“There we go. Don’t you feel better?” Victor said, sweetly.
“Y-yes… y-yes I d-do…” Jakob said, honestly.
“Good, I’m genuinely glad.” Wiping his face with a tired fist, Victor continued, “I want you to know that everyone in your band is genuinely looking forward to you rejoining them.”
“R-really?” Jakob cried, “You fuckin’ mean it?”
“Of course I do,” Victor assured him. “I have some connections in the West. I’ll make sure you make it back into the GDR alright. You will get back to band practice, and maybe your next show in the West will go much better.”
“Th-thank you… th-thank you s-so much!”
“I just have one request, Jakob.”
“Wh-what’s that?”
“I need you to slow down on the drinking, alright?” Victor stated plainly. “It’s important that we have you in top form.”
“I fucking promise! I fuckin’ swear it to you!”
“Promise me again, Jakob.”
“I do! I fuckin’…”
Jakob never heard the sound of the bullet exiting the pistol. He never heard the sound of the slide ejecting the spent cartridge before locking another into battery, nor would he hear the sound of the bullet entering his left eyeball to annihilate the complicated matter behind. It takes nearly two seconds for one’s brain to process what the senses are picking up. By that time, any of the previous information would be quite useless to him.
Komplikation
The club smelled worse than it looked, which was hard to fathom. Considering the many denizens of the arena had been fully-charged humans only minutes before, the mere shadows of their former selves were a true testament to energy discharged. To the casual onlooker, it looked like the aftermath of a carpet-bombing. Bloody folks raised bloodier fists in a half-hearted signal of triumph that wasn’t really theirs to display. Truly, as the night waned and the wax of poetic finally melted into a singular pool of gristle on the floor, only one person stood victorious. In reality, only one person could. Only a single champion was allowed in the gladiator pits, and this champion’s reputation was far beyond contest.
It wasn’t Lena, by the way—it was Matt. Oh yeah, and if it hadn’t been mentioned before, the place also smelled terrible. It was like a gym, but with rampant drug and dietary issues. By the time the Mad Bunny’s set was complete and The Dead Weights were setting up, she had already done more than her fair share to further the sacred interests of the pit. Applause met aplomb as she had smashed, brawled and caterwauled her way through the slag-pits of the wayward ones, paying her own humble homage to her foremothers and faith-keepers. Understandably, she had needed a beer and a rest afterwards. Thus, she had made her way to the bar near the end of the venue.
Doing so was no simple task. Sweaty malcontents with the best of intentions met her hand to hand, fist on fist, and mutual to the embrace—doing so with such religious voracity that it took nearly ten minutes to walk one-hundred feet. By the time she had finally received the nearly ten drinks purchased for her, and shot-gunned an entire three (much to the delight of her onlookers), the familiar wooziness intermingled with the delightful remnants of the ‘other’ wooziness from the fateful safety meeting, and the high of bloodlust satiated. Thusly affected, she had resolved to allow herself the coward’s way out and simply watch The Dead Weights from her current vantage point, with Vivika standing nearby in much the same state.
“This man is a god.” she thought to herself as she stood in awe. Matt was perfect. His movements were perfect. His energy was perfect. It was almost aggravating how at-home the bastard truly was onstage, and how clearly comfortable he was in his element. The Mad Bunny had always been lauded as a legendary force even back when she was just an unknown nobody performing in churches. But this was something else entirely.
The man would do backflips, only to land flat on his back… while still playing! He would sing with a cigarette in his mouth. He broke a guitar after half of his songs. He would stand on the drum set and jump headlong into a patron that had smashed his or her way onstage. He started fist-fights and won every single one. The man was a fire-starter—an absolute powder keg of energy—and he looked to be having so much fun while doing it, too. The Mad Bunny herself wore dour, moody faces to express concentration and devoutness in her beliefs, yet Matt beamed cheek to cheek, as if he was content in the chaos. He wasn’t just brawling with competitors and rivals. He was hanging out with old friends, and he legitimately wanted to take a personal interest in their enjoyment. It was just so very genuine that it made her want to be a better performer.
By the time The Dead Weights had concluded their performance, Matt didn’t look any worse than when he had started. He still stood there, grinning from ear to ear, ready to throw down at a moment’s notice. The same could not be said for the crowd, however, which was now beginning to show its age. At first, they had needed a show. Now they needed orange juice and medical attention. Yet there he stood… just… unaffected.
“How in the world does he do it?” Vivika asked admiringly, as she stood drinking next to Lena.
“Drugs? Maybe?” Lena responded dreamily.
“No… that man isn’t high. That man is hiii-ii-iiigh.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, not ‘high’-high… that man is plugged into something else—some sort of life shit that makes him impervious to… to… whatever.”
“Yeah… drugs,” Lena replied with a laugh.
“Yeah, probably.” Vivika laughed as well, before being interrupted by the voice of Matt over the loudspeaker.
“…like to thank everyone for coming out tonight and showing support for our scene.” What was left alive of the crowd cheered as loudly as they were capable while he continued, “I’d especially like to give a special shout-out to the Mad Bunny and her band of idiots for letting me jam out a song or two. We’re gonna be hearing a lot more from them in the future, I’m sure!” The crowd cheered again at the mention of her and her dipshits, and she had to smile.
“He really likes you,” Vivika teased.
“I think he really likes our band.”
“That’s why he mentioned you and us.”
“I think he just…”
“No, Lena,” Vivika said with a newfound serious note, “he separated us for a reason. It’s plain as day: he’s scoping you.”
“Scoping? What do you mean?”
“Oh come on. You don’t think everything happened a little too perfectly?” Vivika laughed, “Misfortune befalls us. There we are, in an entirely different country, unable to play a show because our idiot guitarist bailed. Suddenly, ‘Mr. Gorgeous’ flies in to save the day… by playing in our band? He’s into you, sure. Hell, he probably wants to sleep with you, too. But he has some ulterior motive that goes even deeper. He’s trying to recruit you. Either way, he wants you.”
“How do you know that?! And what do you mean he wants me?”
Lena knew perfectly well what Vivika meant—she had just spent the last few seconds explaining precisely that—but she was still stuck on the ‘sleep with you’ part.
“Yes, Lena. He wants to screw you. And why wouldn’t he? You’re gorgeous, talented…”
Vivika said many other words that followed “gorgeous” but none of those mattered, “Gorgeous?” she thought to herself, “She thinks that I’m gorgeous?!” It’s not like Lena thought she herself was unappealing, per se… just, it was never really the focal point of her existence, you know? Ok-looking? Sure… maybe even pretty (in an underweight, acne-covered sort of way), but gorgeous?