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Worldwide Ace » Under Cover of Night

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Under Cover of Night

28 February, 2007 (11:59) | Dreams

The officer approached me as I left the star-studded club. That night, like every night, featured performances by Whitney Houston, a black Michael Jackson, Johnny Cash, and Bobby Brown. While all this was going on, the bar doubled as a guitar repair shop, the bar-tender performing the repairs there while pouring drinks.

“I need you to do something for me,” he said. “You’re the only one I can trust.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I shot back.

“I’m a cop. We’ve been watching this club. We think they’re dealing drugs.”

“Oh shit! What kind?”

“Flintstones Vitamins.” I was in shock at the atrocity the cop had just revealed and vowed to get to the bottom of it.

Several nights later, I returned, having a grand old time. Eventually, after the main acts came off the stage, I made my way to the back room for karaoke. Purposefully giving an awful performance, I drove nearly everyone out of the establishment, except, of course, the bartender and a bouncer.

I sat down at the bar drinking and complaining about how sorry I was, both for singing so poorly and in general. The bar tender pretended to listen, but I could tell he was getting annoyed. After a short time, he got fed up and headed for the kitchen. Glancing around, I realized I was all alone in the room. I leapt over the counter and began rummaging around searching for evidence of ill-gotten Flintstones Vitamins. While I was at it, I stole a small bag of Reese’s miniatures and a nice pistol, just in case.

As I heard some dishes clank, I slid back across the bar, dropped some money on the bar for my drinks, and booked it out of there. About half a block away, a man approached me and whispered a locale to me. I, being dumbfounded about the city, chased after him and yelling, “Where is that? WHERE THE HELL IS THAT?” Finally, he gave me an intersection about 6 blocks away.

The streets were empty at this time of night, only a few neon signs from lat night establishments still blinked and shone on the sidewalks lighting my way. As I neared the intersection I was headed to, passing an empty parking lot on my left, a 1970s copper El Camino came roaring up, ducked into the parking lot and pulled along side me with a screech. Before it could fully come to a halt, I spotted the shotgun poking out the window.

I dove for cover, the blast flying just over my head as I slid behind the truck parked along the side of the road. I heard their wheels spin rapidly and they booked it out of the parking lot. Before they had a chance to get another line on me, I ran across the street and ducked into the 24 hour Supermarket. There, in the cereal aisle, I planned my stand.

The one with shotgun came around the corner nozzle first, looking for me. I waited just a moment to enjoy the puzzled look on his face as he took in the pile of lucky charms in the middle of the aisle. I planted the pistol I had stolen firmly against his head from my perch on the top shelf. “Drop it,” I said quietly, flipping back the hammer as I went. The man set the shotgun down. “Now go eat some lucky charms.” He started to turn his head, a confused look on his face, but I pressed the nozzle a little harder and he received the message.

As he rummaged through boxes eating dry lucky charms, a torture I absolutely hate, I lowered myself from the shelf and slipped his shotgun beneath my jacket. With a swift swing, I clocked the man in the back of the head, leaving him unconscious in a pile of lucky charms, a scene I’d love to hear him explain to the authorities.

I quietly moved through the store hunting his accomplice. Reaching the fruit section, I heard rapid footsteps coming around the bend. I ducked down against the cantaloupe display, my back to where the noise was coming from. As his footsteps rapidly approached, I swung the shotgun out, clipping him in the shins and sending him spilling into the tomatoes. His gun spun along the floor towards the onions. I leveled the shotgun at him with a command of “Don’t move, bitch.”

“You know this is Samuel L. Jackson’s fault,” he said.

“What?”

“You wouldn’t swear like that if it weren’t for Samuel L. Jackson.”

“Actually, if it were Samuel L. Jackson driving out dialog, I would’ve said motherfucker at least twice already. Bitch.” Suddenly, I realized it was the bartender. I laid him out like the other one, sopping tomato parts blowing everywhere with each labored breath. I took off to see my cop contact.

The pills were just what he wanted, but the job wasn’t done yet. I had to go back the next night.

The bar was once again packed when I returned. I smiled and winked at the bartender as I came in. He scowled. Either that or the bruise on his face prevented him from smiling back. Either way, it entertained me. I wandered up to the bar, looked him in the interracial eyes (that’s one black one and one normal one) and said, “You’re going down. I hope you like the cock. Or maybe you can cut a deal for your employer.”

“Never,” he responded dully, his fat lip muffling his words.

“You’re loss,” I said, my feet already turning to leave. “By the way, here.” I tossed him the shotgun, the loud room suddenly getting very quiet. “It’s a nice gun. You shouldn’t lose it.” I turned and headed for the door, watching him attempt to sneer at me in the reflection. I waved to Whitney Houston on the way out, though I doubt she noticed over the line of coke she was doing in her booth by the door.

As I headed around the corner, I realized two very large black men had been sent after me and were tailing me at a rather rapid pace. With a quick glance back, I sized them up. They were huge, maybe 6’6″ or 6’8″, and they happened to be armed with very large mag-lite flashlights.

I unsheathed mine and spun just in time to block the first swing. Like Errol Flynn, except more effective, and… uh… with a mag-lite, I dodged out of the way of the next slash, quickly parrying the first and landing a blow on his left arm. He stumbled as I ducked under another swat by the second. I kicked the first man’s knee, watching it buckle under the force of the blow.

“FUCK!” he yelled, obviously in pain. Now, it was just the two of us. Though the first man had been easy to take down, the second was much faster. I continued to avoid his blows, but they came quickly enough that I couldn’t land one myself. Eventually, I ran a gamut. As a vertical blow came down, my mag already up to parry, I tripped and fell backward. The slash missed me but the man continued forward stepping right over my prone body. I spun my legs, snapping one of his and bringing him to the ground. I rolled, still entangled with him, keeping him from being able to swing, and slammed his head into a fire hydrant.

“Damn!” he yelled, a startling cry amongst the quiet grunts and moans. “Alright, I give.”

I stood up. “Sorry about that,” I said.

“No worries,” he replied.

I helped the two of them up, smiling and laughing as if old friends, their mag-lites now lying in the gutter. They leaned on me for support and we began making our way to the hospital. As we walked, the cop drove by and smiled and waved at me. I knew everything was going to be alright.

Except, maybe, Whitney Houston.

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  • As he rummaged through boxes eating dry lucky charms, a torture I absolutely hate

    That sentence made me laugh far more than it should have.

    I like it.

  • As he rummaged through boxes eating dry lucky charms, a torture I absolutely hate

    That sentence made me laugh far more than it should have.

    I like it.