by B Branin
* * * * *
The distraction at the front of the store couldn’t have been going any smoother. Or rougher, as it were. The Twins had marched into the Ocean Grocer and began to do what they did best: Sow utter and complete destruction.
“So there’s a weird clunking noise under the hood of my truck.” West told his counterpart as he raised the sawed-off shotgun, “Started right after I rear ended that prick that cut me off last week.”
Pulling the trigger and absorbing the recoil of his weapon without so much as a flinch, West sent an explosion of buckshot into a sloppily stacked pyramid of nameless-brand sodas. The cans exploded brilliantly into a cloud of sugary mists of questionable quality and ingredients.
“Hmm.” Grunted Kurt, taking aim at a cardboard cutout of some offensively stereotypical Italian chef promising his meatballs were the best. With two shots, the biker blew out the eyes of the cutout.
Advancing down the main aisle of the Ocean Grocer, the Twins kicked over goods, knocked merchandise off of shelves and shot up anything that caught their eye. Whether they remembered they were required to cause the most ruckus as humanly possible or were just enjoying themselves was anyone’s guess.
Either way those loyal to the Daughters of All came running.
The first official casualty of the evening was some gang-banging punk who was dressed in clothing three times bigger than what he should have worn. Out of instinct or perhaps panic, the gangbanger reached into the folds of his jackets (that’s right he was wearing two for whatever reason) to pull out a chrome pistol.
Kurt didn’t even break stride as he raised both of his pistols and fired. Two bullets ripped through the banger’s chest, dropping the idiot.
“I better get it to the shop.” West continued on, taking a step forward and delivering a mighty kick to a table loaded with cooking pans, “What’s that mechanics name who owes us for not keelhauling him?”
“Which one?” Kurt asked over the sounds of the pots and pans bouncing across the floor.
The Twins turned down one aisle and each began knocking over the random assortment of cookware that lined each shelf. By the time they neared the end of the aisle, every possible kitchen tool and cooking appliance had had its durability tested.
“The fat one.” West was saying as he smashed his fist through the window of a microwave before exiting the aisle, “That sweaty fuck who tried to over charge us that one-dammit!”
The giant swore as three inches of steel sank into his side, just above his hip. A cultist, so young she couldn’t legally purchase cigarettes, had leapt from a hiding spot just around the corner wielding a knife. The attack had been semi-effective. She drew blood but that only enraged her target.
“Stupid bitch.” West spat, delivering a backhand to the cultist that lifted her off her feet, “Pull this out will ya?”
Slipping one pistol into his belt, Kurt reached out to help. Just as his free hand grasped the knife that was lodged in West’s back, the biker was distracted by a shrill scream that interrupted his medical duties. Another cultist, brandishing a baseball bat over her head, charged down the aisle and towards the Twins, screaming incoherently which might have been threats or hymns.
The delusional slugger didn’t even get halfway down the isle. Kurt causally raised his gun and fired. The biker blew a hole in the charging cultist’s foot, which stumbled and bashed her head against a shelf on her way down. With a whimper, the cultist curled up into the fetal position and moaned in agony.
With less finesse than one would expect in this delicate situation, the biker then tore the knife from West’s side, discarding it without so much as a glance. If the wound caused the giant any more discomfort than a pinprick, he didn’t show it.
So it went during the excursion of the storehouse. A few gangbangers opened fire on Twins whenever they crossed paths but the street trash was simply outmatched. The Twins were professionals when it came to pandemonium. Only one gangbanger actually managed to wound the Twins, his shot ricocheted wildly and caught Kurt in the arm.
West’s shotgun removed the head from the offending gangbanger’s shoulders in response.
Throughout the brief, mostly one-sided firefights, a few cultists appeared now and again. They were all young women, stupid and scared, armed with odds and ends collected around the store. It was obvious they were unprepared for the attack and not expecting their drug mules/bodyguards to be so worthless. In acts of what must have been heroic feats of mercy and self-restraint (at least for them), the Twins did not kill the wild-eyed cultists. West usually gave them a “tap” to the head that knocked them senseless or Kurt winged them with an extremity shot, taking the fight out of them.
After all, the cultists were just brainwashed youths who had fallen under Lorraine’s spell...perhaps in some cases, literally. The firearm toting gangbangers who were defending their drug-supply apparently didn’t warrant the same compassion from Kurt and West. Every gangster or hoodlum that came at the Twins with lethal force was met with equal amount of lethality and with better results. Kurt and West, so caught up in the fun they were having, didn’t even bother giving the fresh corpses in their wake a second glance.
