Expensive Tastes
The Motherfucker takes a vacation to a mysterious island and is now at the mercy of a deranged pirate with a taste for expensive things, especially expensive white boys.
Take a vacation, they said. It will be fun, they said.
Chris Genovese wishes Carlos Santiago a slow, horrible, and painful death for suggesting such a dumbass idea.
It is hard, however, to do anything when his hands are suspended by cheap cloth and a bamboo stick and there's a blood and grime drenched gag in his mouth.
His captors wave guns at him, their faces unreadable as Chris tries to think up ways to make it out of this situation alive. He finally blames his cowardice for giving him such bad karma; goons like these were the ones he'd pay for to fight his own battles against Kick-Ass and Hit Girl. If only they could come to his rescue...
CRACK.
A pistol cracks him across his face. He'd feel feel the fullest extent of pain if it hadn't been for his fried nerves, earned from his battle with Kick Ass not too long ago. He looks up through his one swollen eye and faces the head honcho of this shithole.
He stands tall and menacing, with muscular arms marred with scars, bandages and questionable markings. His eyes are crazed; pupils so dilated the iris is nowhere to be seen. His botched mohawk and telling scar prove to Chris he is someone that doesn't fuck around.
"Did you listen to a word I just fucking said?" He speaks, a raspy tenor that sounds charming yet unsettling. Chris says nothing, fear and confusion welling up in the pit of his stomach. Chris is a coward; The Motherfucker would've took him on and riddled this fucker with bullets by now. Hit-Girl would've turned him into a human shish-ka-bob with her spear; Kick-Ass would've beaten the shit out of him with his sticks of justice.
Where is the bravery now?
Chris shakes his head meekly, hoping it'd be a good enough answer for him. The crazed man, seeming satisfied, nodded his head and cracked him in the face again with the pistol with twice the force. Okay, that hurt...
"I hope you understand that I like expensive things. You, amigo, look very expensive. I wonder how much money I can get out of your family, how long I can keep you alive."
Good luck with that, Chris muses. He'd exhausted his family resources and pissed most of his cash away on intricate gadgets and brutes to terrorize New York. But he won't tell this man that; he knew how these things worked. He'd witness it with his dad: if you don't have the money, you're never seen or heard from again. The only trinket will be a finger, an ear, or possibly, a dick. Chris hopes he won't face that same fate soon.
"Until that time, you and me, hermano, are gonna have a lot of fun together. Your name is...Chris. Chris, you remind me of this one guy that came here. Fucking funny-man. Called him McLovin'. He was fun until...he couldn't take the fun anymore. Let's hope you can man up and handle it. Think you can, hermano?"
Chris tries to contemplate how fucked his situation is. There's no Daddy Dearest swooping to his rescue, no costumed freaks that give terrible speeches and over the top drama. He's at the mercy of a true goon, someone who can kill him without hesitation. He's got no weapons, no expertise in hand-to-hand combat, no brains that could help him survive in his surroundings. Worst of all, he's a scrawny little geek with only a minuscule amount of muscle earned from fighting. The cards are definitely stacked against him. He has to think and think fast: how will he survive long enough to get help and escape? Running out of options, he decides to play this man's game. At least, if he dies, there's a chance of him dying like a badass, hopefully. Suck on that, Kick-Ass.
He nods.
Let the fun begin.