BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.6 - THE CAVEMAN WAY
By Jax Hix
Covered in a putrid mix of cyanide-vomit, blood and dead ballplayer so thick you know you’ll never wash it off, you curse under your breath and strip in the alley above Kareem. You realize your out of rounds so you toss the gun after a quick wipe of your fingerprints. Your blood boils in rage when you think that the Trotters double-teamed you and set you up with their foul play. You know you can’t hunt them down covered in Kareem, so you strip off your clothes and drop them in the dumpster half way down the alley.
“Such filthy perverts!” rings down the alleyway in your direction, and your eyes fall upon a group of high society do-gooders on their way to do their court-appointed charity work at the local soup kitchen. Figuring it isn’t worth explaining, you shrug it off and push your way through the crowd of stunned faces and condemning looks. You decide to wipe the blood on your hands off on the fur coat of the one of the stunned socialites on the street and scream “PITA” and run away laughing maniacally.
A little further down the street, you notice a steel pipe in the hand of a passed-out hobo on the sidewalk and pick it off him, figuring he won’t notice until the drunk wears off. The stench of the hobo is even worse than the one you left in the alleyway, and you unload your stomach on the unsuspecting lout’s sleeping face. He wakes up when your vomit hits his taste buds and swings at you, so bombed on Mad Dog his fist misses wildly and punches the sidewalk. You hustle off, leaving the socialites to care for the wounded hobo. You’ve got bigger issues at hand.
You manage to steal some clothes from a dead hooker on the corner stairwell. You slip on the spandex mini-dress. You catch a glance of yourself in the darkened storefront window and think you’d never get over a $5 blow job deal looking like this. For just a moment, you miss that chicken suit. You put on the shoes and are surprised to find the stillettos fit your feet. You then realize the hooker you stole clothes from was tucking a trouser snake. You decide you’d better steal his wig, too. Slapping the red curly wig on sideways on your head, you feel oddly aroused and disgusted at the same time, but shrug it off and wander to the pay phone down the street. It also occurs to you that you should sell this story to the Tabloids, but figure it’s too farfetched for even Elvis-alien baby readers to believe.
After a quick call to Curly, you find out the Trotters are slamming shots and shooting pool at the pool hall a block over. Ignoring the calls for dates from the cars driving by, you stumble down the block.
“How the Hell do women walk in these things?” you mutter under your breath as you pass another alley before you reach the pool hall. So bent on kicking Trotter ass and not breaking your ankles while you get there, you don’t notice the wildwoman in the shadows. Before you reach the pool hall door and the safety of the next street light, someone pounces you from behind and knocks you down onto the sidewalk. You hit with such force you lose more bile, several teeth, a lot of blood and unfortunately, the steel pipe you were carrying for Trotter kicking. Before you can get to your feet, someone grabs both your ankles and pulls you into the alleyway, leaving a trail of bile and blood as your chin bounces along the sidewalk.
Once in the alleyway, you are forcefully flung onto your back and you see a dread-locked banshee jump onto your chest. The banshee knocks the wind out of you as her knees hold your shoulders down against the wet pavement in the alley. A flint of light reveals the blade of steel right before it’s cold sharp edge is pushed harshly against your throat.
A car drives by and lights up the wildwoman’s face, with a shock you realize it’s Whoopi Goldberg, another honorary Globetrotter (1990), “Whoopi gonna whoop your ass!”
“Aw, sh—“ you mutter before Whoopi slides the steel across your throat and you start choking on your own blood. The last thing you see before you die is Whoopi smearing your blood onto her face like war paint.
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