonde hair and overdeveloped body. She stopped dancing and moved away from the two wanna-be Mr. Olympians. The guy who was dancing in front of her was disturbed by this. Then he made his mistake.
“Who the hell are you?!” the guy asked, inches away from Jake, close enough to feel Jake’s lifeless breath. Jake exhaled out of annoyance; then spoke. This man was an American on vacation and that explained a lot.
“She’s obviously doesn’t want to dance with you. Now for your benefit, don’t piss me off,” Jake said for his only warning.
“Fuck you,” he said,
and attempted to swing a right hook at Jake. Jake threw a quick left hitting the guy’s gut. He’s too fast, the guy thought as the pain sunk in, and he curled into a ball on the floor. He had to have read my mind to see that coming. Holding his aching stomach, the guy looked up at Jake. Jake grabbed him by his collar and brought him up to eye level before any bouncer noticed.
Jake’s brown eyes started to show shades of red on the outside of the iris. The guy saw this and realized that if he got to walk out of here with just got a sore gut, he would be lucky. Jake released his grip. He had made his point; no need to start any more trouble. The guy and his friend scurried away from Jake and the blonde with the big blue eyes stayed. The girl looked at Jake in awe of what happened. She noticed he was looking back at her.
“Well, do you like what you see?” she asked him.
“I wouldn’t be looking if I didn’t.”
She smiled. “So, will you be a gentleman and buy this lady a drink?” She was from England and Jake found her accent attractive.
“Will you be a lady and come with me?”
They smiled in agreement of this decision and walked to the main bar in the middle of the dance floor. The bottles for this bar sat on a three-tier island in the middle on the bar. When they got there, Jake leaned up against the wooden rail, trying to get the bartender’s attention. The girl slapped Jake’s ass as his body leaned over. He turned to her with a smile on his face. If she had slapped six inches higher, she would have hit the hard metal of his semi-automatic.
“You don’t mind me slapping your bum, do you?”
“I don’t. Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“It’s Maggy. And yours?”
“Jake.”
She smiled again. This was easy, and I didn’t use any tricks; well, not really, he thought with a smile of victory. On turning back to the bar to again try for the bartender’s attention, he sniffed something funny in the air. Across the bar stood another man with bleached-blond hair and a leather trench coat. The two of them locked eyes.
“Radusons!” Jake screamed.
The blonde man produced a small Uzi from underneath his jacket. Jake went for his Glock 21 tucked in his waist, behind his back. The two of them raised their guns at equal time and squeezed off their rounds. The bartender in the middle of the two got hit. He dropped to the floor in a bloody lump. Maggy took three stray bullets, one in her shoulder, two in her right breast, and died. Jake got one in the arm as he fired, but he did not flinch. His gun clicked empty before the other man’s. The blond looked at him. He smiled and his incisors grew half an inch to the size of fangs.
“FUCKING RADUSONS!” Jake screamed again. It would be his last words on Earth.
The blond man pulled the trigger again, twice. Jake saw the two bullets enter his chest. They found his heart and his body fell back. As he fell, his body dissolved into thin air—a quick fading dissolve, that took about two seconds to go from matter to nothing. If anyone had paid enough attention they would have been surprised to find that no body hit the floor. However, the confusion from the random violence was enough for everyone to panic.
The crowd acted like bees in a car—making a lot of noise and moving a lot, but nowhere closer to escape. The music continued to play. Upstairs in the VIP room, the four others were already at the banister with a good idea of what to expect. With his gun out, the blond man ran through the center of the club. Matt noticed him first.
“They’re here,” he said.
Directly below, a man with long black hair looked back up at him. The man smiled, showing his fangs. Matthew decided to go for him. He put his right foot on the top of the banister and leaped. He did not fall straight down as a human would. Instead, he glided toward the man. The man went for his handgun, a Walther P99, from under his jacket. Falling toward him, Matthew beat him to the punch. He grabbed his own—a 1911 .45 caliber from behind his back—in mid-air and shot the guy twice in the heart. The guy dissolved into nothing like Jake, and Matthew landed right where the guy had stood.
Paul jumped off the banister next. Jericho and Michael were the last ones left upstairs. Jericho had his legs ready to go, when a guy from the back of the VIP room appeared out of nowhere with a small machine gun in his hand aimed at Jericho. Michael noticed this and pulled out his Desert Eagle .357 semi-automatic from underneath his trench coat, and fired. His first shot hit the guy in his shoulder. The guy stumbled back. Michael shot him again, this time in the chest, and the guy dissolved.
“Thank me later,” Michael said and then jumped off the banister. Jericho followed after him.
Jericho landed in a crouched position. His fangs protruded out of his mouth. He pulled out two silver-finish, Desert Eagle .50 caliber semi-automatics from their under-arm holsters. Two Radusons looked at him, their fangs showing over their bottom lips. One was to his right; the other to his left; both at a 45-degree angle from his face. He shot one shot from each gun and eliminated the two of them in a second’s worth of work.
When he stood, Jericho saw Matthew in front of him with anticipating eyes.
“JER, DUCK!”
Jericho fell to the floor without question. Matthew raised his right hand and shot a Raduson standing behind Jericho. Jericho stood back up. Before he could thank him, Matthew’s eyes blinked. He started to disappear as his body made an attempt to fall to the floor. When Jericho started to notice him disappearing, he shot blindly through Matthew’s dissolving body. Not sure where he was aiming his shots, he managed to kill Matt’s killer.
“Fuck. Michael, PAUL!” Jericho screamed.
He glanced back up at the VIP balcony. Jericho jumped and cleared the banister without any effort. He looked back over the dance floor trying to gather where everyone was. The white, body-building bouncer from downstairs rushed up the spiral staircase. He just saw Jericho jump up to the VIP room. He didn’t know what motivated him to approach the guy after that, but it wasn’t sanity. He approached Jericho from behind with a can of mace in his hand. When Jericho started to turn from the dance floor toward the bouncer, the bouncer responded like someone putting water on a grease fire—doing the first thing that seemed like the right idea, but was actually the wrong one—and sprayed Jericho in the face. The pepper spray stunned his face as hard as it would anyone, but it wore off within seconds. It was still precious seconds he couldn’t see, and he might have lost someone close to him—or his own life—because of it. Out of defense and a little bit of anger, he punched the bouncer dead in the nose. His face was shattered, his legs buckled and he fell limp, but still lucky to be alive even though now with a permanently-damaged face. Jericho had barely used any strength.
“Asshole, this isn't your war!” Jericho scolded the limp body.
Jericho looked back over the banister at the hysteria. The place was packed with panicked young people. The club was a fire marshal’s worst nightmare—only one exit. After a closer look, he saw there were at least three Radusons in the club, and only Michael and Paul left. Michael was presently in a gunfight with two Radusons at the main bar. Paul kneeled on the floor without a gun in his hand, looking down the receiving end of the blond man’s gun. Jericho went to aim his gun and save Paul, when three bouncers grabbed him from behind. They managed to bring his body to the ground and started a futile attempt to hurt him. Jericho didn’t get to see the blond man empty his clip into Paul’s chest; the last few bullets just shot into thin air after Paul disappeared.
Michael and the two Radusons took turns popping up behind opposite ends of the bar shooting at each other. Michael had miscounted, and pulled the trigger of an empty gun on his last turn. The click resonated over the music still playing. The two Radusons stood up from behind the bar, understanding that sound. They started to smile.
They jumped over the bar’s counter, into the actual bar, still grinning. The two did not take too much time, just in Michael’s senses everything happened a little slower. He backed up from them, as the two Radusons aimed their guns from inside the ba
r. Michael noticed the broken bottles of alcohol on the island and inside the bar and thought fast. He took out his Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket and threw it at the bar. The two Radusons flinched at first. When they saw it was only a lighter, they laughed and reaimed—then everything went a flambé. The lighter skimmed off the top of the bar and landed in a puddle of broken tequila bottles on the floor inside. The flame rushed along the alcohol like it was gasoline, and soon the entire bar started to burn. The two Radusons got caught in the fire and burned right up; then they dissolved.
Jericho continued to struggle with the bouncers. The biggest bouncer laid on top of him as the two others kicked him in his ribs. He threw the big one off of him, and slapped the one to his left making him keel over. When he turned to his right the third bouncer, Ed, stabbed him with a switchblade and ripped it down his chest.
“You ruined my shirt,” Jericho said.
With Ed staring at him, Jericho ripped the knife out of his chest. Ed watched with disbelieving eyes as the large wound in Jericho’s chest healed right before him. The skin regenerated like boiling wax hardening, and soon the chest looked unscathed, no trace of the wounds. Jericho smiled, letting the shock of these events freeze him.
“Now run.”
Ed ran to the other two bouncers who were now getting to their feet. He got them to follow him to the back of the VIP where there was a hidden exit that every employee was aware of. Jericho turned back to the main floor and found the blond man—Smythe—approaching Michael from behind. Michael was busy looking for the rest of his comrades, unaware of him. Jericho jumped off the banister and crashed onto Smythe before he could get a clean shot at Michael. When he landed, his guns fell out of his jacket.
Get your guns—he checked; he found nothing but leather—I’m dead.
