“Alright,” Erin interjected, more than ready for business, “Now that we all look ridiculous — some of us so much more than others — how do we find Ronkowski?”
“He’s gotta be close,” Double OT said, thinking out loud. “What would I have been doing in this part of town last time I was here? Hmmmmm.”
“Well,” Rooster grumbled, “Seeing as though your freaking memory string dropped us off in between a smut shop and a liquor store, I’m gonna go way out on a limb and guess you were either getting drunk or watching a skin flick. Or both.”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all. Hashtag — It totally does! We should check out the smut shop first. My skintuition’s tingling.”
“Ugh,” Erin muttered.
“Let’s get moving,” I said, as we began to make our way back toward the street with Owen on point. “When we find Ronkowski, let me handle it.”
“Lilith said he’s not going to give up the Ark without a fight. Remember?”
“I remember, Doc.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Rooster asked, chambering a round in both Glocks before tucking them back into his pants.
“I’m going to be nice,” I replied.
“Nice, eh? And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I’m going to be really nice.”
“Great,” he grumbled. “This should go down without a hitch. Can’t wait.”
“Hey, NecroDope, what are we looking for? What does Ronkowski look like?”
Pulling to a halt at the very edge of the alley, Double OT turned to face us and said, “Well, he’s a big feller. Strong as a motherfogrel. Biceps like bowling balls. Got some shaggy Mark Harmon hair. And, most importantly, he’ll have the Sausage Rocket with him.”
“So,” Rooster chimed in, “We’re looking for a big ass body builder looking guy pushing a big ass cart.”
“Exactamundo, doucheball. Any more questions or can we actually go and find him now?”
“By all means, lead the way.”
Impatiently mumbling something of a snide nature under his breath, Double OT then boldly stepped out of the alleyway only to be absolutely leveled by a rather elaborate stainless steel food cart that was being pushed down the bustling sidewalk by one of the largest human beings I’d ever laid eyes on.
As Owen yelped in protest, the absurd mobile meat dispensary, decorated with airbrushed flames and cartoon pigs in astronaut suits, battered him with the force of freight train before pulling to an abrupt halt.
“Think we found him,” Doc snickered.
Happily watching as Double OT and his smartass mouth plummeted to the pavement in a pathetic flash of leisure suit and mussed hair, I couldn’t help but think that the whole situation played out rather nicely.
“That’s a — big — fucking — dude,” Rooster muttered, slapping me on the shoulder as we all stood there watching the antics unfold from the shadows of the alley. “You might have to be extra nice with orange jello on top.”
“Or drop a school bus on him,” Erin added, studying the mighty physique of the time hopping street vendor. “Make that an aircraft carrier. I can see why Lilith was into him though. Just saying.”
Awkward?
Yes.
That was awkward.
“What the fuck?” The twenty something man mountain barked in a thick Massachusetts accent as he made his way to the front on the infamous Sausage Rocket, looking like he was geared up to pluck somebody’s limbs off with his bare hands. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass. I’ve got Polish sausage here. It’s very delicate.”
“Hi, Ronk,” Double OT winced, sprawled out on the sidewalk as people continued to shuffle by making a wide swath around him. “How you been, buddy?”
“Odie?” He replied, like they were long lost pals as a huge smile curled across his baby face. “Is that you?”
“What’s left of me … I think. Ha!”
“Frickin’ pissah! Good to see ya, man. What are you doing here?”
“Oh nothing. Just hanging loose — on the sidewalk — in the fetal position. I think my spleen’s broke actually. You?”
As Ronkowski proceeded to effortlessly lift Double OT off the ground with with one arm and dust him off a bit, he said, “Didn’t mean to whack you with the Rocket like that. What can I say? It’s exciting being Polish.”
“Ha! LOL! So, what’s up with the hurrycane, amigo?”
“Yeah, sorry, man. I’m heading to Fenway. World Series, bro. Usually make a killing on the pregame crowd, ya know. Place’ll be hopping in about two hours. Gotta get my lucky spot.”
Taking note of Ronk’s skin tight ‘Welcome to Ashbury Park, NJ’ tee shirt, showing off his massive upper body, Double OT said, “What the flipping frak, bro? Don’t tell me you’re still listening to Springsteen.”
“Get the fuck outta here. Course I’m still jamming on the Boss. He’s the fucking boss.”
“Springsteen makes me placid. Placid? Flaccid. Definitely flaccid. For reals.”
To which Ronk simply laughed and replied, “Whatever, brother.”
But, as he was evidently a complete Masshole it sounded like ‘Whatevah, bruthah.”
Giving Owen a somewhat curious glare, he asked, “Hey, seriously, good to see you and all, but — what are you doing here? You got a show or something? Don’t tell me you’re playing at that joint in Chinatown again.”
“I wish. They haven’t invited me back since I stuffed fortune cookies down my pants until they starting popping out of my fly. I’m here on business.”
“That a fact?” Ronk chuckled. “What kind of business?”
“Oh, nothing really. Just trying to save the world and shit like that. Typical stuff.”
As the peculiar duo continued their conversation, I turned to Doc and Rooster and said, “You guys stay out of sight. I got this.”
“What are you planning on doing?” Rooster asked.
“What we came here to do — Have a chat with sausage boy.”
“By yourself?”
“Yep. We don’t want to spook him. If he phases out of here we’ll never find him again.”
“You sure about this?” Erin confirmed.
“I said — I got it.”
“Alright,” she grumbled, as they quietly retreated into the darkness of the alley, and ducked behind the big ass dumpster.
Stepping onto the sidewalk and boldly placing myself in front of Ronkowski, I said, “You don’t know me. But, we need to talk. Right frigg’n now.”
And, unfortunately, the situation degraded pretty quickly from that point forward.
Typical.
Chapter 28
“You know this fucking guy, Odie?” Ronkowski chuckled, seriously getting a kick out of my powder blue onesie.
“Yepperoonies,” Double OT responded. “This handsome son of a monkey’s uncle is Dean Robinson — my colleague.”
“Colleague, huh?” Ronk jested. “This have to do with all that saving the world and shit?”
“Ha! You know it. Pretty flipping coolio, right?”
Breaking into a hearty laugh, the big galoot said, “Yeah, whatever, Odie. You’re still one crazy bastard. That’s for sure.”
“This isn’t a frigg’n joke,” I grumbled, with Ronk’s oversized pectorals practically poking me in the face.
Smiling ear to ear, he nonchalantly slapped me on the back like we were drinking buddies or something.
“Take it easy, jumpsuit. I’m just fucking around. Any friend of Odie is alright by me. Even if he dresses like one of the Jackson Five.”
Ignoring the Jackson Five crack, I said, “Look, we need to talk.”
“What’s your deal, Robinson? You in Odie’s band or something? Lemme guess, I bet you play a mean skin flute, don’t cha? Or is it the hanging organ?”
To which he and Double OT burst into a spirited round of very frigg’n annoying laughter at my expense.
“Okay, asshole,” I grunted, having taken more shit from Tweedle Dope and
Tweedle Dickhead than I was willing to endure, “Listen to me very carefully — Some seriously bad shit is going to happen thirty-seven years from now.”
“Bad shit happens all the time,” Ronk replied, still chortling.
“I’m talking like apocalypse bad.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, you’re going to help me stop it.”
“That a fact?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. How am I gonna do that?”
“You’ve got something I need.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what? A set of balls?”
“The Ark of the Covenant.”
And it was right about then when his jovial demeanor instantly vanished as he abruptly stopped laughing and glared at me like I just punched him squarely in the nose.
After a long second or two, he coldly muttered, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
Evidently no longer interested in any further discussion on the topic, he simply turned to Double OT and said, “Hey, ah, good seeing ya, Odie, but I’m late. Gotta run.”
And before either one of us had the chance to reply, the man mountain hastily resumed his position at the helm of his sausage yacht and began to push it down the sidewalk again.
Grabbing the mammoth cart, I said, “We’re not finished.”
“Walk away,” he grumbled, coldly.
“Can’t do that.”
“This is going to end badly for you.”
Standing my ground, I said, “If I don’t get the Ark, it’s going to end bad for everybody. Trust me.”
“I already told you. Don’t know nothing about that.”
“I know you have it.”
“You don’t know shit,” Ronkowski barked, stepping out from behind the Sausage Rocket visibly agitated.
“You made a deal — with Lilith. Keep the Ark hidden on a single day in history. How am I doing?”
As his eyes danced with rapid thought upon hearing that statement, he asked, “Who told you that?”
“She did.”
“That crazy bitch,” he muttered. “She also tell you about the fine print?”
“The part about if you lose the Ark you lose your soul?”
“Yep. So unless she sent you here to void our agreement — you and me got nothing further to talk about.”
“You’re not listening to me, asshole. The frigg’n future of mankind is on the line and you’re holding the key to setting things straight. We can do this the easier way or the hard way, but either frigg’n way — you’re giving me what I need.”
Cracking his knuckles and grinning, he said, “Your mouth shouldn’t write checks your ass can’t cash.”
“Whoa, fellas, ease up on the throttle,” Double OT interjected, trying to keep the peace. “We can work something out here, right? Let’s talk it out over a couple kielbasa dogs. Extra mustard? Yes? No? Ah, how about some jello then? I often find that jello makes the even the tensest of situations blissfully palatable. For reals. Am I right? Guys? Group hug?”
When neither one of us offered a response, he muttered, “Okay, then. Well, if you guys are gonna start beat’n on each other — I’m gonna zen out for a bit at the Rocket. Starving!”
“Last chance,” Ronk grumbled, looking like he was ready to snap me in half, “Walk away.”
“I’m not leaving without the Ark.”
As his eyes flamed with intensity and bore holes through my skull, he said, “You’ll be leaving alright. Just in a few more pieces than when you got here. Sorry about this.”
And then, in a shimmering blur of motion, he proceeded to pick me up like a twig and hurl me into the alley with all his unnatural might. Making the mental note that I probably could’ve handled that situation just a little better, I soared through the air like a man-sized football and careened into the dumpster a solid fifty feet away.
Completely caving in the side of the oversized metal box as my body slammed into it with the force of a meteorite, I managed to pry myself loose and stumbled to my feet only to find Doc and Rooster standing there shaking their heads.
“So,” Rooster smugly muttered, “Looks like everything’s proceeding as planned.”
“Fuck off.”
As the super sized pollack raced toward me with unnatural speed and bad intentions, Erin asked, “What the hell did you say to him?”
Brushing off the shellacking, I replied, “I was just negotiating the terms of his cooperation.”
“You think maybe we should help?”
“Nah. Wait here, this won’t take but another minute. Two tops.”
And then I willed the cloak into being.
Elegantly manifesting in a spectral flash of white luminescence, it billowed about my shoulders as I felt the otherworldly power course through my body like an electric current. Feeling the mental switch flip to the on position, I slowly pulled in a long, deliberate breath.
Cleared my mind.
Focused my thoughts.
Found the Balance — the perfect balance between wrath and clarity.
Pulling to an abrupt halt at the sight of my cloak, Ronk scoffed, “Wait, you’re a fucking Deacon?”
“Oh, so now you want to frigg’n talk?”
Calling for the gauntlets, my mouth cracked into a dark smile as the unbreakable ashen hell stone formed around my fisted hands.
Then I focused all my supernatural strength and slugged the big bastard squarely in his six pack abs.
Chunks of brick and mortar exploded into the dank air as the brute force of the blow sent him rocketing backward into the wall of one of the brownstones bordering the alley. As he doubled over in pain, I sunk all my weight into a heavy handed upper cut that pretty much exploded his nose, followed by a left hook that connected squarely with his big ass chin. As a rather disgusting combination of blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth, Ronkowski then face planted on the asphalt like the felling of a mighty tree.
Seemingly down for the count, I willed the gauntlets into retreat and rolled the big bastard over. Slapping him in the face a couple times until his eyes opened, I asked, “You ready to help me now?”
Smiling at me with a battered face and crimson stained teeth, he said, “That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you’re still breathing after round two.”
Then he flickered out of existence only to instantly reappear back on his feet standing directly opposite me. No longer smiling, he was completely healed and holding some kind of a metal staff with a really frigg’n big scimitar blade on the end of it.
As the cloak rippled anxiously about my shoulders, Ronk sprung toward me in a blur of motion while expertly swinging his rod of eviscerating death toward my neck. Willing the argent metal gauntlets into being around my hand and forearms, I managed to deflect the blade with my left fist just as he skillfully used the counter momentum to take my legs out with the staff. Tumbling backward, my back slammed onto the asphalt and every ounce of air exited my lungs as I clumsily rolled to the side, just in time to dodge his boot from stomping my face in.
Making the mental note that perhaps my negotiating skills may indeed need some work, I flipped back to my feet and called for the spatha. Feeling the presence of the scabbard manifest on my back, I clutched the stout hilt of the otherworldly gladiator sword and ripped it free as a distinct hum of palpable energy pulsed through the alley. Not relenting in the least, a harrowing scowl formed on the face of my seriously disgruntled Polish sparring partner as he raised his staff in a strike position, and fluidly advanced on me with the poise of a seasoned street fighter.
Fully prepared to parry his attack and shove that rod straight up his arse, I was more than disappointed when he shimmered out of existence mid-assault. Thinking that couldn’t be good, the cloaked flared out like a caged animal causing me to instinctively duck and spin around just in time to see his blade rip a menacing arc through the air in the exact spot my neck was a millis
econd earlier.
Not giving him a chance to pull the back door maneuver again, I sheathed my sword, grabbed his staff with both hands and head butted that big fucker as hard as I could. As he grunted in protest, I then focused all my strength and snapped the frigg’n rod in half while throat chopping his ass with my elbow.
Happily watching as the big bastard reeled backward gasping for breath, I finished things off with a well placed kick to the midsection that sent him hurtling headlong into the side of the dumpster.
As the enigmatic time traveling street vendor slumped unconsciously to the ground, Doc, Rooster, and I cautiously huddled around his limp body, hoping like hell he was actually done trying to decapitate me.
“So, I’m curious,” Doc asked, “Does the word ‘negotiate’ translate to ‘beat the ever living shit out of somebody’ in Dean speak?”
“He started it,” I grumbled.
Glaring at Ronkowski, Rooster asked, “So, you think he’s ready to listen now?”
“Definitely. There’s no way in hell that guy’s got any fight left in him.”
Unfortunately, it seemed that wasn’t the case.
I was wrong.
He was now officially pissed.
Staggering to his feet in a fury fueled ‘roid rage, Ronk’s mouth literally frothed with anger as he murmured something under his breath in Enochian. As a spectral haze of arcane energy sparked to life and framed his hulking silhouette, he literally picked up the four thousand pound dumpster like it was made of cardboard and held it over his head like he was going to throw it at me.
Actually, there was no like about it.
He was totally going to throw it at me.
Fortunately, it was right about then when things took an interesting turn.
For, as I stood there contemplating what in the hell to do next, a rather peculiar fellow in a perfectly cut sharkskin suit carrying a brief case hand-cuffed to his left hand casually strolled into the middle of our unnatural slug-fest. And although he wasn’t exactly physically imposing, there was just something about him that exuded a serious ‘I’m the Man’ vibe.
Boldly placing himself squarely in front of Ronk, the highly pedigreed mystery man removed his quaint spectacles and said, “Am I to assume you are Richard Ronald Ronkowski?”
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 26
