Young Writers Society

I recoiled from the stiff uppercut to the gut and my stomach threatened an exodus of its contents. My vision doubled and my lungs evacuated, coming out in a powerless retch. The thug stepped back across the hideous green and gold carpet and I dropped to my knees, cradling my belly and fearing something had ruptured in there. After a moment, I caught my breath and began heaving air in and out.

"Arthur, why do you hurt me so?" inquired Lars Uthor, the small-time kingpin who had loaned me fifty thousand dollars. I looked over his wide and garishly ornate desk at him. He was leaning his head against one fist, a mock look of hurt on his pudgy face. The corners of his lips were turned up ever so slightly. His voice was deep and smooth, and reverberated well in his large, well-decorated office, hitting the marble pillars on either side of the room and resounding in every direction.

"I've been so good to you. I've given you numerous chances to make this right and each time you throw it back in my face. I must confess, Mr. Wodehouse, which, by the way, is a noble name for a punk such as you, I am at the limit of my patience. I'm going to make this right for the both of us. We'll both get what we're owed. Capiche?

That's when I realized I was out of options. I wasn't going to be roughed up and left in a gutter this time. They'd had enough of breaking my nose and giving me deep purple bruises and broken ribs. It wasn't even about getting their money back at this point. They were going to take everything from me in order to send a message to any other would-be borrowers - pay or die.

"Take the house..." I stammered. "It's all I've got, and it's worth a good chunk of my debt. I'll find a way to get you the rest, whatever it takes."

All the feigned hurt and genuine pleasure fell from Uthor's face. What replaced it was a cold, merciless predator's gaze. He stood and slammed his hands onto the desk. "Listen, you sniveling little weasle. Obviously getting knocked around on a weekly basis hasn't been enough incentive for you. I told you my patience was at an end, and that we're both going to get what we're owed - what we deserve. You've taken money from me, offered me paultry sums, insulted me by asking for leniency. I'm sick of your pitiful excuses. At this point, the only thing you're good for is being an example to other penniless lowlives who come begging for scraps from my table."

A look of devious intent came over Uthor's face that made my stomach harden.

"I've been keeping tabs on the Wodehouse clan since you signed that contract, Arthur. Seems that sweet little squeeze of yours has a sizeable baby bump. But even at ten grand a life, that's a long way off."

I tried lurching to my feet. "Bastard! Don't fucking touch her!"

A something rigid and cold impacted my right temple. Bright lights exploded in my vision and I fell to the left, catching myself on one hand. I looked up groggily and saw the thug that had punched me earlier. His arm was outstretched and he was wearing brass knuckles.

"Please," I stammered, "Don't hurt her."

"It won't end with her, I promise. Your parents, cousins, siblings, everyone close to you is going to pay for your ineptitude. Removing them from their belongings and making them mine will be easy enough. I have people for that. Then, I have people who will remove the life from their bodies."

Feintness washed over me and I came close to collapsing as desperation dissolved into bitter regret. The squat, chubby kingpin chuckled heartily.

"You should have realized who you were dealing with, Mr. Wodehouse," he said, placing his hands on his sizeable gut. "I suppose I could have been clearer about the terms, but that's irrelevant now. Everything you love in this world will disappear, and it's all your fault. Spend your remaining time reflecting on that."

He looked at the thug and gave him a short upward nod, then sat back in his high-backed leather chair and put his fingers in a steeple configuration.

The thug nodded and reached into his Armani suit coat, under his armpit, and produced a small black pistol. He grabbed me under my arm and waved the gun at me. "Let's go, hoss. Time to pay the piper." At 6'2", my body normally wasn't an easy one to manhandle, but this guy had no trouble at all. Stress and anxiety had taken their toll.

There's a common misconception, I think, that if you have a gun pointed at you and you know you're about to get dusted, that you would fight back. Grab for a gun and or just throw a parting punch, go down fighting. None of that was going through my head as I was led out of the office, through a narrow hallway lined with glass-hooded luminaires and pretty wallpaper, down a short flight of stairs and into a dingy cellar. The floor was cement with a small drain in the center. There were the ghostly remains of blood trails leading to the drain. The walls were white cement blocks and a single lightbulb hung from a wooden girder by an electrical wire. In the dimness I could only identify one object in the room, a stainless steel weight lifting bench. The bar bell had at least one hundred pounds on either side. Judging from the strikes I had received earlier, I assumed this set belonged to the thug that had his hand under my armpit, leading me to my death.

He gave me a rough toss and I collapsed to my knees. My head was still groggy from the earlier trauma. I heard footsteps, and then he stood before me. The steel knuckles had disappeared from his hand, replaced by the slide of his pistol. He slid it backward and looked into the chamber. It was apparently good to go because he let go of the slide and it shot back into place. The sound of the mechanism snapping closed suddenly cleared my head. This was happening, I was going to be executed. It was beyond unfair - I was a kid, just out of college, and I was going to die. If I had let Jessica talk me out of borrowing the money, I wouldn't be in this grimy cellar with a well-paid assassin who liked pumping iron. I thought of how I wanted to apologize to Jessica, to my unborn child, to my family. My eagerness had gotten us all killed.

The thug pointed the gun at my forehead. I had always doubted the idea of one's life flashing before their eyes when staring death in the face, but it's as close to a description as I can come to of what happened then.

I saw myself and my fiance in our first apartment. Candles lit the living room. A bottle of Sancerre sat on the end table in front of the couch, as well as two half-filled crystal glasses that we only brought out on occasion. She was dressed in a pale silk gown that exposed her equally pale shoulders. Her fine yet full red hair spilled over them and she sat with her legs curled up to her. I gently stroked the side of her head and brushed her hair back.

"Soon we'll be out of this place, I swear," I spoke softly.

"Why?" she replied in equally soft tones. "I like this little place. It's cozy and it's ours."

"If we're gonna go through with this, we're gonna need a bigger place. And it's not like downtown Detroit is known for its family-friendly atmosphere."

The discussion was a formality, I was already set on leaving that ghetto. Shady people in dingy clothes and hoods stood on every other street corner, and scantly clad women patrolled the sidewalks, blowing kisses to passing motorists. At least once a month a motor backfired, or at least that's what I told Jessica it was. I'd been to the shooting range enough to recognize the report of a small caliber pistol when I heard one.

"But what can we do? I'm in between jobs and you're making just enough to keep up. This place will have to do for now."

"No, I've found a way to get us out of here. We can buy a place in Lansing, a big place, enough room for a whole troop of Wodehouses."

She gave me a skeptical, I'll-play-along look and propped herself against the back of the couch with an elbow. "Come on, babe, don't play games with me. As far as I know we haven't won the lottery or come into an inheritence."

I cupped her chin in my long-fingered hand and smiled knowingly. "I'll tell during pillow talk."

She gave me a naughty smile and rubbed hard on my genitals. I picked her up, cradling her in my arms and brought her to the bedroom. We let our passions run wild and I came hard into her. A high moan escaped her lips and her arms tightened around my neck, then slowly loosened. She opened her eyes and looked into mine. "I love you, Arthur," she said, and I echoed the sentiment.

We lay together and I told her what my co-worker at the textile mill had told me. "There's a business owner here in Detroit that will loan out large sums of money. Enough to get us out of here."

"Business owner? Sounds more like a loan shark. Who is he?"

"I don't know much besides his name. Lars Uthor. He owns the Vanguard building in New Center, on the boulevard."

"Geez, what kind of business does he run, diamond smuggling? I don't like this, babe, it's shady. He could be some kind of mob boss. You know, the kind that cuts a finger off every time you miss a payment?"

"It's only like that in the movies," I lied. Fifteen days later we began moving into a two story house in Lansing. A month after that, the mill I worked at closed, and the beatings began. I would come home with new bruises or a cracked rib, and Jessica would cry. "Don't worry," I'd tell her, "Everything will be alright. I'll find another job and we'll keep the house." I told her that right up until two days ago, when a black Cadillac pulled alongside me as I walked to a local music shop to ask if they needed help. I had taken music theory in college and could play and repair a few instruments.

The back door opened and there was stocky man with a crew cut in the far seat. He offered an invitation that was really a threat and I got in. Half an hour later I was in a dark cellar with a nine millimeter pointed at my head.

Another flash, and I was twelve years old, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and leather hiking boots. I was wearing a wide brim hat that I was proud of because my dad was wearing one just like it. He was walking beside me, in a pair of blue jeans and a long flannel shirt. It was open in the front and below it was a white t-shirt. On his hip he had a leather holster attached to his belt, and in it was a gun. Before we set out that day my dad had taken a knee with me and told me about it. He had taken it from a metal security case and held it before me.

"Arthur, do you know what this is?"

"Yes."

"I know you've seen them before and you have some toy ones, but this one isn't a toy. This one is real. You don't ever play with a real gun, or point it at someone for fun. They are tools for killing. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head. It was the first real gun I had ever seen, and it made me feel awed. It was so large, so final, in his hand. I immediately respected it, and my father for having it.

"This kind of gun is called a revolver, because this cylinder here" - he pointed - "rotates as you pull the trigger. That lines up the bullet to the barrel so it can be fired. Pulling the hammer back also rotates the cylinder. See?" He demonstrated and I looked on with wide eyes. I heard the 'click' the cylinder made as it snapped into place and felt a chill go through my body. This was a thing of power, I understood.

As we walked, the setting sun glinted in amber flashes from the gun metal. I looked up at my dad and felt pride and love. We walked for miles, and he told me about his childhood.

"Your grandpa would take me into the back yard with his revolver and show me how to shoot. I was scared at first, but when I held it in my hand, all that fear went away."

I thought about my dad as a child, and it made me feel closer to him.

"Would you like to learn how to shoot, Arthur?"

My heart lept up in my chest and I had to contain the urge to shout "Yes!" immediately and start jumping up and down. I knew of the gravity of the gun and didn't want to take it lightly. I instead said "Okay, Dad". He saw my wide grin and smiled himself.

We never heard the mountain lion until it pounced from a ravine full of long grass to our right. It made a sound that I'd never heard before, a deep and ungulating roar that made me simultaneously look around in surprise and wet my pants. By the time I saw it, it was latched onto my dad's arm. He had already drawn the revolver, but the lion had him by the arm that held it. He grunted in surprise and tried aiming at the lion's body, but before he could, it bit down fully. My dad cried out in pain, a sound that made everything real in an instant. I stepped away, wide-eyed and terrified, as his hand loosened and the revolver fell from his grasp. The lion reared up and pushed against his chest. He collapsed backward with the lion standing over him, his arm still locked in its jaws. The lion began whipping its head back and forth in an attempt to rip flesh. My dad tried punching at the lion's head, and without looking at me, he yelled "Run! Now! GET OUT OF HERE, ARTHUR!"

I looked at him, horrified, then a glint in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked and saw the revolver lying in the dirt. My panic fell away. I understood that I didn't have to run away, to leave my dad in the jaws of this maniac creature. My dad followed my gaze. "No! Don't! Run, Arthur, GO! Get help!"

I ignored him completely. I felt a cold sheath surround me, and knew total awareness. I walked over to the revolver. My dad continued commanding me to run, to get away. I knelt down and picked the revolver up. It felt somehow righteous in my hand, a dealer of death to those who had it coming.

I looked at the lion. It had released its deathgrip on my dad's arm and was lunging for his throat. I took the revolver in both hands and pointed it just ahead of where the lion's head was. I didn't aim, just held the gun where I felt was right and pulled the trigger. A deafening whipcrack came and reverberated off the mountains. The lion's maw continued toward my dad's throat, but when it arrived, it limply collided instead of biting down. I looked upon my victim and saw that the top of the lion's head was a red and gushing crater. Its body fell heavily onto my dad.

When he was sure he wasn't dead, he rolled the lion off of him and clambored over to me. I saw his sleeve was shredded and his arm was a solid and deep red. Two deep and ragged holes were ripped into his forearm. In spite of this, he took me in his arms and hugged me. He slowly grasped the revolver and attempted to remove it from my hand. I resisted for a moment - not out of shock or fear, but simply because the gun had felt so good in my hand. It had allowed me to protect my father and myself. It was powerful. I relented and allowed him to take the gun. The feeling of cold surety left me, but the memory of it never did. My dad comforted me, but I really didn't need it. I felt good.

And he did end up teaching me to shoot, using the same revolver that I'd killed the cat with. He said he'd never seen such natural shooting in his life - he called me his little gunslinger. Years later, after I'd moved to Michigan to attend U of M, before I met Jessica, I bought a revolver and took it to the range whenever I felt I needed a release, and it always worked - dealing lead, even to a paper target, put me in a trance-like state, where the world fell away and I hit my target with every pull of the trigger.

Back in the cellar, staring death in the face. Those flashes had stirred something in me. I looked at this gun and realized that if I could get a hold of it, I could do it again. I could defend myself and someone close to me.

"Any parting words, hoss?"

The door to the cellar was at the thug's back. I looked at it and put on a pleading face. "Please, Mr. Uthor, give me another chance!" I cried. The thug took the bait and turned away from me. I brought my arm back and aimed my fist about half a foot behind the thug's testicles. I thrust my arm forward, twisting my body into it, and nearly made it to my target. I thought I felt something rip or give way under my fist, and knew I didn't hear any fabric ripping. I thought the thug would howl, but I suppose the pain was beyond voicing. He looked back at me with a look of surprise and agony. I got my feet under me, grasped the gun with one hand and shot up, pointing the top of my head at the thug's face. I felt it connect, felt his nose shatter and mush inward, felt his grip on the gun loosen. I yanked it away from him as he staggered away from me, moaning. Blood was pouring from his nearly flattened nostrils, and he was cupping his hands as though he was trying to keep it all in. I gripped the gun in my dominant hand, pointed and fired once. There was a flat crack and a neat black hole appeared in the center of the thug's forehead. He fell back stiffly and thumped to the floor. That cold sheath surrounded me once again, and I knew what had to be done. I knelt over the thug's corpse and felt around his body. I came away with two extra magazines and a pack of Sparrow cigarettes. My mind was calm enough to wonder why someone in an expensive suit was smoking such cheap cigs. I also wondered if I'd get a chance to smoke one.

I stuffed these items into my pockets and stood. One shot. That's what Uthor and his men were expecting. Good. I stepped over the thug's body and walked up the stairs, pressing against the wall and holding the gun before me, pointed at the ceiling. I peeked around the corner. That long hallway, several doors on either side. At the end, Uthor's office. How many were there? At least four in the office, five including Lars himself. Who knows about the other rooms. Oh well, this didn't have a chance in hell of succeeding, anyway. I'd just decided to throw a parting punch after all.

I emerged from the doorway and began walking down the hallway towards the office, the gun at my side. A door of the left side of the hall opened. I collapsed against the right wall and knelt, aiming high in the doorway. A man in a grey, loose-fitting suit came out, looking back over his shoulder.

"Get off your ass and come help me clea -"

He turned his head down the hallway, registered that I was there, and I pulled the trigger. The man's right eye disappeared into his skull and a pattern of blood sprayed the door behind him. He collapsed to the floor and I heard some yell "Eddie!" from the room he'd emerged from. I stayed crouched against the wall, this time aiming low in the doorway. I heard him approach the dead gangster and waited. A bald head peeked around the side of the doorway, along with a pistol. I fired and saw the man's left cheek shred away, his head whipping to the side. I fired again he slumped into the hallway.

Yells and rapid footsteps from the office. I opened a door and quickly swept the room with the gun extended. Empty. I ducked in, pressed against the door and waited. I heard the door to the office open. "Shit! Lars, get in the safe room!"

Two people approached rapidly. The footfalls stopped halfway down the hall. They were checking the bodies. One would be knelt down, the other would be providing cover.

I spun into the hallway, staying low. I saw the surprise in the face of the man covering the hall and we fired simultaneously. The reports echoed down the hall and a chunk of the door beside my head exploded in a spray of splinters that impaled my arm, sinking inches into my flesh. I barely noticed. The man cupped his gut, collapsing forward and gargling on blood. I turned the gun on the kneeling man, who was just turning and raising his gun in my direction. I aimed above his shoulders and pulled the trigger twice. His head recoiled and he fell forward onto his face.

I stood and began to run toward the office. I was calm, I remember, but beyond that I don't know. I think my mind was a blank, focused on nothing and seeing everything. It was the same when I shot the lion. Concepts of remorse, hesitation and consequence left me and I simply knew what had to be done.

I came upon the open double doors and didn't stop, roaring as fiercely as I could as I stormed in. I immediately saw a man crouched against a pillar on the right side of the room. I charged toward him, still showcasing my war cry. He shrank away and fired twice, wildly. I felt a wisp of air against my cheek and felt fresh blood begin to trickle down it. The second shot was better - it impacted the left side of my abdomen. I trained my pistol on him and fired three times, still running. One shot was thrown wide, probably the result of being shot myself. It panged off the marble pillar. The second two found their marks in the man's chest. I reached the pillar and pushed him over and out of my way. I pressed my back to the marble ediface, breathing heavily.

My side was hot and throbbing, but it was easy to ignore the pain. I looked down and pressed my hand against the wound. It came away solid red. I plunged my bloodied hand into my pocket and hit the magazine release on the gun. The clip fell to the floor with a sharp smack.

"Anyone else want to take something from me!?" I yelled. I found the magazine and shoved it home. "Come out now and try it!"

"You're done, punk!" I heard returned. "Say your fuckin' prayers!" The pillar directly opposite me, across the room. I pulled the remaining magazine from my pocket and readied myself. I got low and tossed it out into the center of the office. I spun out and aimed toward the pillar across the room. The mag hit the ground with a metallic pang and an arm protruded from behind the pillar, gun in hand. I fired three times. I must have hit at least once because the arm flailed back and the gun skidded across the floor. I charged forward, my gun held out before me. A man shot out from behind the pillar, darting for his weapon. I aimed low and fired four times. I saw one of his knees explode and he collapsed forward, crying out. I slowed, stopped before him. He clawed for the gun. I nonchalantly shoved it away with my foot.

"Where's the safe room?"

The guy spat on my pantlegs. I grunted laughter and stepped on the crater that was his kneecap. He howled in agony. "Stop, please, stop!" he cried. I lessened the pressure but didn't remove my foot.

"Where?" i said coldly.

"Behind the desk on the far wall, there's a switch in one of the drawers on the desk", he quickly spoke. "Get your fuckin foot off my knee!" I stepped back and aimed at the man's head. "Aww, man, please don't kill me, come on man, I got kids". I considered for a moment, then fired. The man cried out and winced. After a moment he looked wonderingly up at me. The bullet had cut a swath through his comb-over.

"Don't give me any more trouble".

"Nah, man, I'm cool, I swear!" he said, charmingly enough. I turned away and walked over to the desk, searching each drawer until I found what I was looking for, and a little bonus. In the center drawer, the one over the kneehole, I found a red button and a hand grenade. I smiled and picked up the grenade, looking at the wall behind the desk. Fake wood paneling from wall to wall, with some real shrubs set at regular intervals.

"Lars!" I shouted. "You in there?" I waited for him to give away the position of the room. He didn't.

I began to pace before the wall, tossing the grenade in my hand. "I sure hope none of these sorry assholes were important to you. I heard one call you by name earlier. A friend? Relative? Doesn't matter now, I gut shotted him. Painful way to go."

"He was my brother, you goddamn prick! You killed my only fucking brother!" There. Between those two shrubs. I walked back to the desk.

"That so? I bet you'd like to see him again, huh? Don't worry, you two will reunite in a minute."

"Try me, shitstain". I heard the sound of a cylinder rolling into place and a hammer being cocked. I pulled the pin on the grenade with my teeth and released the safety lever. A distinct little ping sound was produced as the safety pin pushed the lever away from the body of the grenade. I then realized that I had no idea how long the fuse was on a hand grenade. Three or five seconds, to be sure, but which? One second ticked by. I looked at the button and decided discretion was the better part of valor. Two seconds. I pushed the button and got ready to roll the grenade in. A panel was suddenly shoved out from the wall, and began to swing outward on a hinge. The moment I saw the bright flourescent lights spill out into the office, I lobbed the grenade underhand and rolled over the top of the desk. The door swung open and I heard three thunderous reports from the room. He was spraying. The grenade crossed the threshold and bounced off the wall. I heard Lars yell "Ah, shit!" and then he was dashing from the room. So, the fuse was five seconds after all. I saw Lars dive. I raised my gun, hoping to get a shot off before the grenade exploded, but I was too late. I remember a shocking concussion, felt my eardrums rupture, then blackness.

I suspect I awoke less than five minutes later, because there was still smoke drifting from the safe room and I could feel fresh blood dripping from my ears. When I was in this room earlier, getting roughed up by one of Lars' thugs, I could hear, although very muted, traffic going by outside. Now there was nothing. I was deaf.

I looked around. When I didn't see Lars' body, I panicked. That cold sheath had left me and I felt vulnerable sitting there. I tried to stand and instead fell forward. I succeeded on my second attempt and looked around. There was a trail of blood leading away from a spot in front of the safe room. I followed it and found Lars. He was crawling on one arm away from the room, toward the hall. I looked around and saw Lars' big revolver lying on the ground. I walked over and picked it up. Lars saw me and his expression of helplessness actually made me feel sorry for him. The situation had reversed and now he was the one on his knees in a dingy cellar, staring death in the face.

I shuffled over to him, gun in my left hand, cupping my injured side with my right. I stood over him. I was twelve years old again, facing the lion, gun in hand. But this lion was no threat, not anymore. His legs were shredded. Cream-colored bone was exposed in several places, and the flesh was rags. He was bleeding profusely.

He began to speak. I couldn't hear a thing he said, but I'm alright at reading lips and caught the last part - I'll see you in hell. I couldn't think of a thing to say to that, because the truth was, I thought he was right. I don't believe in hell, but I believe I am damned nonetheless.

Lars was dying, and I didn't feel like hurrying the process. All killer instinct had abandoned me. I lifted the revolver, pushed the cylinder release and shook the shells out, then tossed it away. Lars kept his wary eyes trained on me, even as they slowly drooped downward and he choked on blood. I walked out of the office. I didn't have to hear the sirens to know that the police were coming. I had no intention of giving a statement. I half-walked, half-stumbled down the hall, turned a corner and staggered into a large industrial kitchen. I saw a door leading into an alley at the other end of the room. I exited the building and began walking home.

That's when I remembered the pack of Sparrows I'd taken off the would-be assassin. I reached my bloody hand into my pocket and produced them, realizing that I didn't check the guy for a light. I opened the pack and looked inside - three squares and a small Bic lighter. Hell, my luck was turning already.

I placed a cigarette between my lips, lit it and dragged deeply. It was the first time time I'd ever inhaled any kind of smoke, and despite the cigarettes being rolled with cheap brown paper and filled with pipe tobacco, the intense headrush immediately soothed me. I dropped the pack and lighter to the sidewalk and continued towards home, smoking that trophy cigarette. I never picked up another.