Crybaby Boy

Chapter Three - Apparently I've Been Kidnapped by the Mafia

Chapter Three - Apparently I’ve Been Kidnapped by the Mafia

“When you go out, you ought to bring a shovel.  Just in case you get into some shit, then, at least you can dig yourself out.  Or at the very least, try.”

- Wiona Mason

When I went out, I forgot to bring my shovel.  Or I might’ve lost it along the way, and now I was left to dig myself out of this shit with my bare hands.  Fun and sanitary.

            Pushing that thought aside, I stared up into the pinstriped man’s eyes.  They were a dirty shared of brown and reminded me of shit.  I attempted to suppress a chuckle, and ended up sputtering more, getting more blood on the floor.

            “What do you want wib me?” I asked, pinching my nose with careful fingers, trying to simultaneously asses how bad of a break it was and also attempting to halt the flow of blood.  I wasn’t having much success with either, and staring into this man’s dirty, muddy, shitty eyes wasn’t making it any easier.  I really wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

            I didn’t exactly laugh, but I think I snorted, actually….

            “You’re the Blackbird, aren’t you?” the man asked, reminding me oddly of an overweight candy cane.  He loosened his polka dotted bowtie with a single hand.

            “I work at ‘he Blackbird,” I corrected him, as I tested my nose.  It stung a bit.  It was most definitely broken, and I’d have to fix it eventually, before it set.

            “I’b not ‘he Blackbird,” I watched the pinstriped man closely as I grabbed my nose firmly between my fingers.  I snorted hard, to get as much blood out as I could, sending myself into another coughing fit.

            “Fuck!” I hissed, closing my eyes at my most hated part.  I yanked my nose to the side, a loud snap sounding through the room.  I threw my head back, unintentionally and started choking on my own blood.

            “Fucking OW!” I removed my hands from my nose, a new gush of blood flowing down my face.  I carefully felt up my nose, to make sure it was relatively straight again, not that it’d ever be perfectly straight; I’ve had it broken too many times before for it to ever be straight again.  It hurt.  If I hadn’t done this before, I might have thought that my nose was going to fall off my face.

            Pinching my nose again, I looked down at the run which was nose splattered with blood.  That could be fixed, but my shirt was already beyond the point of no return as my mother liked to put it, or beyond the point of possibly saving this piece of clothing.

            The pinstriped man let out a little cough, so sudden and girly I was too stunned to laugh.  Somehow, in spite of it’s femininity, it was still menacing.  I stared.

            “Please don’t get any more blood on my carpet,” he exchanged a glance with this bodyguard (or whatever he was), half blinked.  As if some sort of joke had passed between the two, the pinstriped man’s lips parted, revealing a mouthful of golden teeth.  With his free hand, he idly smoothed out a few wrinkles in his suit.

            “Owww,” I exclaimed, attempting to say “Oh,” but failing.  Epically.  I stuck my hand in my pocket, ignoring the tall black man eying me as he raised a hand and pushed it inside the coat of his suit, presumably to reach a weapon.

            In my own hand, I felt the familiar warmth of the box cutter….

            I could….  No, I made a promise, and I intended to keep it.  No fighting.