Herring

F*cking Stupid

Anders.

Oh Anders. Never thought I'd see him again, never thought I'd see him so soon

Never thought I'd see him in this exact same situation…

They told him to f**k off. Naturally, he didn't.

"Pompous prick," the one with the knife said. "Leave before we off you."

Anders tilted his head. The scarf shifted. I caught the edge of a smile.

Anders: "Off me? That's ambitious. I'd rather stay and watch the show. You were about to do something unspeakable to a teenage girl in an alley. Very cinematic. Don't let me interrupt."

Two of them rushed him. Big men. Fast. The kind of fast that ends with someone on the ground.

Anders reached into his raggedy trenchcoat—the innermost layer, the one that always seemed to be hiding something—and pulled out an AR-15.

Massive. Black. Impossibly large for the space it had occupied. It materialized like a magic trick designed by someone who hated people.

The two men stopped. Mid-stride. Like God had pressed pause on their particular brand of stupidity.

Anders: "Lads. I'm going to say this once. f**k off before you become a wheel of cheese. Scurry along now. Like the rats you are."

Silence. The knife guy looked at the gun. Looked at Anders. Looked at the gun again.

Anders sighed. Raised the barrel slightly. Fired.

The shot was silenced—a sharp, percussive thwip that somehow made it worse. The bullet buried itself in the brick an inch from Scar's head. Brick dust rained down on his shoulder like very aggressive dandruff.

Nobody moved.

Anders: "Next one's in someone's kneecap. I haven't decided whose. It's more fun that way."

They scurried. Every last one of them. Into the dark, into the alley, into whatever hole they'd crawled out of. Gone. Like they'd never existed. Like the whole thing had been a very bad dream I couldn't wake up from.

I stood against the wall, shaking. Every part of me was shaking. The gun was still in his hands. Still massive. Still real.

Anders: "You're insane. You know that."

Deia: "I've been told."

Anders: "I heard the whole thing. The rent. The medical bills. The 'will you pay me.' That was a nice touch. Very unhinged. Very you."

Deia: "Thanks. I have to go."

I pushed off the wall. My legs didn't want to cooperate. My ribs screamed. My ankle informed me, in no uncertain terms, that walking was a privilege I had not yet earned.

Anders: "Hold up."

Deia: "I really, really have to go."

Anders: "I have a few things to say."

Deia: "I'd rather return home. Now. Immediately. Pronto."

I took a step. He raised the gun. Not at my head—just in my general direction. A suggestion. A very loud, very metal suggestion.

Anders: "I wasn't asking."

The barrel caught the streetlight. Gleamed. I stopped walking.

Anders: "You're going to follow me. Blindfolded. And you're not going to ask questions until I say you can ask questions. Understood?"

I stared at the gun. At him. At the alley where I'd almost died twice now.

Deia: "Understood."

He reached into his coat—because of course he had more things in there, the coat was a clown car of horrors—and pulled out a strip of black cloth.

Anders: "Turn around."

I turned. The cloth pressed against my eyes. The world went dark.

His hand found my shoulder. Warm. Solid. The only thing in the universe that wasn't currently trying to kill me.

Anders: "Walk."

I walked. Into the dark. Into whatever came next.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid f*****g—