blurring_the_edges_39_no_love_lost birdmad You woke up from that Sunday afternoon nap shaking and reeking of sour sweat even though the weather was still cool and cloudy. You slept badly though you had no idea what dreams or nightmares you had. A few weeks passed where you avoided contact with everyone outside of work, and home. There are enough people around work to hang out with and not have to worry about whether or not you'll have to look after them or have to kill any of them. The ability to just relax, unfortunately never comes to you. There is an empty feeling that has been building since way before this last little incident. **************************** Among the realizations that strikes you is that however attached to Zoe you seem to be, you are no longer certain that you are in love with her. You saw her again a couple days after everything went down and for reasons you can't figure, she was rude to you at every turn. It made no sense because she had been the one who called you, but then behaved as if your presence was an imposition on her time. Over dinner, after a short bit of her being a little bit conciliatory, she decides to crank it back up a notch tell you about this other guy she's been fucking, going into some detail. This is ultimately the breaking point of the conversation. It brings up a flash of that high-school morning trapped in the carpool with Tina telling the others about how what's-his-face kissed her. Now take that feeling and crank it up times ten. "Why are you telling me this?" "I don't know?" "I mean, jesus, what's next, are you gonna decide to tell me what his dick tastes like just to twist the knife a little." That last remark gets the attention of the nearby tables and as you become aware of that, you get up, drop a trio of twenty-dollar bills on top of the table and leave. *************************** To kill the time you might otherwise spend doing any more crazy shit, you start making use of the run-down little gym a few doors down from the plant. By the time summer comes, you have rebuilt yourself into something considerably more formidable than you have ever been. The guy who runs the gym (and occasionally lets his nine foot boa constrictor roam loose through the lobby to work off its weekly feedings) notices something about you and at first you think he means to hit on you. It turns out, he knows a guy who runs a couple of strip clubs and is looking for bouncers and security. One of the places he mentions to you is a place you know well enough from having been 86'ed by the previous owners when they found out you and Wilkes were sleeping with a couple of their dancers. It surprises you that you are in more of a mood to fight lately than to fuck, and what better place to exercise that urge than in a situation where you are essentially paid to do so. The job is easy enough and over time you develop a slight liking for it. Unlike that unsuccessful episode as a bodyguard, it is easier because it is more clearly defined. You do Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays for Hassan, five hours a night and he pays you ten bucks per hour, cash under the table. You go through nearly the entire summer without incident until Hassan sends you and a couple of the other biggest guys to work a stint at a new place he is trying to open up futher out on the westside. The place has attracted, of all things, a disproportionately large number of bikers the likes of which populate every movie cliché known to recent history, and by the way they behave, you can guess that at least a few are tweekers. One of the bikers, clearly cranked and none too bright, gets a little too friendly and excited and tries to take a girl off of the stage. The others stand back as you come through, pulling the dancer away and sending her back to the dressing room. The DJ in his booth tries to calm the crowd down, but by now the tweeker in question is enraged and charges you. Sidestepping, you send him crashing into an empty table and pick him up into a hammerlock, his right arm twisted behind his back and sllightly elevated in the wrong direction. You leave his other hand free and let him know not to move it by forcing his captured arm a little more every time he does. Taking him outside, you let him go when you get him near the bikes. You calmly offer him the chance to leave or to be taken away. Secretly, you are hoping he chooses the latter. You have been feeling antsy lately and you are actually looking forward to a good throw-down. He gives you want by charging you again. A small crowd of bikers and some of the other barflies who followed you gathers around to witness what happens next. You sidestep the tweeker again, but apparently this time he doesn't fall as hard or as far as he did inside the bar and you feel his foot kick you just below the back of your left knee, causing you to fall. Before you can get back up, he is on you and hits you across the face. Using your left arm to push him back a little, you hit him in the ribs with a series of awkward looking elbow strikes which serve more to take him off balance than to hurt him. Doing the trick, you reverse the situation and roll him onto his back where you proceed to knock him around a bit before he gets the stupid idea to try and throw you off. Bored, you get up and begin to walk away from him, telling the others he came with to get him out of here. Not taking the hint, he charges you again, but this time, you grab him as he is coming and perform some sloppy half-assed version of a kung-fu throw, grabbing him by an arm and flipping him onto his back. Irritated, you pull him back up and kick him hard enough near the shin to crack his ankle. As he drops back down to the ground, you look at one of the bikers again and re-iterate your earlier point. "Get him out of here." A couple of the other bikers come out of the bar and point at you in their conversation. The older of the two, who you figure with that crew-cut and moustache to compliment his black leathers should be hanging around at The Bunkhouse, gives you an evil smile and makes a gesture like breaking a stick. Jesus, this guy is a whole other kind of cliché, and a bad cartoon to boot. The leather-man picks up the man with the broken ankle and rides away with him, the rest of the bikers eye you, following at a slight distance and you are waiting to either be shot or stabbed on the way back inside. Right now, it's not as if you would mind either one too terribly. The rest of the night, you do your best not to feel paranoid as a result of the leather-man's obvious threat You overhear a brief conversation at one of the pool tables that you were likely meant to overhear "Oh man, when Meat gets back, that dude is so fucked i almost feel sorry for him." "True, True, but fuckin' dumbass Mikey should have known better too. Meat ain't likely to let him off the hook either." With the amount of fear and reverence these guys seem to be paying to this Meat character, you are not so sure you want to be around when he does come around. The night ends without further incident and things go smoothly for a week or two and you almost forget about Meat Friday night comes, and you learn that Meat has not forgotten about you. 030518 what's it to you? who go blather from