Hammered

Nie da ci ojciec, nie da ci matka,
Tego, co może dać ci sąsiadka.

(Father will not give you, mother will not give you,
What a female neighbour can give you.)

-- word on the street, shared with my by my father

I opened the gate leading to the balcony that goes around the courtyard, from which I can enter my apartment. I was bit drunk and experiencing reality with usual to this state synaesthesia. It was pretty late, and everyone seemed to be sleeping or doing something in the confines of their humble abodes, so there was not much movement visible from the seventh floor, where I lived. Someone was taking out thrash, and I could hear someone shouting nearby but not see them. Apartment doors were in small alcoves, so you couldn't see them in advance, only when passing them. At the first two, there was nothing special, but the third one, next to mine, had a couple arguing. The aforementioned shouting people; or rather, a person: an unknown man was shouting at a woman, my neighbour. She had a loose, white men's shirt on her, her hair was tied into a ponytail, and she was looking at the shouting man with tired eyes from underneath her bangs. We don't snoop into our neighbours' affairs here, so I kept walking, but as I was inserting the key into my lock, I heard the man going full mental on her. "You fucking whore!" he shouted.

I went inside the apartment. Jim Bob Luke was sitting in his recliner chair, watching something on the telly; from the look of it, it was yet another conspiracy theory podcast. He looked at me amused and said, "Those fuckers don't know the half of it. Poor bastards! Ha ha!"

"Yeah, cool," I replied with understanding. But I knew what I'm about to do. Semi-automatically, I approached the cupboard where we kept our tools, and I took out a club hammer that we had there, and I went outside, quietly closing the door behind me, as to not alert anyone. The man was still cursing profanities at my neighbour. She was in her mid-forties, but you couldn't tell that from her looks, more from the way she was dressing: she looked like an HR officer from an international corporation, but most definitely, she wasn't one; she wouldn't be living here then. Also, I knew what she was doing for living. But we'll get to that.

As I said, with doors hiding behind the line of the external walls, the man didn't know that I was out. I took the hammer with my right hand, the dominant one, and let my hand loose, so it was not obvious that I'm holding anything. Then I tilted my body, so I would approach him from my left.

"I think you should leave," I said to the man.

At first, he didn't register that, but the woman looked at me, scared. Was she scared because of what I could do, or what the man could do to me -- I couldn't tell at the moment. In any case, her look caught the man's attention, and he turned around and looked at me. He had blue jeans, black fake-leather jacket, and a grey T-shirt. "What did you say?" he asked with a voice not accepting any resistance.

(In case you're curious, I was dressed all black: jeans, T-shirt, and a jacket that could belong to a guy installing cable TV. And shoes, too.)

In situations like these, there's not much you can say to the person. Had I had a gun, I could have used it as a deterrent, but without it, I had to lure him into the hammer's range, and the best way to do that was to remain silent. This guy was already fuming at something. "I asked you what. The. FUCK. Did. You. Say?" he punctuated his question for me, taking a breath before each word.

"You did," I agreed with him, as he seemed to stop moving after repeating his question.

"Please, go," the woman said. "We don't want any trouble."

"Shut up!" the man shouted at her angrily. "I'll deal with this bravado here."

"'Bravado,'" I repeated with an amused voice. "You know difficult words. You must be fun at parties."

"Oh you!" the man yelled and jumped at me, only for his head to suddenly meet the head of my hammer.

He fell to my left and looked dizzy, but still stood up and reached inside his jacket. Not thinking much, I threw the hammer and hit his head. He collapsed, and a gun fell to the floor. But he was still operational, and he started reaching for the gun, so I jumped at him and kicked him in the head. Then I picked up the hammer and grabbed his hair and smashed him once, and when he still groaned, I repeated this two or three times, until he fell motionlessly.

In hindsight, I though, a dead-blow hammer, filled with loose steel shot that distributes the energy of the blow better, should have been used; it's especially useful in tight locations, and here, I had less room to take a proper swing. A note for future-self.

"Bravo, mister knight in white armour," the woman said with a not amused tone. But somehow, her delivery electrified me. Seeing as I'm not responding, she said normally, "I would have dealt with him."

"I don't say you wouldn't."

"Your actions speak louder than your words."

"I didn't like how he was talking to you."

"Just that?"

"Just that."

"And now what?" she asked, and she didn't sound sarcastic; more like genuinely interested.

"Now you will dispose of the body," I replied.

"Oh, will I?" she asked, now sarcastically.

"That's what you do for living," I explained.

That surprised her, to the point that she went silent and looked to the sides.

"It's fine. Nobody here cares," I tried to calm her down.

"Yeah, I can see."

"I'm not like the others."

"How do you know what I do for living?" she asked, anxious.

"Remember Flat Nick?"

"No clue who you're talking about."

"Right, you probably wouldn't know him by his name. It was near this nightclub with parrots and palm trees above the entrance."

"The one with smashed nose?" she asked.

"Hence, Flat Nick," I said, winking.

"Oh please, are you trying to be charming?"

"Funny you should say that."

"Why funny?"

"What they call me is Charmer Sophismatique."

"Is that your real name?"

"Nobody in this town uses their real name."

"You're probably right. So, what's with Flat Nick?"

"Ah, yeah. So, I was there when you arrived to clean up the mess that the other guys made there, with your huge valise with, what I can only assume, was your professional equipment," I explained.

"Huh. So, you knew all this time?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me that. It makes me feel old," she said. "Or at least, older than I should feel."

"We're probably peers," I said.

"Then you look young."

"So they say. And how should I call you, then?"

"I'm Lady."

"And that doesn't make you feel old?"

"No, that's my name, I had it since I can remember. My nouveauriche parents named me like that because it felt more prestigious to them, which happens when you win a lot of money after a lifetime of being poor. My father lost all this money soon after, being a frenetic gambler that he was, but the name stayed. I learned to like it over time. Lady Ginevra, if you're curious about my both names."

"So, there are people who go by their real names around here."

"Alright. Small-talk's over," she ordered. "His dead body cannot lay here like that."

"How should we go about it?"

"'We?'"

"I made the mess, I'm happy to help with it. As I said, I'm not like the others."

"Huh, what do you say. Well, I work alone, but I could use your place."

"My place?" I asked, taken by surprise for a change.

"The chemicals are not good for me, and we don't have luxury of moving him anywhere far. Is your dick getting soft, all of a sudden?"

"You don't take no prisoners, Lady."

"Time is of the essence, Charmer."

"Touché."

"Don't go full French on me."

Lady disappeared in her apartment without giving me chance of recourse, and came out with a plastic sheet. "We need to wrap him up, so he doesn't leave a trail of blood when you're dragging him to your apartment."

"Clever."

"Years of experience, dear Charmer."

Did she liked my name? I wondered. Or was it meant to signal something to me? I didn't dwell on that, though.

I started dragging the body, when she asked, "Don't you have a room mate? The TV's on all the time."

"He wouldn't be of use for us," I replied.

I opened the door to my apartment and dragged the man, whose name I never learned, inside. Jim Bob Luke glanced at me with interest. "Bringin' work home?" he asked.

"It's a side project," I said.

Then Lady walked in, and Jim Bob Luke got agitated and tried to stood up, but did it too fast and fell back into his chair almost immediately, breathing heavily. Wheezing, actually.

"I told you no guests!" he manage to shout despite his condition.

"She invited herself in somehow, and I had no heart to say no."

"That's 'cause ya thinkin' with ya dick!" Jim Bob Luke shouted angrily. "That's why."

Lady looked at me curiously and with a question in her look.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about half the time," I said quietly.

"Can we trust him, then?" Lady asked.

"Oh, defo. He's a retired spy. He knows how to keep a secret. Otherwise, he would be dead by now. Occupational hazard."

Though, at this point, Jim Bob Luke was watching the telly again and spewing dismissive comments at conspiracy content they were dispensing there; but that made our secrets even safer. I meant, a secret.

"You're sharing your flat with a retired spy" Lady neither said nor asked. "You are even more surprising than I thought, Charmer."

"Happy to oblige."

"Okay, now that he's inside," she pointed at the body wrapped in the plastic sheet, "I'll go wash off the blood, at least roughly. Then I'll come back with a container for the body."

"Container?"

"I cannot melt him in your bathtub. The acid would got to it. I need a special container."

"We don't have the bathtub, anyway. We're the shower people."

She left and I stayed with remains of what was used to be a toxic man. Hadn't he been wrapped in the sheet, I would have gone through his wallet and pockets. He looked like someone who carries cash, and cash's always good. Ah well, we'll get to that later, I thought.

The show on the telly was informing with a serious, if not alarming voice that pigeons went extinct decades ago, and what we see are smartly disguised drones that are used to coordinate fake people living among us. Including the highest-ranking politicians. But they didn't want to name the president, which I found disappointing. If you're not going balls deep, why even make an effort?

"What happened to watching porn?" I asked. "If you're gonna fry your brain, you could at least go for something carnal."

"I tried, sonny, I really did, but damn, those things they do are weird these days. Way back, people would just fuck, even if they met in far-fetched circumstances," he complained with a resigned tone. "And what's with all these body modifications?"

"That's because you were stubbornly turning on the Japanese channel all the time," I tried to explained, but he hand-waved me.

"This is really interesting," he said.

"I'll bring you a dead pigeon, and you'll tell me which part is the drone," I snarked at him, or rather at the stuff he was watching.

"Ah, see, they have this brilliant biotechnology--" he started explaining the intricacies to me, when someone knocked at the door.

It was Lady; no surprise there. She had a large thrash-can-looking barrel on wheels. She also changed her clothes, and had a black rubber apron, with matching black high gloves and Wellington shoes; other than that, she had black lycra leggings and sweatshirt. As soon as she entered, Jim Bob Luke paused and turned around.

"You're Mikey Smith's daughter, ain't ya?" he asked.

Lady raised one eyebrow and said, a bit annoyed but also amused, "There are no secrets in this town, are there?"

"Eh," Jim Bob Luke hand-waved her. "In this apartment complex, we don't care. I was just curious if my mind's not going away."

"Oh, I can tell you that has been happening for quite a while already," I replied to him.

In response, he turned on the telly and turned up the volume.

"Even better," Lady said.

She opened the barrel and took out two gas masks and two pairs of goggles and passed me one of each. "Put this on, you don't wanna lose your eyes nor lungs," she said.

Not that I suspected that Jim Bob Luke was going to interrupt us, or something, but I decided to give him heads-up. "We're gonna use the bathroom now," I told him with a voice raised, as if I was talking to a person with hearing impairment.

"I knew you liked golden shower," he snapped at me.

"Said the man who doesn't like the 'weird' stuff!"

"Doesn't like doesn't mean doesn't know!" he shouted back, blowing raspberry.

"Whatever." It was my time to hand-wave him.

The bathroom was rather small. That being said, two people, one dead body, and a barrel were taking almost all the available space. Lady looked around, though she couldn't have been surprised, for she had the same layout. "Normally, I would prefer to chop up the package, for practical reasons. The barrel is big enough to fit him in, though we should get to it ASAP, because rigour mortis is a real bitch." First, she took out a couple of bottles of some liquid. "Industrial acid," she explained. We placed the body head down, with palms close by. "These should go away first, in case someone discovers it before the process finished," she said. After the guy was all in, she ordered me to put on the mask and googles, and we started pouring the acid in. When she was reaching out for one of the bottles, I could notice her ass, because she had these glossy leggings, especially when stretched out due to bending, that would emphasise the shape of her derrière. After all acid was used, she asked for the hammer, too, and she threw it into the barrel, which she then closed tightly.

I scoffed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, a bit suspicious.

"I came back a bit hammered tonight, but it just struck me that it was nothing, compared to what he experienced."

We went outside and she closed the door. Then she took off the mask and goggles. I followed her clue.

"I closed the barrel, and it's generally safe, but I wouldn't used that bathroom for a while," she said.

"That's normally what men say when they go out," I commented, but Lady just rolled her eyes. "How long are we talking here?" I asked, to push the discourse on.

"I'll have someone come pick it up in two days. He'll look like a garbage man. Act as if nothing special was happening."

I realised something and suddenly looked in the direction of the bathroom.

"What?" asked Lady.

"I was going to check his wallet," I said. "For cash. Ah, never mind."

Lady looked at me for a moment. "Actually," she started, "it would be preferable if you didn't sleep here either for a couple of days. Those chemicals are a bitch, too."

"You knew from the begginning."

She raised her eyebrows in a whatcha-gonna-do manner. "It's not like I asked you to kill him on my doorstep. And obviously, I preferred not to use my place for that. I never bring work home."

"You should listen to her!" Jim Bob Luke shouted, but without turning down the volume, so we just ignored him.

"Generally, I only crash here, and not every day either, so that's not gonna be an issue for me. And Jim Bob Luke claims to have lung cancer, though he doesn't treat it, and it's been six years already, and he merely coughs, so I suppose he'll be fine here."

Jim Bob Luke paused his programme. "They actually tried to break our spirits with a smell like that when I was captured by Russkie mercenaries a couple of decades ago, and I persevered. So, you go, kids, and have fun. I'll hold the fort."

I took a jacket and we left.

"I usually don't invite anyone in," Lady started, "especially on a night like that, but would you like to come for a nightcap?"

Oh, I thought, she's going to get rid of me, too. But I didn't have anything better to do, so I said, "Fo' sure."

Her apartment was pretty classy, compared to our run-down shithole, though Jim Bob Luke made a lot of effort to make it look decent. But here, there were many lights and a carpet and a fluffy sofa. There was no way, however, that she stored this barrel or industrial-grade chemicals here; maybe she was also renting a place next to her, to use it as a storage; the light was always off there, ever since I recall. But I decided to focus on the positives.

"I like what you did with the place."

"Thanks. Do you really call your flat an apartment?" she asked, amused. "Have you ever seen an apartment?"

"No, but I read about them in a Japanese encyclopaedia, and the description matched our place."

"So, what are you having?"

"Well, what do you have?"

"Vodka?"

"God forbid."

"Whiskey?"

"Don't you have tequila?"

"You're in for the devil, I see."

"Aren't we all, one way or another?"

"So, what's the deal with you two?"

"No deal. At least, nothing special. We just share the rent. Though, he's the old woman in this relationship: takes care of groceries and cleans up the place, to a degree. It's pretty convenient. I only sleep there every now and then. Without me, he would have to go into the streets. Without him, I wouldn't have this safe house. And, being a former spy, he's pretty aware of things."

"A marriage of convenience, then."

"Well, we thought about that, too, but it was not that beneficial, after all."

She laughed.

"And you?" she asked. "What do you do for living that allows you to spot me in my professional attire?"

"I'm an errand boy, usually delivering small packages around the town. I sometimes drive the shotgun, but I rarely take any direct action."

"Any what's with this Charmer?"

"Yeah, I noticed you liked my name."

"Well?"

"When I came to town, I was an illegal, and I generally operated without any name. 'Charmer' was initially a nickname, though I have no idea why someone would call me like that, but as I grew my roots here, I decided to legalise it. So, while it's not the name on my birth certificate, it is one I have in my documents. Not that I use them much."

"Yeah, yeah, nobody uses their real identity here."

"We're the society of favours. Misfits and losers, and all that lot."

"Hey, don't call me a loser," she said, but not seriously.

"I would never."

"You better." She took a pause. "Aren't you curious who you had offed?"

"He was impolite. That's all I needed to know."

"To be fair, I would probably shot him myself. Just not tonight."

I smiled. "I was pretty certain you were going to off me now, while we're at it."

She looked surprised at this idea. "No, you seem to be one of the good guys. Our fellow deceased was not. On our first date, he was okayish, but on the second one, he let his guard down and showed his true colours. So, I ditched him, but somehow he found out where I lived and came a-knockin' at my door. Maybe he was some sort of a stalker, who knows."

"If we only went through his wallet," I said.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Sadly, nobody saw him after tonight."

I put the tumbler back on the kitchen counter.

"I noticed you took liking to my leggings earlier," she said all of a sudden.

We started the night with Kill, then we discussed a Marriage (of convenience, but still), and now, it looked like I was for a Fuck, too.

"I tried hard not to imagine you only in those boots, gloves, and the apron you had earlier, leaning on a counter very much like you have here, while I'm taking you from behind," I said.

"And maybe in the ass, Mister Charmer?" she snapped, but coyly.

I raised a sleeve of my T-shirt, revealing a tattoo saying, OUR PENIS BELONGS IN VAGINA. "I would never."

"You're one of those Vagina Boys, huh?"

"It's a rather informal congregation."

"You sick fuck," she said, but again coyly. "I'll go change and I want you undressed when I'm back."