Hammer

[HUNGER]

Taste of new moon—creamy, cellophane-tinfoil shiny; and there, and see-through and solid—the night air on her tongue as she sucked it through her teeth, the crescent crack on her face, which flashed quicksilver in the moonlight. Bite and tear. But, actually it was always bash. She’d been up all day smoothing out the curls in her hair, making sure her make-up was perfect, removing stains and ironing her special dress, frills of black Lolita. Nights like this had to be perfect. After all, they only came so often. It was 2 A.M. and she felt the edges of fatigue gnawing at her, tickling the backs of her legs as she walked along the silent streets, warning her that she’d soon need to rest. But she wouldn’t, not with the clubbing she had planned. Not on a young night like this. Youth was meant to be enjoyed, and she planned to suck as much blood out of hers as she could. She pulled an energy bar from a concealed pocket in her dress, red velvet cake flavour. Dry little pick me up. Colour of… It was good to have hobbies. Healthy hobbies, healthy mind and besides, she worked—

‘No idea what you think you’re doing dressed like that at this time of night, but it’s dangerous for a lady like you to be walking around here so late.’ 

Voice from darkness, laser sight floating in stagnant non-light. She stopped and stepped back, tensing reflexively, turning the bar in her hand to a sweet mush. The old man stepped out of the shadows and into the streetlight, ashing his cigarette.

‘Sorry to scare you, lady,’ he said. ‘But you see what I mean? Anyone could be hiding in the shadows, someone maybe worse than an old man who doesn’t like smoking inside.’

Her hand had twitched reflexively when he had stepped out of the shadows, but he wasn’t it. Boring. Wire thin, beard mostly grey—and alone. No challenge and no threat. A man, a man, a man, a man, man, man, man, man — but unto no interest for bleed. Scatterbrain intention. Hungry. And confused, and WALK FORWARD AND AWAY. 

‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said to him. ‘It’s late and I should get going.’

He is not one, or the one or anything. He is boring and nothing and uninteresting. Walk forward and away.

Her tone was flat, maybe tired, maybe emotionless. She wasn’t out to socialise. Her nights were not nights for the display of others. Daytime had already been offered up for that. But still, she tried to pass for normal, tried to pass as a figure to be forgotten. A winning smile always helps, and she gave him one before leaving.

Return of the crescent, a sigil which calls to the moon in the sky. Sigil recalling the knife’s edge. Sigil which recalls the hammer’s blow. Moon falling. Quicksilver flash in the dark. The bits of energy bar that had stuck to her teeth looked like blood in the night light.

The man had said good night and returned to his apartment complex. As he rode the elevator up, he thought, ‘what a weird bitch.’

[COLON]

Four men drenched, swallowed and occluded by the dark. The sound of throbbing EDM jumped rhythmically from a doorway at the end of the alley. Even from outside the club, the sound was so loud that the surrounding walls seemed to quiver. Three of the four men were smoking. One of them, leaning as far as the bricks behind him would allow, was not.

Sven had it hidden under his clothes, taped securely under his left armpit. A cop might have gotten him to empty his pockets, but as long as he didn’t hang around anyone too shady-looking (like these three), he knew he’d make it to the meeting unmolested. Sven wasn’t dumb; he kept himself looking clean, neatly cut. Just that step above the other club rats so that he stood out as a better, but not so much better as to be picked out. He looked like your average stupid twenty-five-year-old, maybe the try-hard kind.

‘You got what we’re supposed to pick up?’ 

A bald man, skin leathery and orange by the light of his cigarette, stepped forward. Under the fat of his body it was obvious he was well-muscled. An enforcer if ever there was one.

‘Yeah, gimme a sec to get the tape off,’ Sven said, gritting his teeth as he ripped the package off in one swift motion. Luckily, he had shaved first. Still stung. ‘Here it is, safe and sound, no cop fingerprints.’ 

The leather-faced man took the small brick of… something, maybe coke, prodded it with a finger and picked at the plastic slightly. ‘So, what’s the message? Why have my new friends sent me this suspicious looking brick of flour?’

Sven gulped. He’d done some shady stuff before, but it was usually small-time stuff with stoner dealers. The big man in front of him spoke with the authority of someone in charge, and the placid sneer he wore made him appear quick to anger. He looked intimidating and strong. Neither of the two men behind the bruiser looked particularly interested as they dragged lazily on their cigarettes.

‘Well…’ 

He suppressed a shudder, praying this didn’t end with his ass getting beaten. ‘Like, they pulled me off the street, so I don’t know anything, but they said to have fun with it, see if you wanted to start selling, maybe work out a cut later?’

The bald guy clucked his tongue and looked at his two friends. They smiled back. When the bruiser turned back to face Sven, he was also smiling.

‘Relax, kid,’ he said, clasping Sven hard on the shoulder, ‘We’re not that mean.’ He laughed and tossed the brick to his comrade on the left, who caught it with all the dexterity of someone with Parkinson’s. ‘Truthfully, this is a weird deal, and I don’t like it, but it’s bad for business to shoot messengers, at least for reasons like that.’ 

Sounds like it not exactly unheard of. Sven shuffled on the spot. ‘Well, uhh, I’ve already been paid by them, so if that’s everything, I’ll just be heading off.’ He turned to leave but found his retreat blocked by the same firm grip that had held him moments ago, only tighter.

‘Wait a minute, give us a second.’

Turning Sven around, the bruiser said produced a small packet of powder and two one-hundred-dollar bills. ‘Only fair we pitch in for the delivery bill,’ he said, pushing the money and a baggie of powder into Sven’s hand.

‘Oh god, thanks, but—‘

The grip that had stopped him was gone, replaced by the soft touch of sandpaper hands on his face.

‘Listen… Since we were going to have a night out anyway, why not tag along?’

Oh god, oh fuck, oh god. I’m such a stupid faggot for getting mixed up in this shit. He stepped back involuntarily, guts knotted and squirming. Now was the time to play it cool, but that step was such an obvious ‘no’. Had he fucked up? He coughed and cleared his throat.

‘No thanks, I really shouldn’t be drinking. I’m saving up to get back home. Thanks, though. Cool of you to offer.’

The bruiser pursed his lips. Anger? Sven had no idea. Fists or worse could follow. ‘Far from home, huh? That’s a real shame, kid. We could’ve had some fun, I’m sure. You from Europe or something? Bit of an accent.’

‘Yeah, I’m from around there, but my dad’s American so I grew up speaking English, I guess…’

Again, the sandpaper roughness on his face as the bald man patted his cheek. 

‘Sounds like you’re a long way from home. Good luck, kid. I’ll see you around.’

Christ, I hope not.

‘Uh, sure. I’m trying to quit drinking, but if you do, the name’s Sven.’ Fucking idiot, why give him your name? 

The bruiser smiled. ‘Sure kid, it’s Jack for next time. See ya.’ No grip, no touch. 

Silent breath, he filled his lungs deep and clear. One foot in front of the other without looking back. Fuck them, he needed to be gone ASAP. He hoped not to catch a bullet in the back. Surely not here, surely not in front of the club. Doubt bubbled up from his gut and as he reached the door frame he turned to look. Gone. No cigarette glow, no men. As the wave of cold relief washed over him, he noticed a thumping, separate and distinct from the music of the club below. His heart. Deep breath.

‘Fuck, maybe I will have a drink…’

[DETRITUS]

Jack did not think of Sven again until just after he had finished. He rolled over the girl, leaving her panting, red, bruised and cum streaked as he began dressing himself. She was suppler and softer than Sven, who was cute but largely unremarkable looking. And yet there was less satisfaction in fucking something you bought. Like fucking a fleshlight. The girl was still recovering, but he was done, face flushed cherry, neurons taut with the chemical afterglow of his coke-enhanced orgasm. Everyone said it made them soft, but, hey, worked for him.

He left the bitch lying there, pulled on his pants, and walked towards the door. The boys would probably be antsy to get back home; neither of them liked to go out to fuck. Danny was a fag and James had a girlfriend he pretended to be faithful to. Tonight was supposed to be business, get the product, plan the shit out, go home, go to fucking bed. But Jack had figured, why not try it out? As he closed the door behind him, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. An aging man, lined face, with thick arms and an even thicker brow locked in a stern gaze. He looked like a boss. He carried himself like one, too. 

He walked out of the room and made his way back into the club. There were women on poles and loud music that pumped so hard he couldn’t really make out the genre. The boys were at the bar, chatting and sipping their beers.

‘Bust well, boss?’ 

‘Fuck off,’ Jack laughed as he slapped James’ shoulder. ‘What do you two think about this stuff? Pretty fun, right?’

‘Sure, but they gave us too much,’ replied Danny. ‘This is way too much just to try.’ 

Jack patted the bag in his breast pocket, felt the package there. ‘We’ll do another line, go hit a bar then finish for the night. This stuff is definitely better than the usual shit though, I think we’ll be getting more customers with it.’

‘But why did they give us that much?’ Danny prompted again. He was never quick on the draw, so Jack felt he had to lay it out plainly.

‘This is probably cut with something to make it go harder and get you hooked quicker,’ he explained. ‘They’re probably hoping we get addicted or some shit. Much easier to negotiate the split when your partner is jonesing for a taste themselves. ‘S why I said I didn’t wanna do too much tonight.’

This satisfied Danny, and James didn’t seem to care one way or another. They shared another round, chatted, and did another line. Something about the high was different, energising in a way that made Jack realise regular coke made you feel hollow. Something kind of like thing… The thought was lost in the rush of blood and neuron fire. They made their way out of the club, and while they could’ve call it quits now, Jack felt like killing time in a bar. Fuck it, it was late—might as well watch the sun come up.

The city was mostly empty at this time of night. There was the occasional drunk, or group of drunks, stumbling their way home, but little to really bother three guys like them. Still, he didn’t like the city at night. It seemed to breathe with the night air. Shadows shifted in the breeze and people swam in their depths. Guns were rare in this country, so it was stupid carrying, and there wasn’t anyone he couldn’t fuck up himself let alone with two other guys with him, but he still carried a knife just in case. Never knew when you’d find a predator bigger than yourself. It happened to his dad, and it could happen to him. It was only a few blocks to the bar, but the entire time he was glad to be with his boys. They pissed him off sometimes, but they were his guys at the end of the day. The wind blew and the city spoke in whispers, and in threats, and in little things he did not like to hear. A light caress in a dusty classroom. Whispers in the doctor’s office as she had bruises treated. Her back as she left the courthouse and her heels clicking on the hard wooden floor. Sounds carried on the wind, sounds of the city breathing, sighing, bleating. Over and over, mocking him.  

A rising. Blood. Pumping from the chest, and all the things that had fucked him over the years. Mouth tightening, he ignored Danny asking him what was up. Shut up, shut the fuck up. Danny backed off. James had already slowed his pace. Always the quicker on his reads, that one. Coke was fun, a real rush, off like the races, baby! But sometimes, SOMETIMES it got him. Made him mad, made him remember in racing thoughts, stallions thumping up neural pathways to the visual cortex, memories he’d like to forget. Things that pissed him off. Things that weren’t his fault. This was the kind of mood for kicking blood to shit, denting dumpsters, spitting bile. 

Just a few more blocks and he could wash it all away with some nice depressants, a beer or maybe a few shots. Just something to calm his nerves. He’d had agreements with a few cops, but this wasn’t a mafia operation. He was just some pusher at the end of the day. A good operation, but one fuckup, one cracked skull too many, and they’d finally catch his scent and he’d be fucked to high hell. To be calm, deep breaths are required, a level head. He took each step with deep breath.

Mollycoddle red, vision of a familiar twink on a whore’s arm, pretty and pink. Not at home, but prancing about town.

Jack twisted his neck, getting a good bloodshot eye on his boys.

‘Grab him, lose the woman.’

[PAIN]

Her name? Her name her name her name her name? Samantha? Something—

Crystal shock reverberated up from the chin, snapping back and down the shaking spine; he tasted iron and dirt and leather and the smell of not much as warm and red slowly oozed. Susan, nice lady, just trying to help him catch a taxi home. So nice. She’d smelled good and felt warm against the night air as she dragged him along to the curb outside the bar. He had been pretty sure the taxi had driven up as they pulled him away. Who?

Swift kicks and shotgun agony spread a kind of warmth across his chest. Ribs ached and there was the immediate tenderness of bruising as he increasingly felt his own weight against cement floor of the alleyway. 

‘Pick him up, now.’

That was Bruiser’s voice. Or… Jack? Yeah, that was it. They had carried him away and started kicking the shit out of him, all yelling about something he didn’t really get. Ditching? Something. Sven supposed that they might kill him, or at least put him in hospital. His mind swam blankly at the thought, struggling under the weight of alcohol, and whatever that powder was. He’d gone past the limit, past his bedtime, and now three very large and very dangerous men were about to punish him. 

He realised he’d been hoisted up. Jack was gripping his chin and speaking directly to him. But Sven didn’t understand, and received a slap when he didn’t respond.

‘I’ll ask again, you arrogant little prick,’ Baldy growled. ‘Do you think you’re too good to spend the night out with us? Why’d you ditch?’

Good question. Wouldn’t it have maybe been easier? They had seemed nice enough at the time. How did he even get here? It had started with coke in the club and… head swimming with fractals of broken glass and washing powder cut with chemicals just as bad if not worse. Nothing but empty space in a dead organ. He blinked, fish-eyed, and said ‘I don’t—I don’t know, I’m sorry,’ before trailing off and drooling blood onto concrete, semi-solid red paint.

Baldy said something and slapped him again. Sven’s head snapped to the side, and he saw stars in his vision. He tensed, not wanting to look the man in front of him, knowing it would mean more head trauma. A moment passed, and there was the sound of a boot crunching something underfoot.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ muttered Jack, but Sven continued to look at the man holding him. Who cares what’s happening, just stop fucking hitting me. The man looked straight ahead, almost seeming to forget the person he was gripping. He hoped there was a way out of this yet. Sven’s nose was probably broken, and he felt pretty fucked up, but if they were distracted enough… He thought this and continued hoping right up until the hammer connected with the man’s face, and Sven found himself falling to the ground on liquid legs.

[CRACKED SKULL AND HAMMER]

Hammer sailed and hit target, crashing like blood, and she spun into corkscrew, sailing through the air until landing on shoulders only to kick off, sending the other, it/him/Jack, sprawling. Blood mingled with concrete, and she felt the remnants of kinesis tingle in her shins. Night bloodied. Ready for more.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you, you crazy bitch?’ said the prey called Jack (she’d been watching for a while). Wild bleating of the predator prey, unprepared for shadows that loom larger in the light of the moon. ‘Fuck this, grab her! Danny, if you’re not out cold, grab your fuckin’ knife.’

Remembering words, difficult during the rush. Introductions were important in polite society. Flash of silver moon, no blood. yet. ‘I’m no bitch. Predators should recognise one another.’ 

Glitter sparkle on the deadly point, just the grunt of the man lunging with all his weight for a quick and killing blow. It came running. Introductions cast aside, hammer dance began. One deft step, no blade may touch her, and she smoothed a crease in the pleating of her skirt, black, flowing gorgeous and gothic. Battle wear for night walkers and moon singers. She saw blood through skin and knew it would come flowing. 

The thing—hadn’t caught this one’s name—pivoted and darted his dagger toward her gut. Bigger, stronger, but not faster. Lumbering fatty flesh. She took a step back, dropping elbow, raising knee and crushing, crushing, crushing with all the force her frame would allow. Safe from bee stings, safe from fatty fist, fly trap grip. It screamed. Her clenched fist in delicate white fabric released to clench again around the hilt of the falling blade, only for her to dance back, leaving it embedded in the knee of its owner. 

Dance aside of its pained scream and fist, pirouette. Thing still alive, but it was bloodied and useless. Would Jacky boy like to dance?

No, the other one came, face fucked from hammer. Lunging, sluggish. Muscled but fatty, clumsy movements, an oaf, not a dancer. A lower form of prey. He came lunging, twisted in a snarl of rage; big dog angry, big dog soon to be dead. He slashed at her, but she’d already danced away, jumping into the air and kicking off the wall, tumbling and driving the heel of her boot (tall, kevlar, plated, the only part of her that wasn’t delicately laced) into the back of his head. Like a sack of potatoes. Well-used weight and a good sense of space eliminated the need for overwhelming strength. She bounced like the rays of the moon off of shadowed glass.

Her boots touched the ground and she saw the wounded boy, less than prey, gawking at him. She could leave this unblemished, just a bird, just a deer, nothing that could kick back, nothing worth slaughter. The thought was momentary, slight, unconcerned, but distracted; the fist caught her cleanly and sent her sprawling out onto concrete and into dazzling smiles. Moonlight, shiv of sliver and of knife shudder along her delicate spine. COMBAT.

Sheer cliff of adrenaline meant she felt no pain. The tear in her dress and the tattering on her lacing gave her the peppering of anger she would use to drive the nails home. Through scrapes, tears, bruises and fractures, push, push, push along moonlit paths until the sun was extinguished in brutal glory. Jack rushed her as she rose, but not like a thug, not like meat or fat. He was the largest of the three, but he moved like a cat, like a boxer, knew his weight and how to throw it.  A piercing lunge with a knife, the shape of his claw, following up with a fist, the force of his rage. He did not let up; endless advances meant she had to dip and dodge with intensity, never quite able to create enough distance until, finally, he nicked her with the knife’s tip. Crimson crescent across the shoulder. Torn fabric, lost lace.

Fury like fire and bloody filled her nostrils and, against reason, she dodged towards him at the next blow. Her fists, like small pistons, could not hope to do much to stop him, but a thumb to the eye was a thumb to the eye. Scream of rage and pain—tiger to gazelle again. Flash of silver. It went red.

She darted past the screaming mass and clutched from storm drain, dangling by teeth her Steel, glinting moonlight, starving of violence. Hammer AND CRACKED SKULL held aloft. Boy-thing beside quivered and flinched as she wrenched it free. Twinge of disgust, less than prey…but also innocent. Another fuckup. It looked up in horror. She turned to see Jack walking towards her, knife ready, eye bloodshot and shit to kill. He was ready for her, hammer or no.

She stepped back and looked to the other end of the alley. Weakling number one was back up now, struggling with the knife in his knee. Interesting. She stripped the distance between them. He barely noticed, focusing on the pain radiating from his knee, and she wondered if he felt that final sharp pulse of pain as she drove the hammer into the back of his head with supreme force of a spinning lunge. Orgasm of red through shades: brains, bone and blood, and silver moonlight gleamed on each red surface. Beauty birthed night sky. No time for savouring, pivot, grab and—iron grip around her throat. He’d caught her. Crunch and shatter and windless. No breath. The shock stalled her action, but she tried to bring the hammer down, but too late, caught in vice grip. He looked at her, bloodshot and fury, and his grip tightening as she winced from the pain. But, like rays of the moon, she flashed silver. And the unseen knife, moonlight dashing, caught the vital depths of his neck, pouring to concrete his life blood. Red drank to black as silver watched. And silver drank. His grip slackened, he stumbled, crumpled, flesh to fat; gone and quickly dead. 

She stood there, strong legs holding her, shuddering, and felt silver quivers dance down her back. His hands hurt her. It was as close as she’d ever come. She was tattered but moon-kissed and bloody and beautiful and victorious. She was killer and deadly and silver, silver, silver. Cupped hands drenched with his vital spray. She lowered her head and breathed deeply, stench of viscera and iron and already the beginnings of rot, or so she imagined. Bloody, bloody and already rotting. He was doomed to die today, and she was doomed to kill him; it was as inevitable as this new moon. Adrenaline death and her quivering stopped, heart slowing ‘til she began to feel herself; moon’s wane, moon’s wax. Visions of office cubicles and early mornings, of personable greetings and paperwork, light lunches, and people she pretended to like. Distilled boredom under a hot sun.

The boy-thing. She looked towards him, lying there, bruised and busted in the shadow of a dumpster. Out of the light. Time to find out, she supposed. She walked up to it. He no longer trembled. The bravest act he had managed all night. She dropped the knife and toyed with her hammer, looking down on him. Bathed in moonlight, he in shadow, she was the being of supreme power. But it was an indifferent position, just as indifferent as the moon is to the sky. Nothing to catch or clutch now, just cool night air and a sense of triumph. 

‘Have you seen my face?’ 

Her voice is flat, toneless—breath of wind and whispers. Calculating.

‘Nope.’ 

Weakly, almost truthfully. She can tell he only wants a bed and home.

‘Phone, on you?’

‘Left it on the train, search me if you want. Am I fucked?’

‘Not at all.’ 

She held out a hand and helped him to his feet, not out of compassion or pity. Predators needed worthy prey, slaughter was boring and sunny. ‘You should leave. Touch nothing, step in nothing. Begone. And perhaps reconsider walking in the night, there are many things out here much larger than you.’

‘You’re the scariest person I’ve ever met,’ he replied coolly. ‘I don’t think I’ll leave my flat after nine again. I hope I never see any of those freaks again.’

‘They’re quite dead.’

But he was already hobbling away, clutching at the brickwork wall of the alleyway.

‘A strange, moonless man,’ she mumbled to herself, and dipped a gloved finger into the blood pooling beside her.