Short Stories

“CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN” (SHORT STORY)

A man walks into a bar, knowing he’s stepping into danger.

The front door locks behind him. He’s trapped, outnumbered, but not outmatched. The air hisses with tension as he pushes through the crowd.

“Chapter Thirty-Seven” is a brutal short story about the legitimacy of violence.

What drives a man to walk willingly into such peril?

Will he make it out alive?

1,000 words / 4 minutes of fast-paced reading pleasure

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‘Nobody can think and hit someone at the same time.’ Susan Sontag

STEFANO BOSCUTTI

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I smell it the moment I walk into the mangy bar.

The stench of stale beer and stale sweat assaults my nostrils. A biker bar on the wrong side of town on the wrong side of history. Thrash metal pounding through the shitty speakers.

I know what I’m doing. I know I’m walking into destruction. Peskof is in the corner, surrounded by his thugs. Tattooed bikers in shabby black leather vests, greasy jeans and metal-capped boots. One of them wraps a motorcycle chain around his fist as the front door is closed and locked behind me.

I know I’m in for a fight. I don’t hunger for violence but it’s the one thing everyone in power understands. Every nation on earth has been founded on violence. It’s the defining characteristic of the modern state.

Violent revolution led to the birth of the greatest nation on earth. Brother against brother, families ripped apart by bloody terror. Every war is just and necessary

What makes a great fighter? It’s not spirit. It’s not strength. It’s surprise, shock and savagery. If tactics involve a calculation of the human cost of various actions, then tactical considerations are the only considerations with any moral quality.

I’m outnumbered, outgunned and trapped in a shithole with methed-up enforcers, fists for hire who’ve made a career of making poor life choices. Not to mention questionable hygiene and a level of rampant drug use that results in the deterioration of attention, memory and judgment.

Fearless? No doubt. But long-term damage to the subcortical areas of the brain has slowed movement and certain aspects of directed attention. A compromised prefrontal cortex has diminished reasoning, problem-solving and the inhibition of damaging behaviours. Cerebral processing is compromised.

The air crackles with tension, aggression waiting to explode. My heart pounds, a war drum in my chest as I push through the crowd.

Peskof’s bodyguard lunges forward, his meaty fist whistling through the air. Time slows as I pull away and dodge the punch. Violence isn’t legitimate unless the consequences of such actions are to eliminate a still greater evil.

I grab Peskof’s beer bottle and smash it over the bodyguard’s head, shattering it across his skull, sending him reeling.

I turn and drive the ragged bottle into the shoulder of an oncoming biker who screams in pain. Why should a government have a monopoly on terror? Why should a government have all the fun?

Bottle shards slicing through flesh, bones breaking under my fists. A symphony of chaos. Screams, thuds, yells, gasps, screeching laughter.

I spin around and see a deranged biker pull out a gun from under his vest. Eyes wide, grinning from ear to ear.

I punch him as hard as I can in the mouth, grab his wrist and twist it until it crunches. Wrench the gun from his broken hand and slam it into the side of his head. Blood sprays as he collapses to the floor.

I raise the gun to the bikers encircling me.

‘Back off!’

I pull back the trigger.

‘Back the fuck off.’

The crowd falls silent, hovers with menace. They look at Peskof, furious and humiliated. Seething.

I think about taking a hostage but then think again. They’d as soon kill anyone to get to me. I back up to the service door by the bar leading to the kitchen, levelling the gun at my attackers.

I push through the service door and hurry down a corridor towards the kitchen. A thick biker steps out of a dimly lit restroom, zipping up the fly of his jeans. I crack the gun across his head and send him spinning into the men hurtling down the corridor.

I burst into the filthy kitchen and dash to the fire door. Peskof’s men crash into the kitchen. I fired two shots above the doorway, spitting plaster and masonry into the air. The enraged bikers recoil and I push the fire door bar as hard as I can.

And nothing. The door doesn’t budge because it’s held firmly in place by a padlock and chain. I fire wildly and the lock explodes in a shower of sparks and metal.

Peskof’s men are almost on me as I yank the chain free and hurl myself through the opening, the door scraping my flesh as I slam it shut. Fists and feet pound and kick the other side as I frantically thread the chain through the handle and links to hold it fast.

The door heaves and bucks and opens a crack under the onslaught. I spin around and see I’m trapped in a narrow alleyway behind the bar. The sound of approaching footsteps echoes off the brick walls.

I spot a rusted fire ladder to my left. With no time to think, I lunge for it, my sweaty palms slipping on the cold metal as I haul myself up. It groans under my weight. Rust flakes rain down, stinging my eyes as I scramble upward, certain that at any moment a hand will grab my ankle and drag me to my doom.

I throw myself over the roof’s edge, gasping for air. I peer over and see one of Peskof’s men run down the alleyway and unwind the chain.

The door flies open and bikers pour out. Peskof points to the end of the alleyway and barks out an order as his men fan out. They look everywhere except up.

I inch away and scramble across the rooftop, my footsteps muffled by the urban din, each step carrying me closer to salvation.

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No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or copying and pasting, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing.

Stefano Boscutti acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorised or sponsored by the trademark owner.

This is a work of fiction. While many of the characters portrayed here have counterparts in the life and times of undercover operatives and others, the characterisations and incidents presented are totally the products of the author’s fierce imagination. This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It should not be resold or given away. Thank you for your support. (Couldn’t do it without you.)

Discover novels, screenplays, short stories and more by Stefano Boscutti at boscutti.com

STEFANO BOSCUTTI

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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