It was late evening when Max plodded down the high steps of Prescot, cold sunlight seeping through the yawning spread of hoary cloud. He stretched, rotating his stiff neck and shaking out his shoulders. The air was thin and still with pending autumn rain. He eyed the empty streets with a sluggish scowl, blinking in the grey light.
Max lit a cigarette at the bottom of the stairs. It wasn’t in him to regret his actions, but perhaps commenting on his teacher’s weight and sexual exploits was a slight miscalculation on his part—especially when said teacher supervised detention. In that harmless few words Max created a whole new tier of discipline, “special detention.” Which meant his detention lasted two hours longer than everyone else’s. Ordinarily he would’ve laughed and, in the sweetest possible way, told his teacher what he thought of the punishment and where he could shove it, but there were certain, rather slippery delinquents in attendance that evening that owed favors. Detention hour was business hour but “special detention” was a misstep.
Two older adolescents sat at a table in front of the coffee house across the street. One wore a threadbare windbreaker with a ratty blue Dodgers cap secured low over his eyes; the other was far larger, the word “Trick” tattooed across his shoulder. There was nothing on the table or in their hands. Dodger glanced at him and their eyes held a beat too long. He tapped Trick’s elbow.
Max started to walk down the opposite path into the shopping district. He lowered his phone as if to scroll through contacts, watching them over his shoulder in the phone’s reflection. They were already at the end of the street. Max returned the phone, palming the switchblade in his pocket. They were following him.
Max ran down the nearest alley, knocking a trash can over behind him. He heard the hard clatter of footsteps against concrete. He cut into the honeycombs of the shops and back passageways, vaulting over a wire fence and taking a sharp right. He flattened his body against the inside of an arch, shedding his fedora and suit jacket. The loud clap of shoes. Trick bolted past, Dodger just behind. In an instant Max had Dodger’s head caught in his jacket, jerking and gagging before Max slammed his fist into his nose. Dodger dropped. A sudden, jarring impact knocked Max breathless, Trick’s nails snagging skin as he shoved Max back into the brick, both struggling violently for leverage. Trick slugged Max across the face, knocking out his cigarette. He pinioned his arms and hoisted him off the ground, crushing his spine into the wall with bruising force. Max blew a wreath of smoke into his eyes. Trick hissed and recoiled, Max twisted and grabbed Trick’s ear, yanking viciously. Trick swore and loosened his grip. Max ripped out of his hand and hammered his elbow repeatedly into the other’s face, down between the neck and shoulder, into the larynx. The massive shoulders went slack as he released Max in slow collapse, hacking and wheezing while blood gathered about his nose and lip.
“Mother fucker!” Max snarled, eyes broiling, circling around. “Who the fuck said this was a wise fucking decision?” He kicked his throat with the in-step of his foot, flipping Trick over. He stomped onto Trick’s bladder, straddling his coughing opponent and snatching him up by the collar, spitting in his face, eyes drowned in a terrible rage.
“Do you know what I do to shits like you? I fillet their fucking skin and eat them alive!”
“There he is!” Max’s eyes flickered up. Three dashed down the near alley. He swore under his breath and fled, taking a side street toward the shop fronts.
They were shepherding him. He knew they were, but as he rounded the corner and sprinted hard they had him closed in. He could hear the shift of their clothing, feel the stink of their breath. He had to shake them if he was going to turn and not be caught. The wares on display in front of the shops became projectiles. He turned over cans and pillars, tore items from the hands of passers by and flung them over his shoulder.
A tanned bruiser on his left cut his retreat, steered him left. The bottoms of his feet scorched, breath a barbed ache in his throat. He caught the glint of a knife in his periphery. He grabbed a vase from a woman exiting the shop and spun rapidly to throw it into the left flank’s face. He didn’t pause long enough to see if it hit, and turned immediately into a narrow lane, shadowed and cold with high cobbled walls. He spun around, his pursuers reduced to single file.
A knife sliced the air by his face, bit into his forearm, came down in a wide stroke just before his chest as he pedaled backwards. He knocked their manic strokes away in a flurry of swipes, nicked again across his wrist. As the assailant drew their knife back for another attack he stepped in, pinning their ankle under his foot and catching their arm. Max plunged his knife into their ribs, twisting them left so their body blocked the path and sinking the blade deep into the calf. A lead pipe clipped his jaw and sent his ears ringing. Max scrambled out of the lane, disorientated and listing right as he ran. He wiped his bottom lip with his hand, the thumb greased with blood. He tasted metal and the world was soft and warped.
A body jumped down from the roof and knocked him onto his side. The sky and buildings and ground blared white. It was too bright to hear.
Slowly, pieces came back: the feeling of grit on his cheek, the sting of wounds, the darkness of the alley, and the sensation of hands on him. He was forced on his knees, pressed against the concrete by three men roughly eighteen to twenty four years of age, one of which he recognized to be Dodger. Blood streaked down his swollen upper lip from his broken nose. A fourth stood in front of him in a tailored vest with his hands in the pockets of a camouflage jacket. There was a fresh gash on his forehead.
“Cute trick with the vase.” He said wryly. Max grinned.
“Afternoon, Danny Boy. How’s your day going? I’m doing pretty good. Hand kind of hurts. Probably from busting your friend’s face open.” Danny nodded his head. The three holding him pulled him back so he sat up, a hand knotted in his dirtied blond hair. Danny’s hands flexed as they slipped out of his pockets, brass knuckles gleaming. He cracked Max across the face. A spray of blood speckled the concrete.
“Don’t call me that. Only friends can call me that,” Danny rubbed his wrists, sneering down his thin, aquiline nose. “You’re a gutter snipe latched onto his Daddy’s teat.” Max attempted to talk, his jaw slack and dribbling thick, bloody strings of saliva.
“What’s that? Speak up. I think I may have broken your fucking jaw.” The hold on his body shifted as Danny brought his foot down onto his head, grinding him into the ground. “My dad just told me I couldn’t come home over Thanksgiving. He had to sell my plane ticket to pay your shitty old man,” He dug his heel into Max’s discolored cheek. “So guess who’s eating chow-mein and fucking pop tarts for the next two weeks while you stuff your face at Day fucking manor?” He removed his foot and squatted on his hams, arms draped over his legs. Danny studied him a moment, into the dazed but venomous spite kindling beneath Max’s calm expression, steeled for pain. Danny smirked, peering closely into Max’s face.
“This is the guy they expect to run the Day family? He looks like a girl.” Max’s teeth snapped on his nose and bit down hard, feeling skin give way. Danny screamed on the floor, hands on his face, blood leaking between his fingers. Max spat out a chunk of flesh and grinned, teeth coated in blood.
“I’m fucking adorable.” He crooned, voice sugared with malice. Someone kicked him under his chin, a spike of pain thrust into his brain. Another bruised his gut, another square to the ribs and chest. A rush of feet beat Max into the earth. Danny snatched Max out of the barrage, hands grappling his shoulders, blistering agony licking the bone free of the socket. Danny struck the side of his head, the blow sending his head into the ground.
“You shit-eating mafia gutter rat!” He pried Max’s mouth open and secured his tongue in his fingers. “I’m sick of your fucking mouth!” Max struggled, his dislocated shoulder screeching. Someone behind him spoke up.
“Danny—Johnny’s really hurt.” Danny glowered up, then back down at Max. Blood dripped from the mangled tip of Danny’s nose. He paused. The same voice spoke again,
“Seriously, man, please! He’s bleeding everywhere. We need to get him out of here. Right now.” It was cold and quiet for a minute as the words worked out behind his eyes. .
“Fine.” Danny brought a blade to Max’s tongue and sliced off the tip. Max gagged as blood flowed down his tongue into his throat, pooling onto the ground and laving his crooked mouth.
Danny lingered. Clothing shuffled and a belt unbuckled. A hand sank into the back of Max’s neck and forced his head down. Bitter heat lanced his spine, body pushed forward and low, blunt fingers impressing black bruises into the skin. There was the wet slap of hands on flesh and staggered breath.
"Danny--!"
"Shut up!" He rasped. "I'm fixing his face." Max coughed, drooling blood. A stiff grunt and Danny ejaculated, warmth seeping into Max’s hair and semen flecking his cheeks. He heard a zipper close.
“You tell anyone about this and we’ll come into your house and kill you.” A curt kick or a heavy body tramping over his and his attackers slipped away, leaving him bleeding and raw.
Tenebrous grey clouds hung low overhead and the wind picked up the smell of rain and blood and musk. A droplet landed on his nose. He couldn’t move. His mouth tasted like gore and the skyline blurred in and out of focus. He closed his eyes. Their threat was almost laughable. A light drizzle slowly fell. The ground swirled beneath him and yawned away. It wasn’t in his nature to tell.
