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Twins in Death: Chapter Eight – Part Five

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Eight: Concerning Birds and Clones

 

  

 

October 25th, 2002

12:59 p.m.

 

            There are several warehouses on the waterfront on the island of Manhattan. Some of these are empty; some have been empty for years. There is one particularly, which had been transformed into a private work area. It was a large empty space in which he could be alone. He held a fourteenth century great sword in his hand, the hard edge glinting in the dim light. The Weirdo had his eyes closed and thought about the stereo that suddenly switched on.

 

            A small pair of speakers made specifically for the white iPod sitting in it waited idly for him. The Weirdo looked at the speakers, a two-liter of cola sat next to it. He closed his eyes and a song began to play. It was sweet, quiet and of an even rhythm. He began to swing his sword at imaginary opponents, waiting for the imaginary attack.

 

            He began with the ordinary sword movements, keeping his feet stationary as he swung the mighty blade. This was just for a warm up. He would go into the real work later. He began to move around more, the blade swung through the imaginary warriors as he began to charge through the empty space. His feet dragged across the brushed concrete floor, his path being set out in the dust. He swung the sword around as he moved quickly through the rows of metal railings. He set one hand on the aluminum tube and hurled himself over it as he struck out at the imaginary foes. His blade moved faster that most men could have moved a sword that size, a fact he was not unproud of.

 

            He finally stood still and simply began to swing the blade around in a large figure eight. He let the faint sound of the blade lull him into a light trance. He listened to the quiet whistle of the blade as it sailed through the air, which is a fairly hard thing to do. A sword needs to be set into a perfect cut in order to make a good whistling sound, a large sword like he was using does anyway. He heard the flapping of a bird’s wings over the slight whooshing of the sword whipping through the air. He heard a sound he couldn’t quite identify, followed by the very recognizable sound of bare human feet walking across a tiled floor.

 

            There was the shattering sound of breaking glass, accompanied by a muttered oath. His eyes snapping open, he moved slowly through the warehouse and watched as a small woman pulled a shirt over her head. The clothes had been sealed in plastic and kept in the warehouse for years. This meant that the white shirt she was pulling on as well as the jeans she slipped into were nearly ten years out of date. She quite obviously hadn’t seen him, yet. The Weirdo set his sword down and walked to a support beam, leaned against it and took in a deep breath.

 

            “You shouldn’t be here.”  He said as a way of announcing his presence.

 

            She didn’t think, she simply reacted, and it was all she could remember to do. Her legs bent, her right arm raised to fend off a blow, and her left hand grabbed the handle of the knife. The steel blade cleared the sheath and swung outward into the empty air, far enough away to let him see the blade but not to cut him. There was something careless to his movement as his hand flashed and took her wrist. He had done this for a long time, and she had reacted without thought.

 

            “You shouldn’t play with knives, either. You could get hurt.” He bent her wrist and let the knife drop from her hand, he caught the handle as it fell and looked at it. “Nice piece, though.”

 

            “Thanks.” she said suspiciously, narrowing her golden eyes.

 

            He watched her face while pretending to admire the knife. There was something about her, something that scratched at his mind slightly. Her eyes darted briefly to his face, then elsewhere, obviously looking for an avenue of escape. He maintained his grip on her wrist, but loosened it just enough that it wouldn’t hurt her. She didn’t struggle, which was a bit odd as well. There was something more here, but he just couldn’t seem to get as good a hold of it as he had of her.

 

            He studied her; the long blond hair framed her face in wild tangles. She was well fed, had nice muscle tone, and good skin. Her face sparked some kid of faint recognition, but he couldn’t place her at the moment. Her eyes were intelligent and proud, more than the average person who would break into a warehouse. She wasn’t a street person, which made him wonder for a moment why she was stealing clothes from a disused warehouse. He decided that either he really didn’t want to know, or he really, REALLY, did.

 

            “So tell me,” he said conversationally while releasing her hand, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?  Particularly with no clothing but a dagger which could fetch over a hundred thousand at auction?”

 

            Crazily, Kestrel found the old punch line running through her head, ‘Just lucky, I guess.’ She fought the urge to utter it. Had she known him better she would have tired the quip. The Weirdo simply looked at the knife, his hand open and the knife resting along his hand.

 

            “It’s a long story, and it’s none of your business.” she snapped.

 

            Her hand struck out and caught the hilt of the knife and she began to run. It occurred to a part of her mind that this man held the knife almost like he was offering it to her. It also occurred to her that she didn’t hear any foot falls behind her. She looked behind and didn’t see him. It was all too easy, which meant a trap of some kind. Still looking behind her, she ran headlong into something solid. She fell to the ground and looked up at the man in the gray trench coat.

 

            “I love stories.”  He said. How the hell had he managed to get in front of her? She found her gaze frozen on his face. That smirk, that face…

 

            Kestrel didn’t know why, but she knew she HAD to get away from this man. Instinctively, she brought her leg up, aiming for his groin. The next thing she knew, she was face down on the floor. She didn’t even see or perceive him moving, she was just there. She could feel the man’s hand squeezing her knee, his arm pressing down on her shoulder.

 

            “Is it story time, yet?”  He asked with child like exuberance.

 

            “Who the hell are you?”  She asked.

 

            “The Weirdo.”  He said.  “Annoying son of a bitch at large.”

 

            She glared up at him, and it was one of those looks that promises death and dismemberment. If The Weirdo had been a better man, he would have let go and run to get out of the sight of those hateful golden eyes. He, instead, squeezed her knee just a little bit harder. It hurt pretty bad, she wanted to yelp from the pain, but only bit her lip.

 

            “Didn’t you get your ass kicked yesterday?”  She snarled, an Irish accent slipping into her speech. She also instantly regretted the remark.

 

            His response was to dig his fingers in harder, not enough to damage just enough to hurt. She felt the tendons stretch, her hands grabbed at his. If he squeezed a little harder, he could pop the kneecap off. She winced and sweat broke out on her face. She wasn’t going to cry, she would not scream, she wouldn’t give this sick bastard the satisfaction.

 

            “Think before you speak.” he said coldly. “You might not always get as nice a guy as me.”

 

            He let go of her knee and it struck the hard ground. She winced as it hit and rolled over to rub at it. She glared up at him, wondering why she was having such a strong reaction to someone she’d never met. He looked familiar, like someone who had hurt her once, but she couldn’t remember.

 

            “Asshole.” she said.

 

            “He’s not the asshole.” A voice very similar to The Weirdo’s said. “I’m the asshole around here. He’s just the cunt.”

 

            Loki walked out from behind some packing cases, standing behind Kestrel, who found herself between the two of them. She felt rather like a mouse who had suddenly found itself between two rival cats and they were about to fight over which of them got to kill her. If she ran when they started fighting though, she could just about get away in the confusion.

 

            “Hello, asshole.” The Weirdo said moving back. He drew out the forty-five and raised it with both hands.

 

            “Hello, Bro,” Loki said brightly as if he were in an illegal state of mind. “Whaddya know?”

 

            “There’s a little girl between us.” The Weirdo said pointing his left hand down and holding the pistol steady with his right.

 

            “Not for long.”  Loki said flicking open the straight razor. His eyes then looked at Kestrel. “I know the both of you. How interesting, that both of you should be here as I was hunting him. How do I know you?”

 

            He held it loosely in his left hand, his right hand waved high into the air as he held the left arm limply at his side. Her golden eyes widened as she looked at the razor, something about the way he held the blade was familiar. Something about, the way his pinky stuck out. He lifted the blade and was about to strike when his eyes met hers. She was frozen on the floor as she looked up.  The Weirdo watched the blade open, saw him look down and did the intelligent thing.

 

            There was a sharp, loud crack, like a firecracker going off. Loki’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground. He held his right hand to a large cut that was now on his forehead as he got up. The bullet had only creased his skull, but there was a profusion of blood from the wound. He looked at the Weirdo and raised his middle finger, his tongue flickering out of his mouth as the wound sealed itself before his eyes. Loki then turned and began to run. There were three more loud cracks, followed by the small clinking sounds of shells hitting the floor. She turned to watch Loki run, there was something familiar about the way he moved, she knew him.

 

            “Fuck!” she heard as a darkly cloaked figure vaulted over her.

 

            She watched as the one who was called The Weirdo ran after the one in the red leather coat. That coat, she knew that coat. there was something buried in her mind called out about the red leather coat. It was like some sort of red flag which had lost the link to what the red flag belonged to, that there was simply the alarm left. She couldn’t let her self dwell on this of course, they had left her and she wasn’t going to give up an opportunity like this.

 

            “Son of a bitch is fast.” The Weirdo thought to himself as he ran after Loki.

 

            “Run, run, run.” Loki said to him. “Run, run as fast as you can.  You can’t catch me, I’m the Lokibread man.”

 

            Loki had kept running, working his way up stairs and down halls. The key, he knew was to keep The Weirdo just out of range or he could shoot again. He quickly found himself at the top of the building. He looked at The Weirdo as he burst out on to the roof. Loki looked out onto the river beyond and with one great bound, flew into the air. He then kicked his legs as if he were playing Peter Pan on the stage.

 

            “Hyper fucking twit,” The Weirdo said shooting at him some more.

 

            He took off, and flew over the water and watched as Loki landed on the loading dock of a large boat. He landed behind him and was shocked to find that Loki could suddenly move like a snake and knock him over. The Weirdo rolled on the aluminum and got his bearing. This boat’s loading door wasn’t meant to be stood on. In fact it was just strong enough to keep out the weather. The Weirdo could feel the stress of the bodies on it, the bending, and the buckling that was only going to get worse. He figured it should hold him, but he wasn’t sure. Loki bounced around as The Weirdo tried to walk along the support struts, hoping not to cave the door in.

 

            Loki waved the razor around his head in a fancy manner, circling The Weirdo. The Weirdo reached into his pocket and produced his knife. He squeezed the pocketknife’s blade and opened the knife half way, pressing it against his thigh to open it the rest of the way. Unlike Loki’s constant moving blade, The Weirdo’s stayed still in the air. The drop point aimed directly at Loki, needing only to stab and not make the slash that the razor required. Loki slashed, the blade cutting long arcs through the air, which gave away his moves long before be could strike. The Weirdo leaned back and stabbed forward, Loki jumped back just far enough to avoid the point of the knife. The Weirdo punched with his left hand suddenly, contacting the face. He stabbed again and caught the gut of the man and then brought his knee into the groin and then struck the face again. The secret to a good fight, and one most people who study fighting without actually doing it don’t seem to realize, is not one strike to kill but half a dozen. One hit never does it, but five or six hits, in quick succession almost always will. The Weirdo twisted the knife as he yanked it out and punched Loki in the face again.

 

            He was quite annoyed to find Loki hadn’t actually died, but instead he bounced back, his skin sealing up and the blood simply spreading over smooth skin. Loki laughed as he leapt into the air and landed on the roof around The Weirdo. The blood then sank back into the skin or whatever it did when it vanished.

 

 The Weirdo walked along the struts as Loki bounced around him. He looked at the face of the thinner man. He was noticeably thinner than The Weirdo was. His shoulders were narrow, his cheeks more hollow, but it was still his face. The Weirdo’s hair was long beyond his collar and tied back into a ponytail, a result of his isolation.  Loki’s hair had been buzzed, bleached and dyed pink. It formed a fuzzy pink dome that reminded The Weirdo of an old GI Joe figure with real hair.

 

            Loki’s hand sung around again, in a manner that might make one think that all he had learned about fighting had come from bad kung fu movies. These fighting styles usually come to nothing more than an ass kicking for the person. Unfortunately, Loki’s speed and strength, along with the fact that he appeared to actually know something about fighting, made the whole thing difficult.

 

            “You’re very sloppy.” The Weirdo said.

 

            “Fuck you.” Loki said.

 

            “Oh I see, a philosophical discussion is it? Shall we discus the finer points of Descartes or Nietzsche?”

 

            Loki swung his blade in a lazy arc, deciding that he had no interest in Nietzsche. The Weirdo dodged the attack easily, diving to avoid the clumsy swing. He had read a lot of Nietzsche. Frankly he found Nietzsche a little frustrating and annoying. He stabbed Loki in the stomach again, blood spilling over The Weirdo’s hand as he pulled the knife out. He stabbed the knife again and cut into Loki’s glasses. The wire frames buckled, the plastic lenses shattered, bits of plastic caught the sun’s light and flashed a tableau. Shimmering red plastic flew through the air, sparkling in the sunlight. Loki’s eye wasn’t in perfect alignment with the tip of the blade, and again the skin gave and the blade struck bone. The tip of the blade sank under the skin, running along the bone of the skull and tore large cut across the right temple. The Weirdo’s knee flung upwards and struck Loki in the groin, he then tore his blade loose. The blood now mixed with the artful decoration of shimmering plastic to add a dark red splatter across them. Had it been paint and not blood, The Weirdo could have very well sold it to an art galley. Of course you never knew with some art critics, it might sell very well as was.

 

            Loki fell back, his right hand against that side of his head. He fell back to the floor and shuffled several feet away, looking at his blood gorged hand. A tiny shriek finally emitted from his mouth, a short harsh sound like a mouse. The blade hadn’t cut the eye itself, simply gouged at the bone around it. The wound closed up and soon only a white scar remained.  The Weirdo noted this, his own face didn’t scar at all, but it didn’t heal as fast either. His own face returned to its original shape after it healed, which would take at least a day or two. He watched as Loki took off what was left of his glasses.

 

            Loki examined the smashed steel of the frame, and the hole where the plastic lenses had been. He looked at The Weirdo and then down at the glasses. He held them in his left hand, as if considering their weight in the world. As far as sunglasses went, they were fairly expensive. When considering the debt load of a major nation however, they were barely worth the bother of mentioning. He shook his head and set them down next to him.

 

            “That was an expensive pair of sunglasses you just ruined.” Loki said as he began to stand.

 

            “Material possessions are fleeting.” The Weirdo said.

 

            “I have heard that.” Loki said standing. “My father used to tell me that.”

 

            The Weirdo watched as Loki reached down to the roof and picked up his razor blade again. The man was panting, and seemed to be trying to hold back the next comment, but it came anyway. He was unable to push that other statement away, or to hold it back. It was going to come whether they wanted to discuss it or not.

 

            “Although, he also used to say that I was a piece of filth, and that regular anal rape was what I deserved. He used to claim he was cleansing my demons, as demons are apparently allergic to semen.”

 

            “What a delightful tale.” The Weirdo said.

 

            “After I kill you, it won’t matter.” Loki said. “Once you’re dead it can’t have ever happened.”

 

            He again swung the blade in a wide and clumsy arc, like someone who had seen this work in a movie. The Weirdo’s left hand grabbed Loki’s left wrist, and his right hand came up. The blade went straight up Loki’s nose and should have lodged in his brain. There was a cracking sound of Loki’s nose breaking, or the blade catching in his skull, hard to say which. Loki was unfazed and hit The Weirdo in the throat with a good deal of force. The Weirdo fell to the ground and gasped deeply for a moment before regaining control. Loki reached to his face and yanked the blade from his skull, tearing away a good portion of his nose with it.  The Weirdo had rolled onto all fours and was trying to regain his breath. Loki gave a savage kick to The Weirdo’s side and rolled him over. He lay down on The Weirdo, their two faces next to each other. Loki grabbed The Weirdo by the face and put the blade next to his eye.

 

            “I could kill you right now.” Loki said. “I could cut you open.”

 

            The Weirdo could unfortunately tell that Loki was fully aroused at the moment, and was beginning to fear the worst. Loki raised the blade and sank it in to the aluminum sheet that severed as the door for the dock. He looked at The Weirdo’s face and slowly got up off The Weirdo. He took a few steps back, allowing The Weirdo some room.

 

            The Weirdo got up into a sitting position, and reached behind him, drawing the Thompson machine gun from under his coat and raising it up to fire. Loki leapt from the roof of the boat and fell into the water. The Weirdo ran across the roof and got to the water a moment after the splash that meant his antagonist had hit the filthy water. He fired into the water, even though he knew it useless. The cracking of the gun called out over the water. He looked at the water and raked it a few more times for good measure. For all his trouble, one fish floated to the surface, and not a large one either. To explore his frustration with the situation, he shot the fish. In fact, he thoroughly shredded the fish with his machine gun.

 

            “Shit.” The Weirdo said. “Shit.” He remembered leaving the girl in the warehouse.  “Ah, fuck me.” he said.

 

             She would be gone by now, she looked too smart to hang around and wait for a killer to come back for her. He looked at the boat he was standing on and thought that he should probably explain to the occupants exactly what the hell had happened to their boat. He was too tired through, besides they’d find out.

 

            He wanted to know why Loki had just left, why had he given up the chase suddenly? He got off the top of the boathouse and flew back towards the city. He got back into the streets and began to walk around. He looked around him and heard something scraping behind him. He turned and saw an old drunk with his left hand extended.

 

            “You got any change so I could get myself a sandwich?” The man said.

 

            “Sure.” The Weirdo said. He pulled a bill out of his pocket and handed it over.

 

             He saw that it was a fifty and shrugged internally. What could he do? He was going to have to be the affluent charity guy now.  Not that it mattered it never really mattered. It was just a physical thing, and he’d be dead soon (he’d have to jump) so it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was scrounging for cash. He had all the money he’d ever need really.  He had more than enough, because there was always more money.

 

            “Thanks, mister.”  The drunk said, and mysteriously added.  “Karma man.” 

 

            “Let’s hope so.”  The Weirdo said.  “Let’s hope so.”

 

            He watched the old man walk away and thought that maybe, just maybe, the world was a lot more screwed up than he had previously thought. This was a disturbing thought because he hadn’t had a very complimentary view of the world to begin with. He wondered what the old monks would say about that.

 

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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May 28, 2013 - Posted by | Fiction | ,

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