Bullets, Blades, and Battered Brains

Bullets, Blades, and Battered Brains
By Steven Mattor


The plastic covering on my forearm still had teeth marks from my encounter with a large guard dog that was at the perimeter of Don Peroni’s compound. Ducking inside of the tool shed, I needed to only check my ammo and assemble my blade. They were both still there. I never had the option to pick my own gear in the military, I’m learning the benefits of that now. It’s always hard to start out being a vigilante. You can’t afford all the best stuff, like a bulletproof vest. I never realized how much they cost. I mean we all can’t be Batman, can we?
The blade fit easily within the bottom of the case I carried in, due to it’s square body it would look identical to the hinge materials. The hilt screwed in almost perfect precision, locking into place. My two semi-automatic 1911’s were in their holsters. I had about forty rounds. Blade and second pistol were placed firmly away. Only an idiot tries to shoot accurately with two guns at the same time. That’s some made up movie bullshit that always gets someone killed. Looking down at myself I would imagine that I look like something out of a bad sci-fi movie.I had my body armor made out of motocross body armor, and military pouches that you could order off the internet. It wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it might stop me form getting a limb broken if I get hit with something hard. I still needed to figure out some sort of mask, a helmet wouldn’t work, they impair vision, and alter the way you move. I was fluid now, fast and smooth.

My phone, with it’s integrated satellite readout showed some movement throughout the complex on infrared. I found my location and the general blueprints. You would be amazed at what you could learn from a simple hackers meeting in New York City. I couldn’t afford to mess around with it for too long though, Some movement was close to my position, at least that’s what it looked like. After some thoughts about what might happen, and some rough back up plans on what to do if it all went to shit, I cracked the door to the shed. I saw a man walking around with a demo saw over his shoulder and a bottle of Jameson hanging lazily from his hand, the contents more than half gone.
The 1911 coughed, and a newly formed hole that connected his right eye to his left ear appeared. I would have about eight or nine more shots like that until the steel wool starts to wear down, making the silencer nothing but a barrel extension. Sticking my head out the door, looking both ways. Nothing, no one heard, no alarms. The way I like it. I almost stepped from my shooting position and then I reached down to grab my shell casing, and tucked it in one of my many pouches in my vest. Leave nothing behind.
The plastic at my hip resonated with the vibration of my phone. Touching the earpiece within my ear I said quickly, all the while rushing to the corner of where the drunken man came from.
“Sam, I don’t have time for this right now. I’m busy.” Samantha was my girlfriend, if you could call her that. Some would call her a tremendous pain in the ass.
“I don’t give a shit! You didn’t take the trash out yet!”
“That’s because I still haven’t gotten home. I’m working.”
“Yeah that’s the excuse you always have.”
“Whatever, I hope you get your ass beat.” Gritting my teeth, the simmer of red in my eyes, becomes a backdrop for what is about to happen. My 1911 gets put into it’s holster and out comes my blade. There is one thing you can always count on, the reliability of your weapons. Take care of them and they will never call you up and curse you out. Before I knew what was going on, the three guards playing spades were decimated with a single swipe. Part of a hand still was clutching at cards, that would never get played. Amazing what you can do when, you just don’t give a shit anymore. I look at one of the guy’s guns resting against the wall. “That’s a nice shotgun.” It find’s it’s way to my pack strapped in next to my blade. “Finder’s keepers” I say with a evil grin. The blue prints showed an open courtyard, which should be easily traversed from the second floor without anyone noticing. I open the french doors in a guest room and climb up to the roof. No one seems to be around I use a telescopic mirror that truckers use to check something. I picked it up at a truck stop. I’m always surprised where the things I use to stay alive come from. Anyway I use it to check the office below me. No one is in there. At least on heat vision and motion detection.
“Damn.” I thought that would be where they were keeping him. I swing down with ease onto the balcony that connected to the office. It smelt in here.
“Is that … blood?” I asked myself. I also noted the slight smell of urine. “If I was a lowlife mob boss and I wanted to scare the shit out of someone where would I take them?” I sheathed my blade and once again took out my pistol. “The basement.” Something that could only be said with a grimace. Opening the door with disregard, I descended the stairs, knowing that if they took him down there, that there was only one possible outcome. They took him to the basement. Which was never a good sign. Traversing the stairs that led down to a sealed room, that wasn’t on the blueprints. The sounds of something hitting something wet. Clang! Went the sound again.
Opening the door I fired two safe shots into the mob boss, Anthony Peroni who had kidnapped Bobby, my source for intel. Anthony’s knees would never be the same again.
Truth be told Bobby looked more menacing than I did. Standing at six foot four and two hundred and ninety pounds of muscle, he could of beaten anyone to a pulp. That was if he wasn’t a unshakable pacifist. He punched some kid back in second grade, put the kid in a coma. Never punched anyone ever again. Not that anyone ever tried.
His face was a bloody mess. Something I took in while Don Peroni took in all the pain that my two shots to his knees would deliver. Bobby was barely breathing. I woke him up and he looked up at me as I cut him loose. He stood up, his bulky frame swelling with the sheer rage that only a man possessed could have.
“You ok?” I asked, knowing that there would be no way I could stop him from doing whatever he wanted.
“Mbuh? O Iz Fin” he said through a broken jaw and battered lips. Stepping on the Don’s knee he bent low to pick up the bat that was just previously being used on him.
“Sbo ywu litke to bet wittle gwirlz? He swung the bat, breaking the don’s foot first. It now must have been nothing more than a pulp. Then a second swing against his shoulder, which connected with the don’s hand first because he tried to block it. The sound of bones cracking turned even my stomach. I stepped outside. Fifteen minutes later, Bobby walked out covered in blood and tears.
“Let’s get you home” I said putting my arm around the big guy.
“I hadd two, hw wuld ov nvar stopped.” That was the saddest thing I ever saw. A man who was dedicated to peace, being forced to do some of the most horrible things imaginable.