Mama’s Boy

It's not like what we've all seen in the movies, you know.

First, these guys aren't wearing shiny suits or expensive shoes. The gold chains? Yeah, they're real. Nothing too big or heavy, but exposed and noticeable. Wiry chest hair all poking through and everything. One of them even has what I think was a St. Christopher's medal at the end of his.

The track suits aren't an empty stereotype, though, at least for the fuckers fresh from the Old Country. The guy who has me in a headlock, I can read the Adidas label on his sneakers in between the pushing and shoving and punching these guys have done for a while. Pretty sure the athletic attire also matches the shoes. His chain is silver, maybe platinum. He stinks. Seems like his cousins or whoever put him to work on this side of the Mediterranean should welcome him to the New Country with some Speed Stick.

The other two guys are dressed like normal blue collar dudes. Blue jeans, nothing special. Maybe Carhart shirts? Could be Duluth. Not bad condition, nothing too worn or torn. Decent clothes, but not fancy. These weren't made guys, just footsoldiers.

One of them wears decent Nikes, the other has Timberland steel toes.

Shit got real personal between me and those steel toes, let me say. I think I may have left a little blood on the one boot.

When I took the money, I thought I'd be able to grow it into three or four times what I borrowed. Turns out, not everything I'd hoped for came to pass.

I mean, now that I think about it, staring through a swelling eye at my fingers being splayed before me, I guess it makes sense that lies and deceit would go together with the types of people I paid. I didn't walk away empty handed, but I didn't exactly get everything I bought.

I laugh, and I'm a little disturbed at the burbling sound down in my chest that accompanies the wad of blood and spit I hawk out onto the alley pavement.

"Somethin' fuckin' funny, dead man?" I think his name is Tony. I mean, it's a safe bet, I guess. I'm gonna call him Tony, anyway.

Tony smirks at me. He's standing in my line of sight while his other two goons hold me still. Tracksuit has my head in a lock while Frankie splays my fingers out in his meathooks. Frankie is really strong, and he has a mean left hook.

I know his name really is Frankie, because Tony told him to hold my fingers like this.

Tony steps closer, cigar cutter in his hand. "Which one? If you don't pick now, we take two."

Well goddamn.

I had a job once. A good one, with benefits and everything. One of those benefits was an accidental death and dismemberment insurance plan. I mean, this is far from accidental, but I'm clearly dipping my toe into the dismemberment and death waters, here. Well. Fingers, but I guess that's splitting hairs. Anyway, that plan paid out about two grand for a finger lost at work.

Two grand for a piece of me doesn't seem like an awesome deal, but now that a finger is about to be severed for free, I'm wishing I still had that job.

I figure I earned the beating. Honestly, sending three thugs to whip my ass was a little excessive, but I get it. I didn't completely skip town but I did change where I slept and didn't exactly leave a forwarding address.

That job I used to have? I left it. It's part of why I needed a big cash infusion, fast. Okay, if we're being honest here, I didn't need the cash fast, but there was a bit of an impulsive urgency in my decision making.

Addicts do that.

Hi. My name is Clarke, and I'm an addict.

This is where I imagine the record scratch sound effect and the voiceover to come in as the frame freezes. eeeerrrwheerrrehhh 'Yep, that's me, about to get my finger cut off. I bet you're wondering how I got into this mess.'

I laugh again instead of answer which finger to take.

Tony punches me in the nose, which is awkward and uncomfortable for everyone, because my head is still held in an awkward position by Tracksuit.

"OUCH GODDAMMIT," I yell in between gasps. "FUCK!" I add for emphasis.

"You're lucky we don't just kill you, man," Tracksuit kinda whispers in my ear. His accent is thick, like, straight-outta-Palermo thick, but his English is pretty good.

God I hate myself for this, but I can't resist being a smartass. "Yeah, but corpses don't pay the bills, slick." Fuck me if Tony didn't hit me again. "OUCHQUITIT!"

Tony laughs his ass off at my outburst.

"Times up, funny man. We're taking two fingers, and if we have to dump your body in the landfill, we'll get our money from your mother in Hoboken."

Oh.

Oh, fuck that noise, Tony.

He moves in with the cutter, and he's aiming for my pinky finger, but he doesn't realize that mine won't be the corpse that ends up in the landfill today.

Technically, his won't either, but I appreciate the poetry of the sentiment.

I'm what you might call a late bloomer. Normally, people like me discover a talent and learn a trade in their early teens. I only found out a little over a year ago, which is why I left that steady job. I figured, shit, I can invest some money in a tutor and get caught up on a couple of decades worth of skillbuilding in an accelerated program, right?

Well. Sorta.

Insert the lies and deceit and whatnot, and what you get is me here and now.

Let me see if I can clarify a few things here. Back when I first saw the Star Wars movies (for sanity and argument's sake, let's just pretend there are three of those, but we can willingly acknowledge the awesomeness that exists in the seasons of streaming shows that dot the landscape) I didn't really identify with Luke Skywalker.

My sympathies kinda leaned Vader.

Until Return of the Jedi, anyway, when Luke showed up all in black with an agenda and a chip on his shoulder. Fucked Jabba's shit right on up with a smile. I dug that real hard. I mean, in the end, Team Vader, but Luke had a good showing in that flick.

Well. I learned that I can use the Force, like, for-real. Okay, so not really, but I learned that magic and wizards and all the shit that goes bump in the night? It's real. Fairies and vampires and ghosts and shit, too. It's all real.

I learned that I can do magic. It didn't take long to become addicted to learning more about it.

God, that makes me sound like a dork, but it's true. Wizards exist, and I can be one, only, I'm waaaaaaaay behind in learning how. So, I needed a tutor.

Remember how I said I leaned Vader?

Yeah, so, I had to find other people to show me Vader shit. Turns out those people kinda suck, and they took my money and ran after only showing me a few neat tricks. The trick they didn't show me was illusion magic so I could pass off fake money for real money. Thus, my investment plan evaporated.

Tellya what they did show me, though.

Fire.

Whoa, baby, am I good with fire. That was how I learned about this magic talent. I was looking for my Zippo one day, gettin' ready to enjoy a fat stogie with a glass of bourbon, and I couldn't find the damn thing. I just sorta gave up, idly chewing that Macanudo, and when I went to kinda flick the end of it in annoyance, it caught fire. I about ate the damn thing in shock, but there it was. I lit it by basically wishing it was lit.

I learned a few other things to bring me closer to some Vader shit, but I still come back to fire as my standard parlor trick.

He should not have mentioned mom.

It was all fun and games when we were just gonna lose a finger, but to bring my neurotic, guilt-inducing, awesome-cooking, obsessively-cleaning, preachy-but-generally-nice mother into this shit?

Flame-fucking-on, bitches.

What happened next is straight outta a Marvel movie's nightmare.

First, Tony's face just melts. He's sneering one minute and he doesn't even have time to scream the next. His face, eyes, skull, everything does it's best Ghost Rider impression before it looks like some shit from Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Nazis get fucked up. The rest of his body follows, and the alley smells like delicious barbecue. If you can ignore the singed hair thing.

Next, Frankie screams. He lets go of my hand and steps back, like, holding his hands up as if he's gonna block a punch or something. I'm a little disappointed in the scream, but hey, stress and fear are interesting things in the human condition. Meanwhile, it's only been a couple of seconds, and Tony is basically ash, Frankie is screaming, and Tracksuit still has me in a fucking headlock. I guess he settled into the "freeze" part of flight, fight, or freeze.

I guess Frankie is, what? Fight? I mean, he's in a stance and all, but he's still screaming.

I wish fire in his throat, and it obliges. The screaming stops, and he kinda makes a weird choking sound. His neck bulges in a way I haven't seen since that weird mask malfunctioned in Total Recall (the real one, not the Colin Farrel mockery) and I chuckle a little. I wish the fire a little hotter, and the dude's head falls off, since there's no neck or vertebrae there to support it anymore.

Neat. I've not done that one before.

Still in a headlock, I can't resist. "I find your lack of faith disturbing," I quip, and suddenly Tracksuit remembers he's holding me nearly and dearly.

He shoves me away, and I land facefirst on black, smoking asphalt. I choke on what's left of Tony as I gasp for air and inhale ashes.

"Oh, that's fucking GROSS, Tracksuit, fuck you man."

He finally snaps out of his freeze, and I see he's reaching for his waistband. I cock my head a little as I recognize how unlikely it's been for a gun to be safely snugged away there when the only thing holding it in place is an elastic waistband. God seems to favor the stupid and the brave, I guess.

Anyway, so out comes his shiny nickel-plated sissy pistol and I can't help but roll my eyes.

I imagine it as melted slag in his hand, and it is. The ammunition gives a few satisfying pops as they explode in the magazine, and his hand is partially incinerated, partially blown apart by about a dozen nine millimeter minibombs. A few pieces of white-hot shrapnel zip my way but I put up a shield to deflect them (one of the lessons I learned from my asshole tutor).

Tracksuit is screaming now and GOD these guys are loud.

I picture the flaming skeletal remains like what happened when Blade staked vampires in that piece of motion picture perfection (ignoring the final boss battle) and Tracksuit is so much dust on the wind. With a thought, I dispose of what remains of Frankie.

I wanted to avoid all of this, which is why I took my beatin'. I could have melted these fuckers the moment they rolled up on me, but I really, really didn't want to go to war.

They had to bring up mom, man.

God bless her neurotic heart, nobody's gonna mess with mom.

Now I gotta scoop up these cocksuckers' gold chains and melt 'em down into bars to pawn before I track down the other sunsabitches that will come looking for these dead cocksuckers.

Looks like war can never really be avoided, especially since I love my mama.