Part 9 (2/2)

Stickman waited. The chance would reveal itself.

The unknown bouncer eventually waved to Boomer, who nodded and sauntered on over to the coat check, making eye contact again with Stickman. Stickman smiled back, still trying hard to keep a faade of good humour, while in his mind, he was thinking how much he would like to hook both eyes out with his thumbs. Boomer calmly broke the stare and swept his gaze around the dark interior of the bar. Stickman noted the other bouncer heading for the washroom, disappearing behind the swinging door.

Stickman finished his beer, set the empty bottle gently down on the table, and waited for a minute. Exactly one minute. Counting slow, pacing his breath, and controlling the building energy in his body. He did not have to think about what he was about to do. He need only do it.

When Boomer's eyes were on him again, Stickman stood up and, with a wide smile, made the gesture of taking a p.i.s.s. Boomer looked away with a disgusted look.

Stickman went to the washroom.

Chapter 12.

”Breathe son, breathe,” Hillman coaxed his pride, standing as if he were astride a horse and far back enough from the urinal that anyone walking into the facilities would have a generous view of what G.o.d had blessed him with.

”She's a fine piece of a.s.s, that Alexia. Help me out now, and I'll help you out later, ok?” Hillman gave himself a quick stroke while looking down at the curved porcelain before him, willing himself to urinate. His gun was half-c.o.c.ked as it was. He tried taking deep breaths to relax, to give him some slack, but the trouble was indecent images of both Suzie and Alexia double timing him back at his apartment were keeping the blood in his second head. Hillman considered going into the nearby stall and choking his chicken (to h.e.l.l with Boomer and what he said-the man had to be d.i.c.kless not to be affected by what was up on stage), when he heard the door open. That wasn't going to slow him down.

Stickman made to go past the positioned Hillman, towards the stalls, ignoring both the bouncer and the blue cake sanitary smell filling the room. The lad was enjoying himself a little bit too much, and Stick shook his head at the offensive scene. It justified what he was about to do. He moved past the two white basins next to the urinals and casually made his way to one of the two stalls in the washroom. Hillman paid the man no attention. The bouncer's eyes were closed, and a snarl of pleasure creased his face.

Stick felt the adrenaline surge into his arms, his engines. He felt the chemical sing through his powerful biceps and charge them up. With the bouncer preoccupied as he was, there was no need for silence. Stickman pivoted and took a quick two step, bringing up a hand to clamp down on a pair of denim covered t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Hillman gave a muted wheeze of agony and actually tried to jump away, but the strength left his legs in a flood. He blew snot out his nose and grabbed the edge of the urinal with both hands. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. He opened his mouth to vomit when Stickman wrapped both arms around his neck in a choke hold, crus.h.i.+ng the blood flow in the man's right and left vertebral arteries. Hillman tried to suck in some air but got nothing. He tried to stand, willed himself to stand, but Stickman drove his knees into the back of the man's legs, and the big man dropped. Hillman's eyes bulged. His tongue shot out. Saliva trickled out of a corner of his mouth. His arms lashed out spasmodically, reached up and clawed weakly at Stickman's face. Under different circ.u.mstances, it might have been a caress. Then, the screaming of Hillman's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es began to lessen, and his sight became black at the edges, as if his consciousness was being yanked backwards, away from the windows that were his eyes, to somewhere deep within his skull. Then, nothing.

Stickman didn't need to s.h.i.+ft his weight in the least. Grabbing the b.a.s.t.a.r.d by the b.a.l.l.s had done it. The choke was just the 'coop da gra.s.s', or however they said it in French. Hillman's neck had slipped into Stickman's grasp as easy as a single bolt locking a door. It took a little longer than maybe five seconds, and the man's struggles were little more than a child's resistance at being dragged out on the dance floor. He held on to the man for a few seconds more just to be certain. Then he released his victim.

”Ye wit me?” Stickman arched back the man's head and gazed into the eyes that were half closed, half rolled back. He held onto the man's hair and rammed his face into the hard porcelain of the urinal. Blood burst onto the white as Hillman's nose broke on contact. Stickman watched the man's body crumple lifelessly to the floor. He kicked the bouncer's ribs. Satisfied that the bouncer wasn't playing around, the Newfoundlander began hauling his victim into one of the empty stalls. Stickman wanted to place him on the toilet at first, but decided against it when he saw the front of the man's unzipped jeans. He had p.i.s.sed himself, his p.e.n.i.s hanging out like a fire hose peeking through a bird's nest of pubic hair. Stickman didn't want the man's p.i.s.s on him, so he left him in the corner of the stall and closed the door. If anyone came looking, they would see the legs splayed out and guess the f.u.c.ker had pa.s.sed out over the can while puking. The subterfuge would last long enough to do the next part.

”Seeya, buddy,” Stickman sighed heavily and winked at the closed stall door. That was one.

The next song was warming up as he eased out of the washroom. An old Bob Segar tune. He looked briefly at Alexia, taking in her pink parts. She was whirling around a pole in such a way that made Stickman think of the Olympics. But she didn't hold a candle to his Suzie. No, sir. Suzie was his gal.

He focused on the manager's door across the way, just beyond the last set of tables. There was no light seeping around the edges. No evidence of anyone actually being in the room, except he was. Tigh was in there. He was always in there. It was his lair. Stickman coolly glanced around and saw Boomer in the outer coat room. Some new guys were coming into the club maybe. Stick walked towards Tigh's door, feeling his feet hit the floor in perfect beat with the pounding music. He thought of the Crocodile Hunter, the poor guy killed by a sting ray. He couldn't remember his exact name, but as he approached Tigh's office, with the music cras.h.i.+ng down, he heard the man's voice in his head. O've travelled quite a bit, but t'day, as luck would 'ave it, we've located the cave of a crime boss. A real focking bastahd of one at that! This particular breed is a Tigh, known exclusively for the amount of 'orses.h.i.+te it can spit out-up to a distance of New Brunswick! Lethal stuff! A roight nasty c.o.c.ksmoka, but today we'll 'ave 'im and see just 'ow far we can stick our boot up his leathery a.r.s.e before it chokes to death on the polish. By crikey!

Just loverly.

Stickman placed his hand on the doork.n.o.b, another quick scan registered no Boomer, and he cracked open the door.

With his feet propped up on his huge desk and his head deep into a Larry McMurty western, the opening of the door went unheard until the music found its way in. This made Tigh look up to see the Stickman slip into his inner chambers like a greased up s.h.i.+t-snake. The appearance of the man surprised Tigh to no end. He blinked once, as if taking a picture, then sat up. The Stickman closed the door.

And began walking towards him.

”What the sweet f.u.c.k are you doing in here, you f.u.c.king stupid Newf?” Tigh spat out, not believing his eyes in the least. He tossed the book down on the desk.

Stickman smiled. ”Howya doin', Mr. Tigh. Taught I pay ye anudder visit.”

”GET THE f.u.c.k OUTTA HERE!” Tigh yelled, his face turning steam red. He stood up, posturing like a school teacher dismissing a naughty child and pointing in the direction to the princ.i.p.al's office. ”RIGHT f.u.c.kING NOW! How the h.e.l.l did you get past Boomer?”

Stickman spread his hands.

”Mr. Tigh, I'll ask ye again. Nice like. 'Oose da guy dat did the job on Badger?”

Tigh's face tightened in disbelief as if he were seeing an x-ray of his lungs, and death by way of cancer was unavoidable. He stabbed the air with his finger. ”Now, you listen to me,” he said in a much lower voice, ”you little c.u.mdrop”

”Mr. Tigh,” Stickman grinned hard, as if he were advertising a particular brand of toothpaste. ”Tell me now, eh? If ye don't tell me now, I'll break ye in two. As gawd's me witness.”

Tigh regarded the little wall of a man approaching him, open hands swinging at his sides. He fought down the urge to swallow. His eyes flicked to the closed door, the music noticeably muted as the guys who built the thing had promised.

”If you” Tigh started and stuck his finger out again.

Stickman was close enough to grab it. He snapped it backwards, breaking the digit like a thick icicle. Tigh shrieked and tried to pull away. Stickman held on and twisted hard enough to drive the man to his knees. Tigh's other hand came up in wors.h.i.+p. Agony scorched his hand all the way up his arm, shoulder, into his head and buzzed his brain like a jolt from a defibrillator. Nausea threatened to empty his stomach of the chicken fingers he gorged himself on an hour earlier.

”Dere's a good by,” Stickman said, pleased with the results. He pulled Tigh closer. The crime lord whimpered, swearing loudly, his free hand covering his face.

”BOOMER!” he bawled out.

Stickman made a face and twisted again. The name died into a croak.

”'Oo did it?” Stickman hissed through clenched teeth, glaring into the pain filled slits of Tigh's eyes. ”'Oo?”

”JESUS!”

”Mexican guy?” Stickman's brow made a single, curious hop.

”Oh, f.u.c.k!”

This got on Stickman's nerves. He pulled closer, and Tigh came forward on his knees. The punch came like a torpedo from Stickman's waist, his fist twisting with power. Tigh's nose broke in a torrent of thick, dark poppy red. He crumpled onto the floor with his arm outstretched. Stickman did not let go. He wrapped his arm around Tigh's in an arm lock, and dragged the moaning man to the edge of his big, hardwood desk. He manhandled him onto its surface. Books pens and paper scattered. Stickman savagely arranged the p.r.o.ne body onto the table like an Aztec priest about to offer a sacrifice. He placed Tigh's elbow on the edge of the desk, straightened the limb out, and dropped his full weight onto it. The limb broke with a crack that Stickman felt through his clothes. Tigh screamed, once again. Ninja Bill would've loved this, Stickman thought. He sized up Tigh's arm, which was now a lazy L over the edge of the desk.

His grimace covered in blood, Tigh opened his eyes, and said nothing.

”Yer tough, Mr. Tigh,” Stickman complimented the man. ”But I 'aven't broken ye in 'alf yet. 'Ave a guess 'ow I'll do dat?”

Tigh bared his teeth. ”BOOMER!” he screeched with all the energy he had remaining. Stickman's open palm, the heel first, crashed into Tigh's ear. Stickman landed two more punches into his sacrifice's ribs, each punch moving the man a little closer to the desk's edge. He stopped and flipped Tigh over onto the hard floor with a grunt. Tigh landed face down, blood bubbles bursting from his nose.

”Yer a wrestling fan, Mr. Tigh?”

Stickman landed on top of Tigh's back. The man was too heavy for Tigh to dislodge even if he had had the strength to do it. He was in terrible shape. The worst shape ever. His only chance was in getting Boomer. He summoned up the breath and was about to scream again when he felt fingers under his chin lacing together like steel cables. His yell became a caged thing, an agonized expulsion of trapped sound. Blood sprayed from his mouth, and his eyes cringed with the new pain in his lower back. ”f.u.c.k!” he spat/shrieked out through his clamped jaws.

”Yeah, dat's it. Da camel clutch. Ye know da one? Ever try dat out for real?”

With his fingers clutching Tigh's chin, his b.u.t.t firmly in place on the crime boss's lower back, and his thighs up and under supporting Tigh's arms and upper body like a crucified prisoner, Stickman leaned back. All sound in Tigh stopped then, and his punch-dazed brain quickly became aware of its predicament. He felt his spine being bent slowly backwards. Stickman leaned back further, both feet planted firmly, remembering how the Sat.u.r.day morning wrestlers used to do it, and wondering if it was real or not. A little grunt burped from Tigh's lips, followed by another.

Then the sound grew into a terrible, pain wracked howl through caged teeth.

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