"Got it," Terry replied, seated at the bar, swiveling around the stool in the vain hope of distracting him from the pain in his bandaged nose.
Once the shock had worn off, Terry had jerked violently, knocking over his drink, hissing about a nova bomb going off in his face. Mai and King had held him down, shoved a wad of cloth in his mouth and jerked his nose to the right. Everything went black for a moment for Terry, and when he came to, he found his face bandaged up and the pain just a shade under unbearable.
"Right," Iori replied. "So can I hire you to do the same to him?"
"Five hundred dollars," Terry said, swiveling around to face him. "That's the going rate. We take Visa or Mastercard."
"No need," Iori said, opening his cash register. "I've got the five right here."
Whereupon the two gunmen decided to enter the hotel, screaming for everyone to hit the ground. What a lucky hit, really. A dinky little dive out in the middle of other dives, with just a couple weirdoes watching the till, and a confirmed score of a least five hundred clams.
A little description, to set the scene : Mickey, or Gunman No. 1, had a look that said heroin chic. Iori knew by now how to recognize them by sight - the wild eyes of the first stages of withdrawl, the scruffy gaunt frame and the long-sleeved sweater. Mickey was holding a gigantic revolver and was waving it around like a flag. Iori thought any minute the junkie's fingers would twitch and the massive cannon would go off, but it never happened.
James, or Gunman No. 2, had a more elaborate backstory : as a boy he had grown up disatisfied with his lot - his trailer was too small, or school was too hard, and everyone made fun of him and his shitty music, calling him 'white trash, white trash'. That was until he had met Mark the Teacher, the hobo/leader who had taught him that his Aryan nature made him better than other races, that salvation lay within Neo-Nazism, that white trash were not the nadir of North American culture, but its very pinnacle. James could get to like such a mentality.
The fact that there were a couple Japs in the room only heightened his sense of that feeling that everything was going to go smoothly. This take was going to be sweet.
He had a smart little Browning, which he waved about less than Mickey, but still quite passionately.
"Yeah, uh, guys," Iori said. "Just a word of warning - you're in the presence of four people who have had superhero training. Try the convenience store down the block."
"Shut the gopping hell up and hit the gopping deck," Mickey snapped. "The deck being the floor. It's a nautical expression, I think."
"Jub off, Mickey," James said, in a voice which he thought was dangerous and sinister. "Now listen up, you jubheads - if you haven't already figured this out, this is a hold-up. Anyone make any sudden moves and I kill, understand?"
"Put the glopping money in the bag!" Mickey snapped, holding out a filthy burlap sack.
"No, no, Jesus, guys," Iori said, pinching the bridge of his noise with his fingers. "See the girl over there with long black hair? See's a Ninjitsu master. That drunk pretty boy with her? Also a Ninjitsu master. She- Oh for the love of God-"
Mickey was instantly smitten with Mai, so much that he was floating up to the ceiling. Iori could almost see the cartoon hearts pulsating where his eyes should be.
James was not so tempted by the Jap bitch. "Put the glopping money in the bag!"
"Keep your poorly made-up explitives to yourself!" Iori said. "I'm not finished. The woman in the tuxedo over there is Muay Thai master. Lots of kicking involved there-"
"Thanks for the introduction, darling," King said.
"No problem. The zombie with the stapled-on arms over there wields the crimson flames of the Kusanagi clans. Though I hope he knows dried zombie skin is pretty flammable."
"Shut up, Yagami."
"The guy in the baseball cap?" Iori continued. "He's a badass street fighter. And, well, heh heh, I don't like to brag, but, I wield the blue flames of the Yagami clan and I'm pretty good at it."
"S'yeah right," Terry said.
"You shut the glop up!" Iori snapped.
"Piss off, you jubhead!" Terry replied.
James couldn't believe his ears. Were these jubhead making fun of him? Him? The Aryan Messiah Who Will Spread The Word To The World?
Well, now, for that this Jap would have to have a bullet put into his head.
It had been so long since Iori had been in a gunfight that the sheer thundering roar of the Browning came as a surprise to him. Still - it reminded him why he didn't use guns; they were just too slow. The bullet impacted on the wall behind him, and Iori's hands clamped down on Jame's wrist, and Jame's wrist made a little cracking noise and James made a little screaming noise and after that, it was all kind've downhill.
Meanwhile, Mickey was in love. And let us not forget what the object of his sudden and misguided infatuation was : the lovely Mai Shiranui - ninja and exhibitionist, clad in revealing outfits for more than just easy manuerability but also for show-stopping beauty! Long black hair, doeful eyes, muscular yet feminine legs, musuclar yet feminine waist and hips, and of course, her impossibly large (yet real, and good-looking to boot) breasts.
Was Mai as infatuated as he was for her? Why, who could not love the dashing heroin junkie, with his scraggly beard, bloodshot eyes, needle-streaks, and gaunt skeletal frame?
Mai was actually more interested in the way James bounced when he hit the ground. He wasn't yet unconscious and he held his broken wrist, letting loose a torrent of swear words that were definitely, finally, not made up.
"Glopping white trash," Terry muttered.
"Nothing but jubheads around here," Iori replied.
"What the HELL is a woman like you doing in a neighbourhood like this?" Mickey asked, staring at Mai.
"Insanity, apparently," she replied. "Now, Andy, watch this - this is the perfect time to piss King off."
"Huh?" Andy asked, turning around.
"Yes," Mai replied. "I could launch into a diatribe about how a woman looking the way I do cannot go anywhere in this city without unwanted attention, lamenting on how men never leave me alone! Now already, I can feel King's possible anger rising to a boiling level - not only because this is an extremely shallow thought, and King hates shallow women, but it is also hypocrisy at its best."
"How so?"
"Andy, look at me. I have more cleavage than a claymore. I frequently show off my lovely toned posterior as a victory pose. I love attention, that's obvious, but nothing could be more frustrating for a feminist like King, than me complaining about it."
"Regardless," King replied. "What are we going to do about these two losers?"
"Take the guns away from them," Iori replied. "Let the jubheads limp out on their own."
"Don't you dare overuse that joke!" King snapped. "You'll sound like you were written by a twelve year old girl who thinks her humour is absolutely hilarious. These junkie's slang is terrible, it sounds made-up, and you're drawing attention to it."
"Word of advice, King," Iori replied. "Don't look at life like it's a narrative. Life isn't a narrative. It sweeps and twists and sometimes stands stock-still, for hours and hours on end. There isn't a rising action, there isn't a climax, there's just denouement, going on and on and on..."
"You broke my wrist!" James snapped, staring at it.
"Wait until the shock wears off," Iori replied. "Terry, shall we get on with our transaction, then? Five hundred dollars for a beaten-up Boss Takashi."
The transaction consisted of Iori filling out a card reading "On behalf of (enter name here) and Armistice Mercenary Ltd. you have now been roughed up considerably due to a past transgression. In this case (please write legibly the transgression) : ..."
Iori filled it out ("Sending a street fighter to do something other than fight a street") and handed it to Terry, as well as the five hundred, and watched him leave.
Immediately he swept to the phone and began dialing numbers.
"Who're you calling?" Mai asked, trying to ignore the junkie frantically trying to start a conversation with her.
"Eiji and Kyo," he replied.
"Why? Don't you have some bad blood with them?"
"Only a little. But they'd both leap at the chance to take Terry down a notch or two."
"What? Why?"
"Right, picture this : you're Boss Takashi, relaxing at your hangout. You're probably in your office or room having sex with your latest mistress. Got it pictured in your head : imagine the room's walls red, his fat body very pink and she very sweaty."
"Didn't really want to picture it, but there we go."
"Suddenly he hears gunshots and shouting. Outside his bodyguards and men are rushing into combat, only to get their shit ruined. Guns go off, but the bullets don't hit their mark, their Karate is turned away and their faces bashed in. Boss Takashi goes for his gun. The door bursts open. He squeezes a single round off, but then Terry has him. He beats the living shit out of him, then reads him the card. What does Boss Takashi immediately do?"
Mai smiled. "He hires him again. To beat you up again."
"Exactly," Iori said. "Ah, but this time, this time - we'll be ready for him."
"Men," King said and sat down.
Mai blinked. "I thought feminism was about trying not to be sexist."
"It is," King said. "But although I'm half feminist, I'm half misandrist."
"I see," Mai said. "Well, then, Miss Misadrist, please throw this slobbering manchild out."
King grinned. "With pleasure."
Mickey began to whimper.