Author's Note: It's been brought to my attention that I have borderline plagiarized the novel Fight Club in this chapter and the first. Here and now I say that I did not intend to do that, nor did I intend to steal the idea from Mr. Palahniuk. I simply meant it as a homage to a fantastic novel. If anyone is bothered by this, please shoot me a PM and I'll edit it out. But do believe me that the idea/plot for this fanfic is entirely my own, and a few lines (such as the first of this chapter) were borrowed from the novel for a dramatic effect/homage. If this was the wrong decision then I am sorry.

So here and now I say that Fight Club is not my property, it is the property of the fantastic author Chuck Palahniuk.


December 2014

With a six-inch knife in your mouth, you only speak in vowels.

For a minute there I forgot about the whole sting operation and wondered about how clean the knife was.

The tick-tocking time bomb of your beating heart is your only material comfort when you're seconds away from severe pain. I wasn't tied to the chair this time—as I had been so many times before. Tonight's job was to land a local meth dealer. Nothing too out of the ordinary. He didn't do a very good job covering his tracks; he was an amateur. I'm on the verge of getting information on an illicit shipment of methamphetamines that was due to arrive from the Caribbean later this week. We had been tracking this for a while. Meth abuse had spiked greatly in the city this year, despite tighter regulations from the fed. We needed to stop the problem at its source. And tonight's sting presented the perfect opportunity.

It was practically a routine. My partner, Damon Gant, drives me to an empty alley. I seek out the contact, wave around a sizable wad of cash, and am taken to the drug lord. From there, I bust him/her.

Tonight, our contact saw right through my guise. A short scuffle later, here I am, sitting in a rotting chair with a six-inch switchblade pressed in my mouth. There are syringes strewn across the floor. Household chemicals, aerosols and cleaners are littered on the tops of several rotting wooden tables, along with empty liter bottles and plastic tubing. A grade-A meth lab. An acrid smell is burning my nose. Every time I breathe, the knife cuts the dermis just a little more. There's blood pooling around my molars.

"I ain't gonna ask you again bitch! WHO do you work for?"

"Uhh uh uh uhh-uh!" I mutter, tearing up as the pain in my mouth mounts. I taste salt. He yanked out the knife hastily, slicing my mouth and the corner of my lips. He grabbed the collar of my blazer, and pulled my face closer to his. The knife was now being held precariously close to my jugular. His breath was noisome…seeping out between the cracks of his rotten, Meth-mouth stumps…I mean teeth. I could start to taste water in the back of my throat.

His face hovered closer to mine; grazing the blade across the skin of my cheek. "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"

I was never one of those slick detectives from the movies with an acid tongue and rapier wit. "I…work…" I slowly brought forward my right hand, "FOR MYSELF" I slammed my palm into his crotch. Stabbing my nails into him with a vice-like grip, he crumpled to the ground, dropping the knife. Within seconds I had him on the floor, rolling around in a fetal position. At that moment I cocked my .40 Beretta. The load 'click' of the released safety instantly immobilized him. I spit out some of the blood that had been collecting in my mouth and trained the gun's hungry loaded barrel toward his grimacing face.

"Who do you work for?" I said calmly.

"Bitch I ain't telling you jack shit!" He spat. I slammed the heel of one of my shoes into the hands protecting his groin, breaking one of his fingers. I could hear that sickening twig-snap sound of the bone cracking. He cried out.

"I don't remember giving you a Goddamn choice." I whipped out my badge. "I'm placing you under arrest. If you come quietly, I can make this as painless as possible. You have the right to remain silent…"

His only response was to hock a rather large gob of mucus onto my cheek. "Was that quietly enough bitch?" He laughed. My response was to fire the gun mere centimeters from his left ear. The sound was deafening, ricocheting off of the wall like a blinded elephant. He whimpered in fear.

"Next time…I won't miss. Now get up."

"Alright alright!" He suddenly kicked out my legs from under me, bringing my body crashing to the floor. He leapt up and sprinted for the door and I gave chase. "Haha, you fucking cunt!" He shouted from the hallway.

For someone completely loaded with Meth, this man was quick. I fired a warning shot. He stumbled out the nearest door onto the streets right into the path of Gant's blinding fog lights. Once I had reached the street I raced up behind him and pressed the barrel of the gun at the base of his skull. Gant strode forward clapping his enormous hands. He grabbed the man by his shirt and lifted him six inches off of the ground. I placed my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

"Ha ha ha! Nice work Lana! This scumbag has a paper trail leading to the largest crime syndicate in the city. Lana, let's take our friend into custody, we'll get him to squeal."

"Put me down asshole!" Shouted our catch. Gant responded by swiftly punching him in the jaw. The resulting crack echoed down the alleyway.

"Sonny, that's not how we talk to our elders now is it? Lana, cuff him!"

I returned the Beretta to its holster and slapped the silver handcuffs around both his wrists. Gant tossed the man like a rag doll on to the back seat of his huge black Crown Vic. "Let's go Lana, this place makes my skin crawl."

I sat in the passenger seat, rolled down the window as we pulled away and spit out all of the blood that had been accumulating in my mouth. The cut stung like hell. My teeth were stained a hideous shade of red.

"Jesus Lana, you look like hell! What did this idiot do to you?"

I dabbed at my lips with the sleeve of my t-shirt. "Just a scratch. Don't worry about it." I pulled my water bottle out of the glove compartment, took a swig, and rinsed out my mouth.

He turned the cabin lights on. "Well we gotta get that checked out!"

"I SAID…don't worry about it." I spit once more. Gant was getting on my last nerves. I pressed my head against the enormous headrest.

"Lana you don't have a clue what this asshole may have on that knife. He could have been cutting lines with it for all we know! When we're back at the precinct you're going straight to the medic."

"Get off my ass Gant. I can take care of myself." I can't wait to get home.

Our capture started chuckling.

"So you think this is funny?" Queried a snide Gant. "We'll just have to have a discussion about your manners young man…or lack thereof." I rolled my eyes. Typical lame Gant.

Once we were back at the station, we entered the criminal affairs department with our arrest in tow. The couriers quietly looked up from their computer screens and watched us approach the elevator. Their eyes lingered on my bloody battered face. Then they looked to Gant's; you could still smell his after-shave…

"Alright Lana, straight to the medic. Get yourself stitched up. I'm going to take this punk to the interrogation room."

I shuddered. Gant's interrogation techniques are rather…persuasive.