MURDER with Abstract Mathematics

Chapter 1

When the topmost button of my shirt went pop, I decided that the universe was being kind to me.

See, when your shirt-button goes pop, it can mean quite a number of things. It could mean that you've gotten lucky, and are about to get laid. It could mean you've gotten unlucky and you're about to get laid. It could also mean that you've gotten vastly less unlucky than getting the latter kind of laid and you're about to get a beating.

The universe had decided that I do not deserve getting lucky, but chose to be merciful about how much unlucky I was. I was about to get a reintroduction to pain.

I stumbled as the punk yanked harder to my collar, purpose: making me fall. I stumbled. For his feelings. How kind I am.

The one behind me kicked in the thigh. This time I stumbled for real, dropping to one knee on the dirty floor to keep balance. Someone slapped me under the right ear. The cramped warehouse swung around, the little light that's present blurring. Jokes on them. That side's already numb.

"Kuddus, what happened?" The speaker's sitting silhouette was retainable, but nothing else. Because in contrast to the dark grey concrete of the warehouse, there was a window behind, letting the streetlights shine in. Classic local smasher. Thinks backlight makes them look intimidating. A brown bottle cast golden shapes on the wooden table. A chair lay on it's side before it, opposite to him.

"Nothing happened, sir," said the large, bearded punk who had slapped me, "We are mad, sir."

"Why?"

"This bastard was flirting," he shook my collar again, "in our street. We are very angry, sir."

"Well, bokachoda, doesn't that count as something happening?"

Beards opened his mouth, and then closed them. His shoulders slumped in a motion that reminded me of a cow sitting down. He straightened his black tunic, looking down.

"All fuckheads! This is why pun's from other streets get to flirt with our girls. What's in your head? Bullshit? Still suckin' mommy's tits?" Along with the string of obscenities, the deep sweet sting of alcohol floated out of his mouth, "Sister-fuckin' good for nothin' lizard eggs!"

The punks just stood there with their heads hung low. Two in the back were whispering.

"Hey fags!" He threw the bottle at the couple in the back. It slipped, tumbled, and smashed to pieces on the ground, ten feet from it's destination, "shut up!"

They shut up.

The man turned towards me, and now that there were less ponies dancing in my vision, I could see some of his features.

He was cute. Like how a hamster is cute after you've overfed it, covered it with tar, and gouged out one of its eyeballs. Two oversized incisors protruded from his lips. His dark, sleek and oily hair was brushed so low, —possibly in an attempt to civility— it looked like a black helmet.

"Sit 'im."

The chair was stood up and I was pushed down on it. It was a hard and flat metal chair. Something in my pocket made it uneven.

Wait, did I just sit on my phone?

No, too soft. Must be my wallet. Plus, my phone's in my side pocket, not my hind one.

He faced me, "Where you from?"

I stared at him. Plus point for infuriating them.

He sighed. Punk to my right threw me a hand, right under the jaw. Something went crack.

"Baal! Did I tell you to punch!? The fuck you doin' by yourself? Did your balls grow brains or what?"

Right side punk shrunk down.