Primal Pursuit

When I reach my first destination, I swap cars and slide another clip in my pocket.

Call it overkill, especially since I’m making sure I’ve got my switchblade. Meticulous preparation is the name of the game.

I drive to my final stop in the suburbs.

Rabbit’s going to be mad, even if I don’t kill the fucker. I’m not planning on it, not unless he really fucks up. This isn’t a hit; it’s not planned.

I pull up a block from this Giovanni Bari’s place. The air is cool, the neighborhood nice enough, I suppose. Though as I come to stand across the road from his place and do a little research on my phone, with the buildings he owns, the ones he manages, and places he rents, combined with what he charges and how little he puts into fixing up his places, a person might think he’d live a little more upscale.

Not me. People like this guy don’t dream big, they don’t plan. They’re lazy. I’m betting he inherited, does some lazy, shady shit, and every now and then, a girl like rabbit catches his eye.

Jesus, he’s probably managed to poke a desperate tenant before.

Rabbit fought back, and I’m going to make sure she never has to again.

There’s a glow of a lamp and changing lights and colors coming from the partially curtained living room, so I think our conversation might have to happen in the back.

With a sigh, I check the time. It’s late as fuck. I cross the street and skirt around to the back yard. No skulking for me, just straight up walking in like I own the joint.

I pull on thin leather gloves that are like second skin and jimmy the back door lock before letting myself in.

I look through the house a little, but it’s clear the fucker lives alone. The furniture is old, it smells like shit, sweat, and mold, and there’s a pile of cash just sitting on aside table. It’s a one-story home, so it’s easy enough to check. The double bed’s not made, and the bedroom’s clearly lived in by one. Bathroom’s the same. One toothbrush and men’s shit only.

From the living room comes the sound of the TV. Some action flick, from the sounds of it. Dude has no idea what’s about to come his way.

I go into the kitchen and decide to microwave some popcorn. And wait.

The ding of the machine and smell of buttered popcorn permeates the house and draws him in. Moron comes in with a baseball bat.

“What the fuck?” He raises it to swing it.

He’ll never make any league.

“Hi, Giovanni.” I grab the bat, kick him hard in the chest and then slam the bat into his face, breaking his nose and sending him reeling and cursing and sputtering blood. “I represent one of your tenants. Very young. Very pretty. Extremely feisty.”

He snarls and spits blood. Then focuses on me. “The cunt?”

“People have names,” I say, conveniently ignoring the fact I call her rabbit. It’s a name. Sort of. “Do you mean Poppy?”

“The slutty cunt? Yeah.”

He’s shaking off the pain and shock of my attack. Which is good. I’d hate to fucking overwhelm him.

The man starts moving toward me. I let him take an entire step before I bring the bat down with force on his arm. It’s a brutal blow, and the sweet sound of snappingbones fills my ears. His howl ricochets, fear and anger rolling off him, and I breathe it in. I inhale it all.

I wait then hit him again on that broken arm. He screams this time and staggers back into the wall.

“Nope. She’s not a slut. Not a cunt. Though, I suspect you’re a giant ass cunt of a dick.” I grin at him. “Like trying to intimidate little girls?”

“Fuck. You. And your whore.”

Some people…

This time, I pull out my knife, pop the blade and slash his face. It’s shallow, not overly deep. Enough to scar. Enough to hurt like someone just…well, sliced into his flabby flesh.

“You don’t fucking listen, do you?” I examine him a moment as he falls back, sobbing, against the wall, not sure which injury to cradle.

There are three of them. Nose, face, fucking arm that’s at a weird angle. He can barely stand. I think it’s shock keeping him on his fat feet as he snivels and blows snotty blood about the place.