[A Man Named Jim]
He had never taken a class to hone his fighting ability, he had just always kind of been good at it. His frame was bigger, lithe and relaxed in a fight. He considered that his advantage. He always saw the fight coming and he made himself relax and just deal with it.
The fist time he took money in exchange for his natural abilities was to help out a friend. She needed a safety, someone who knew where she was going and could come get her if need be. It was a decent kickback but it was easy money for me. I was living on a small budget and that included a lot of loose time.
That last time scared her out of the business. Jim was sitting in the swanky out of town hotel, out on the balcony that faced the sea, smoking a cigar. The phone sitting on the glass patio table rattled and chirped. The text read, “Helkj.” He grabbed his sledge hammer and left.
She and the John met downstairs at the bar and got a room that they checked in together. She insisted on this process to lessen the chance of a surprise and need to text Jim.
The last text he had gotten said “414.” Fourth floor, room 14. Same floor as Jim’s room. You can’t just put your shoulder down and charge through a hotel door. They’re pretty tough now days. They’re not invisible by any means. A well aimed, solid chop from his sledgehammer sheered off the door. He switched grips and rammed the handle through what was left of the door knob and kicked the door open.
It’s a noisy way to make an entrance, but given the situation it’s also the fastest. A definite downside is the guy on the other side of the door can’t help but hear you coming. But Jim was ready for that.
The room was a mess, the few things in the room were everywhere, the dresser with the mounted TV was face down, her clothes were scattered. He wasn’t surprised though, she was a fighter. She was on the bed naked with her hands bound in front of her with a belt. Blood was smeared on her face and there were dark red lines crisscrossing her ribs, crying long red streams down her pale skin. He was naked too, a long, thin silver knife in his hand, flying across the room, going towards his pile of clothes atop which sat a big, shiny silver revolver.
Jim liked to keep the play quiet and personal. He was beyond irritated that he instead of charging with his knife he was going for his gun. Jim had played this part out in his head a hundred times with a hundred different outcomes. That there might be shots exchanged was too likely a thing to be ignored, and according to his friends who knew about such things, most times in a firefight no one shoots shit. So Jim had practiced and practiced with his piece.
Jim had gotten good. By the time the nude man had his hand around the handle and was swinging it wide to square his shots, Jim fired once, blasting through his opponents wrist before the revolver’s trigger could be squeezed.
The gun and gore went flying and Jim holstered his piece. He cleared the distance between him and his enemy quickly and just as the wounded man was starting to scream, Jim punched him squarely in the face with his right and then sent him reeling towards the hotel bed by landing a full force, swinging left. He was on the man before he stopped rolling, sitting across his chest and pinning the man’s arms under Jim’s knees, Jim punched him rapid fire until the man was a semiconscious, bleeding mess.
Jim was relaxed, the fight had been fluid for him. But he was mad in a way he had never been mad before. He found the silver knife and unhooked the belt binding her hands wrists together. He helped bind her wounds using strips of the gurgling fellow’s clothes and did what he could to get the handle on the door to stay to create the appearance of normalcy while she finished getting dressed.
When they were both finished, he told her, “We’re gonna walk out of here calm as cows, ok?”
She nodded and he stood over the bleeding man and remembered he had a knife. “Why don’t you go wait out in the hall,” he said evenly.
She didn’t though She stood there, rooted, considering everything about the way Jim was eyeing the ruined man on the floor. “Are you going to kill him?”
Jim met her stare, it was honest. “Yeah, I think so.” There was freckle of blood leaking through the side of her dress. The neckline was stretched out. “Yeah. It’s the for the best I think.”
The man tried to say something, it might have been “No,” or “Please,” or who knows what, it was too wet to understand. They stood there staring at each other until she said, “I want to help.”
Again, her eyes were honest and Jim nodded. “Okay. But we gotta hurry.” He handed her the knife, hilt first.
“Can I use the gun?”
“Too loud.”
She bit lip and then said, “Okay.”
