Assassin Brain Vomit

Ch.1   My Awesome Introduction


  Crash! A glass bottle broke on the alley floor. The liquid exploded from it like a bomb. They forced him against the wall, practically lifting him from the ground. He was stuttering and angry as hell but he struggled to counter the force of the two steroid-whored muscle men.

  “P-Put me down! You motherfuckers - ow! - put me down!”

  “What did you call us?” One of them asked. He was the leader of the group. And though most of the guys were abnormally buff men, he was surprisingly lean, looking more like an gorgeous, Brad Pitt-esque assassin than a bully. This made me slightly concerned. Not that I just called a man gorgeous, but that he was an assassin. Don't get me wrong, though. Me calling a man gorgeous is something to be concerned about too.

  “I...” he paused to catch his breath through the pain, “…c-called you all mother… fuckers.” I smirked in the shadows. This guy had spunk. There was a tense and shocked silence where I took the time to survey this guy.

  He was a little older than me: twenty-seven or something like it. He had blood everywhere: matted in his brown hair, dripping from his nose, sprayed on his brown trench coat, even on his damn shiny shoes. I was surprised he wasn’t passed out from the loss of it all. In fact, his eyes were practically on fire with his determined, cocky attitude. I don’t know where he was getting all his cockiness from; he acted like he actually knew how he was going to get out of his fatal situation. I knew how he was getting out of it…but he didn’t.

  I almost (note, almost, because I am a stone-cold fox) flinched as I saw one of those bodybuilder, steroid-whores punch this guy in the face. His black-framed glasses flew off his face and blood sprayed the brick wall behind him. I frowned. This wasn't a fair game (Yeah, I know, don't "no shit, sherlock" me.)

  I was going to let it go a little farther, I wanted to catch the leader at the perfect vulnerable moment, but I saw his hand fingering the handle of a gun inside his pristine white coat and I knew playtime was over.

  Stepping out from the shadows, I pulled out my pistol aiming perfectly at the pretty boy leader’s head. Yes, pretty. Shut up. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Everyone turned to look at me. It was like a movie. The moment was all slow-motion like and a breeze blew through the alley, billowing my coat. I must have looked like such a stereotypical superhero; I wanted to flinch. Let's get this straight, I am not a superhero. I have a hero complex, sure, but I am not a hero.

  All the steroid-whores stared at me, dumbfounded. I’d like to say it was because of my radiating handsome-ness but I think the gun in my hand stole the show. Ah, well. Only pretty boy leader seemed unfazed. Cocky victim boy seemed to know me but was surprised too…I guess.

  “Well,” pretty boy said, twirling his gun around his finger, “if I’m not mistaken, you are that rogue assassin everyone’s been talking so eagerly about.” He took a few steps toward me. I kept a watchful eye on his gun, for obvious reasons. “I didn’t think you’d be such a good-looking man, though.” Aha! I knew someone would notice eventually. Why thank you, pretty boy.

  “…mhm,” I muttered, disinterested. I flicked my eyes up to meet his and, without warning, pulled the trigger. Well, before I pulled it I said, "Sorry, not gay!" but that's irrelevant and for comic effect. But anyway, I had a good tactic. Get them when they are trying to pull you into some evil villain monologue, it works every time! They never expect it, narcissistic bastards.

  Now while this inner monologue has been playing in my head and you have, unfortunately and inevitably, been listening to it, I’ve been shooting those silly little steroid-whores. Okay, not little…anything but little. More like big and sweaty. Ew.

  I pulled out another pistol inside my coat and begin picking them off one by one. There were maybe, like, ten? I don’t know; I wasn’t counting. Maybe it was six. Whatever.

  I was just about done and was about to shoot the last one when suddenly I freaked out and twitched my hand so that the bullet hit the brick wall. Now you might say, “Kato, why would you do something like that?” Well my answer is simple, grasshopper. That last one? He was cocky victim boy. Yeah. Not good.

  Cocky victim boy stood against the wall, pale as all hell. Probably didn’t help that I shot at him. “Wh-what the hell was that?!”

  I smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

  “Carried away?!”

  I didn’t bother to continue with his frivolous conversation. I stepped over a dead, very unsexy, steroid-whore-man and stopped to gaze at the pretty boy. I knelt down and brushed his bleach white hair back from his face. I had shot him right in the forehead. But it was a small hole; he was still pretty. And I mean that in a very manly way.

  “Tsk,” I sighed. “You could’ve been a great movie star.” I slid his eyelids down over his eyes. “Ivo the Movie Star sounds way better than Ivo the Gang Leader.” I paused, contemplating that sentence. “Well actually, not really. But that’s...besides the point?” I ended lamely.

  “Who are you?”

  I turned around to glare at cocky boy. He lost his “victim” title privilege. I stood up, blowing my black hair away from eyes. “I guess you weren’t listening to the pretty boy, were you, Cocky Boy?!” I hissed at him, probably faster than he was able to understand. “I’m the rogue assassin everyone been talking about…I guess! I don’t know about everyone, I haven’t been tracking my popularity status as of late. I can’t exactly go stalking around like Peter Parker, reading newspaper headlines, because I don’t have a cool suit-mask-thing! But I’m digressing! The name’s Johnny.” I thrust my hand in his, shaking it briefly and sporadically. “Follow me.” I bolted off down the alleyway. Oh, by the way, as I'm sure you've figured out, my name's not Kato. But you didn't know that before. Your fault.

  I heard his footsteps following me seconds after. “Cocky Boy?” he muttered to himself. I huffed. It seemed that my innocent victim was a narcissistic bastard too.

  “Shut up, evil villain-wannabe! And pick up your glasses!” His footsteps halted and I heard the tinkling of broken glasses following by his forlorn sigh. I smirked, at least was an obedient cocky boy. He had earned his “victim” title privilege back.

  “Hurry up, Cocky Victim Boy!”

  A pause.

  “I-what? God, you’re so fucking weird!”