Saturday, January 18th, 2014 - 10:45 PM PST - The Improvised Surgery Room - Los Angeles, California

My fingers ran across the tender patch of skin underneath where a gash in my head, on account of the barrage of fists that landed on the side of my skull. A gash was there, but thanks to the marvels of improvised medicine, some unused (likely only on hand to stitch wounds up) fishing line and a fifth of tequila, it was all patched up and ready to likely split open again at the slightest hint of provocation. Oh well, couldn't complain too much; I wasn't out cold for days on end like last time. Finally done with caressing my newest scar, I lower my hand to my lap and watch as the woman who fixed me up stuffs the spare supplies back in the meticulously ravaged (Irony? Where you at bruh?) First Aid Kit. The scratched front design of the grim stained formerly white box stares me in the face for a few seconds before she makes it disappear into one of the drawers.

"You're one stubborn son of a bitch, you know that right?" she asks, turning from the drawer towards me. "Two guys? There's proud, then there's just plain stupid."

"I ain't stupid hun," I start, letting a grin spread across my lips. "I'm crazy." Insert slight chuckle for mood lightening. She laughs, shaking her head at my claim.

"Stupid and crazy are two sides of the same coin; don't you think?"

"Depends on who you're asking. You ask a dumbfuck sixteen year old why he does something out of the ordinary, his answer will make him look like a fucking idiot and rightfully so. You ask me why I decided to get into a fight with two guys at once, it's because I'm a nutjob with a deathwish and a chip on my shoulder."

"Is that so?" she asks, backing away from the drawer and closer to the tattered recliner I've been sitting in since I came in here. Her eyes look through me as she turns around and faces me. "Sounds pretty stupid to me."

"I guess you'd recognize stupid anywhere, huh?" That might've come out wrong.

"And what do you mean by that?" Aha! Looks like despite her best efforts to keep me from doing so; I got under her skin. Not the best way to do so, but fuck it. When all else fails, piss 'em off a little. Yeah, that might explain why most of my relationships last on average 36 hours. Oh well, you can get a lot done in a day and a half...

"Well?" She stands up straight, unmoving from where she was the instant she heard what I had to say. I simply smile, cock my head slightly to the side and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumps back a bit, jerking her arm away from me, her furrowed brow glare daring me to answer her.

"What's wrong? Doctor/Patient Confidentiality?"

"Huh?"

"You've seen people come in here for some stupid shit, haven't you? I reckon that I'm not the first asshole who came in here after being in a fight they had no business being in. Maybe, some of them went and got themselves shot. That's what I mean. Hell, from where I'm sitting you're the fucking glue holding this group together."

Her frown quickly disappeared, a smile taking its place and even in the flickering light, I can see she's blushing ever so slightly. She inches her way over to my seat and leans into my ear, whispering: "You really think that?"

"Dead guys aren't the prototypes for effective gang members, are they?" Yeah, it was my turn to ask a fucking question. I'm done answering this shit.

"I guess not."

Fuck it, I need to know this. Something about my conscience (wow fucking lame dude) is nagging at me until I find this out: "How long have you been doing this?"

"Six years." A tear rolls down her cheek. Might be pushing too far now, it seems. I grip the armrests of the recliner and stand up as she wipes it off with the side of her left index finger. I swallow hard and while twisting my body to crack my back, utter almost breathlessly:

"Take it from me, hidin' your feelings like that ain't good for you."

"Really?" Jeez, I was getting tired of everything out her mouth being a question. Especially when despite her teary eyed exterior, she sounded bitchy as fuck.

"Yes, really."

"I'll keep that in mind."

I'll take that as my cue to leave. I grab my identity concealers off the top of the drawer and slide them on my face in order; hat, sunglasses, and then the once foreign concept of tying a bandanna around most of my face. With that and silence, I make my way out of the room, though I couldn't help but shake the feeling that she was staring longingly at me, silently praying for me not to go. I tend to have that sort of effect on people, I've been told.

Then again, I was also told that I'm an arrogant douche.

Oh well.

"'Ey killa!" shouts one of the 'bangers who spots me as I walk out the door, barely audible over the music. "You one tough sonovabitch!"

I nod, appreciating his affirmation of what I already knew before making my way through the crowd, hopefully to blend in with the rest of the party goers.

Looks like I never get it easy.

"Hey! C'mere!"

Shit, Tough Guy had something to tell me. I was reaching for another bottle of this Corona shit, but my arm falls to the side and I turn around to follow the sound of his voice. The pursuit of the sound leads me to the same spot where I initially met him, and lo and behold, him, Jorge and the other guy who looked eerily similar to him were standing there, huddled in a group, talking. Without the hesitance that plagued me last time, I make my way over to them, and they all welcome me warmly before deciding this location, with its noise wasn't fit for conducting such a sensitive meeting, whatever that meant. If they start doing some gay shit, I'm out. I don't get paid enough for gay shit.

"Alright, this is better," says Tough Guy as we find ourselves in a room on the far end of the compound that, once the door was closed, allowed none of the conversation or music to find its way in. A circle of chairs was already set up in the middle of the room, enough for all of us with one seat left over. All of us take a seat, and before I can even open my mouth to ask why I was needed, Jorge speaks out and lays it all on the table.

"Eighteenth Street came after us last night."

"You're fuckin' kidding, right?" Tough Guy's Mexican accent rang through strongly in that response. His slightly glazed over due to a combination of tiredness and intoxication snapped sober immediately. I clear my throat and relay what I remember of the who's who.

"One of the guys shouted Eighteenth Street right before he saw what I was packin'."

"For reference, what was it?"

"A 'K, man."

"Shit, I bet they got more than they bargained for, huh?"

"Definitely. So, what are we going to do about that shit? [DATA EXPUNGED] here thinks that it might've been some sorta misunderstandin' but I don't feel comfortable just making nice with some motherfuckers who sent guys ta kill me."

"I couldn't agree more. We're going to show them how we deal with snakes like them tonight. Peace was nice, but we all knew it wouldn't last."

"That's the best option. War. Might as well give me more to do..."

Oh, shit. Her eyes meet the lenses of my sunglasses and roll as she makes her way to the empty seat, which by convenience is right next to mine. "I can't seem to get away from you, can I?" she whispers in a faux annoyed tone. Fucking knew it!

"Patching up guys after cage fights isn't too strenuous of a job, Soph."

"It was for you."

"Whatever. Look, you gotta understand that we can't just look like pansies ready to take it up the ass from these guys."

"Nice imagery."

"This shit is complicated, but war is the only viable option. We're starting tonight. You, new guy: You're coming with. You too Soph, it's about time you see the dark part of this life up close and personal."