OK, so, I know you guys are pretty used to me writing fan fics for Inuyasha, but I wrote this little number because Sin City is not only my favorite comic, but also my favorite movie. I hope you enjoy it, and please, email me at if you'd like to request me to write something. My email address has changed since I switched companies, so I'd like my reviews to get sent directly to me instead of to some random bastard in Echo Company. Thanks, guys!
Dan
Walk down the right back alley in Sin City, and you can find anything.
The rain is coming down in bullets, piercing me through the long duster I'm wearing. It's not mine, though. I took it off a hit man who tried to introduce me to his brass knuckles after I'd already declined the invitation. The bloodstains around the collar are barely noticeable. It's a shame, though. It's a damn fine jacket.
I duck into an alley, away from the bright lights and prying eyes of the strip. When you look the way I do, you don't like it when people stare at you. Instead, it just makes you angry. I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out my cigarettes and lighter. I knock one from the pack and put the filter in my mouth. Flipping open the lid of my lighter, I strike a flame and light my cigarette, letting the smoke trail out of my mouth. I take a deep drag and feel the smoke fill my lungs. Yeah. That's the way I like it.
I start to walk deeper into the alley, past the back doors to the strip bars, pubs, and general trash pits that they try to pass off as restaurants. I take another drag off my smoke and try to ignore the sounds of a city that the Lord forgot. The catcalls of hookers, the blaring sirens, the angry shouts of angry patrons. It's enough to make me smile. Not the sounds, mind you. I'm talking about the guys who've been tailing me since I ducked outta the rain to light my smoke. They think they're being so sneaky, like some sorta stupid Jap ninja. Stupid pricks.
I stop to finish my cigarette, and they come up from behind me in a pack. They surround me, and all I can see in these guys is desperation. They're too young for all the wrinkles they've got. Their leader looks like a real scrapper, though. Tall and stocky, just about my size, you can tell that he would've made a great linebacker if he'd had the opportunity. Not in this town. In Sin City, it's kill or be killed. The only education you get is on the streets, and it's nothing but the cold, hard truth.
"Give us all your money, old man." Damn, that sure is a nice coat he's wearing. It ain't bloody or torn like mine is. It'd be a shame to ruin it. Boss Man doesn't look too happy. "I said, give us your money, old man, or else we'll just have to get it the hard way." From the look in his eyes, he's ready to fight to the death for the cash. Either he needs drugs, or he's starving. Pity, kid like that shouldn't be making a pay like this.
He pulls out a switchblade and presses the trigger. A gleaming blade pops into place and it shines in the pale light. Around me, the rest of his buddies are pulling out switches, chains, and jimmy sticks. One guy even has a pair of studded knuckle dusters. It seems excessive, but at least this gives them a chance. Six of them against me. I hope every man is worth his salt, or else they don't stand a chance.
They don't bother giving signals, or trying to coordinate their attacks. A skinny black kid starts hollering charges me like a bull after a red blanket, swinging a long chain like a flail. I catch the chain and give it a yank, giving the stupid darkie an introduction to my fist. A big chink starts twirling his jimmy around like he was some sorta Bruce Lee and jumps at me. I swat him aside and laugh as his face crunches against the wall behind me. They come at me left and right, and I plow through them without breaking a sweat. That leaves me and Boss Man.
This boy looks me up and down, and a desperate light comes into his eyes. "Just give me your money, man! I don't wanna hafta hurt you!" His pleas are almost laughable. The chances of him being able to hurt me are about the same as me getting laid by an angel. I tell him to just give it up, that a fighter like me ain't got the green he's looking for, and that he'd be better off begging for coins. Tough guy, he just spits in my face and sneers that this was my choice.
He comes at me with a roundhouse strike that he must think has the speed of a striking snake. I can see it coming from a mile away. I duck under his swing and let loose with an uppercut that could shatter concrete. He flies up and away from where he used to be standing. He hits the bricks hard enough to leave a man-shaped dent, and slumps to the ground with the little birdies circling his head.
I take his coat. Coat like this one is too nice for a kid like him. I leave him my bloodstained duster, remembering to get my smokes, my lighter, and Gladys outta the pocket before I drop it in his lap. As I turn up the collar on my newly acquired prize, I can see the tell-tale neon pink glow of the door sign for Kadie's Saloon. I head out towards my one safe haven.
As I head towards the door, it suddenly swings open and a poor sap comes flying out like a bat outta Hell. A huge bear of a bruiser of a man appears behind him, and generously reminds him of Kadie's "hands off the dancers" rule. I step over the poor grabby bastard and walk straight through the doorway. The bouncer, Mike, knows enough to back off. See, I've been coming to Kadie's for as long as I can remember. On Mike's first night, he tried to deny me entrance to my watering hole and wound up with four broken ribs, some busted knuckles, and a wounded sense of pride.
As I walk into the thick smoke of the bar, I can see that Nancy is just getting started with her act. Clad in leather cowgirl chaps, a leather corset/bikini set, and snakeskin boots, she looks like the sexiest cowgirl this side of the Rio Grande. She's whipping that lasso around like it's no ones business, and those hips of hers just keep moving. It's no wonder that half the bar is having trouble breathing while the other half just keeps throwing down more and more bills for little Nancy to take home.
"Hey, Marv! Anything I can get for you, sugah?" I'd know Shelley's sultry drawl anywhere. I don't even have to turn and look to know that she's still nursing a split lip, courtesy of her dick of a boyfriend. Bastard's a hero cop, and that means I can't touch him. I turn and give Shelley a genuine smile, something not many people get outta my ugly mug. "Shot and a brew, Shelley, and keep'em coming!" She returns the smile. "You got it. Take it easy now, sugah."
The night wears on. Dancers come and go almost as fast as I can down my drinks. I have to break up a few fights, but nothing that I can't handle. That's the deal I have with the staff. They give me a tab that I don't need to worry about, and I make sure that no damage is done to my favorite speakeasy. Either way, it's a win-win situation. Unfortunately, when the call girls come out, they won't even look my way. Hell, I couldn't buy one of them with a million dollars. It's my looks, and my reputation. I don't mind it, though. It's the life I live, and it's the life I love.
All of a sudden, a brew comes sliding down the bar and smacks into my mitt. I didn't ask for it, and I sure as hell don't have a way to pay for it. I look at Shelley to see if she knows, and all she does is give a little toss of her head. I follow the direction she points out, and scan the crowd for whoever would be kind to a tired old dog like me.
It hits me like a bullet to the gut, and I'm glad I'm sitting down. Otherwise, I probably would've fallen. She's got fiery blonde hair that glows with a light bright enough to cut through the smoke that clouds the bar. Those luscious red lips of hers are enough to make my heart skip a beat. Then it hits me hard. I gotta know who this goddess is. I gotta know the name of the angel who just made my two-bit life seem a little brighter.
She doesn't speak. She only smiles and runs a tentative hand down my arm, tracing the craggy scarred biceps with the fascination of a child, and when she looks at me with those big doe eyes, all I can see is fear, love, and hope. I flash a grin, and she dazzles me with a smile that would've charmed the pants off a preacher. Looping her arm through the crook of my elbow, she starts to pull me towards the door. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out what few grubby bills I have left and toss'em on the bar. Without a second glance, I let my seductive savior lead me out the door and into the heart of Sin City.
We end up at a cheesy motel, the kind of place where the bed is shaped like a heart, and the sheets are red and made of imitation silk. Before I even get the door shut, she's all over me. She smells the way angels' oughtta smell. She tastes of Jack Daniels and Turkish Silver cigarettes, and the medley is killing me. I want her. I know that much.
Somehow, she manages to produce a few bottles of Jack, and in due time, I'm down to my skivvies. My angel is on the bed, and she's naked with the sheets covering her, hiding her from my eyes. She tells me she needs me, and I'm more than happy to oblige her.
To hell with the foreplay. In a matter of seconds, I'm on my back while she straddles me. She rises up, takes my dog and positions it right at her entrance. She lowers herself onto my cock, and it's all I can do not to cry out. She rides me long and hard. Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes to hours. I lose track of time, and I don't care. All I can focus on is my angel giving me the night of my life, and when we both climax, I manage to ask her name.
Goldie.
She says her name is Goldie.