Chris Buyatt’s motorcycle blazed down the empty highway and
created skid marks in the road when he pulled off to the side. Not one cop car
was within his sniper sight, but he had no illusions about safety even after
making it this far. There it was as obvious as daylight: the entrance to the
old style salt mine, complete with one of those wheeled carts blocking in the
doorway.
He felt it in his gut: somebody beat him to this place. Once
he sped towards the entrance, he dismounted in a flippy-floppy fashion
reminiscent of capoeira training. Chris even danced and spun around to get his
muscles warmed up. He then removed his motorcycle helmet and flipped his
dreadlocks back. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he shoved the mine
cart over and ventured inside this dark tunnel.
Fishing the flashlight out of his baggy shorts pocket, Chris
Buyatt illuminated the tunnel and scared a flock of bats which flew right over
his crouched head. The initial shock sent him jumping out of his boots, but
then he shook his head and sighed in disappointment. “Pathetic. That’s all it
is,” he said to himself.
The deeper he trudged into the mines, the more his
flashlight gave out on him. Chris banged it against the wall to shift the
batteries in the right place, but that only gave him a few more seconds of
light at best. “Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. He felt around to
get some kind of idea where he was, but all he got was a palm full of dust and
salt.
“Allow me!” said a baritone voice in the darkness. A singular
flame illuminated the mine shaft as well as the face of a red haired gentleman
with a 70’s porn moustache and neon green eyes. He chuckled with evil delight
before blowing the flame like a fireball kiss toward his nemesis. Chris
cartwheeled out of the way just in time to land on his ass, hip bone connecting
with the cart tracks.
The flame descended upon the ground and formed a circle
around the two opponents. Michael Tyoni shined brightly in his new light. The
cheesy haircut, the even cheesier moustache, the red robes with flaming emblems
on it, Chris could have recognized that getup from a mile away. He had indeed
been beaten here.
“Running from the law again, are we, Mr. Buyatt?” said
Michael in a serpentine tone. “At this rate, you’ll be running for the rest of
your wasted life. I know what you’re here for and it’s not golden treasure.
That shit only appears in fairytales. You’re looking for something a little
more…vengeful.”
Chris nipped up and flipped his dreadlocks back before
pointing a finger at his nemesis and barking, “Cut the bullshit, Mikey-Boy!
Where’s the goddamn tape?! You better not have burned that shit or you and I
are going to dance, bitch!”
Michael shrugged his shoulders and said nonchalantly, “I
don’t know what you’re talking about. What is this tape you speak of? Scotch
tape? Masking tape? Or even more exciting than those two, duct tape? I had no
idea you were into such thrilling activities.” The pyromancer chuckled in a
mock sexual tone before throwing another flame at Chris and having him
cartwheel out of harm’s way again.
The authoritative finger of doom was waved at Mr. Tyoni once
more while Chris shouted, “You know damn well I’m looking for a videotape,
nigga! Fork that shit over or I’m going to slap you silly, motherfucker!”
“And just where do you plan on slapping him, Mr. Buyatt?”
asked an elderly feminine voice in the shadows. “On the ass? Is this another
part of your liberal agenda? I’m sure the Lettuce, Guacamole, Bacon, and Tomato
community will love it. Wait a minute, is that what LGBT stands for? Or does it
stand for Lovers of Grabbing Boners and Testicles? I can never figure these
overblown phrases out these days.”
With a devilish smirk, Michael lifted his palms in the air
and raised the flames so that Chris could see Governor Nina Thomas standing
behind the pyromancer with a shotgun in hand. The Marlboro lines in her face,
the ratty white and brown hair, and that god awful teal pantsuit: that was the
Governor alright.
“And by the way, Mr. Buyatt,” said the condescending
politician. “You should personally thank your brother for giving you this
location. He’s making a huge sacrifice just for you. He’ll spend the rest of
his life in solitary confinement. I hope it’s worth it.”
“You two are full of shit!” blasted Chris. “My brother
doesn’t belong in there and you know it! You locked him up for the same reason
you want to lock me up!” He then pointed to his black face to make the
reference clear. “Hand over the motherfucking tape, assholes! The whole world’s
going to see what you bitches do to those so-called crooks!”
“Oh, that’s okay, Chris, they already know,” said Nina with
a wave of her hand. The bravado melted off of the capoeira ace’s visage like
butter. Miss Thomas said, “Everybody knows what’s going on these days. It’s all
over the media. The problem is, they just don’t care, that’s all. What are they
going to do about cops locking up black offenders, anyways? File a complaint?
Sue them? Yeah, that’ll work! You actually thought playing that tape would do
anything to hurt me or my career? Nobody gives a shit anymore, Chris! Get with
the program!” Nina’s tirade ended with a witch’s cackle while Chris’s face
became even longer with solemnity. “Kill him, Mr. Tyoni. Just kill him.”
Michael lobbed fireball after fireball at Chris and all the
capoeira master could do was cartwheel and flip out of the way with little
passion in his movements. As much as he hated to admit it, Nina Thomas was
right: nobody gave a shit about oppression anymore. He remembered all the times
people brushed him off with, “Don’t break the law” and “It’s your fault.” Chris
got so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed his right boot catching
on fire while Michael and Nina laughed at him.
Chris screamed and spun around in pain as he tried to
extinguish the flame. While Michael twirled another fireball in his hands,
Chris spun upside down on his hands in an attempt to use the wind pressure to
extinguish his foot. He even punched his own boot to see if that would help.
After whirling around like a fidget spinner, his flaming boot came flying off
and launched like a missile in Nina’s wrinkly face, sending her rolling
backwards against the steel wall. During the scuffle, Governor Thomas dropped
the shotgun and blasted the ceiling above Michael’s head, causing a chunk to
land on his shoulders.
Chris’s sock was pasted to his ebony skin, Michael’s
shoulders were redder than any flame he could produce, and Nina was in la-la
hand with a scar across her jowls the size of Texas. “Nina! No!” shouted Michael through
gritted teeth. He turned his venomous gaze back to Chris and sneered, “You’d
better pray to God above that solitary confinement is all that happens to you!”
Michael threw another fireball at his adversary only to have
him twirl out of the way on his hands. The capoeira master nipped up on his one
good foot and nearly lost his balance. As the pyromancer’s teeth gritted
harder, the flames in his hands burned brighter. He rushed towards Chris and
threw fiery haymakers his way, missing only a few times before catching him on
the cheek and knocking him down.
Mr. Buyatt coughed up blood and spit out a tooth along with
some ashen skin. All he could do with his bum foot was try to crawl away to get
some separation. Michael’s healthy feet stomped towards Chris and the
pyromancer, still with hands flaming, twisted Chris’s foot in an ankle lock
submission hold. Both men screamed like demons, Michael to enhance his rage and
Chris to suffer in mind-blowing agony. The pain in the latter’s foot felt as
though he was exercising on a treadmill in the bowels of hell. And then…the
foot was ripped off and the wound was cauterized in more hellish pain.
Chris clutched his forcefully removed foot and shouted to
the heavens above in a cataclysm of agony. His voice was thunderous and his
throat and lungs felt as fiery and pain-wracked as his former foot. Michael
continued the torment by grabbing his victim’s blue Hawaiian shirt in one hand
and conjuring a fireball in the other.
“I am sick and tired of you lazy fuckers thinking you can
beat the system!” shouted Michael with more fire in his voice than in his palm.
“Nobody beats the system! There will be no change in this world! Your American
dream is nothing more than bullshit! Only the powerful survive and nobody’s going
to tell us otherwise! Not some pundit on TV! Not some lady with a dick! Not two
faggots kissing! And certainly not a street rat nigger like you!”
Michael raised his fiery fist to the sky and brought it down
with a fury, only to be stopped midway by Chris spitting blood in the
pyromancer’s mouth. He gagged and coughed long enough for Chris Buyatt to mount
some offence of his own. With a head butt of stone, he shouted, “This is for my
brother!” With a punch to the face, he shouted, “This is for my people! And
THIS is for everybody Nina Thomas fucked over!”
That last sentence was punctuated by Chris wrapping his
burning legs around Michael’s throat, squeezing his neck pencil thin. The
cauterized foot added some extra sizzle to the pyromancer’s restricted breathing.
Every time Chris thought about his brother being locked in the hole on the
brink of insanity, he squeezed harder. Every time he played the N-word in his
head, he squeezed harder. Every time he imagined someone telling him not to
break the law, he squeezed harder. The final squeeze came when he replayed
Michael Tynoi’s rant about American dreams being bullshit. With that final
squeeze, the sounds of bones popping signified a limp body was soon to follow. Michael
Tyoni dropped dead and the flames he caused died down with him.
Chris breathed a sigh of relief and plopped backwards. Once
the adrenaline wore off, his missing foot seared with pain and he had no choice
but to cradle it and scream while spitting out more blood and ashes from the
punch earlier. He took deep, muffled breaths to try and calm himself down, but
all that did was intensify the raging agony surging through his body like hot
lava.
His tightly closed eyelids slowly opened when he heard the
sound of a shotgun pumping. Through salt-covered redness, he saw Nina Thomas
standing over him with a singed face that fumed with anger and hatred. “Are you
happy now, young man? You killed my right hand man and now everything’s going
to be better for you and your ghetto family, right? A lifetime in the hole is
too good for you and your drug-addicted brother. After I blast the shit out of
you, I’m recommending the death penalty to that little whiny bitch. Any last
words?”
Chris took in more hard breaths as Nina’s trigger finger was
getting closer to sealing his fate. He then chuckled a few times and said, “You
really think anybody’s going to take you seriously anymore with that ugly ass
scar on your face?”
“Excuse me?!” grunted Nina.
“Before I snapped his damn neck like a toothpick, your boy
Michael told me that nobody beats the system and that only the powerful
survive. You think anybody’s going to give power to you now that you’re
vulnerable? You don’t look like a politician anymore. You’re no Sarah Palin or
Michelle Bachmann. You’re a shallow motherfucker’s worst nightmare. And really,
isn’t it all about looks these days? Is that why Obama served two terms in
office? Because he was handsome and charismatic? You’re not oozing charisma
right now, Governor. You’re oozing pus and blood. But hey, you could always use
the taxpayers’ money for plastic surgery. After all…nobody gives a shit
anymore!”
Nina pressed the barrel of her shotgun against Chris’s face
and scowled at him with an itchy trigger finger ready to blow. She breathed
intensely through her nose while staring daggers into her victim. And then her
expression softened and her shotgun lowered. She pulled a makeup mirror out of
her pocket and stared at the nasty gash across her face. “I don’t look like a
politician…I look like…I look like one of you! A freak! You ruined my career,
you son of a bitch!”
Governor Thomas smashed the butt of her gun against Chris’s
face and almost knocked him out. While spitting more blood out of his mouth, he
stayed awake long enough to see even more blood spiral off of Nina’s shoulders.
The last image he saw before passing out was Nina Thomas headless and the
shotgun barrel smoking like a cigarette.
During Chris Buyatt’s moment of unconsciousness, he dreamed
that life would somehow improve with Nina and Michael dead. The two most
corrupt people in the Paulson
City government drifted
to the other side. Flowers would blossom everywhere. Children would play around
without fear of getting shot or locked up. His brother would be out of prison
to enjoy life again.
But even with this little victory, Chris Buyatt knew that
wasn’t how politics worked. The system was comprised of many small pieces and
taking out one doesn’t throw everything else out of balance. His brother would
be lost forever in the penal system and Chris would most likely be the newest
member of that exclusive club. Business must go on and nobody would be blamed.
However, this one small step was clearly in the right direction. No matter how
long he would be locked up, it was a bigger step than if he was actually
afforded a prosthetic foot. If the cops were going to drag him away, they were
going to drag him away with a big fat grin on his face. Fuck the system. Fuck
it hard.
