Crack!

That's the sound of Tough Guy's fist colliding with my jaw and my head jerking hard to the left, forcing me severely off balance to say the least. I stumble over in the same direction before falling onto the grass back first. I guess I should be counting my lucky stars that he hit me while I was on the grass and not the sidewalk, considering how fucked up that could possibly leave me. Though, I doubt he'd want that. I do happen to be kind of a big deal and if I didn't show up to my commitments, there'd be cause for alarm, which because him and his boys don't know the first thing about keeping quiet, would fall back on them without question. Shit, who was I supposed to be fighting this week anyway? Oh, right. Jeff Taylor and the Dimallisher. Some real stiff competition there. I push my hand off the grass and spit out just a little bit of blood.

"Nice to see you again too."

Oddly enough, I don't think that Tough Guy appreciated my very honest greeting. It was nice to see him again for whatever reason. Him and the rest of his fucking stupid gang because I know these guys aren't going to try and use my kid for leverage. At least these assholes, for all their fuck ups are honest.

"Fuck off with that passive aggressive shit, boy. Get your ass up."

"Whatever you say, master."

I roll over onto my knees and stand up from there, wiping stray blades of grass off my shirt. I pat myself down, getting most of Mother Nature's green cum off me and crack my neck. There was still the issue of my bleeding mouth, but I'll cross that bridge when it becomes a problem. For now, the blood was a good palette cleanser I guess; rusted copper tastes better than bland nothingness. I suck on the back of my lips, extracting the soon to be free blood and swallow it with a gulp. Tough Guy looks me dead in the eyes, expecting me to cower or flinch. I don't. Instead, I smile at him, flashing my red tinted teeth for him to see. Chuckling, he grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me in for a hug.

"It's been too long, man."

My eyes widen in confusion.

"You remember when I fucked your sister, right? Did you just forget that overnight or something?"

"I'm trying to forget it. We need to work together."

That much was certain. I knew I was getting reassigned to my old post, though the odds of me not completing the assigned task before getting whisked away on some other project are incredibly high. However, my mission parameters have changed drastically since last time. Or, have they? I run my hand through my hair and spit another mouthful of blood onto the ground. It lands in a thick glob on the grass. I lick the front of my teeth, wiping away the straggling, staining bits and skirt it off between my gums and right cheek.

"Yeah, right. So, fill me on the recent events."

"Right out here in the open? Shit, you ain't that stupid is you?"

"You make it sound like you have something to hide."

"I just might, what was your name again? Lazarus? Yeah Lazzie boy, I just might have somethin' to hide. Come on in," he says, turning around to head into the house. I follow him, keeping a close eye on his movements. For some reason, I wouldn't put it past him to turn around and shoot me the second I step into the house. He wouldn't; he's too smart to, but I can't let that feeling escape. Shit like this happens where you least expect it, I'm sure Mero learned that lesson. With my guard up and my hand rested on where I left my gun, I set my foot over the threshold and step into the house.

No men waiting.

No guns drawn.

He leads me further down a hallway connected to the room we stepped into upon entering. Past one door on the right side.

Past another on the left.

He stops at the third. On the right hand side. He pushes the door open and ushers me in.

I'm greeted by the sight of a semicircle of chairs. Two sit empty while the others are filled.

"Take a seat, Lazzie."

I do. The one on the outside of the circle, next to some mean looking Mexican motherfucker whose name I never learned and whose face I've never seen. Rubbing my eyes, I scan the rest of the crowd without recognizing a single face except for one. Jorge. His eyes meet mine and shoot directly into the ground. Tough Guy takes the other seat in the middle but before he can open his mouth, the coarse voice of one of the nameless, faceless mooks cuts him off.

"Who the fuck is this guy?"

"An associate."

"And we just let 'associates' sit in on meetings now? What the fuck's going on?"

"We're having a meeting, that's what's happening. If I say this guy's good to be here, he is. Or did you forget who was in charge here?"

"This is bullshit that's what it is. There's an order to things. An order. You're abandoning that for what, this fucking gringo? What if he turns rat?"

Y'know, letting other people stand up for me is an emotionally validating thing, but there's just some things you have to say yourself.

"And what if you turn rat ese? Huh? What if anyone in this fucking room turns rat? Last I checked, I wasn't the only motherfucker in here and no matter what your racist ass thinks, we're all equally capable of ratting the others out. But to answer your question; I ain't a rat. You don't gotta worry about that."

I'm missing the word "anymore" in there, but they don't need to know that part.

"Shut the fuck up gringo, I wasn't talkin' to you."

"Oh, that's the way you wanna play it? Too stubborn to see you're fulla shit so instead you start distancin' yourself from it?"

"Both of you shut up! I'm in charge here, not either of you. I ain't askin' you to like each other, but you're working for the same thing. Start acting like it."

"I'm fine. It's your boy you gotta worry about."

"Hey, fuck you."

"See what I mean?"

"Shut up. Now, as I was saying before the late entry arrived, 18th's been pushin' up into our shit. Not just turf. Trade too. I have it on good authority that they've been runnin' whores outta..."

I should be listening, especially as I was curious to what's been going on, but the mean looking motherfucker next to me jabs in the ribs with my elbow and ducks his head down low. In a deep, hoarse voice with a thick to the point of hindering my ability to understand what the fuck he's saying Mexican accent, he whispers over to me:

"Who are ya to Esteban?"

He points over to Tough Guy, and it looks like I finally learned his name.

"The guy who nailed his sister," I whisper back with a chuckle.

"No shit?"

"Not at all, man. Not at all."

"Niiiiiiiiiice."

He sticks his fist out, and I bump that shit without a second thought. Fucking your boss's sister, high five bro. I fall back in my chair and stare off into space as he continues his spiel about the state of the gang that I should be listening to.

After what feels like a few hours, the other men start to stand up. One by one, they file outta the room, with Esteban at the very end of the line. As the penultimate person leaves the room, I call out to him from my seat to wait a second. He does, turning back to me and walking over as I frantically wave my hand to him. I figure it's better to let him know this ahead of time, as opposed to later.

"Hey, something about my employers."

"What?" he asks, a suspicious, accusatory tone overtaking his voice.

"They want me to kill you."

As I try to snap out of my daydreaming state, I hear rustling. I open my eyes to see him pointing a gun to my head.

"The fuck you just say?"