The Paper Knight and the Killing Tree
Chapter Two: A Crash Landing
Billy thanked his one lucky star this little bitch wasn't crying.
He didn't do comfort, especially with little girls he didn't fucking know. And if she were to whine, and cry, she'd attract more of those mutants and they'd up and truly fucked. Billy's nostrils flared looking down at the little Sinclair, he didn't know there were two of them. If he had he would have played things a little differently.
Well, apparently a whole helluva lot differently because where the absolute fuck were they now? Billy tongued his lower lip out, and shifted his weight to his better leg. His left ankle would be a hundred percent if he could rest it for a few hours.
The chill here sunk into his bones differently than Hawkins usually did. This chill kept him alert, on a razor's edge that focused him.
Billy attentively turned in a full circle, scanning the dim, stagnant forest in front of him. Everything reeked like damp mold, decay, and marsh muck. A regular nuclear meltdown 'Alice in Wonderland'. 'Don't stop here this is Bat Country'.
Stephen King would cream his khakis for inspiration like this.
Billy strained his neck, but didn't hear anything other than the girl in front of him rustling leaves with her gooped-up keds. He squinted into the distance, but didn't see anything lurking behind any bushes or trees.
He'd totally had been through worse.
Billy thought of that one time he had his face completely dismantled by those Crips outside that run-down liquor store that never had Antoine's brand of whiskey in stock. But back then he had his crew. He had his family. He wasn't alone.
He'd give his left nut to even have one of them here.
Javier would be the most useful. He stood 6' fucking 2'' and was built like a Cadillac. He also had a spooky sixth sense for when danger was about to go down. His Colombian madre drilled all sorts superstitious tales into him real young. They both claimed if they saw dark butterflies it meant someone close to them died (They swore them before Antoine and his Maman). They also both believed 'El hombre caiman' (a damned alligator-man), and 'La Tundra' (one ugly moss-covered vampire bitch), and others crept through the Colombian jungle as sinister monsters.
Billy thought they were just ghost stories Javier, or Sang Hoon's auntie told him when he still wore velcro shoes, but after this, it held water.
Damn, he was going to fuck this whole thing up and get eaten. It was established fact Billy was just too damn reckless. Mei would know what to do; she was the dictionary definition of paranoid.
Though that prickly priss would just be bitching in mandarin over how the muck would never wash off her knock-off snakeskin pumps 'Wo de gaogenxie shi zang! Wo de gaogenxie shi zang!' (my heels are filthy! my heels are filthy!). Billy smirked, then frowned when a fresh shank of dread scraped across his ribs.
No, he wouldn't wish this place on any of his old crew.
It pissed Billy off that after his beat-down Friday night he kept thinking of his old family back in LA. He had done a damn good job pushing them out of his mind until now. His cutesy jaunt through memory lane wasn't going help him, or this little bitch.
The kid coughed on the air.
Merde(shit) the chemicals must be airborne. This place set him on edge more than any alley in South Central. He still couldn't even hear anything, not that Hawkins was especially loud to begin with….
Was this Hell?
Did Neil finally kill him just like he always implied he would after Maxine got old enough?
He glanced down at the girl with the filthy pink dress who was just itching her bloody scalp. That mutant did rip out a softball sized poof of her hair.
WAIT. If this was hell, why the FUCK would this girl be there with him?! And why was it cold?!
And why wasn't Neil here?
Despite still being woozy from chloroform Neil used on him when he pulled up to the house (of course Neil would swipe some from his shit refrigeration factory job), he saw and heard that mutant rip his throat out.
Also, all those other gang-bangers and whoever the fuck else they helped put down in LA haven't shown their ugly mugs. Those pissdrinkers would definitely be itching for some payback after what he and his crew did to them. Especially what Antoine did to that one guy with the Old Crow bottle. That was a particularly hard-ass scrap Antoine won.
So yeah, definitely NOT Hell.
Billy never was about any sort of religion anyway. A lot of fucking good it did to have faith that someone or some God would save them. Guard them. When you died, you were dead. Praying didn't save his Maman (mom), and it certainly didn't do any favors for his Pépère et Mémère. No matter how many Kinara or advent candles his Maman lit, God never blessed their home.
Oh.
That was just fucking it.
That mutant flowerdog had to have dragged the little bitch into the tree-tunnel to lure him its territory.
It explained why she was almost completely unscathed from the attack, the Mutant only had her by her fucking hair! When he dove through that big fucking tree tunnel to get the brat back (which obviously ended in spectacular failure, fuck up number infinity), they must have ended up in the hidden toxic waste dump where these things lived.
He thanked his lucky stars he met Bayani, and took all those countless years training to properly knife fight so he could carve it up.
'You always get cut. Control where you get cut.' Bayani cut him across the outside of his arm. Son of a bitch! 'Get your ugat (artery) cut.' Bayani gestured to the inside of his arm. Bayani spoke more to him in the past ten minutes than he did in one day. 'Dead in siyam mintuos (nine minutes).' Apparently Baya learned Kali from his dad who had served in the Filipino Armed forces. Bayani once told him while training he never talked much because he heard too many voices in his head.
Rule number one about knife fights still held true: that fucking mutant carved out skin and meat out of his right temple with one of his claws. It stung, bled like a sieve, and it'd definitely scar, but it'd probably look bitchin'. His scars didn't know easy now that he wasn't in the sun anymore, but that cut was certainly would do the trick.
He looked down at the dead mutant that ATE Neil. It was carved open like a fucking retard kid's jack-o-lantern. He nudged it a bit. If it wasn't a fucking mutant (and didn't drag them here) he'd be hard pressed to not give it a collar and leash. That Doberman lover, Marcus, could probably train the damn thing. He could hear that goofy bastard now: 'rapporte' (fetch), 'au pied' (heel).
"Well. Are you just gonna stand there or be useful?" She had her hands on her hips, and though her face was bruised up she didn't seem to give a damn.
Billy's jaw dropped a bit as he cocked his head. This brassy tart had a mouth on her, but he far from minded it. This wasn't that fake-ass, kiss-ass, Midwest cooing that all the boring cows here sported. She had big city sass. She couldn't have possibly been born in this pasture these hicks dared call a town.
This cleared out the cluster-fuck that was his own head.
"Useful? Who do you think stabbed that mutant dog to death that tried to eat that dry bush you call a hairstyle?" Billy countered and he could not believe he was having this conversation with a…well he didn't know how old she was. He was shit at ages. He couldn't fault her completely though, like there was a hair dresser in Hawkins who could do a decent cornrow or box braids. She had to probably get it cut by that fat Italian fuck or her mom.
Well, not it that mattered now. Most of her hair was shredded off anyway due to being used as bait. If they were in LA he knew Marcus could salvage it like he did for his lil sis from time to time. He'd carve some zigzags, stars or shit into it. She'd be the sickest kid in this dumbfuck town.
"My hair? Mmmm, I have two words for yours. Nappy trainwreck. And yours didn't even get eaten by Cujo." What?! This little bitch just used a slur for her hair against him? Billy just cackled despite breathing in what had to be toxic chemicals. He lowered himself into an Asian squat to her level and glared at her. Instead of trying to unnerve her, he was trying to scrutinize her.
"You haven't watched Cujo." Billy challenged sharply, studying her face for a lie. He was pretty damn good at that shit. You had to be where Billy and his family came from.
"Have so. Donna kills it with a baseball bat. I bet Lucy Harris a pack of gum that she couldn't get her big brother Tommy to sneak us in the movies. She fell for it, joke's on her. She cried during the movie and gum is trashy." The little shit smiled proudly. Billy barked out another harsh laugh. True. Why chew something if you weren't gonna eat it?
Wait…
Harris? Tommy fucking Harris. Sinclair's little sister played Tommy and his little sister. Billy wondered absently if that was how a groveler like Tommy Harris ended up friends with Steve Harrington, alpha-fucking-betical desk order.
Back on track.
There was absolutely no way this broad was Sinclair's sister. Two black families had to set up shop in this hillbilly town.
"What's your name, Little Hickshit?" Billy asked suddenly.
"What's yours, Big Cityshit?" She echoed back. She had to be the only person in this whole fucking town who dared call him that.
"I asked first, and I dibs because I killed Cujo." Billy flashed his eyes, and jutted his chin to the festering gut-fest.
"Uh. I get dibs because your bigot dad tried to murder me. Hellooooo." She swerved her pointer finger around in the air. Sassy cunt.
He couldn't hide the wince at the truth of the statement though. Putain(fuck), like he'd apologize for Neil Hargove's actions. He cut his gaze away and clicked his tongue.
The funny thing was, he hadn't told anyone in this weak town of Hawkins his whole name. Or the name he had before he had to move in with Neil one year, eleven months, and twenty one days ago.
"Luc William Hargrove. Billy." No fuck that. He was taking his real name back even if it only lasted a little while, and the only fucking witness was Sinclair's little sister.
"Luc William Loga. Still Billy." It felt satisfying to say his last name and not get be paranoid of suffering a beating for it. He stressed Billy because only Ant called him Luc, the rest had just called him Loga.
He wanted it to stay that way. If Little Hickshit referred him anything other than Billy, she'd be the one to suffer Maxine's bitter bitchiness, and who knew what else.
He bit out with a bloody cough. Fuck this…fluff shit. It was like breathing in fucking fiberglass. Then the little bitch's eyes went wide.
"How do you not even know your name?! Did you get hit on the head too hard cuz Loga isn't even a real last name." She dared to gesture at his head, knowing his mug was all busted and gross.
"It's real, just not real fucking American, sweetheart." He gave her his best unhinged smirk, but she just scrunched her face up in confusion.
"And Luke? Like in those space nerd movies my brother watches? The one with the big foot who makes the whiney noises?" She had incredulous look on her round face that made him want to just ditch her. Just what the fuck was he doing anyway? That movie came out after he was born for fucks sake.
"Yeah, well, why do you think these backwater pendejos know me as Billy? All that nerd shit does is pander to weak-willed, passive virgins who live their lives through their own escapist fantasies." It was true.
Nerds like Sinclair and the rest of the geekqueefs needed to wise-up and put in the necessary, sweat, blood, and tears to survive in the real world. It probably wouldn't happen in that order.
"Mmmmmhmmmm. I can see why my brother hates you. You're so not a nerd. You can actually dress, and your sports car is cool." That admission caused Billy to pause. This Little Hickshit knew who he was this whole time?!
Well, maybe 'Big Cityshit' should have given it away.
He got played.
"You gotta…" Billy balled his hands into fists. He wasn't going to lay hands on this girl. He had never sunk to that level, but an instinctual thrust of anger over his wounded pride sparked anyway.
'This isn't South Central. I have nothing to prove to her. I'm the baddest thing here.' He was the King and he would hold. His. Ground. No one here would dare try to claim his turf. Also, the only real threat to his existence was now half inside (or outside) Cujo.' Billy calmed himself.
Well, he'd be willing to share dominion of Hawkins if King Steve ever woke up and rose to the occasion.
"And here I thought there was no way you could actually be Sinclair's sister, what bulhaeng (shit luck)." Billy and Little Hickshit hacked out a wet cough at the same time.
THIS ASBESTOS RADIOACTIVE MESS. PUTA MADRE! (mother fucker)
If he didn't survive the Cujos, he'd be dead in a week according to what happened to that broad, Blair. Just super. (dae bag! Sang Hoon would say sarcastically).
"Bull what?" She reared her head back after her coughing fit.
He slipped up in Korean. He had been real careful about only speaking English in Indiana outside the occasional 'amigo'.
"Forget it. Listen, getting out of this hellhole will be a lot easier if you don't hate me over the scrap between your brother and I." He stood up, absently touching his bandaged ribs. Dieu Merci (thank God) they were mostly bruised with only one cracked. If Neil had broken his ribs he'd have never made it to Little Hickshit in time.
"I'm Erica Diana Sinclair. And I don't hate you, you're just acting stupid. Please, if someone like you," She gestured pointedly. "wanted to really hurt my brother, I think he'd at least have a bump on that big egg-shaped noggin of his or something." Billy cocked an eyebrow at her. There was no way she had come up with that. Hawkins kids weren't that clever. Then again this this one was different.
"That's at least what my momma said, and my momma is always right. My dad didn't agree at first, but then he did. He doesn't like you." She stuck out her hand for a handshake. A truce? Fuck it.
"Your mother is a smart woman." Billy managed, he didn't care about her old man. He had no doubt that whatever genes Sinclair's mother had skipped one kid entirely and ended up entirely in her. At least he was going to die with someone who wasn't a complete flat tire.
He grabbed her elbow, slid his hand down her arm and clapped her hand and gave her the pistol finger.
"I don't shake hands like I'm in a fucking bank, Little Hickshit." Billy grinned. Might as well make some fun out of what could be the last few hours of his life. Billy wasn't an optimist, whatever death forest they were in he probably wasn't going to make it. But, he'd sure as hell die fighting and try to get this Little Hickshit out…wherever out was.
"Hmph, I bet the only time you were in a bank was to rob it." She smirked, and he smirked back. The mouth on her!
"I've cashed plenty of welfare checks at the teller. 'sides, I was the wheelman, and we knocked over a payday loan place, not a bank." Billy winked and he knew she half believed him. He wasn't going to give away if it was actually true.
"Well, I guess your mom has to be real smart too, cuz your dad was a damn fool." Billy grunted in agreement at the little girl in front of him smiling like she knew a secret. Little Hickshit seemed to really getting information out of him.
"Had." He corrected automatically. He dug around in his jacket pocket aaaannnnd…FUCK YES! Maybe his luck was turning around because he found his zippo and a crumpled, half pack of cigarettes. How those didn't fall out of his jacket, but he lost his mother's necklace was just a crazy coincidence he supposed.
Well, stranger things had happened.
He scanned the forest again. He thought he saw something but maybe he was just having a vision, like Bayani since he saw auras and all sorts of visions. Billy squinted weirdly enough, even though he followed mutant Cujo into a wasteland, the place they were in looked similar. It was kinda like they were in the same woods, but everything just fucking sucked.
Luc William Loga didn't do the 'great outdoors' so he had no idea which cardinal direction they should go in, or how to find North. Cujo dragged the Little Hickshit around to lure him somewhere, so he couldn't see that tree where Neil had originally wanted to lynch them.
He flicked the lighter and lit a cigarette, the Little Hickshit had gone quiet and he looked down her. She was just staring with her big dark eyes at him.
"What."
"Nothin."
Ok… He took a long drag. Oh it felt so good. He only had five good ones left. He would have to save at least one for the end.
Billy's head spun, lightheaded. This radioactive dandelion fluff he was breathing in had to be fucking with him. He worked out too much and did too much cardio conditioning to be feeling this weak.
He wiped the monster goo on the hunting knife on his jeans and put it through his belt. The knife was a solid piece, eight inch fixed blade bowie. Sharpened. His old man at least had good tastes in knives.
Oh. He puffed out a smoke ring for kicks.
"Look, Little Hickshit, I'm no fucking knight in shining armor. If you wanted that, you should wish upon a star that Steve 'shining-knight' Harrington will show up on a white horse. I'm not gonna carry you if that's what you're angling for. We gotta move because whenever you kill a top dog, something else always comes 'round to take its territory." Billy spoke another truth he knew. Turf warfare was his bread and butter. He bet whatever Cujo really was, he ruled as the alpha of this neck of the woods. Another Cujo would eventually come around to fill the power void. It was the same in South Central, and it was probably the same here.
Cujo eat Cujo.
"I don't need any knight, Big Cityshit. I can walk by myself. I just went from Brownie to Girl Scout, I got my survivalist badge, and I've camped here. I know here. That tree Cujo dragged me though was the Killing Tree. We read about it in history class, but you aren't from around here so I guess you wouldn't know. We had a campout there once and my mom was sooooooo mad when she found out. She slapped Sarah Thompson's mom so hard her earring fell out and they never found it. The Killing Tree is this way." Erica Diana Sinclair could have just saved their miserable lives.
"After you then, Girl Scouts before the Flip-Outs." He overheard plenty what the bumpkins in Hawkins made up about him.
"Girl Scout before He-man." She corrected. She looked at him again in that way that meant that she was pointing out the obvious. Though It wasn't full of piss and spikes the way Maxine always said it. "Muscles. Sword. Half a shirt." Ok, she was really playing him then. He-Man? Him?
"And you say I hit my head hard." He huffed. He'd let her have her stupid Barbie fantasy. Besides, barbarian totally fit him more than a knight did, and this knife might as well be Greyskull the way he could wield it.
"Me? That was Lucas. He was the practice kid. They got it right with me." It just dawned on Billy that he and Sinclair almost had the same fucking first name. Napakarumi (yuck).
"That's pretty damn obvious." He muttered. Especially if Sinclair preferred to seek Max's company. He took another relieving drag.
They walked in silence until they reached the dark, winding Killing Tree. The hillbilly lynching tree loomed like an impossibly tall basketball hoop in a bit of a clearing. He could tell why all those bigots chose it. It had one thick branch just at dunking height. He walked around and even saw the nooses that Neil had somehow tied together.
Then Billy saw the rotting signs. He had missed them in the moonlight when he had been fighting the chloroform and saving Little Hickshit from a mutant.
'Faggot.' 'Nigger bitch'
Billy's blood froze to ice, and his heart hardened to marble.
He knew it.
Ta dangran zhi dao! (He fucking knew it)
He knew it was Neil all along. No pig on at the LAPD at the time listened to him or what Jerry had to say. The 77th precinct didn't care about the gays or the blacks, and certainly not the gay blacks. Susan didn't give two shits, or was in such a pit of denial... SON OF A BITCH.
It was the same size cardboard sign, same cramped handwriting. Same fucking-every-fucking-thing that hung around Antoine's neck.
He reached towards he rotted, sodden pieces of cardboard, and his hands were fucking shaking like a little bitch. He could barely grab one, and yank it closer.
Billy shrieked.
It was a hoarse, crazed sound that howled through the air and he didn't even recognize his own voice leaving his throat or think it could make that sound. His whole body was in the throes of an uncontrollable earthquake.
There was a part of him, a small splinter, that hoped that maybe Neil wasn't the complete shit-heel who would be that vindictive. That Antoine Kabore simply pissed off the wrong Crip or skinhead at the wrong time.
Billy took out the knife and brutally stabbed the sign like he had actually grown the balls to stab Neil. Over and over. Again. Encore. Otre vez. Dali. Zaici. Muli (Again).
He remembered how he'd sponge his hands down on Antoine's flat-top. He could never grow out as far as his cousin Marcus because his hair was just a bit too fine. He would run his hands down his smooth, hard abs the same color as the syrup they poured on their burnt pancakes. He treasured the quiet conversations they had in French knowing no one could understand a damn raunchy word they threw at each other. Antoine had a dick that could turn a dyke straight (which always left him sore) and shoulders that could carry all of LA. His kisses though…those could stop time on a dime.
He still remembered the stupid dimple he had on his right cheek (face), but not his left. Billy occasionally laughed at the birthmark on his left cheek (ass) that looked like a pineapple.
Antoine drove like Ray Charles, and cooked like him too. Antoine caught a toaster on fire with nothing in it, and backed into the same fire hydrant twice in a row. He also had the tackiest taste in earrings and shoes. Billy wore all jewelry and high-tops he stole for him anyway. He'd layer those god-awful chains over his mother's pendant and pierced his ears three times for all that flash. Billy made up for it by helping him learn to read and write worth a damn, pick out a decent outfit, and how to dance.
Yeah, white boy teaching a black one how to dance. Backwards as fuck. Well, his Maman did show him more than a few moves. It was one of jobs after all. Also, he wasn't 'wonder bread' white so Antoine didn't lose too much cred.
Along with dancing, Billy taught him how to place kick, in return, Antoine introduced him to basketball.
'Plantez vos pieds, Luc.' Ant taught him everything he knew about basketball. He did it even knowing Billy would never be tall enough to amount to anything. He partnered with him with two-on-two no matter what. Billy wasn't stupid, Antoine could have chosen any taller black guy in the neighborhood but he always chose him.
Billy toiled for it.
He'd practice till his fingertips bled to earn every shining smile and chest bump. 'Hard work beats talent when talent doesn't work hard'. Despite all the doubters, Billy eventually upped his game, and together he and Anthony reigned as kings of their court. And BOY did they hold court.
Until Antoine was fucking hung over their court.
Their basketball hoop. Their bent netless rim and sun-faded backboard. Neil killed HIS KING. He killed the person who dared to lift him up as one of the unlikely kings over their worn out, ghetto court. Antoine dangled from it like a cheap Halloween prop, the cops thought someone was simply 'making a STATEMENT'. The 77 precinct pigs was right, only it wasn't some random drug deal who did it, that random someone was NEIL, and that statement was that his family would never be safe if Billy Loga kept screwing up.
Billy's body heaved like waves in a storm surge as he kept wailing into the ground with the knife. His hair stuck against his wet cheeks, and he couldn't BREATHE.
"He really did it. I was right, the sonuva bitch. Neil killed Ant. Mon petite coeur. He killed my fucking King. He should have never…." 'chose me' wasn't said. His lungs shook like a spray paint can and his nose and throat were swollen and snotty. This HAD to be hell. He was reliving this all over again.
He was over Antoine, and he knew it. He knew it because of the way that Steve…
"—shit. Billy. Get up already! You're He-man, not Cry-man!" Billy jumped up to attention and immediately he stopped all motion. Little Hickshit had him by flap of his jacket. FUCK. He had stood up so fast he saw spots in his vision (when did he get on the ground?). Little Hickshit toppled over and bit it.
She was shaking. He freaked her out. FUCK.
"…"
"…"
"I know what that word means. Faggot. I heard Matthew Benson say it to Jason Smith on the playground last year. I called Lucas a faggot when he used the last of the syrup. My mom gave me a biiiiig whooping. She told me it was a bad word like nigger, and it meant when a boy like liked only boys and that it was the way it just was." Little Hickshit explained, still sprawled out on what was probably radioactive waste.
Putting the knife away, Billy offered a hand pulled her up. His breathing had finally evened out, and he shook out his limbs, ignoring the pain lancing through his ribs. The pain actually grounded him. They still had to get out of here. He couldn't keep living in the past. LA was long ago in his Camaro's rear view mirror. He had to get her out of this hellscape.
Billy swallowed thickly.
"You tell anyone about this, and your barbies get a closed casket funeral. You got that Little Hickshit?" Erica Diana Sinclair made a zipper motion to her lips and threw away the key.
Billy almost snorted up his snot and wiped the rest on his denim jacket sleeve when little shit bird handed him a damn purple polka dot handkerchief.
"Thanks." They still made these? He made a mucus-mess of it.
"Keep it, you obviously need it more than me. Your daddy is lucky he got eaten by Cujo, because my momma woulda done way worse." Little Hickshit admitted, and even though Billy never met the woman, he believed what she said ten thousand percent.
Billy, emotional fucking breakdown over, head on straight, tapped out another cigarette. Snick went the lighter and he inhaled. MUCH better. He knew where he was now, and could tell were to go. If this place was the same time as Hawkins, just an ultra shitty version of Hawkins, then Neil's pickup would still be on the road.
He could hotwire Neil's pickup easy enough. He knew that there was a utility box in the bed too. He had to arm Little Hickshit, they had to work together to have a chance making out alive.
Marcus, Antoine, and Javier had built themselves up as the defense. Those three did the protecting. He and Sang Hoon prided themselves on agitation and retaliation. Baya and Mei were just…. well, Mahuhulaan (unpredictable).
Billy' own protective role in this scenario was all sorts of upside down.
He was used to having someone having his back, not the other way around. Well he supposed it was about time to return the favor for what Ant, Marcus and Javier had done for him. He could teach her the ropes. He was younger than she was when he started to fend for himself, and she already proved herself to not be a snot-nosed, coddled geekqueef like her brother.
"This way." He exhaled a calming plume of smoke. "He-Man will lead the way. Stick close Little Hickshit, my really badass breakdown may have fucked us royally." Billy growled out as a gruff whisper, expelling out the smoke through his nose to dry it out.
Of course he had to be the one to lose his fucking mind and endanger their both their lives and not the grade schooler. Real solid babysitting, Loga. Maybe he should have given Harrington more credit.
"It's OK." She simply shrugged, like she understood.
Something was amiss. Neil had dragged them to THE Killing Tree like he already knew about it. Did that prick know about this tree when he chose this town? Did Neil going absolutely haywire a la 'Apocalypse Now' Colonel Kurtz Friday night really trigger his final lynching?
Or.
Did Neil have this planned from the moment they left LA? Did Neil pick this jack-hole town to just bide his time until right time to murder him here? Guess it didn't matter now.
He took out the knife with his right hand, and held the cigarette with his left, something pricked the hairs on the back of his neck.
He'd rather cut his own throat to admit it, but when he was little, his flight or fight instinct always naturally erred on flight. He had to train himself to join to the 'fight' instinct crowd and eventually it worked.
His nurtured fight instinct thrummed in his veins Friday night. After he mellowed out for a few hours by smoking in some old pumpkin patch, he knew he had to fight back against Neil somehow.
But he needed help, he always did.
'Plan A' was to somehow convince Harrington to give him a second fucking chance. Of course that blew up in his face. Another classic Loga fuck up there. 'Plan A', just like second chances, rarely worked out anyway, so he settled for 'Plan B' without much bitching.
It did kinda hurt though. He had wanted Harrington to eventually see him as someone who hadn't been always such a massive prick. Billy knew he hadn't been this insufferable in LA. He was happy once.
Guess that ship had sailed. He jammed his hands into his back jean pockets on reflex, and felt plastic.
Jackpot!
He still had that half a gram of coke he scored last night in Indianapolis!
He would save it for when he really needed to fight. It would give him that edge he needed against these mutants. He didn't really relish the thought of doing coke in front of Little Hickshit, but he would give her a quick drug talk first. 'Blow makes you broke. Coke is a joke.'
After all, it's not like he drove all the way to Indianapolis last night to just score mediocre coke.
Hauling ass to Indianapolis was his half-court shot at the buzzer.
He hit the highway, Poison blaring, after he met up and decked Jonathan stalker Byers right in the eye. That would show him to ever call his house, be near his house, or fucking show that photo to that potato shaped junkie chief of police.
Though, astonishingly, the Freak didn't slug him back. Maybe Billy misread him because he bet a guy like that fought dirty. Or maybe he read him right because he actually listened and gave him the film negatives. Well, after he threatened to burn that shack he lived in to the ground with him in it if he didn't.
That was when he left Stalker-boy in the dust with his middle finger in the air.
He knew Neil had not-so-gently suggested a few days ago for Susan to go visit that limp-dicked brother of hers this weekend for a reason. But clueless Billy had thought the reason was more innocent, like he wanted to go the next town over and pick up a hooker, or just beat the shit out of him extra loud.
Nope.
So, 'Plan B' was to go wrangle that simpering bitch Susan back to Neil's house. Billy figured Neil wouldn't go after Sinclair or kill him if Susan's flabby ass sat in the living room babbling about how long she was going to knit his next scarf.
Billy tried to play nice, really. But his pulse jack-hammered in his ears, his hands shook like a junkie, and his chest had clamped his lungs all up on the way. He couldn't get his shit together and he lost it. He place kicked a flower pot the way he broke Harrington's windshield, smashing it against the house. Susan fled back into Ted's house to call the cops (again, another classic Loga success).
He had to light out, so he treated himself for his last night alive. He got stoned, got stitched up, and got blown from some tweaker. (It's not like he'd get a blow job from the one guy he'd been having regular wet dreams about)
Billy swore he was losing his edge since he didn't see Friday night coming at all. He just couldn't help that his thoughts constantly swam with a certain brunet with eyes like velvet, skin like sin, and a cock that would positively be divine to test his gag-reflex on.
He always knew Steve Harrington threatened his sanity and life. He didn't figure Steve would be the end of him before he had a taste of him.
Billy knew Neil banked coming to this 'True American Town' would make him 'gaejeong' (reformed) of his sick affliction. Sang Hoon once told him, high as a satellite on coke, that his mother believed in gay-reformation and told him and Antoine to fool her into thinking they were straight if they ever wanted her mouth-watering bibimbap again. Sang Hoon was safe because he and Mei were fucking like rabbits.
Again, another classic Loga fuck-up that he believed he could ever fool Neil he was 'Gaejeong' to be arrow straight. Especially after Max told him that she had seen him and Ant christening the Camaro.
Still worth it. Billy smirked as he almost tripped over a vine. Little Hickshit saw and laughed at him.
He flipped her the bird.
Unlike now, Friday night Billy was looking and smelling damn fine. He was more than ready to tease some skanks, and harass and flirt with Harrington. But, he nearly shat his Levy's when Neil came for him like the fucking reaper.
Two days earlier, Friday night
"William. What have I taught you about respect and responsibility?" Neil was an immovable tank in the kitchen as Billy exited his room. Billy's throat sewn itself shut.
"It's the tenet of manhood, sir." Billy shelved any attitude, any trace of emotion into a little lockbox in the back corner of his mind.
"Respect. Definition." Neil didn't show his hand on wherever this was going. This was about to get ugly.
"The act of holding someone in high esteem or honor, sir." Billy had that memorized like angle of his dick.
"Responsibility. Definition." Neil persisted.
"To be answerable and accountable for something within one's power or control." Billy had that memorized like his free-throw stance.
"You have it memorized, but you still haven't learned it." Neil exhaled and Billy fought the urge to click his tongue.
"Susan informed me that heard from people in her book and knitting clubs that you stood up a number of eligible young ladies on dates recently. Is that being respectful?" Neil led and Billy swore the temperature dropped ten degrees in the room. Neil's anger was all glacial, not fire.
This blizzard was just getting started.
"No sir. I was not feeling well, sir. I'll apologize to them at school on Monday and take them out again, sir." Billy straightened his back to attention. He braced his hands behind his back just like Neil taught him, and his drill sergeant before him.
Neil paused. He knew that as a change of subjects. Not good.
"Maxine has not just been going to that arcade, or the Wheeler's residence, which I had affirmed were the only respectable enough establishments, other than the shopping mall and school, for her to be spending her time. She has, in fact, been in the Byers' residence which, according to my findings, and curiously enough yours, is simply not responsible." Neil threw down Billy's research on the kitchen table.
It was the researched articles on Will Byers' disappearance, the chemical spill, and his rough sketches and outlines of the Byers' house. He even found his own conclusions on the mutant in the freezer. His sketches of the mutant in the freezer, hand written questions like "Why was Max there?" and "Why was there no sign of that Freak, his bi-polar mother, or the 'zombie boy' who actually lived in that house?" (Gracias a Deus 'thank god' he hadn't written down Harrington's name and just doodled a crown instead).
He had written down conversations he eavesdropped at school and around town about Joyce Byers losing her mind and 'zombie boy'. Billy had 'borrowed' Freakshow's school records for info. He took care to jot down rumors of their deadbeat dad taking off for Indianapolis. He even took down the news reports made by that crackpot private-eye Bauman.
Billy could listen, and listen well. He observed people since diapers and took to languages like a stripper to a pole.
The thing was, he rarely made the smart decisions with the information he collected. That was always Antoine's strength. He made a stupid decision of leaving his research his glove box where Neil found it all.
"I do not approve either, sir. That night a few months ago when I tried to retrieve her…" Billy paused because in no known universe would he ever say Steve Harrington's name in front of this kaesaekki (son of a bitch). Neil punched him so hard he saw stars. He staggered to the kitchen counter.
'Plantez vos pieds, Luc.' Ant.
"Maxine, because of your lack of due diligence in upholding my list respectable establishments, may have been exposed to this chemical outbreak that has already killed one young lady. This creature, you found in the Byers residence is a weapon made by the enemy. You've allowed her to be seen, exposed!" Neil slugged him again and black edged his vision. Billy had to get himself to stand up to attention. He had to.
'Yeah, it's me; don't cream your pants' Steve.
"That is correct, sir." Billy managed to croak out. It wasn't enough. The concrete blow landed to his left ribs and Billy held in a howl. His own words to Max that night echoed in his head.
'You disobeyed me. And you know what happens when you disobey me. I break things.' Himself.
He had assisted and done so much worse in South Central, but he didn't live there anymore and it wasn't necessary anymore. That never stopped him in the heat of the moment though. If Billy was going to get broken, he was going to take everyone else down with him. That's how he survived for so long, you fucked shit up before someone could fuck you up. He had the scars to prove it even if they were invisible or long faded.
It was fact to him: strike before you're struck.
If Maxine didn't see or listen that if she didn't toe the fucking line that he'd be dead, then fuck her freedom. She didn't listen to him to stay in the car the one day in LA, and it almost killed her and Mei. You think she'd learn, but maybe not learning was one of the few things they shared. He'd give her a damn good wake up call to keep himself alive. He had enough self-respect for that.
He'd do it at the expense of the only thing worth his goddamn time in this horseshit down too: Steve Harrington.
If he had to scare the shit out of her and her little geek friends so Neil wouldn't string him or Sinclair (like he knew he did Antoine) then so fucking be it. He would be El Lobo Feroz (big bad wolf) because that's what got results. That's what kept him alive. He and the rest of the crew had to be ruthless and vicious because they weren't involved in a gang.
He'd fuck Maxine's life some and give her some much needed guardrails if it meant he could keep breathing.
"When I was given the news that you, a delinquent thug, had to come under my roof, I gave you one order. Your one order was to look after your younger sister, to protect her from threats foreign and domestic." Neil's face had turned a rare shade of purple that Billy hadn't seen since the incident in LA.
It was times like this, and when Neil did a random 'bunk check' on his stuff, that Billy wondered if Neil really understood that he wasn't in the war anymore. But, the far off, dark look Neil got in his eyes told Billy in black and white that Neil was still spraying the Na Trang jungle with bullets to mow down 'those commie nigger zipperheads'.
See, whatever Billy endured in South Central, meant fuck all compared to what Neil went through in 'Nam. Neil liked to remind him of that with his fists pretty damn frequently lately.
Billy's mouth went cotton dry, what landmine he stepped on to set him off like this?! Even with learning about the toxic waste and his supposed sexual dry-spell, he shouldn't be cornering him like the harbinger of the damn apocalypse.
Neil gripped three remaining pieces of paper like a pit viper.
He threw one on the table. A photo and a letter from the school. Usually Billy parsed through the mail, but he slipped up at some point.
Their stupid radio club. That cue ball biology teacher sent Neil and Susan a letter and a photo of all of the geekqueefs.
Max was holding Sinclair's hand, and only his hand. FINGERS LACED.
A flash of himself and Antoine, holding hands in Jerry's cramped dining room flit through his memory.
"You used your one warning in Los Angeles. Does this—" Neil punctuated his point with another article, with a police sketch of a kid with a buzz-cut.
Shit. Fucking. MEIRDA.
Neil might as well vacuumed the air out of the room and tear gassed it.
Billy meant to toss that article of that crackpot Bauman's ramblings: 'SOVIET COMMUNIST SPY WITH SUPER POWERS running around HAWKINS causes chemical spill'.
"You've allowed the enemy to get close to my family. The war is HERE and you are useless as ever you filthy FAGGOT." Billy saw black and not much else. Pain rocketed through his skull and his hearing warped. He heard a scrape of something familiar. Brass lamp. Another crack of pain at his ribs and Billy grabbed onto something. Kitchen counter. He had to stay standing. He had to. Neil was in full blown 'defend America' mode, and Billy would never fit into his 'America'.
"Merde." Billy wheezed out and he knew he just signed his own death wish. He slipped into French at the worst possible time. Typical fuck up on his part.
"Did you just speak a language other than English in this house?! Is preserving America a joke to you?! We are at war and it is your duty to keep Max safe! That's your only purpose!" Billy sort of heard Neil, but the white hot pulses of pain bursting through his side and face made it impossible to know his voice was coming from. He didn't know if he was on the floor or upright? Probably somewhere in between.
Billy fought the urge to spit the blood pooling in his mouth because if he dirtied a common room it would only make the suffering worse. He couldn't see Neil because of all the black spots in his vision, but Neil's darkness loomed over him like a body bag.
He couldn't fight back because Neil was right.
Billy got that he was a worthless, mostly-white trash piece of shit that fucked wrong, and lived wrong.
"—show the enemy I am committed to America!" Apparently, Neil had been saying something.
"Yes, sir." Billy choked out on his back. Then that stupid brass lamp hit his ankle and he wondered why he said anything at all.
Billy screamed.
He couldn't stand on his own two feet without his crew. He was nothing but a sideways fuck-up misfit. When he was a lot younger, a lot skinnier, a lot shorter, and a lot more wide-eyed, he thought he was right and everyone was wrong about him. He was something, and they all knew nothing. But time after time… he learned it was the opposite.
No matter what his mother cooed and promised, he knew she was just saying those things because she was supposed to. It was her duty to say she loved him, and that being special was useful and good.
It wasn't.
She should have just coat-hangered him.
It would have been a whole lot painless for everyone. Just what was his Maman thinking? What drugs eroded her damn brain to make him think he could belong anywhere? To be allowed to be left in peace. She should have known he'd never just be left alone.
He was stuck on the wrong side of the sick joke of the 'American Dream'. He and the misfits he banned together with that were either kicked to the curb, abandoned, shunned, raped, beaten, were all really just… nothing. Gutter trash. Unwanted, undesired, unnecessary, unable.
Unacceptable.
And they knew it, but being together made it OK. (And at times, truly a blast).
Billy hated Neil, but all Neil really represented was his own inevitable reality: he was only worth what he didn't fuck up.
But, he always ended up dropping the damn ball anyway.
And now some thirteen year old black kid who Neil saw as 'the enemy' (even though Sinclair had probably never even heard, of much less held, a mac-10), was going to pay for his slip-ups. Lucas Sinclair would end up the next Antoine Kabore.
Suddenly, Billy was kicked through something. Screen door. Not the first time. The pang of cold hit him as hard as the steps he tumbled down.
He landed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He saw stars. With his raw, bludgeoned face he saw literal stars. He could never see this many in LA. And fuck, there was even a full moon.
It reminded him of the book 'Le Petit Prince' Maman always read to him. In fact, all of this reminded him of that book.
Billy was just too heavy to return home.
He had a good run though. No one could fault him for it ending this way. He lived longer than most had banked on in LA. He just got too damn careless; he knew it would eventually happen.
'Shoulda just tongue fucked the hell outta Harrington's tonsils when I had the chance. I shoulda done it just to see his cheeks blush. He woulda gotten that classic flustered look on his pretty face. He probably would've run to tell that haughty, skinny bitch Wheeler, too. Dios Mios! She would have shat. Her. Sears. Brand. Panties. I bet Harrington tastes just like how he hits: like cotton candy.' The absurd scenarios that played through Billy's mind would have made him laugh if he could spare the energy or oxygen. You really do think of the most dumb shit right before the end.
Goodnight and good riddance. Fuck you too Hawkins, Indiana.
'Jal Jayo.' Korean, Sang Hoon
'Gudnayt' Tagalog, Bayani
'Buenas Noches' Spanish, Javier
'Wan An' Mandarin, Mei
'Bonne nuit' French, Antoine, Marcus and Maman.
A flash of light blinded him for a second. Headlights? No, too quick, not bright enough.
"Who's there? Who's trespassing?! This is private property!" Billy was distantly aware of a rustling and snapping in the woods, and the heavy, strident gait of Neil running after someone.
Billy's eyes rolled around in his head. Whoever was in the woods was absolutely fucked once Neil found them. Neil was in full 'Nam flashback mode and knew the forest like the back of his hand. Billy sucked in a lung full of cold air. He didn't have time to take a fucking time-out on the bench.
He grunted and groaned to make his right arm work. Right pocket. Keys. Camaro. Get. Gone. Loga lives to see another day! Fuck the odds.
His hands shook and his lungs had twisted and cramped up in his chest. His pulse flooded his ears and he had to gather himself and chill out. He needed a smoke, and a plan. Harrington. Fuck, he needed his help to keep tabs on Sinclair. Harrington white-knighted the geeks, so he'd have to at least hear him out.
No.
Harrington owed him his help because that beautiful naïve jackass was covering for the geekqueefs, and it was going to backfire spectacularly.
Billy crawled, scrambled, and finally limped to the driver's side door of the Camaro that he and Antoine scrimped and saved their blood and drug money for.
Out of sheer grit, was he able to hoist himself into his Camaro, crank the ignition, and roar away from death.
Present time
"Never thought I'd be happy to see this eye-sore." Billy and Little Hickshit had finally made it to Neil's rusted pickup, though it looked like it had dredged out of a swamp, or towed from a coal mine. With his sleeve, Billy wiped the black soot off the windshield, windows and side view mirrors as best he could. He peered through the cab, filthy and ancient. Maybe it wouldn't be so easy to hot-wire it after all.
He tried the passenger side handle of the pickup. Locked.
Billy took the knife and with one decisive blow struck the window with the butt of the knife, shattering it. He cleared the glass and popped open the door.
"Told you. He-Man." He heard from behind him and he bit out a scoff.
He grabbed Neil's old camo jacket from the passenger seat. It was lucky Neil hadn't been wearing it. Little Hickshit needed a jacket; Billy could see her shivering. If they ran into any Cujos with eyes, it may even help hide her.
With a few jagged, and quick cuts, he sliced the sleeves down so it'd be sorta close to fitting her.
"Put this on Little Hickshit, I need you agile, not frozen." He handed it to her and she scrunched her nose. He was about to fucking lose it because for once he just needed someone to not fight him on something so small.
She put it on.
"It smells like my Aunt Marion." She sniffed the sleeve cautiously. Billy rolled his eyes as he looked for a map. He would need a map if they where to go next. He found it in the glove box along with an ancient flashlight.
"Well then, your Aunt Marion is a bourbon kind-of woman." Billy replied back and smoothed out the map on the seat of the pickup. He caught sight of that marker. He picked it up and uncapped it. He was not going to be a pansy over a damn marker. He drew a circle on the map, the edge of the circle being the pickup, and the center being the tree. A pretty large territory.
"What you doing?" Little Hickshit scrambled up and Billy scooted down the bench to the driver's seat giving her room to sit. He began to make circles around the same size in a circular ring around the map starting with the first one.
"Estimating the size of their territory. See, we haven't seen or heard another Cujo, so that means he was little boss of this area. He has to belong to a pack or gang, so there have to be other Cujos at areas around this size in a ring around town. The Cujos are the corner boys, low man on totem pole." Billy explained, he didn't really know if he was talking out his ass or not, but he had to try to be smart about this.
Little Hickshit nodded as if she absorbed what he said.
"That Cujo lured us both in here by dragging you here. It could have killed you easy like it did Neil, but it didn't. The big boss, the Kingpin, is trying to corral us or something." Billy rambled before he even understood what he said.
"Why does it want us alive, Big Cityshit?" She sounded just as confused as he did.
"We're the two hardest people in Hawkins." Billy raised his eyebrows and she wasn't convinced.
"Fine, fuck if I know. All I got is that the closer we get to the center of their territory the stronger and smarter these mutants are going to be." Billy continued to draw circles inside the ring of circles he already drew until he got to the center of the crude 'territory' map he drew.
"You sure curse a lot...wait, I know there." She pointed to the center circle: some woods. "I'm not allowed to play there anymore because that's where Will Byers got lost." That was right. It was the forest between the Byer's...and Harrington's places.
Was that why Harrington was there that night with Max and the other geekqueefs? Did they know something ruled those woods? That meant Steve really was protecting the kids from the mutants.
It would so explain the nail bat.
FUCK.
He called him a damn Paper Knight, his own take on 'zhilaohu'(paper tiger). It meant he looked tough, but was all for show. That wasn't Harrington at all. White knight Harrington wasn't playing voodoo sacrifice with the Cujos, he was protecting them from an attack and hiding the evidence.
No wonder Steve left him high and dry at the quarry.
He had no time for a pity party over burned bridge, though. He shelved his churning guilt for later.
"That's where the king is. I bet you my best pair of earrings. And we gotta kill the King before he corners us." He drew a crown in the middle of the circle, in the center of the woods.
"Keep your tacky jewelry…do you think any of them are like Alien?" She asked and Billy ignored her true statement about his jewelry as turned to her, jaw dropped in confusion.
"You're dressed in pink, play with Barbies, skip damn rope, and are a nine year old girl scout. How in the hell are you into horror mov—" Billy heard a far off shriek. "Close the door, slowly and quietly." Billy whispered and Erica blessed be the lord Sinclair actually listened to him. Billy put the knife in his mouth slid the back window of the pick up open cautiously.
The shriek sounded kinda far off, maybe half a block.
He pushed himself through the back window, Dieu Merci (thank god) his slim frame came in handy for once. He bent over and opened the utility box in the bed, hoping to hit pay dirt. He fumbled around as another shriek pealed through the forest. He grabbed onto the handle of something. Claw hammer. Perfect.
He slipped back into the cab and slid the window closed. He took the knife from his teeth and checked the side view mirror. Another Cujo bristled in the middle of the road behind him. He slunk down, Little Hickshit followed suit.
He didn't have time to hotwire the pickup, they would just have to kill Cujo two here and now. He looked over to Little Hickshit who, while tense, hadn't pissed her tights yet. Good.
"Ok Little Hickshit, you want revenge on Cujo for your mangling your hair, right?" Billy flashed his eyes and smirked like mad. His blood began to surge, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up like needles and adrenaline flooded his system. He could really look forward to killing more of these Cujos.
Little Hickshit gave him a thumbs up and Billy snapped his Jaws with a click in glee. He knew she wouldn't be dead weight! He handed her the claw hammer and she gripped it with both hands, which didn't look as out of place as it should have in her pink painted fingernails. He heard another shriek, farther off. Two of them.
She glanced up from the hammer and made solid eye contact with him. She looked ready and set, but Billy wasn't convinced that just because she had nerves of steel, she could scrap too.
"Forget whatever your Denmother said about putting together birdhouses. Use one hand and put your whole body into your swing, not just your arm. Whole body, hips and all. Think…Thriller." He cautioned as a hoarse whisper.
She made the classic dance motion and grinned knowingly. Good, maybe she wasn't such a hick if she liked MJ.
He knew she couldn't put out much power behind her swing, but the skin on these Cujos was soft like frog skin, not tough like a lizard. She wouldn't need much.
He heard a chirp, that thing had probably heard them and was alerting its novia (girlfriend).
"I see one, our seven o'clock. I'm gonna go out there and slice Cujo Two like birthday cake. If you want, only get out of the truck when I've gotten the attention of both of them. Got it? Be smart, wait for the right moment li—" Billy got interrupted by Erica Diana Sinclair, a grade schooler.
"Donna did Cujo in the movie. I'm not slow, you know. I'll let you do most of the work, you seem to like it….Big Cityshit." Little Hickshit rolled her eyes, but fist bumped him on the shoulder.
"You have no idea." Billy winked and knew his eyes must be lit up like times fucking square.
They did their handshake and Billy grinned with all of this teeth and Little Hickshit managed a small one too.
Game time.
He clicked the driver's side door handle and kicked it open with a sudden metallic bang. Billy vaulted from the driver's seat and planted his feet on the sticky pavement.
Cujo greeted him by opening his big, fat vagina face and gunned towards him.
"Wanna go at me you ugly fuck?! Come to Daddy, I'll show you a real good time!" Billy taunted, his pulse hammering in his ears. Cujo Two raged towards him with scrape of its claws on the asphalt. He knew it was a feint though. Out of his periphery he saw something move in the underbrush. Cuntface number three was waiting for him to make a move on its novio (boyfriend), Cujo two.
But, Billy wasn't born yesterday.
While these Cujos fronted all nasty and bad, they couldn't shoot him like gangbangers did. He had the upper hand in close range combat, he could literally kick their balls into their throats in if he got disarmed.
When Billy Loga kicked something, he disfigured it. Permanently.
Billy waited for the Cujo Two to pounce; its serrated teeth glistened, salivating for him like all those dull skanks at school. But what this thing didn't know was he was the el Lobo Feroz of Hawkins.
He was the one with teeth that were all the better to EAT things with.
He chose a reverse grip on the knife. Billy didn't know what changed between the forest and now, but he wasn't afraid anymore.
He pivoted quick to the left and got in a low horse stance. In a knife fight, you had to use your hands in tandem, with his left hand he punched Cujo Two's right leg up and thrusted high and deep with the knife and slashed low hacking it open. Billy's shoulder got nicked by some of the petal teeth, but you just always got cut. He kneed the bitch hard in the gut for payback.
Cujo Two let out a squeal and collapsed.
Billy waited for the next attack. Marcus taught him that dogs were pretty fucking predictable, and this mutant one was no different. It's only weapon was its teeth, its claws didn't matter.
So when Cuntface leapt over its fallen little fuck-buddy, Billy pivoted again and lunged at it, getting his arms just behind the petals of its stupid, greedy mouth. If he kept moving, Cuntface couldn't latch onto him like Marcus' jumpy Doberman had done twice back in LA.
Using the mutant's momentum against it, he swung Cuntface around in a tight hug and sliced with his knife long ways down its side. It flailed in pain and Billy got the upper-hand by kicking his left leg up and over the mutant to straddle it and slam it down.
Billy forced all his weight into his left arm to pin the screeching Cuntface to the sticky asphalt. He mercilessly stabbed in and cleaved up and around its rib cage, aiming for whatever vital organs these things had.
"How do you like it? Huh? Being hunted?! You stupid bitch I'm gonna EAT you ALIVE!" While Cuntface thrashed its muscle mass beneath him on the asphalt, Billy knew Cujo Two had to be winding up for a second swing. He had to immobilize Cuntface, NOW. He yanked out the knife and this time stabbed it right into its throat to sever either the carotid or jugular. Either would do.
Goop splooshed out. Rank.
The hairs on his triceps pricked up because Cujo Two was almost on top of him.
Shit.
He rolled off the hopefully dead one to brace himself for the flower mouth when Cujo Two stopped, and yelped.
"Hiiiiiiiyaaaaaaaaah!" Little Hickshit's battle cry needed work, but he had heard worse.
She had impaled the claw of the hammer a good inch or two in Cujo Two's stubby, slimy tail. She heaved the hammer back out of its tail with a sick sucking sound. She did it with one hand and she used her whole body to swing again. Quick fucking study!
She struck Cujo Two again and her distraction was all Billy needed to finish the job.
Cujo Two's back leg swiped at Little Hickshit and she tumbled back. Billy couldn't tell if she had gotten hurt or not as he utilized every muscle group to launch himself off the street. He stretched out and slashed down once, twice, then thrusted in and jerked up its exposed neck.
It took forever for Cujo Two to stop twitching.
"That was for my 'do, pendaiyo." Little Hickshit swallowed hard and assumed a victory stance with wide legs and fists on her hips. Billy, sprawled out and panting like he just wind-sprinted six blocks, gave her a look. How did she know 'asshole' in Spanish? Had he said it at some point? He guessed he had.
Javier would be so proud.
"Your pronunciation is off, Little Hickshit. Pen-dey-ho." Billy cleaned the knife as best he could and put away. "Let's hot-wire that piece of junk before more of these come 'round." Billy winced sitting up. He ached all over. Little Hickshit sighed in that dramatic way only touch bitches like her or Mei could pull off.
"You're welcome, Big Cityshit. Let's find water first cuz I'm thirsty and you're all gross and slimy." She made a face that Billy could only assume meant 'I know what you said meant 'thank you' in asshole.'
Erica offered her hand this time to lift him up. He took it, but hefted his own weight up.
"Lead the way girl scout, it's time you earned your GTA merit badge from He-Man." Billy busted his lip open again he smiled so bright and wide. To think he'd genuinely smile here of all places with Erica Sinclair of all people.
She smiled back just as big.
Hello! Sorry for such a lengthy chapter, this one got away from me a little bit!
Thank you for all the support so far, I hope that the backstory with the characters has cleared some things up a bit. If I got any language translations wrong I do apologize.
I will get into more about Billy and his languages, and Erica and how they get along with later. I hope it wasn't too much or too jarring for you all, but please let me know my feedback because I love using different languages in my fics. :)
Also I hope I am not offending anyone who has served in war, I am merely showing how ptsd can effect people's behaviors if left untreated. If anyone is deeply offended by this let me know and I'll try to find a way to rectify it.
I am breadcrumbing some other co traversal elements in my fic for later so feel free to let me know what you think about that if you picked up in it!
Anyway, please drop me a line and let me know if my characters are too OOC or not, I am trying my very hardest with what I have :)
thanks again!
-TL