Two Warlords Meet Face-to-Face

Repairman kept the .38 trained on Kurt. He spoke to Culver Jake in a casual tone. “If you ever get sick of this useless b—tard, just try and turn the tables here.” He said as he gestured the firearm towards the angry, bewildered and frightened Kurt.

“You brought that piece, didn’t you Kurt?” Rube asked Kurt.

“It don’t come in handy without the guts to use it.” He continued.

“He’s got guts.” Jack remarked indulgingly. “His problems originate with a big void above the neck.”

“Lead on MacDough.” Jack ordered Culver Jake. “I’m already sick of both you and this place you’ve taken me.”

Jake walked to a dark and dirty door. He fumbled nervously for the key to the abandoned bank. His hand shook from fear. He didn’t want to deal with Jack, and he had no desire to talk this over with an already livid Eponymous either. Either side of the doorway offered a Hobson’s Choice.

************************************************************************

Eponymous paced angrily in the makeshift interrogation room that was once the office of a loan officer. His blackberry hummed and vibrated every so often. The screen flashed. “6 Unread Messages.”

Three were spam of some sort. Low level operatives wasted his time reporting nothing, rather than risking his wrath for not staying in touch.

One from Culver Jake stated. “We’re five minutes out.” It was dated 10 minutes ago.

Another was from Glammon, about 20 minutes old. “Call me about Angusto. He’s here and he’s not a happy man.”

“He’s a lucky son-of – a – biscuit-eater.” Eponymous muttered. He briskly texted back to Glammon. “Serve the worthless moron.”

The final message was from The Boss. It read, quite simply, “Find out about Doug Rollins. Why is he in Los Angeles?”

His blackberry made him angry and more worried. He used to dial Culver Jake. Jake was ten minutes past deadline. That could be eternity, depending upon who he was trying to transport….

**********************************************************************

Culver Jake mumbled and attempted to stop jittering long enough to insert his key in the lock. He had finally ascertained the correct one and was just opening the door when his cell phone tuned up the Metallica. Jake’s nerves were on edge. He dropped the key.

Rube misread the situation. He thought the phone call and the key drop were his signal to jump Repairman Jack. He threw himself towards Repairman, pulling a motorcycle chain from the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

Kurt saw Rube attacking and tried to spin on Jack. He spun far more slowly than Jack dropped the hammer with the .38. Two rounds entered Kurt’s midsection and slammed him back about five feet. He hopped backwards twice, like a white man who had no business attempting a hip-hop dance. He flopped back and stretched out dying on the sidewalk.

Repairman side-stepped Rube, but not well enough for him to completely avoid the flailing length of bike chain. It wrapped around his forearm like a tentacle and dragged jack a step off balance and towards Kurt.

A surprised and frightened Culver Jake sat up and tried to get his bearings. He realized that he was now in a gun dual, in the middle of East Los Angeles. He saw several terrified churls and peasants head for the nearest concrete to hide behind. Soon, the police would descend on the scene.

*********************************************************************

“G—F—— D—–!” Cursed Eponymous.

He heard gunfire directly outside his door. He heard a man groan in a tone of voice you never used more often than once. It was the sound of a fellow human being’s agonized expiration. Oh, and by the way, it was in the middle of a public thoroughfare.

Eponymous began packing his briefcase rapidly. He would have to scramble to avoid this getting any worse than it was already. He was already wondering how he should destroy the blackberry, as he finished his packing.

************************************************************************

Jack capped off two more rounds into the torso of Rube. Rube was a large man and went down hard. The chain remained affixed to Jack’s wrist and pulled him down to one knee with a hard impact on the knee cap.
Culver Jake stood back up. His weapon was out of his waist band and he had Repairman Jack in his sights. He fired and took pleasure from his handiwork, as the round erupted into Jack’s shoulder and through up what looked like a drop of bloody spray from the impact.

“Arggghhhh!” Jack cursed. He gritted his teeth and his mind channeled a current of wild, magical energy.

“Out with your filth!” He forced out through gritted teeth. He saw spots in front of his eyes but managed to point to Culver Jake and discharge a roaring spray of abrasive particles.

“Beeeiigggahhh” Culver Jake screamed. The particles tore into his face and neck. They seemed intent on burrowing to the marrow of his bones. He felt his eyes sting with the hostile, burning particles. He felt them filling his nose and even leaking into his throat and sinuses.

Culver Jake turned desperately and tried to spit the dirt out of his mouth and blow it out of his nose. His face burned in agony and he didn’t even try to see where jack was anymore.

Jack regained his composure and put a bullet into Culver Jake’s head. It was the necessary thing to do and the only decent alternative. Jake could never show what was left of his face in public. His best remaining option was closed casket. Blam!

Jack turned the weapon onto the chain holding his wrist to Kurt’s emptying cadaver. He pulled the trigger and felt his arm jerk free. He pocketed the gun and tried to struggle up right. His knee and shoulder registered their protest.

Jack could hear approaching sirens. The police had already gotten started on their way. It was time for him to do likewise. He surveyed the street for an alleyway behind the building. He was open to any avenue of escape.

He found the alley to his left and rumbled painfully into the sloping alley. He stopped in his tracks, as a motorcycle loomed directly in front of him. Jack remembered hearing about a man named “Big E.”

“You can’t be Eponymous.” He said stupidly, as the large man charged his bike down the alley at Jack.

“Hold on!” He commanded. “You ride with me or the LAPD.”

Jack stopped in exhaustion. He felt a powerful, bear-strong arm sling him on to the back of the bike, as the rider scooped him up while executing a tight circle in the center of the alley. The sirens grew in volume, as the bike erupted hazardously across the street and into another alley.

“Hang On.” Eponymous said. “You are on your way to meet the next man to be called God….