Author’s Note: The following fictional story is graphic and not meant for children of any age.

“Ow, Motherfucker! That fucking hurt!” Xander reeled back after getting blasted in the chest by a shotgun-wielding masked criminal. What was Xander doing in a dark alley at 2am? Well, that was none of your damn business; Nor was it any of this peasant gang- banger criminal asshole.

The criminal asshole probably thought he looked cool in his weathered tan long coat and black ski mask. He even had gloves with the finger tips cut off. He smelled like shit, though.
The asshole walked leisurely over to Xander, who was on his knees clutching his gaping chest wound, and used the butt of the shotgun like a bat across Xander’s forehead. Home run!!

Xander was sent flying backwards and was grounded by back-of-head-to-asphalt contact. It was like a remix of bone crushing and fat thwapping, and then — silence. Criminal Asshole ran up to Xander’s limp body and starting rooting around in his pockets, scrambling to find some money or a wallet or a phone; something he could undoubtably sell for drugs or, who knows, maybe he just really needed to tweet his fellow gang-bangers.

Just as he pulled out a tattered velcro wallet *filled* (as it were) with a college student ID, a single condom, and a shred of paper with a phone number written in girly writing,

Criminal Asshole heard groans coming from the ground. “Unghhhh. Seriously uncool, dude.” Xander rolled over and got on his elbows and knees. His chest dripped thick drops of blood, and the hair on the back of his head was messed up in reflective dark liquid.

Criminal Asshole’s eyes went wide. He pocketed the wallet and proceeded to start kicking Xander in the stomach as hard as he could possibly muster, which if he was on angel dust, was pretty damn hard. Xander cried out after the first kick and again after the second. When the third kick came, however, it the last straw that broke Criminal Asshole’s back, so to speak.

Xander clutched the size 12 steel toe boot and dragged his mugger to the ground. In the dim, somber orange light of the city lamp, Criminal Asshole caught the haunting visage of Xander’s face plastered in blood, his hair completely mussed up, a giant gash across his forehead, and a giant, shit-eating grin on his face. Fast as a motherfucker, Xander stood on his knees, held up Criminal Asshole’s leg, and landed a blow from his elbow right on his shin. The crack of bones echoed in the desolate alleyway like an ancient tree falling in the jungles of who-gives-a-fuck.

Criminal Asshole’s foot touched the front of his own kneecap as his shin was shatter and his leg was bent all kinds of the wrong way. And a deafening scream from Satan himself could not parallel the sound that came out of Criminal Asshole’s throat. It bellowed like the rocket engine of a space shuttle, only much more demonic sounding.

“Goddammit, asshole. What the fuck did you expect?” Xander covered his ears in protest. “I told you to mind your own damn biz-nas, or whatever it is you fuckers say in ‘da hood’.” Xander reached down and grasped the crippled mugger by the throat. “Enough is enough. I’m tired of hearing your shit.” Xander squeezed his hand until he heard a slight pop, hoping he ruptured the asshole’s windpipe. At very least, Criminal Asshole went silent.

Xander stood up and wiped the crap from the street off his jacket and pants. He saw a drop of blood fall from his face and wiped it with his hand. His anger boiled when he saw his hand was covered in it. Xander cried out a rage and kicked the probably dead street mugger asshole. Well… hopefully dead, Xander hoped. Xander’s kick prompted his stolen wallet to fall out of a pocket from the long coat.

Xander grabbed his velcro wallet with the iconography of music’s greatest: Nine Inch Nails, VNV Nation, Depeche Mode, and so many other blessings of Industrial. He checked to make sure Dee’s number was still in there. It was, after all, the most valuable thing he owned. It’s not every day hot as shit double D’s want a piece of Xander, despite what he’s told his friends…

“Goddammit,” Xander mumbled. He pocketed his wallet and started his way back home. Dee’s tits would have to wait.


About C. Feallsanach

I am philosopher at heart. I am bursting with ideas and inquisitions. Reality exists in the blurred expanse betwixt the lines of black and white for me. I am far from traditional. Though, I fall far from the vocation of sage, I thirst for all edifying wisdom. My life's mission is to aid, support, and (when possible) facilitate the advancement, evolution, and development of humankind and civilization. I always welcome stimulating dialogue.
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