The first punch wasn't so bad, just rattled Sylvester's jaw.
The second hit like a thrown brick and knocked a tooth loose. He tried to spit it out, but the fist that had hit him clamped shut on his mouth while other hands hauled him towards the door.
And then he was outside, flying through the air without grace, until dirty asphalt suddenly reached up and crashed over him like a wave. He didn't do anything to stop it, merely accepted what would happen. The pain that followed racked his whole body. Great, he thought in a daze, I didn't swallow my tooth.
The bouncers watched their handiwork for a moment from the open doorway and then walked back inside, save one giant with a bald head and intricate tattoo designs up the back of his neck, a snake that reached up to stick out its tongue mockingly on the back of his skull. He waited a moment to make sure Sylvester was moving, then shouted from the door, “And don't come back!” It echoed with such proper pronunciation that Sylvester wondered if he practiced it at home. Then the doors slammed, and he found himself alone in the rear parking lot near the dumpsters and a filthy grease trap that gave a mighty, meaty stink.
That stink and the pain made Sylvester want to puke, but he contented himself with rolling over and spitting out the tooth and blood that had filled his mouth. He let himself linger a moment longer before slowly picking himself up. Copper and stale booze were all he could taste, and he grimaced and wiped red-tinged saliva from his chin.
It was his own fault, he chided himself. Shouldn't have been rude to the owner's girlfriend. Though she didn't have to give him shit for losing his job. He tried to fight his own brain and lost, the thought that he shouldn't have lost his job and been such a failure hitting him full on. He groaned and stumbled to his feet and out of the back parking lot, craving another drink.
The nice thing about a place like Buckhead City is that the next drink is never more than a block away, and while he never liked the ritzier spots, you could always locate a good, quiet dive when you needed one. And that was where he scurried off to, somewhere dark, with a sticky floor and a bartender who didn't talk much and only looked at you for orders and your money. If you let the scent of old alcohol and less pleasant human odors get to you, you wouldn't enjoy it. The kind of place one goes to get stabbed, Sylvester thought. A fine place to drink.
So there he now sat, staring down another glass of beer, not listening to the buzz of hushed conversations around him, not watching the holographic displays of sports scores and talking heads over analyzing every player contract and declaring winners for seasons that hadn't even started yet. Just him, the pain that coursed through his muscles and jaw, and the bitter alcohol that flowed from a steadily emptying and refilling glass.
And without realizing it, she was next to him, leaning both elbows against the bar in a casual pose and grinning at him behind thick sunglasses. She was blond, a heavier build in an expensive and well-tailored suit, with large hoop earrings and gold plates on her nostrils like so many of the high end kids were doing these days. Her voice had a huskiness to it that laid on each word thick in Sylvester's drunk mind. “Seems like you're going pretty hard there, buddy.”
Sylvester groaned and nodded while drinking, beer dribbling out his glass past his lips and down his chin. She snorted at the sight and grabbed a cocktail napkin to dab at his face. “Careful there, you don't want to be making a mess of things.” He raised an eyebrow but didn't stop her, unsure of what to do next. His mind numbly recalled he hadn't exactly had good luck lately.
The bartender broke up the moment by clearing his throat loudly and staring at the woman. “What are you drinking, lady?”
“Oh, nothing for me,” she replied, not taking her eyes off Sylvester.
The bartender jerked his head to a sign against loitering. “Then get moving. No freeloaders at the bar.”
That pulled the woman's face away from Sylvester. She rolled her head and probably her eyes, then focused in his direction with a sneer. “Then get me a cranberry juice. I got a crusty UTI.”
The bartender gagged and walked off, and the woman's sneer turned into a smirk at his response. She turned back to Sylvester, his own eyes on her. “What?” she questioned. “I just wanted him to fuck off and leave us alone.” Her hands were suddenly brushing his hair from his forehead, casually, like it was nothing at all. It sent his mind spiraling end over end in a blitzed combination of suspicion and lust. “I'm Winnie,” she whispered to him with a breathy tone, and lust won out.
“Sylvester,” he managed to respond, losing himself in the sensation of fingertips across his skin. It was a far better feeling to focus on compared to the ache in his jaw.
She was nodding. “Sylvester. Classic name. You look like you've been having a rough day, Sylvester. Want to talk to me about it?”
He sighed. And this was the part where the magic ended, and she realized he was just some loser. Oh well, get it over with, he thought. “Sure, Winnie. I lost my job this morning. Got canned in a wave of folks at my company.”
Winnie never took her hand away, nor those sunglasses, which stayed locked on his face. “Let me guess, all to raise the stock price a few cents.”
“Yeah,” he frowned and stared into his beer glass. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “A lot of good folks I liked lost their jobs. Guess I'm lucky, I don't have families like they do. Some of them...I don't know what they're gonna do. They've got kids, mortgages, you name it. Their whole worlds are probably falling apart. Least I got enough to get drunk.”
“It's not fair, is it?” Winnie's voice was honey and sex to him, and it announced out loud just what he was thinking.
“No, it isn't.”
“And that CEO who got rid of you all will probably get a bonus. Probably more than the paychecks of all the people that got let go combined.”
“Yeah, he probably will.”
“Someone should show him how much he makes other people suffer.” It was still sensual, but an edge had entered Winnie's voice.
Sylvester's eyes narrowed in drunken confusion, and he looked over at her, but her face and fingers were still focused on teasing with his hairline. He blurted a quick, “I'm sorry, what?”
And suddenly her hand was cupping his sore chin and cheek, pulling him to look at his reflection in those dark sunglasses. “He's a bastard. He hurt so many people, and he's gonna get rich off of it. He's done it before, he'll do it again, just like so many other bosses. That is, unless someone made an example of him. Taught him a lesson, of course, so that all the other little executives would perk their ears up and pay attention.”
“What kind of lesson?” Sylvester felt his mind starting to race, but it was tough to focus as she continued to hold his face, teasing his hair and skin with her gentle caresses.
Her grin turned mischievous, but there was a toothsome malice in it. “The permanent kind. And you're just the kind of man who should do it.”
He jerked away from her, sitting upright, his attention focusing on his beer. His thoughts reeled back and forth, fear intermingling with shame, despair, and more than a little horniness. She leaned back from him, and her leg brushed against his. “You are a man, aren't you? Don't you want to get even? If not for yourself, for all the others he tossed out on the street like garbage? After all, isn't a CEO supposed to take care of his company? Aren't his employees the company? Then he's failed. And he's getting rich and laughing while failing at it.”
Fingers tightened on his beer glass. If it had actually been glass and not a cheaper clear plastic, the pressure might have cracked it. Sylvester had to admit, he wished it had cracked. The drink and the honeyed words were mixing together, but underneath it he could feel his despair being replaced by something hotter, a rage with a jagged edge. He hated how he felt. He hated the humiliation of it, the fear, the depression. And the anger that was sweeping over him was almost blissful in comparison. Yes, that man should suffer for what he'd done to so many good people. Just like it was nothing at all to him to ruin lives and families on a random Wednesday morning.
But...how to get to him? Sylvester didn't have resources. These rich bastards had bodyguards, security systems, private jets, armored cars. They dined with government officials, gave big payments to police pension plans, and privatized whatever they couldn't control in the public. How could a nobody like Sylvester ever hope to even get close?
Winnie seemed to sense what he was inwardly saying. She leaned close, her voice a sensual whisper of hot breath in his ear. “I just so happen to know where you can find him. All you have to do is go get your payback.”
Despite the anger, Sylvester's tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he asked, “But where could I get a gun?”
“A gun?” Winnie leaned back, lines on her forehead showing her brow had furrowed behind her glasses. She then laughed, as if Sylvester had made a joke, and leaned in again. “No gun, silly. It needs to be personal. Something that really sends a message with its savagery. Like a baseball bat.”
Sylvester's mind raced at the image. A baseball bat, a man's face, the horrid carnage of reducing flesh to red pulp and ruin. He grimaced but nodded. It needed to be done.
He spoke without realizing, “Where do I find him?” His voice slurred a bit, but he didn't notice.
Winnie's grin returned. “There's a late night joint, Cafe Fortissimo, a spot for rich desserts and trysts. He meets his mistress there for some...sweet delights, we'll say. He lets his guard down and doesn't bring his security because he worries what his wife will think. Do the job there, and his reputation will suffer, just as much as he will. And it will make others think twice about what he's done. Understand?”
Sylvester nodded. “I understand. But how do you know all this?”
“Don't worry about that. I have my own scores to settle, and maybe if you settle them for me...” She leaned in close with a grin, and her hand slid into his pocket. His eyes widened, but she deposited something and then withdrew her hand, patting his leg gently. “There is a car outside with the location. You now have the key. Go now, I'll cover your beers.”
He looked over at her, examining his reflection in her glasses, the image of broken man who suddenly had a purpose again. “But the bat?”
“Just go to the car,” she said with a smile and leaned back. He nodded and slid almost too eagerly off his bar stool, then made his way to the door, trying not to stumble. Behind him, the bartender opened his mouth to shout, but Winnie threw her hand up with a whistle and drew his eye. Sylvester made it out the door without anyone stopping him.
The back parking lot of this particular dive was lit by only a single streetlight, but of the few spaces, only two were occupied. One held a rusted out hulk of a truck. The other was a significantly nicer vehicle, modern and sleek, with tinted windows. Sylvester reached into his pocket for the key, pressed his thumb to it, expecting the truck to respond. Instead, it was the nicer car that flared to life, and the passenger door slid open soundlessly. As Sylvester approached, a baritone voice registered a quick, “Welcome, sir.” He hovered outside the door for a moment, gave a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, and then slipped inside.
The door shut behind him with barely a whisper of a hiss, and Sylvester took in the surprisingly expansive lounge-like seating. The upholstery was plush, with forward chairs removed to enable more space to stretch out. The vehicle still had a steering wheel as well as numerous displays, but it required no input from him as it pulled back and headed towards its preprogrammed destination. Instead, he took in his surroundings, eyes falling to a black bag on the floor. There was no note or anything, but when he reached down to open it, he found what he expected would be inside: a wooden bat, brand new, the stamp from the Kentucky production facility prominently displayed. He held it in his heads, weighed it. In his intoxication, his hands felt divorced from his body, as if they were separate things in space, but the rigid power of the bat was radiant. He realized he was smiling. Finally, he would prove he wasn't the loser here, that this was all someone else's fault. Maybe he'd even be praised for it. Credited like he deserved. A fun night with Winnie's curves. Hell, maybe someone would hire him for having the proper kind of initiative. He laughed as he traced his fingers over the wood, then slide the bat back into the bag and set it on the seat beside him.
The vehicle came to a smooth stop outside of a fancy skyscraper, with wide windows and light posts that gave it a sense of the romantic, which was then crushed by a garish holographic sign in bright yellow advertising it as the New India Carless Building hovering just over the entrance. Sylvester sneered as he stepped out of the car at the insipid mixture of old class and hideous modern tech that failed to integrate, giving the thing a disjointed feel. He pulled the bag onto his shoulder and waved off a valet who was ready to interface with the vehicle and send it to park. The door slid shut behind him, and the car sped off in near silence. It didn't distract him as he walked through the door.
The lobby was open, white marble flooring with a high ceiling and black walls which gave it a distinctly monolithic appearance. There were no security personnel, no holographic door attendee, and despite the buzz of booze in his system, Sylvester noted the few cameras he spotted were discreet. No wonder someone might bring their mistress here; odds were he'd find more than a few couples in this building for a little extramarital fun. They weren't his concern though. He had one man he wanted, and he was going give him pain for every ounce of pain he had inflicted.
The idea was growing in him, fueled by anger and a sense of the desperate despair of anyone whose just lost what they thought was their life's work. And Winnie would like it. And he wanted her, Sylvester thought with a grin as he walked up and waved to the sensor for a lift. An elevator dinged open, and Sylvester stumbled into it with the bag over his shoulder.
He glanced at the directory, tapped the button to take him to Cafe Fortissimo, and stepped back as he felt the pull of gravity as the elevator suddenly shift upwards. As he rode, he slid the bag from his shoulder and held it in front of him, undoing the zipper slightly so he could reach in and grab the bat's handle without giving it away.
As the elevator reached the cafe floor, it slowed to a halt and dinged. The doors slid open silently, and Sylvester found himself facing a foyer area with exquisite tiling. A small signboard sat out with what appeared to be chalk letters in excellent handwriting, though a sudden flicker of the display gave it away as a screen. A woman in a conservative black dress, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, stood at a lectern to greet customers. She smiled at the elevator doors as they opened, but the expression melted off her face as Sylvester stepped into the room. “This is Cafe Fortissimo, sir. Are you in the right place?”
Sylvester didn't look at her, figuring her for another expensive hologram. He focused beyond the foyer, past luxurious columns to plush carpeting, white table clothes, and golden chandeliers that gave off a warm glow. The smell of pastry and coffee, real coffee and not what folks like Sylvester had to drink in the morning, lingered in the air, mixed with perfumes and the unmistakable stink of money. On the far side, floor-to-ceiling windows opened up to reveal a beautiful night view of the city. And seated at one table by one such window were a man and a woman, both incredibly dressed, both laughing and smiling despite the brutal way the man had terminated the jobs and livelihoods of hundreds of people that morning. Sylvester nodded. “Yeah, I'm in the right place.”
He strode forward, not paying any attention to the hostess as she revealed she wasn't a hologram by stepping out from behind the lectern to put her hands up to stop him. He brushed her off and didn't pay her further attention, eyes locked on his target. He didn't see where she stepped back to tap a hidden button for building security. The only thing he had in sight was his target, and he focused in like a missile. He reached into the bag to grasp the bat's hilt, and as he neared, the fabric slid away, and he raised it.
And as he arrived at the table to find his former executive sharing what appeared to be an absurdly large Tiramisu and glasses of silky red wine, all he could say was, “Hey.”
The CEO and his mistress looked up at Sylvester. He brought the bat down into the man's face with a perfect swing across his body.
Blood sprayed the mistress as her face turned in wide-mouthed shock to the man who now slumped over the table, groaning, red blood soaking into the white silk of the tablecloth. Sylvester raised the bat again and swung down, connecting across the executive's upper back. There was a crack and a scream. Sylvester didn't know who it came from. It didn't matter. He didn't realize he was shouting.
“Take my job! Take my friend's jobs! This is what you get, asshole!” The bat swung back and forth, crashing down into the man's body, each hit shattering and breaking. The mistress had fallen back onto the floor and was trying to frantically crawl away. Tears and makeup were intermingling with the blood to streak down her face, her mouth agape in sobs of horror. She'd broken a heel in the fall, and it hung off her foot in an awkward angle as she scrambled.
The body now slumped over the table offered no resistance. He'd never had a chance. Everything in Sylvester was telling him to keep going, despite the rational part in his brain knowing he was just pounding wood into meat at this point. The rest of the room was a blur, it didn't exist. There was nothing but savagery and red as he continued to roar and go about his murderous task. He felt nothing but fury, his body seemingly numb to his own violence.
He didn't hear what did it, didn't feel anything beyond a sudden blast of force into his back that sent him spinning. But his right shoulder no longer seemed to work, and he spun, the cracked and gore-soaked bat still in his left hand. Tables were flipped in the room, people streaming for the exit. The mistress had managed to get her shoe off and was hobbling towards the door.
More importantly, armored security personnel were now facing him, the warm chandelier lights glinting off helmets, matte pistols in their hands. There were three. Sylvester couldn't understand what had happened, but his brain suddenly howled that he'd been shot. They weren't going to let him continue. He raised his left hand, splintered wood clenched tightly, and roared.
All three guards fired their pistols into him, each expending two rounds into his chest. The harsh reek of gunpowder seared through the delicate odors to fight directly with the smell of blood. Sylvester's mind was tracking this almost fully absent of himself as he fell back from the numerous holes now in his body. The remains of the bat flew out of his left hand, and he hit the window glass behind him. It was bulletproof, so the shots that had blasted through him had ricocheted off, and his mind registered a strange coolness. He slid down, leaking streaks of red on the neon view of Buckhead City. He gurgled. His limbs felt heavy. He tried to lift his head.
One of the guards stood over him and fired another round into Sylvester's face from less than a foot away.
Down on the ground, outside the building, Winnie watched all of this from a camera feed projected onto the inside of one of her sunglasses' lenses. She smirked as the last shot splayed Sylvester's head open, and her hand tapped the window of the car she leaned against. It rolled down with a gentle hiss, and a woman's voice inside inquired, “Is it done?”
Winnie pulled out a silver case and removed an unfiltered cigarette. She nodded as she lit it and took a deep breath on one end. “It's done. Our boy's dead. So is the messenger. Not much to clean up, and the board is sure to vote you in as the new executive when they meet tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” the woman inside the car replied with enthusiasm. “Once again, you pull through for me, Winnie. Thank you, as usual.”
“That's the job, ma'am,” Winnie glanced back at the vehicle. Security was sweeping around Sylvester's corpse and his bag, but there was nothing to find. Already, scrubs were being done on the building's surveillance, AI generating false images of Sylvester simply walking up. No vehicle, no record of Winnie at the other bar. It was like Sylvester had gone straight from his asskicking at the last place to get his payback. A fake receipt had already been generated for both the bag and the bat.
She picked herself up off the car and cut the camera feed. “Best get home now, ma'am. There's nothing more to see here. I will contact you in the morning.”
The woman inside didn't bother leaning up to say goodbye. If she had nodded an acknowledgment, Winnie didn't notice. “Ever the professional. Tomorrow, then.” The window rolled up, and the vehicle sped silently away.
Winnie watched it go before glancing up at the building. From here, it was hard to see the streaks of blood on the cafe window. She grunted, dropped her cigarette to the street, and dug it in with the ball of her foot. Then she exhaled through her nostrils and walked off through the haze of smoke.
