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"Wait, you once volunteered for the Salvation Army?" Raymond asked, amused. Being entertained first thing in the morning by almost unbelievable stories was not the first thing he thought how the day would start. Raymond, sitting here in the open picnic area of the hotel, which was right next to the parking lot.
The hotel in question was located somewhere in Queens county, and despite being part of the metropolis, it was surprisingly scenic with its green grass and singing trees. To this day, he was fascinated by how much the birds realize that their language was music to the human ear.
"Hell yeah!" Dylan laughed his butt off, with his mouth full of French fries and moist with Pepsi from the last sip. "We like the Walmart of charities. We couldn't turn away anybody because that's what God wants, no matter how far they've flown over the cuckoo's nest."
Dylan twirled his finger around the side of his head. "Anyway, we had a regular called Teresa, a bearded man who wore pink tutus and would come in every day to see if we have barbie dolls. One day, he came in very anxiously and asked for a razor. I told him we didn't have one and he started twitching and saying, 'I need a razor. Stop hiding them. Just give me a razor.' But with more cursing."
"Sounds lovely." Raymond sarcastically quipped.
"When I tried to direct him to another store, he exploded and yelled, 'I have a disease growing on my face! I am a woman! This beard is a disease on my face! You don't understand! You don't have a disease on your face! I need a razor!' At this point an elderly Italian woman ran over and yelled at him in that Italian gibberish that only they can do, and he freaked out and bailed out. He came back the next day, back on his meds, and still had a beard."
"Did he at least get some help?" This guy didn't just need meds, he needed therapy. Dysphoria was a very serious illness, though unlikely he'd get it. Money was essentially lifeblood now. Raymond understood all too well of that.
"I don't know; that's that last I've seen of him." Dylan slurped. "Reminds me of the Tampa Shoelicker. He was a twenty-something year-old fella who'd run around and ask to lick the bottoms your dirty shoes from bottom to top. It went on for at least six months, maybe even a year."
"You have some serious war stories." Raymond jokingly said. That was, unless of course, Dylan was only stealing stories from the internet like Reddit. But maybe it was safe to trust him to be honest at this point. "You're like a human jukebox today; what happened?"
"Sugar and salty junk food are like my cocaine, Novak." Dylan munched down on his second burger. If Raymond was any other guy, he'd be shocked at the amount, but he wasn't, because Raymond ate as much as Dylan did. Another thing to add to the list of what they have in common. "It's very dangerous for me to eat the two together."
Skeptical, Raymond raised a brow and crossed his arms. Spine leaned aligned to the backrest. What more could Dylan say to surprise him? "What happened the last time you mixed the two together?"
"I ran someone over."
Raymond would've choked if he hadn't finished his breakfast at this point. "Seriously?"
"Yep."
"With that little scooter?" Raymond pointed at Dylan's motor. It looked to be in pristine condition, never having an accident before in its use. It couldn't be, as an accident would always leave some sort of scar, no matter how much effort was put into fixing it.
"Nope. It was with my mom's car."
"Damn…" Raymond was certainly flabbergasted, to say the least. "Anyone hurt?"
"Thankfully not. I wouldn't be sitting here with you if somebody was hurt; Dad would've killed me." Dylan chuckled. It died down, as thankfulness replaced it. "I am so grateful that the people I struck had mercy on me."
And suddenly, both of them said nothing for the past couple of minutes. Raymond didn't know how it happened, why it happened, it just happened.
Awkward was one word Raymond never thought he'd use, but it certainly was the best way to describe it. As if they've frozen each other's tongue, wondering if the other would say the first word. Heck, neither of them even made an attempt to move the conversation along. Well, at least he wasn't making an attempt; Dylan had a breakfast to finish.
Raymond had an urge to ask some questions, any questions: 'How's life?', 'Got any best friends?', or 'What are you planning to do with the prize money if you win?', not whatever this was. But thankfully, he didn't, particularly on that last one. Raymond didn't want the guilt of knowing if Dylan had someone he needed to save too. Even if he did, it wouldn't change his destiny—what he hoped to be his destiny—but it felt nice not knowing.
"So, what now?" Dylan finally broke the ice. More accurately, finished the ice that melted into his soda and the rest of the hamburgers and fries.
"Hmm?"
"We've got a whole day before the second and last day of the tournament starts. What do you suppose we do?"
"I don't know," Raymond shrugged. "Explore the city?"
Dylan waved it off. "We already did that yesterday."
Raymond seriously doubted that they could've explore the entire city in just one day. It was New York City For crying out loud, the densest population in the entirety of the United States; there are bound to be places they didn't explore. Then again, he wasn't the one being a host, so he had no right to complain. And how inconsiderate of Raymond; this may have been his first visit, but that didn't mean it was also Dylan's first.
"So, we're just going to wait around until the tournament starts?" Dylan continued. "That's no fun; how about you tell me your stories?"
Raymond tensed. "Me?"
"Yeah! I've been sharing things this whole time; it's your turn now!"
"Oh no," Raymond chuckled fretfully. "You don't want to hear my stories."
"Why not?" Dylan chortled. "It's not like you've done anything illegal. You look like a straight-up guy to me."
Raymond's silence was deafening. Dylan carried on with his happy-go-lucky attitude until it took him almost half a minute to pick up the signal that something wasn't right. It took another half minute for Dylan to piece together that something was definitely wrong with Raymond's bodily response to that last sentence. Then, the realization hit him in the head like a ton of bricks.
"Oh my God… you have done something illegal." Dylan said with jaws dropped and eyes wide. "What is it?"
"First of all, I haven't done anything illegal." Raymond quickly and vehemently denied the accusation. "Second, even if I had, why would I confess it to someone I met just yesterday?"
"I don't have motorcycle insurance." Dylan quickly blurted out. "Now tell me yours."
Okay, Raymond never asked for that information, so it didn't count. It wasn't like suddenly he owed Dylan an explanation on what he hid in his closet. Sharing was caring, and he did not care one bit. Well, maybe he did care a little bit, since not having insurance was just asking for trouble to come. This 'It'll never happen to me' way of thinking was a dangerous one. "That's a rather reckless thing to do."
"Yeah, well, tight budgets would do that to you." Dylan sighed, reminiscent of his past mistakes. "Take my advice, never get addicted to the smell of new cards while you have your parents' credit card information. Before you know it, you've spent over a thousand dollars on cards that'll tank below fifty-percent of what it was worth when you bought it."
Dylan stopped himself before he rambled on further. "So, what did you do?"
"I told you: I haven't done anything illegal."
Dylan wasn't buying it. Or at least, he wasn't satisfied with that kind of answer. He wanted more, he wanted to be entertained. Which, given the context, was understandable since he was playing the royal jester for so long. This type of boredom was the same one the tabloids exploit sensational stories about things no one outside of its fandom would really give a damn about. Then, Raymond understood that Dylan was desperately trying to pass the time without it being so uneventful.
Raymond sighed. "Alright, how about I tell the time…" Oh God, he really was going to do this.
"Back in the day, you didn't understand how… um… when I was a little older than eight." He stuttered. "Back in the day, when you went to porn sites…"
Dylan's attention intensified the second he heard the word 'porn'. Oh boy, was he in for an interesting story. "…You didn't really understand how your parents knew that you went there. At least, I just knew my mom could figure it out. But I didn't know how, so I thought, 'Okay, if I go, I'm going to have to make the most out of it.' I crossed this border; how do I make the most out of it?"
"You just went in all the way?" Dylan tried holding back his cackling. It didn't work out. And they both knew what he meant by that.
No. This was before he found out that he had sticky white stuff stored inside of his genital. In other words, way before puberty.
"No. I decided I was going to print all these pictures."
"Uh huh." Dylan nodded, smirking.
"We had a very fancy Wi-Fi printer. As I was printing, I realized, 'Oh God, what have I done? This is terrible.' So, I cancelled all the prints." Raymond swallowed his regret and pressed onwards with the story. He could do this; he felt like a slave been whipped into telling the truth. "And then a few days later, my sister busts into my room with a bunch of printed out pictures."
Dylan bursted out laughing like a mad man, falling over himself as his weight shifted too heavily on one side of the seat and lost balance. That didn't bother Dylan as much as it should, as he continued gasping for air.
"And she told me, 'So, you like girls with big titties, eh?' And I just grabbed the pictures and locked myself in for the rest of the day."
"'Finally, sis! Thanks! I've been waiting for these for days!'" Dylan imitated what he thought to be the young version of Raymond in his head. Raymond, meanwhile, slumped his shoulders. He felt even more embarrassed when a stranger in a hood passed by; great, now there was another one who had heard his tale. Damn it. "Clearly, you were an innovator, Novak! Taking that extra step!"
Okay. Raymond was done. He fulfilled his obligation. No need to continue on how Reynalda decided to tell Mom all about his perfectly natural fetish. Or the rest of her friends. Friends, by the way, started making innuendos like 'MEGA MILK' said as if they were big, bold letters floating above his head. Or across their breasts.
"Wait, but that isn't illegal! That's just embarrassing!" Dylan retorted.
"I can't tell you illegal stories if I've never done them." Raymond lied again. He told an embarrassing story; what more could Dylan want? Was he not entertained!?
Dylan groaned softly. "Fine, I'll just secretly think you're some sort of drug dealer."
"It's not a secret if you say it out loud."
"You know what I mean."
At that moment, Dylan got up and stretched his limbs. He better, after that huge breakfast he just had, or else that'd be useless fat he'd be gathering up in there. He twisted and turned, at which point so loud that Raymond could hear the snap of his bones. "Well, I'm planning to just walk around the neighborhood until I find something to do. You can do whatever you want to do, and we'll meet up back here at eight."
"Sounds fine to me."
Dylan then reached down, but then stopped. Something was wrong. "Wait, where's my bag?"
"Which bag?"
"The bag that has all my cards."
"Isn't it right—" Raymond crunched down to look. It wasn't there. And Raymond knew it was supposed to be there because he saw it with his own eyes beforehand. And as far as he could tell, Dylan hadn't touched it since they've began their breakfast.
They began searching frantically. Left and right, up and down. Nowhere was his bag found. Unless it magically grew some legs and ran away, it must be around here somewhere.
"Novak, does that look like my bag or is it just a coincidence?" Dylan said, pointing out the same stranger who passed by them a few minutes before. The stranger with the hood, and a curve-handle umbrella which hanged a bag that was remarkably similar to Dylan's. No, it was exactly the same. And that stranger was holding the umbrella by the tip, not the handle.
It was too suspicious. It was a thief.
"Hey, excuse me!" Dylan called out. What was he doing!? He just gave away their element of surprise! Now they definitely had the stranger's attention. "You in the hood with the umbrella!"
At that second, the hooded stranger took off.
"HEY! GET BACK HERE!" Raymond roared, already in pursuit, jumping over the table. He didn't just run. He pounced.
His legs swung viciously, as far out as he could. As soon as that happened, it stomped at the speed of sound and propelled him closer to the scumbag who was slowing. His heart beat faster and the adrenaline demanded his body to rev it up to overdrive. And although running was never his strong suit, he was doing fairly well.
He was a predator who spotted a prey. Moment by moment, he was catching up. As the thief turned back to look at how far he had gotten, Raymond cracked a smile when the thief realized how close he was with his frightened eyes.
He was going to hunt this scum down as if it was the last thing he did. The thief shouldn't think that he had evade Raymond yet; once in his crosshairs, always would be in his crosshairs.
"ARGH!" Both of they yelled as Raymond tackled the thief to the ground. The bag flew forward from them, a distance none of them could close without the other intervening. The thief tried to get up, but Raymond just dragged him back down. He wasn't going anywhere. Raymond tried aiming for his kneecap, ready to strike down with the strength of a charging hammer. The thief was, however, too quick and Raymond struck the concrete ground instead. His bones endured, but it was nevertheless an arduous endeavor.
The thief made another attempt to escape, and once again, Raymond pulled him back down. He almost got away with it too; if he attempted a third try, Raymond might not be so lucky. His time was running out. Raymond's hand ran through the thief's body as if he was molesting him. It had to be there somewhere; Raymond reached into the jacket to feel if there were any pockets, much to the resistance of the thief.
Raymond was stronger, there was no denying that. That was why the thief also reached into one of his pockets and pulled out something small.
A sharp pain pierced Raymond's abdomen. Specifically, the lateral lower quadrant of the abdomen.
"ARGH!" Raymond screamed in agonizing pain. It was then the thief seized his opportunity and fled the scene, taking with him the bag as he ran. Raymond tried to chase, but the pain forced him to collapse to the ground. It didn't matter; he got what he needed right in his hand.
Dylan finally caught on to him, not used to the pace. His face was already burning red because of his lack of exercise. "A… thief…"
"Yeah…" Raymond slowly got up from the pavement, clutching his abdomen.
"I've always heard stories about people trying to steal valuable cards during tournaments…" Dylan huffed and puffed. It was going to take a while for normal breath to return to him. "I can't believe this is happening to me."
"Don't worry, we'll get it back." Raymond assured.
"Get it back? How?" Dylan's eye then caught the red spilling out from Raymond's body.
"I have his driver's license." Raymond smirked, waving said card like a triumphant flag flying over the battlefield. Novak was going to grab the whole wallet, but he opted for just a card instead. He rather not tip-off the thief that he knew that bastard's identity. He was a master of pickpocketing, a skill born out of necessity whenever some asshole decided he wasn't going to pay up his end of the bet whenever Raymond won.
"Novak…" Dylan gasped, not at all paying attention to what Raymond just said. "You're stabbed…"
Raymond looked down at the bleeding wound, which was dripping onto the ground en masse, then up at Dylan. "Yeah, I know."
"We have to get you to a hospital." Dylan became more frantic. Maybe Dylan was one of those who would almost faint at the sight of blood, because he certainly was acting like it. If that was the case, then this guy had never gone to a blood drive. Which was odd.
Or maybe it was just Raymond's distorted sense of urgency and on how much blood loss was too much.
"Can't. I'm only visiting, remember? I don't have coverage." Besides, it was non-lethal. The right upper quadrant has the liver and the big veins from the rest of the body, the left upper quadrant has the spleen and the big abdominal arteries; the kidneys and their blood supply are deep to the intestines at about the level of the belly button. He was stabbed in none of those places. And from his experience, he could walk this injury off.
"Who cares if you don't have coverage!? You need help!" In a way, it was kind of touching that Dylan could care more about Raymond's well-being than his possessions so much that he blocked out the information that'd catch this criminal who wronged the both of them.
"What I need is a box of bandages and alcohol." Raymond began walking away. He turned head towards Dylan despite walking away from him. "Call the police!"
"Wait!" Dylan cried out behind him. "Where are you going!?"
"I'm going to get myself treated!" But first, Raymond had to call someone. Conveniently, there was a payphone nearby. How nostalgic it was to find some of them still existing in this day. He put the quarters in and dialed the number. If he wasn't answering, then it was a good chance that he was still in jail. If he picked up, he was definitely out on bail. Of course, he wouldn't be facing charges in the first place if he had just followed Raymond through on that roof and jumped.
"Hello? Who's this?" The person on the other line picked up. So, he was out on bail, then.
"Bob, this is Djokovic." A pseudonym. Because there was no way he would ever give out his real name to people dealing in illegal businesses. Even if Bob had been generous to sponsor his matches. "Are you still able to move about while on bail?"
"The cops aren't watching me, if that's what you're asking."
"Good, good…" Raymond looked at the name of the criminal who was in his crosshairs. "I need you to do me a favor."
Raymond couldn't believe he was back to a place like this again. Usually, it was always at some back alleyway where daylight never seemed to reach, a fitting symbolism for the light of civilization and ethics dared not to shine on such cesspool. But not this time. This time, he was at another motel, half miles east from where Raymond and Dylan were staying at.
Raymond continued to clutch right on his stab wound. Although he had it patched up, it didn't feel any better. Luckily, he left before the police could arrive or else, they would've never let him go. He climbed the steps, leading to the second-floor balcony, one step at a time. Even for a thief, he hadn't expected someone could risk attempted murder charges for something that was worth seven-times less than what sentence he could've faced if he was caught.
Room 217. That was the room number Bob provided for him. A favor for his most lucrative cash-cow. It'd be in his best interest to exact vengeance on whomever threatened his prized employee, especially if that said someone took a Goddamn knife and shanked him in broad daylight.
What Bob didn't know, was that the favor might've been Raymond's severance package.
This place reeks of inferior… trash. Partially, literal trash clustering around the dumpster, which looked to be raided by the local homeless population for anything recyclable. In fact, one was doing so right now, coming about on his worn cart strolling with one broken wheel.
As Raymond cleared the stairs, he was met with a familiar face walking in his direction. The man who Raymond met but was never formally introduced the night before. Brown hair, well-oval eyes, and an all too stereotypical aura of Britain.
"Oi… pardon…" Travis paused and speculated. The stairs were kind of narrow, so they were forced to be in each other's way. "Have I met you before?"
Raymond almost rolled his eyes to the sky above. What a coincidence that he would be here. But then again, what was he doing in this dump anyway? Didn't he win the lottery twice? Surely, he could afford to live in some stay better. Or was Travis a secret drug addict who came to this place to get off on crystal meth or something else?
"Yeah, I have, haven't I?" Travis persisted. "You're that guy who was with Dylan last night! You're here to buy cards too?"
Cards? Was there a shop around here somewhere? Impossible. Raymond scooped the place; there was no card shops around here. Unless, Travis was talking about the regular delis that sell starter decks and a few booster packs as a side hustle. But those couldn't possibly be worth much.
"No."
"Oh, so you're here for weed, then?"
"Weed?" Did Raymond look like a Goddamn hippie? Hell no. It would be insulting to be compared to those dirty, dread-locked, tie-dyed, potheads wearing the same dead shirt from the day they've dropped out of high school.
"Yeah mate, everybody loves weed in this place."
Oh, now Raymond knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was a cesspool of decadence. And this was coming from someone who was used to sharing the same space with obnoxious people from the ghettos.
"Anyway, you seem like a swell bloke; why don't we have a chat? I'm planning to visit that little coffee shop over there," Travis pointed at the two-floor building across the street. "Why don't you come with?"
"Sorry, I'd like to stay and talk, but I don't have time." Raymond pressed onwards. "Goodbye."
"Well, that was a great conversation." Travis sarcastically remarked before continuing on his merry way. Then, he shrugged. "Oh well."
Travis was out of sight before he knew it, and Raymond was standing right in front of the door of 217. There was a fear in the back of his mind that maybe Bob got the wrong number. But Bob's connections were reliable, no matter how sketchy they were, they always get the job done.
So, how should he do this? Break in through the window next to the door and enter that way? Well, he already had a stabbed stomach; don't want to reopen that wound after countless efforts to stop the bleeding. Climbing over and opening a window from the opposite side was out of the question too.
If it was some regular lock, Raymond would've just picked it. But it was an electronic one with only a card slide, of which he had absolutely no experience in.
This was all assuming that the thief was in there. If he wasn't, then Raymond would have to wait on probably hours before he would check in for the night. As for the police? They weren't informed, at least, Raymond didn't call them. Not yet. Not when Raymond hadn't had his turn yet.
Then, the stench of weed permeating out from an air vent gave him an idea.
He knocked.
"Who that?" A male voice called out from within. So, the thief was inside. Already, Raymond could make a couple of assessments. One, he was stupid as hell; he should've noticed that his driver's license was missing by now and probably being used against him at this very moment. Two, he was stupid as hell; he just committed a crime, which common sense dictates that he should always keep a low profile. Answering 'Who that?' was not keeping a low profile. This may be easier than expected.
"Yo bro!" Raymond impersonated the voice of an obnoxious little twat whose brain was only thinking of fucking bitches and chilling out with his face buried in a mountain of cocaine. It wasn't that long since Raymond graduated, so their daily vernacular was still somewhat familiar. Words like: 'Lit', 'Bumping', 'Hip', 'Hella', 'Dope', 'Dope-Ass', and surely other insufferable terms he would rather purge from his memory. "You ordered some 'gas'?"
'Gas' was slang for weed for anyone who didn't want to get caught. He knew way too much social cues for his own benefit. As Raymond picked up on the shuffling of approaching footsteps, he slouched onto the door in an angle where the peephole could not see him and his face away from the window with the hood hiding his blonde hair. His body was slouched in a way that made him appear to be drunk, and not purposefully hiding his face. "Bruh, open up man, I'm so high right now!"
"I ain't wanna buy your weed."
"Dude, you already paid for it, man." Raymond acted like he was trying to get up. He took it slowly, just like an intoxicated person would do. "If you don't want it, then more for me."
Raymond started to slowly walk away, knowing full well that the thief was watching. Not once did he give an inch of his face to look at. He pretended to stumble here and there, adding to the deception. Not to flatter himself, but if he was a judge, it'd be an Oscar-winning performance. That said a lot about how much the Oscars suck.
"Wait!" The thief opened the door.
Big mistake.
Raymond pounced.
By the second the thief realized it was the same guy he stabbed earlier, Raymond's foot was already wedged between the door. Now it was a contest of strength on who could push the door harder. Again, the stabbed wound hindered Raymond's capabilities; they were on equal footings. In fact, it was going to seem like Raymond was going to lose this effort. That was until the thief decided to reach for something on a table nearby. That was a window of opportunity on which he exploited.
Raymond pushed the thief almost off-balanced, causally making his way into the room. The stench radiating from the furniture told Raymond it had seen some history. If one closed his eyes, one could mistakenly determine it to be fresh cat urine. Compared that to the reek of forty-year-old sweat mixed in with vomit and grease, it was beyond reason why anyone would live in such a place.
Given how the thief was barefoot, which explained a lot. Then again, if a citizen was allowed to own a tank due to the Second Amendment, then weapons of biohazardous destruction must be allowed too. Must be a duelist then, because by God, most of them have absolutely no concept of hygiene. It was even worse if he had to constantly complain about it in his own head.
Oh, and the thief was armed with a knife again, holding himself in a readied stance. Was it a new knife, or was it the same one he stabbed Raymond with? He might've washed it since he came home. It was safer to assume that it was a new knife, which indicated that he might have a bunch more lying around.
"You!" The thief yelled. "How did you find me!?"
Raymond pulled out the driver's license and throw it at him. The thief's face paled, as expected. As he should. As fear washed over the thief's face, Raymond found himself grinning. Yes, he should fear Raymond; police weren't going to be the one bashing his face in. This was where police brutality was needed.
"I know a lot more about you than you may think, Matt." Raymond spat out the name like a poison he finally got to get rid of. And that was going to be the only time he was going to have the displeasure of even saying the thief's name. No need to make him more human than what he clearly was.
That clearly upset him. The thief charged and closed in the distance between the sharpness of his blade and Raymond's pancreas.
Did this moron really think Raymond was going to fall for that a second time? All that stench must've damaged his brain functions more than he realized. It really was saying something when the odor was the first thing he thought of, and not the weed. Raymond intercepted the blade as he grabbed the wrist of Matt's hand, twisting and twisting it until he dropped the knife. The knife to which Raymond immediately kicked away, making sure the thief didn't see where it went.
However, the thief managed to elbow the wound.
"ARGH!" Raymond cried out as he tumbled a couple of steps back. He definitely needed to remember to guard his weak spot carefully. Another hit and it might be too much even for him.
Impatient, and evidently not an amateur, he took his window of opportunity. He swung a dozen of punches like a Goddamned mad man, but effective. He fought as someone from the ghetto. His eyes crisped with anger and he was biting down on his lower lip so hard that it could've bled. This was not the thief's first rodeo, and Raymond had a feeling it wouldn't be his last. It was engrained in his nature.
Finally, Raymond managed to intercept his rampant brigade and broke through his line of defense. He began launching counter punches right back at his ugly face, all of which landed.
Unable to withstand the tremendous force Raymond was dishing out, the thief retreated. They were back to square one, where neither of them was willing to make the first move. Always speculating, always thinking, always flinching at the slightest change in stance. One mistake could cost the other the fight, and if pissed off enough, his life.
"I'ma kill your ass and send yo body back to Mommy." The thief spat as he put his forearms in guarding positions. Poor fool had his mind blinded by his own testosterones. That'd be Raymond's advantage, albeit not as great as an advantage as a stab wound, but what could he do?
"In your dreams." Raymond gritted as he made the first jab, aiming straight for the face. Of course, the scum blocked it with his left and counter jabbed with his right. Left arm up, but that counter punch was much more powerful than Raymond anticipated, so much that it made Raymond punch himself in the face by his own guarding arm. "Come on! Is that all you've got!?"
Raymond retreated a step back, took a breath, and got right back in. Uppercut! Uppercut! Then flank a jab to uppercut again! The idiot fell for it, focusing his defenses on that flank and leaving him right open for a third uppercut. The thief lost his footing from that last attack and fell on his back. And he thought he was so tough, huh? "Get the fuck back up; I'm not done yet."
The thief took a second of rest.
"GET BACK UP, PUNK!"
"FUCK YOU!" The thief hopped right back on his feet. He was pissed, and that was exactly how Raymond wanted him. Straight punch! Straight punch! Miss! Blocked! He drove Raymond into a corner of the room, between the wall and a nightstand.
Raymond had his front guarded, leaving openings on his sides. The thief kept swinging to get to him, to try knocking Raymond out cold. Raymond stood his defense; he had no intentions of going on the offence. Not yet. A swing from the right! A swing from the left! Right! Left! Right! Left! Right! Left! Good, good. Keep swinging.
"NOT SO TOUGH NOW, ARE YOU?" The thief guffawed. How adorable, he thought he was winning.
His swings were getting slower by each passing moment; his shoulders must be dreadfully tired now. Raymond could feel the disgusting sweat being thrown off from the punk's arms; one of the things he must endure until the time came. Still on the defensive, he waited, waiting for that moment.
Not yet… Not yet… Not yet… NOW!
Raymond finally struck! Rapid fire! Rapid fire! Concentrating all of his punches on both of the thief's shoulders, rendering them useless. Yes! Raymond moved on to his DAMN ugly face. He was going to end this. ONE HIT! TWO HIT! Right in the nose, rendering his sense of focus! He jumped! He struck right down on the punk's head!
BAM! AND HE'S DOWN! The little twat tried to get back up, but he fell. That punch concussed greatly him. Raymond won!
And Raymond was going to claim his prize.
Raymond swiftly grabbed him by the neck, pressing his thumb hard against that special spot, dramatically reducing his supply of oxygen to his lungs. "I don't have time for small talks. Where the hell is the bag you stole!?"
Chokingly, he replied in a bare, suffocating whisper. "I… don't… have… it…"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T HAVE IT!?" Raymond snarled. He choked harder, reminding the thief exactly what was going to happen if he didn't cooperate.
"I… sold… it…" The thief eventually cried out as tears began rolling down from his eyes. Not out of emotions, but of pure bodily tensions. Had Raymond began to squeeze the throat even further, it would've created a gruesome snapping noise. Almost identical to the noise of crushing a cockroach under his shoe. Then, he'd toss the limp body against the wall.
He wanted to. He really wanted to.
Raymond set him free from his tight grip. The thief collapsed to the ground on all four of his limbs, gasping desperately for air. But he still felt Raymond's grip around his throat, leaving a painful impression.
"Who!?" Raymond roared, tightening his fists again.
Matt couldn't pick himself up, probably due to his wrist. "He just left before you came in."
Travis… Oh God, it really led back to him, didn't it? How convenient indeed. Raymond turned around towards to the door, hoping that it wasn't too late.
And this asshole decided to grab the knife and charge at Raymond again when he turned his back. How many times did he have to teach this to the imbecile!? Raymond might as well have eyes on the back of his head, as he saw it coming a mile away. This time, he simply moved out of the way, letting the thief trip outside and hit the balcony rails.
They were back out to where the sunlight shined. Obviously, there must've been someone to hear the rumble, no ears could've been spared from the rupturing sound that echoed throughout such a terrible place. But if anyone did, they sure didn't bother to report it, everyone just kept their heads down around here.
Good. Damn good.
Raymond dragged the thief's weary body back into the room. He wrestled the knife off the thief's hands and grabbed it for himself. Inches away from the neck, Raymond's mind raced.
It would be so easy. Just push the edge a few inches further and this larcenous criminal would pay for his crimes. Stealing was one thing, but attempted murder? Oh no. Raymond wasn't going to let that go at all.
After all, why not? What could this scum have possibly done to make the life of the people around him easier? What had he done with his pathetic life other than to lie, cheat, and steal? Such subclass was and never are worthy to be called humans. No honor, no sense of right and wrong. Whatever they do, they deem to be 'Just how the world works.', and whatever would happen to them, they deem to be unjust. These insignificant, despicable men. Raymond cannot bear the thought that the two of them even shared something in common. Only Raymond chose to be elevated, and they chose to be degraded.
He'd be doing the world a favor. What else would one do with a rabid animal going around biting people left and right? Put them down.
Now.
"RAYMOND!"
Mother's voice called out to him.
Raymond's eyes surged right open; his brain stricken still as if by divine lightning. In the air felt as if the burning rage of hell he ignited had frozen over by one silent breeze. No sound coming out of his stuttering mouth, solidified as a sculpture, with his face of an incredulous, unblinking stare. His head spun in all directions. Left, right, up, down, in every way possible. If he had spun any faster, he would've snapped his own neck, killing himself instantly.
Nobody else was there. It wasn't possible; Mother was dead. He'd have to accept the reality that ghosts really did exist if it wasn't his perceptions that was deceiving him. He was sane, he knew he was. But both things couldn't be true simultaneously.
Unless… unless this was 'Jack' screwing with him.
Or maybe 'Jack' was trying to warn him. Wasn't murder considered a sin so grievous that one could lose their salvation over it? But this wasn't murder, this was simply a killing. Bad men must be put down; Raymond seriously doubt that even 'Jack' would oppose it, considering that it wasn't him who wrote all those obsolete Old Testament Laws of bloodthirsty retributions.
But what if Raymond was wrong? Sure, some things deserve the death penalty, but this wasn't one of them? Would he really want to risk it? And for what, exactly? A temporary gratification that'd fizzle out about five minutes later? Mom was definitely in Heaven—there was not a single doubt about that. So, wouldn't he want to see her again?
Wouldn't she love to see him again?
Raymond dropped the knife, hands shaking. As much as he wants to bash the thief's tiny brain against the wall even afterwards, he chose not to. What would Reynalda say about that when she finds out? She always finds out. And Mother… was this how he was going to honor her in his memories? An honor so hard to keep.
"Today's your lucky day, pal." Raymond began walking away from the semi-comatose man. "Take this time to rethink your life."
The thief watched in awe. Whatever boasting pride and confidence that was once in him was shattered. Look at him, devastated by death so close to his soul. No number of what-ifs was going to change the fact that Raymond came so close to ending his life yet chose not to.
Raymond bit his tongue. He still wanted to. He still really wanted to. But he wanted nothing in his way back to his true family. So, Raymond wasn't paying attention to him; he could only focus on the exit. He was never going to look back and regret not doing the world a favor.
And at the corner of his mind, he felt the radiant smile of his dear mother after so many years of regret. A smile he never got to savor before she passed.
There was actually supposed to be a duel in this chapter too, but once I was done writing, I realized that the word count was over 6000! So I decide to cut the duel to the next chapter. So, in essence, this is the first chapter to have no duels in it.
The stories mentioned above is from:
www. reddit dot com /r/AskReddit/comments/2q8fny/storieswhats_a_crazy_story_youve_been_wanting_to/cn3tzd0?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x
youtu. be/Kvz-QjbF4OA?t=450
Also, if you were one of those people who was confused why Raymond was calling from a payphone while he had his own phone: sorry about that, I made an editing error; Raymond doesn't have a phone. Should be fixed now.
6/16/19