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It's funny, the way it is.
Today could have been a normal day. Matt and I could have rolled out of bed and ordered Chinese. We could have rented a movie to watch. We could have gone to the park and played basketball.
Instead, we assaulted a team of five men from a rival gang by ourselves. And lost.
It's funny, the way it is.
Somewhere, right now, there is a person staring in the mirror and wishing he had done something productive. There is a woman eating dinner alone. There is a couple eating pizza and watching a movie. Right now, somewhere in the world, someone is probably smiling.
Meanwhile, Matt is unconscious in the corner.
And I can barely breathe.
A boot crashes into my gut again, and I can't help but cough up a little more blood. A string of saliva stretches from the corner of my mouth to the concrete of the warehouse floor.
And somewhere, someone is smiling.
"The fuck should we do with these punks?" One of the guys asks.
"Don't know," another replies. "Keep kicking until we think of something."
It's funny, the way it is.
Some men enter competitions to see how much pain they can withstand. Others visit a doctor for a little bee sting. Somewhere, someone has to be in as much pain as I am in.
The kick lands against my jaw, and white bursts of light pop in front of my eyes. I can't feel my tongue in my mouth. It's probably swollen.
"I don't think that pup's gonna make it, Chico," one of the men says, spitting at Matt's limp form. "Want me to get rid of 'im?"
"Chuck him in the dumpster," the man with the boots orders. I find myself quickly becoming familiar with the taste of his footwear. "This one's almost ready to join him."
He grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me to my knees, punching me in the nose. I can feel my blood running down my neck, seeping into my shirt. I close my eyes, holding my breath. I hope he thinks I had fallen unconscious.
It's funny, the way it is.
Some guys can pretend to be anything in the world, and everyone will believe them. Some guys can't fool a soul. Somewhere, someone is getting away with murder.
He kicks me in the ribs again and I feel myself choking and coughing. He laughs and hoists me up higher by my hair. My legs are too battered to keep me on my feet. I dangle in his grip.
"Look, little pussy cat, I don't ever wanna see your sorry ass around here again, you got me?" He snarls in my face, holding my chin between his pudgy fingers. "I could snap your little chicken neck right now. You remember in that fuzzy little head of yours that Sully Rex and his Angeles Anacondas spared your life. You hear me?"
I mumble something incoherent, trying to nod my head without ripping my hair from its roots. He smirks and grabs my shirt collar, lifting me into the air as though I am a rag doll in his hands. With the other guys snickering in the background, he throws me into the dumpster on top of Matt's nearly-lifeless body.
It's funny, the way it is.
Sometimes, a man gets a really lucky break when things are looking sour. Sometimes, a man gets a really unlucky streak when things were starting to look up. And sometimes? Sometimes, pure dumb luck just happens.
Matt begins to stir before the smell hits my nose. Pure, raw garbage. Mostly boxes and bad lunches. Matt lifts his head and gives me a pained smile, then his eyes travel to something beside my head.
I follow his gaze and see it. A crowbar, too bent to aid the usual warehouse workers, but it will do. His eyes flutter shut as I grasp it in my hand, wondering if I have the strength to move.
It's funny, the way it is.
Adrenaline can cause some pretty amazing things in some people. Somewhere, a man is picking up a car to save a toddler. Somewhere, a woman is outrunning her baby's carriage before it hits the water. Somewhere, a cop is dodging a bullet to take down a murderer.
And here in this dusty warehouse, adrenaline pushes my body out of the filth of the garbage, crowbar hidden behind my back. I limp my way to the men who keep joking with one another as they head toward the exit. One turns around and sees me.
"Looks like the jackass wants another taste of your shoe!" He grins, turning his head for only a moment. Before he can turn back, my crowbar fractures his skull.
It takes seconds for three more guys to leap at me. I take them on swinging wildly, blindly hitting, not knowing whether I am landing the blows on anything but air. One man stands back watching. I keep him in the corner of my eye as blood spatters on the concrete floor.
The man with the boots lands at my feet, and I step on his head. He doesn't move. I use his face to boost myself, launching my battered body at another guy. He hits the floor shortly after. The final guy sinks to his knees, reaching for a gun. I slam the bar against his arm and hear a snap. He screams, and the gun skitters across the floor. I hit the guy until he stops struggling.
It's funny, the way it is.
Sometimes, a man can miss the most important details of a situation while focusing on the big picture. Sometimes, a man's senses are dulled by pain and fear.
But hearing the gun cock shoots me into a still silence. I stare down the fifth man, feeling my own blood dripping from my nose and mouth, each breath laborious and painful. He holds the gun steady, focusing directly on my skull. I hear my own heart beating inside my chest.
"You got some balls, little pussy cat," he speaks softly. "Those guys were my friends."
"Your friends…were shit…" I spit, blood heavy on my swollen tongue.
There is an eerie stillness in the air for a moment, before his rich laughter rings out. He lowers the gun, giving me a smirk that sets me on edge.
"Yeah, they were. I'm kind of impressed, kid. They didn't even have time to cut you." He walks over to the bleeding bodies at my feet and gives the booted man a swift kick. "I'm impressed," he repeats.
"And?" I ask, wheezing.
"How about you come with me? That's not a question, pussy cat. You're coming with me. I could use a man with some gonads on my side." He sticks out his hand and grasps mine, giving my bruised fingers a hearty squeeze.
It's funny, the way it is.
Somewhere, a sweet couple kiss in the dark when their movie ends. Somewhere, someone is lying awake in bed wondering why they can't seem to make it past Assistant Manager. Somewhere, a woman looks out her window and wonders when her husband is coming home.
"My friend's coming, too," I tell him. He nods in agreement.
"If he's still breathing, we'll get him somewhere comfortable for the night." The man shakes his head, jabbing his thumb at the dumpster. "Get him."
I limp to Matt and help him out of the bin. I wrap his arm around my shoulder and walk him toward the exit. The man puts his big hand on my shoulder and laughs.
"Call me Ross. Rod Ross. You got three days to lick your wounds before you start training for me, pussy cat. I hope you're ready."
It's funny, the way it is.
Somewhere, someone is dying in the hospital after a beating like mine. Somewhere, someone is crying over a son lost in a gang war. Somewhere, someone is giving birth to a child that will die before Christmas this year.
And in this warehouse, bleeding and bruised, I am smiling.