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  “Those robot legs are amazing,” Cissick said. “Where can I get some?”

  “If we get to McGlade in time, I’ll give you mine.”

  “Then we’d better hurry. Plastic works fast.”

  PHIN

  The crowd had formed a circle around us, many of them yelling, almost as many shooting video with their cell phones. Among them was a park security guard, who made no move at all to intervene. One guy even had one of those thermal lunchboxes large enough to keep a six pack cooled, and had opened it up to dig out a sandwich and eat while he rubbernecked.

  Netflix and chill, live. Ain’t that America.

  I knew I had several cracked ribs from my brother’s boot to the chest, and my shoulder felt dislocated. Kneeling, I stuck my wrist between my knees, clamped down, and jerked by body up, slipping the ball back into the socket.

  The pain made my vision blur.

  But I didn’t have the luxury to nurse an injury. Hugo was holding his own against us, and I’d just messed up and given him our only knife.

  My bad.

  Tequila, bleeding from his mouth, began to slap his hands against his arms and torso as he circled to Hugo’s left. Chandler did the same thing, moving to his right. I knew a little about the technique; a little known prison martial art called Brick City Rock. Hugo kept eyes on Tequila, and Chandler came in fast and planted a kick on his right kidney.

  Hugo spun on her, lunging with the knife, and as she parried Tequila ran at him and climbed his back like monkey bars, wrapping an arm around Hugo’s neck. But he couldn’t cinch in the sleeper hold; Tequila’s arms were too short, and my brother’s neck too thick.

  Hugo reached over his own head, trying to tug Tequila off, and Chandler went for his balls, a football punt that I could hear from five meters away.

  He felt that. I could see it on his face.

  As Chandler backed away, I came at him from the side, using my good arm to hook him in the left kidney.

  Hugo grunted.

  He slashed at me, the blade swooshing inches from my eyes, and then Chandler attacked his right kidney again, this time with a roundhouse punch.

  Good. If we kept this up, he’d die from kidney failure in two to four years.

  Tequila, unable to choke the larger man out, dropped off and rolled away.

  “You and your friends are pissing me off,” Hugo said.

  Tequila spat blood. “We’re going to do more than that.”

  Hugo’s gaze flicked from me, to Chandler, to Tequila. I could tell he wasn’t liking how this had played out so far.

  So let’s make it even worse.

  I waited for Chandler to make a move, and when she did I went for the guy with the big thermal lunchbox, ripping it from his grip by the plastic handle, pleased by its weight; at least four pounds, still containing three cans of soda and two plastic ice packs.

  Hugo swatted at Chandler, missed, stabbed at Tequila, missed, and then caught Chandler with a quick backhand, sending her heels-over-head onto the concrete.

  I came up on Hugo’s right side, and he saw me and thrusted the knife. But I was already swinging the lunchbox, and I caught his huge hand, connecting square with the knuckles.

  I knew from experience how hard my brother’s fists were.

  The insulated plastic lunchbox was harder.

  After a satisfying SMACK! the knife flew in an arc out of Hugo’s hand, and the blood began to dribble down his fingers like a leaky faucet. Several bones had poked through his skin to say hello.

  He took a step back—rare for Hugo to ever retreat—and I whipped around the lunchbox, trying to knock his goddamn head off his body.

  I connected, hard, with his huge chin, but the handle finally came off and the contents of the box spilled onto the ground.

  Tequila scooped up two cans of soda, formed his hands around them, and began to pummel Hugo’s kidneys from behind, hitting so hard and fast my brother cried out.

  Chandler had retrieved the knife, and as Hugo flailed at Tequila, she jumped at him, shoving the first three inches of blade into his oversized chest.

  She tried to pull it out and couldn’t—no blood groove in the ceramic, suction keeping it stuck—so she left it there and tried to drop away.

  But then our worst fears were realized. Hugo grabbed Chandler, his hand encircling her neck.

  Once Hugo grabbed you, you were as good as dead.

  I had a sick-moment of realization.

  If Chandler died, there was no way Tequila and I could take him on our own.

  Pasha might be dead because of me.

  Chandler would be next.

  Then me and Tequila, unless we ran.

  Tequila wouldn’t back down. He didn’t know how.

  But I could live to fight another day. Go back to my family. Be better prepared for when my brother came calling.

  I imagined that life. Living in constant fear and paranoia, waiting for my past to catch up with me.

  That’s how Jack lived. It had nearly broken her.

  It had nearly broken us.

  My fists clenched.

  I wasn’t going to let this monster get away. Not again.

  I’d kill him or die trying.

  I decided to hit him in the side, full body tackle, maybe hard enough for him to release Chandler. Then maybe I could get near that knife in his chest and stick it in a few more inches, find out for sure if my Nazi brother actually had a heart.

  If he did, I was going to pop it like a water balloon.

  I lowered my head, ready to charge.

  Then someone shouted, “Hey!”

  Someone who sounded a lot like Chandler.

  I turned and watched a brunette version of Chandler—her oft talked-about sister Hammett—push through the crowd of gawkers.

  “Tequila,” she nodded and stood side-by-side with him, keeping her eyes on Hugo.

  “Hammett.”

  “How’re the dogs?”

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Good.”

  Apparently they had some history that trumped Tough Guy 201 Greetings.

  “Hello, Hammett.” Hugo, in obvious pain while straining to hold Chandler, offered a bloody grin. “Nice toy.”

  Chandler’s face was becoming bright red and she thrashed like a fish on a stringer.

  “Epoxy resin reinforced with carbon fiber and fiberglass. The bolts are ceramic. Drop her, Hugo.”

  Hammett’s words had some weight to them, backed up by the compound crossbow she wielded, the business end pointing at my brother’s face.

  Apparently it was possible to make a crossbow out of non-metal materials. As weapons went, it beat the hell out of Chandler’s knife.

  “Got a soft spot for your sister, Hammett?”

  “I get to kill her, when I decide to. Drop her now or I’ll put one through your eye.”

  “Maybe I’ll snap her neck, take your toy away from you, then snap your neck. Then you can die together.”

  “Wrong answer,” Tequila said under his breath. “When she fires, sprint at him.”

  “You sure she’s gonna—”

  The crossbow made a FFFFINNNG! sound and a bolt shish-kabobbed Hugo’s left eye.

  I sprinted, Tequila beside me, and as my brother dropped Chandler and reached up to pull out the arrow, I dove over her, my hands out to push the knife in deeper, grabbing the handle, driving it in another inch with my body weight and momentum, and then Tequila smacked into me from behind, adding his physics to mine, mashing me full-body against Hugo, and the knife went through his pectoralis muscle and through his ribs, all the way to the goddamn hilt.

  For a moment, time stopped.

  Then we all collapsed in a tangle of limbs and blood, and I got to my feet, my chest feeling like I had a vice clamped on it, and—amazingly—saw Hugo sprawled out on his back, the knife in his chest, the bolt in his eye, looking quite surprised and quite near death.

  “So you had a heart after all,” I said.

  “I… I… Ph
in… I…”

  “No. No last words.”

  Then I raised a foot and stomped on the bolt, driving it through his occipital lobe and through his brain and out the back of his skull, pinning his head to the asphalt.

  And that was it.

  His body went lax.

  His chest fell and didn’t rise again.

  His open eye stared into empty eternity.

  He was dead.

  The monster was dead.

  The boogeyman, who had tortured me since we were children, would never hurt me, or anyone else, ever again.

  I went to him, placing my foot on his sternum, reaching down and yanking out the knife like a knight pulling a sword from a slain dragon, half-expecting him to sit up and grab me and laugh in my face and bellow that he could never be killed.

  So I took an extra ten seconds to cut his throat out, not stopping until I hit bone.

  This was one psycho who wasn’t coming back for the sequel.

  When I finished, Tequila was standing in between Hammett and Chandler, who were facing each other. Hammett had another bolt loaded in the crossbow and appeared amused. Chandler looked mad enough to spit.

  “Drop the bow and we’ll go right now,” Chandler said.

  “That’s the thanks I get for saving your ass?”

  “How are you involved in this, Hammett? Are you the one that broke this animal out of prison?”

  “Have tank, will travel. He was a tough one, holding his own against you and Tequila. Good thing your big sister came by to help.”

  Hammett didn’t mention me. I was such a non-threat, even with a knife, she didn’t even glance my way.

  I took a step toward her, and that caught the woman’s attention. “You got enough people after you and your family. You don’t want to add me to that list.”

  “Stay out of this Phin,” Tequila warned me.

  I raised my hands and backed away.

  “Drop the weapon,” Chandler told her. “Let’s do this.”

  “Can’t. Plans. I’ll be seeing you, Sis.” She winked at Tequila. “Maybe you too, hottie.”

  Then Hammett turned and sprinted, the crowd parting for her, darting around a restroom and disappearing.

  “We should go before the cops arrive,” Tequila said. “Separate, meet Herb back at the car.”

  Herb.

  I wondered if he’d been able to save Pasha in time.

  HARRY

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Dr. Schlimm, staring down at me. I seemed to be in a hospital room, and was still foggy from anesthesia.

  “How’d it go?” I asked. “Do I look younger?”

  “Do you remember anything?”

  “Just bits and pieces. Do I have two dicks and twelve balls?”

  “Why don’t you look under your blanket and see?”

  I tried to lift the blanket and noticed my good hand was cuffed to the bed railing.

  Not standard operating procedure for plastic surgeons. Was this some kink thing?

  Overcome by a bad feeling, I pulled the blanket off my chest—

  —and saw a colostomy bag.

  “That’s your new ass,” Schlimm told me.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You’re not supposed to like it.”

  “What happened to my old ass? I liked that one.”

  “I sewed it closed.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something I wanted done.”

  Schlimm snarled. “Dammit, McGlade! I’m Plastic! I’m the one you’ve been chasing!”

  Ah, hell. I probably should have seen that coming.

  But it was pretty funny. So funny, I giggled.

  “You think this is funny? You’re my newest work of art. You’re going to spend the rest of your life like this.”

  I laughed harder, which seemed to unnerve him.

  Next to me was a guy in another bed, also handcuffed. His face was bandaged, and he seemed to be asleep.

  Too bad. He was missing all the fun.

  Wait… what was I laughing at?

  Then lucidity struck me like a lightning bolt.

  “Don’t be an idiot, you idiot,” I told Plastic. “Your plan has a huge flaw. As soon as I get out of here I’ll have this surgery reversed. Maybe I’ll do some weird sex stuff first, but eventually I’ll be back to normal. And you’ll be in jail, because I’m gonna snitch on you so hard.”

  “You won’t snitch on anyone, McGlade. Because I’m giving you a lobotomy.”

  Ah, hell. I probably should have seen that coming, too.

  Fuck you, lucidity.

  “So my ass is sewn shut?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I try to fart, where does it go?”

  “It will come out the hole under your sternum.”

  I didn’t like that idea. Who would slow dance with a guy who had a stoma in his chest?

  Not me. It would be squishy.

  “So I gotta hug the toilet to go number two?”

  “This is your life now, Harry McGlade.”

  He seemed pleased. I blinked, then shook my head, trying to clear the anesthetic fog.

  “Explain something to me, doctor guy. Why go through all this trouble? All the stalking. All the abducting. All the money it must cost to keep this operation going, pun intended. Why not just kill the beautiful people? Wouldn’t that be faster, easier, and cheaper?”

  “The worst pain isn’t death, McGlade. Living is so much worse. I know.”

  I tried to stay focused, which was hard because I swore there were dolphins swimming around the room. “But you’ve got a good life now. A career. Decent looks. I bet you can have your pick of partners. Why you wasting all your time getting even? Isn’t the best revenge living a long, good life?”

  He seemed to consider it. Then he said, “No. The best revenge is revenge. Next time I see you, I’ll be wheeling you into the operating room again, for a frontal lobotomy. Now I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts. Enjoy them, because they’ll be your last thoughts ever.”

  “I won’t enjoy them. So there.”

  I stuck out my tongue. Schlimm left.

  “Hey, roommate. Get up.”

  My roommate didn’t get up.

  I checked out the handcuffs and bed railing. Both solid.

  But not as solid as my robotic hand.

  I could crack walnuts with my fingers. Snapping the lock mechanism on the handcuffs only required me to pinch them sideways, busting open the casing and releasing the bracelet.

  But it took a lot more coordination than usual. And I kept getting distracted by things. Like that mole on my arm.

  Did I always have that mole?

  Has it always been that big?

  Maybe I should have Dr. Schlimm check it out.

  Where’d he go?

  I got up to look for him, and realized I was handcuffed to the bed.

  Why was I handcuffed to the bed? Some kind of kink thing?

  And why was there a poop bag on my chest?

  Think, Harry! Think hard!

  When did I get into weird poop bondage?

  Wait… I didn’t.

  I’m a prisoner.

  Plastic did this to me.

  I tried to focus on that thought, and then managed to break the cuffs with my fake hand.

  Ok, free.

  Now what?

  I weighed my many options.

  I could find some clothes, try to escape.

  I could try to escape without clothes.

  I could find a phone, call the police, with or without clothes.

  I could find Schlimm and kick the crap out of him, clothing optional.

  I could find a mirror and see what he did to my butt.

  I chose the mirror. Nothing else seemed quite as important.

  I swung my legs out of bed and stood up, giving my posterior a tentative feel.

  Instead of the normal two mounds, there was only one mound.

  The bastard had combined my mounds.

&nbs
p; Felt kinda sexy.

  More eager than ever to see, I jerked out my IV, taking a moment to steady myself, smiling big because I was on the move and ready for action, or more likely because I was still loopy on drugs.

  Yeah, it was the drugs. Those ass-sewing drugs were awesomepants.

  I walked, slow and nude, to the door.

  Locked. But the aluminum knob was no match for my bionic hand.

  I said, “Wawawawawawawawah,” which was the classic 1970’s Six Million Dollar Man sound effect whenever he used his robotic enhancements.

  The knob crinkled like paper.

  I broke it off, pinched out the interior mechanism and latch, and eased the door open a crack and listened.

  Classical music.

  What a creep.

  Of course the bad guy was listening to classical music. That’s what creepy villains did. No one committed evil then cranked up the Taylor Swift or Sir Mix-A-Lot. It was always Wagner or Brahms or some other old symphony with too many violins.

  Violins were music screaming to be euthanized.

  I snuck a peek through the door, saw a carpeted hallway. There were a few other closed doors, one of which I hoped was a bathroom with a full-length mirror. Or at least butt-length, so I could see what this prick had done to me.

  I could also make do with a hand mirror and my preternatural flexibility.

  Did I have preternatural flexibility? Or was I confusing myself with that stretchy guy from the Fantastic 4? Or that Maxim model I dated, who had no tendons.

  I tried to reach out a hand and touch the ceiling.

  Couldn’t.

  What a shame. That woulda been cool if I had stretching powers.

  Two words; dick knots.

  Heh heh. Dick knots are funny.

  I crept into the hallway, naked. I was naked, not the hallway. Dangling modifier. Narration error. Definitely the drugs.

  Was it possible to die using first-person narrative? I mean if I were to say “Then I died” how would that work? If it’s a perspective coming from my head, and my head no longer has consciousness, wouldn’t I die before I completed the sentence? And if so, doesn’t that limit first-person POV, because the reader would know the narrator can’t die because of that exact reason?

  Metafiction was sexy.

  And then Plastic leapt out and stabbed me and then I died.

  Heh heh. Not really. But no one would see that coming. Would be a pretty cool ending.