Life Among the Dead 4: The End: Life Among the Dead, #4

By Daniel Cotton

THE END IS HERE!

          Ushering in Man's Ruin, several survivors are about to embark upon their personal Trail of Tears. The world has died around them only to rise up. It's a test of strength where only the strongest will survive to see THE END.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Cotton
• Release date: Aug 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536575934

Book preview

Section XII: Survival of the Fittest

1

Warriors wait in the dark. Time is irrelevant in the tense anticipation of the impending clash, mere seconds stretch into hours. They can sense the enemy is close and equally aware of them, thirsty for blood.

Lights flare on above, blinding at first, it’s time to brawl. The opposition reacts in thunderous unison, greeting the flesh they have come for, shaking the rafters with their noise.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the land of MILFs and honies, the Wilkes Arena is proud to present our main event. The lovely ladies of the Women’s Flat Track Derby League are going to duke it out on the oval ring for us, an amplified voice announces over the rising din. Paid for in part by; Ultramart, Ener-Aid, and Greenback Beer, the better brew. Let’s get down and der-beee!

As the echoing voice stretches the last word, the contenders take to the track for the initial lap. The teams play to the crowd with waves and provocative gestures to illicit the favor of the cheering mass. The women pose in their scant uniforms consisting of safety equipment, short-shorts, miniskirts, and tank tops, all leaving little to the imagination. Spectators whoop and boo their split appreciation or distain for the teams rolling past on quad skates. The home team gets all the accolades, the visitors receive nothing but hate.

Among the many teams in the fledgling league’s inaugural year of existence, Man’s Ruin from Bedlam, Massachusetts has become notorious for their brutality and complete dominance of the sport. Captain and star player, Rocky Roadkill, leads the league in penalties. She takes in the scorn being cast down from the stands and lets it fuel her like a poisonous plant taking in the sun. She throws up twin middle fingers to the jeering spectators, turning on her skates to make sure she gets every last scowling face.

Rocky Roadkill of Man’s Ruin isn’t making many fans here in Breckinridge, is she Gene?

Not with antics like that, Jim, the disembodied voice of Gene concurs. She should take a lesson from her Pivot, Killer B. That player just seems to light up the track, doesn’t she?

She certainly does, Gene. Look how she blows kisses despite the wrath being stirred up by her lead Jammer and Captain. The undefeated, Man’s Ruin, is coming fresh from their victory against the San Diego Chickenheads where they turned the Viejas Arena into a USDA certified slaughterhouse. Unless our own Pornstar Galactica can stop them, they’ll continue north to Waterloo to compete for the title against the Sleazy Riders,

Having made the rounds and greeted the audience, the teams take their places within the center of the track. Pads are adjusted and laces are tightened to the delight of the men and women, mostly the men, watching. Forged in the wake of the failed Lingerie Football League, and in the renewed interest in Roller Derby, this new diversion has gained popularity and is now being televised, albeit on the upper, lesser known sports networks that are found most commonly when hitting the ‘last’ button on a man’s remote. Most of the contenders were cherry picked from the junior teams and local associations across the country, or recruited from Olympic rejects and Ice Capade hopefuls. Skill is secondary to looks. Man’s Ruin is the exception since they were already an established team. Scouts came for Killer B but she wouldn’t join without her friends.

KB, take first jam, Rocky tells her Pivot. The most seasoned member of the league isn’t getting any younger, and feeling their last bout. She has been in the derby circuit long before establishing the current line-up, long before most of the ladies were even born.

You all right, Rocky? the sweetheart of the team asks, named Killer B for her attributes; body, blonde hair, and blue eyes.

Just want to rest up for Waterloo, the Captain answers knowing victory is in the bag. Don’t worry. You’re going to be great.

Rocky squeezes a mouthful out of her sports bottle, embossed with the Ener-Aid logo though it doesn’t contain even a trace of the hydrating beverage. The gin eases her sore muscles as she watches her team take their places at the start.

It looks as if Killer B will be taking the star for Man’s Ruin for our first jam, squaring off against Pornstar Galactica’s Thai Fighter, Jim announces.

Thai Fighter actually looks a little relieved, Jim, Gene points out. The Asian derby girl relaxes in her shiny silver uniform, reminiscent of 1950s science fiction. Rocky Roadkill just has an intimidating presence that can only come from a woman that lives and breathes the flat track, a surgical perfection that can just be described as poetic. What most do as a hobby she has made her life and now she’s in the majors.

Majors my ass, Rocky scoffs at the statement. There’s no competition in this Cheesecake Factory. It may have been Killer B the new league wanted but it was a juggernaut they received when they signed the untamable team. With Rocky at the helm of Man’s Ruin, no other team stands a chance at victory.

I didn’t think you’d be riding the pine, a suited man says to Rocky upon approach.

Just saving myself for the championship, Rocky says without interest as she sips deeply from her bottle.

Glad to see you’re promoting the sponsor, he points out her use of the endorsed container she drinks from.

Hmm. It’s so good, she exaggerates her enjoyment, smiling behind the firewater.

Right. Let’s just make sure you aren’t covering the logo.

Why are you talking to me? Rocky asks without concern over the man’s status in the league’s hierarchy.

I was hoping you had come to a conclusion over what we had discussed.

Can you be more specific please? You say a lot of shit, I half listen. That isn’t really the basis of a ‘discussion’.

"We... I had talked about you hanging up your skates and just coaching. You’re over-extending yourself; coaching, captaining, and lead Jammer. That’s a lot of hats to wear."

I’m not really one for hats, she admits.

You know what I mean, he declares pointedly. I’ve been talking to the other commissioners...

Commissioners, she laughs the word. Frat boys that outgrew date raping co-eds, and decided to do this for kicks?

If you hate it so much, why do you do it?

For my girls. I told them they’d be great one day and I meant it. That means I need to be out there to ensure victory.

The other commissioners and I would rather see Pornstar Galactica moving on to the championship... he quickly says.

We are not taking a dive, Rocky firmly states. She squeezes another blast of gin into her mouth, imagining her hand was crushing the man’s head. Rocky has been in the circuits for a long time, she’s had the misfortune of being a part of leagues that were completely without merit like professional wrestling; scripted bouts, preordained winners, and lacking in any sense of actual competition.

You and your girls will be compensated.

There’s the first whistle, Jim announces after the action commences. Thai Fighter takes an early lead. Man’s Ruin’s Killer B is not far behind. The pack is set into motion and our game is underway!

Everything I do is for my girls, keeping them strong. Rocky stands, her skates give her a height advantage on the man. He backs up, intimidated. Even if not for her unpredictable behavior and renowned rage he’d be scared. Her amber eyes lock onto his, hypnotic like a cobra about to strike. He’s scared and she loves it, it’s more intoxicating than the gin she still tastes in her mouth. My bitches are fighters.

Some fast footwork by Killer B and she takes the lead as they make it full circle! Gene excitedly reports.

Ooh! A hip check from Thai Fighter and Killer B is down! Jim adds.

Rocky’s anger is redirected to the track with a snap of her head where her friend is on the ground, the pivot is sliding over the glossy floor, fighting to regain her footing.

Down but not out, Jim! Gene says as Killer B regains her footing and skates after Thai Fighter, quickly recovering the ground she lost. It looks like Killer B has entered the pack first and is racking up points!

It’s just... the commissioner stammers at Rocky Roadkill. You’re the villains. That’s how the audience sees you and your team. It would be better for the league if Pornstar Galactica or the Sleazy Riders win it all.

When you’re right, you’re right, Rocky contends. She gives her pivot the signal to end the jam early.

The commissioner is shocked. This is in no way how he saw this going. He is speechless as he watches the woman don her helmet, sliding is over her short spikey hair. Rocky adjusts her pads, unlike most of the girls in the league with their Victoria’s Secret model bodies, Rocky Roadkill’s is ripped with muscles sculpted from hard living, battle, and strain.

It looks like the captain of Man’s Ruin is calling in Killer B for a substitution. She will be donning the star and her Pivot will be taking the bench, Gene comments. The crowd boos emphatically over the news.

She’s fast, Killer B warns her teammate over what she’s in for.

She better hope so, Rocky retorts under her breath, for her sake.

I’m glad we’re finally seeing eye-to-eye, Rocky, the commissioner says with relief.

What the fuck are you talking about? the rough edged derby girl laughs. All I said is ‘you’re right’. We are the villains.

But...?

The crowd is on their feet to shout their disapproval over one another. The officials chastise the audience for the trash and beer cups they throw at the track.

We’ll see who you’re cheering for when this is over, assholes, Rocky tells the angry mob though they can’t hear her over their own thundering roar.

We are moments away from our next jam, awaiting a slight delay so the track can be cleared of debris, Jim announces to fill the gap.

Thai Fighter looks nervous, and with good reason, she’s about to go up against a woman that’s drawn more blood than the American Red Cross.

There’s our next whistle, Gene! Thai Fighter makes a fast break with the swiftness of a Jedi, but Rocky Roadkill is on her six and not letting up. She’s about to overtake Thai... Oh! Thai Fighter takes a nasty elbow and she’s down! Rocky Roadkill leaves her in the dust to enter the pack. Thai Fighter is staying down... Jesus! Is she all right?

Splayed out on the track, her silver miniskirt giving the audience an eyeful, Thai holds her face in trembling hands. Blood trickles from between her fingers. Officials on skates wave flags to call off the current jam and detour the pack around the fallen player. Medics are on the scene to see the extent of the injury and pull Thai Fighter off the track.

The crowd has gone silent for the first time since the lights came on and the commenters must fill the void.

Well, Gene, it looks as if Thai Fighter is going to be fine, but she will be sitting out the rest of the match. Her Pivot is going to take the reins, XXX-Wing is about to embark on her never ending mission. The refs have finished conferring over the legalities of Rocky Roadkill’s elbow use. Still in our first year of existence, the officials are working out the kinks, so to speak, Jim nervously laughs.

They appear to have made their ruling and it looks as if Rocky Roadkill will be sitting out the next few jams. I suspect Ms. Roadkill only took to the track in retribution for the otherwise legal move made on Killer B. This woman is nothing if not protective of her teammates.

Perhaps, a little overprotective, Jim.

A bloody faced Thai Fighter is escorted off the track by her Captain, receiving a slow clap of approval from the stands when she raises her hand to let them all know she will be fine. Rocky smiles at the sight as she casually glides to the penalty box, taking the time to retrieve her sports bottle, all the while clapping for her opponent’s resilience. One triumphant stance before sitting incites a fresh roar from the crowd in her favor, she has spilled blood for their amusement and they lap it up.

You didn’t have to do that, Killer B scolds before resuming her role as jammer.

Just get out there and win this so I can go to the hotel and fuck something already, Rocky orders. Killer B complies, rolling to the line as Rocky happily calls to her. We’re gonna be great!

2

Lock up your husbands, ladies! a spikey haired woman announces from on top of the bar at the Breckinridge Hammond Suites. Man’s Ruin is in town and ready to fuck!

She’s surrounded by younger women in similar black and white miniskirts, pouring shots for her friends and any man brave enough to approach. Frustrated staff from the front desk are entering yet again to attempt what the bartender has failed repeatedly to do, calming the party down.

A man enters as the woman is helped off the bar. He isn’t a guest of the hotel, he was summoned here, and already jumpy. The invite wasn’t signed, just a note telling where and when to meet, and what to bring. It was accompanied by a photo of him with a woman other than his wife in a very compromising position.

Gil Price searches the faces at the bar and tables, whoever he is here to meet has the advantage of knowing what he looks like, intimately. He clutches a brown satchel tightly to his chest as he tries to make eye contact with the correct person. All the way in the back corner of the bar he spots a lone patron, one of the few that pays no mind to the boisterous woman at the bar. The heavyset man at the table looks like an aging bulldog. He grimly offers the slightest of nods to Price in recognition to draw him to the table.

Gil Price’s stomach is in knots that tighten with every step he takes towards his appointment.

That’s me! the loud woman at the bar screams, startling Gil Price whose nerves are already shot. Turn it up!

...Rocky Roadkill spent more time in the penalty box than in the game, but that didn’t stop Man’s Ruin from trouncing Pornstar Galactica and ensuring their spot in the championship...

Jumpy, aren’t we, Mr. Price? the stoic man asks as his guest sits across from him.

Price holds the bag even closer to himself on his lap. His hands fidget on top of it, twirling the wedding band on his left hand. Well, it isn’t every day I get extorted.

The pictures were just to get you here, this is a business deal.

I thought you were asking for a bit much in the way of hush money. Who are you?

Who I am isn’t important, what I’m offering you is. Your little pharmaceutical company is currently ranked number two in the country, second only to Wilkes. How would you like to be number one?

There’s no beating Freeman Wilkes.

According to a reliable source Wilkes’s stock is about to take a hit.

What source?

His name is of no consequence. Rest assured, once this happens you will have but a brief window to capitalize on what I have for you. Your company can finally move past putting out generics and knock-offs, you can have the miracle behind Wilke’s miracle drugs. I can give you the secret ingredient.

The researchers of Mercott & Price have been trying to crack the secret behind the drugs but for years it has eluded them. Gil Price can’t help but be skeptical. Bullshit. The secret of their medicines is worth far more than what you asked me to bring.

I only need enough to leave the country, set up in some third world shit hole and live like a king.

Why the rush to leave the country?

My former employer isn’t a man one crosses and lives.

And, you crossed him?

I did, the intimidating man admits without giving away any sense of fear. Before you ask, it’s better for us both if you don’t know his name. He is, at the moment, beyond any hope of reaching me. I plan to use this window to keep it that way.

No honor amongst thieves?

I’m no thief. Besides, the asshole had it coming, the man says and sips his whisky sour. He tries not to think about his former employer, how the man had made no concessions for his loyal lieutenants should he become incarcerated. They had no choice but to seek employment elsewhere, freelance.

So, what’s the secret ingredient?

I have no idea, that’s your job. Shit doesn’t even have a name. I have come into possession of a small quantity of what Wilkes calls ‘sample 6’. Interested?

Gil Price feels as if he’s making a deal with the devil. He shifts uncomfortably across from the man that has alluded to the future demise of Freeman Wilkes, announced it in such a cavalier manner as if speaking about the weather. If this ingredient is what he claims, even though he has no doubt it was procured by nefarious means, it will make Mercott and Price billions. I am.

Great, the man says dropping a fifty dollar bill on the table. Have a drink on me. Meet me in room 402 in twenty minutes.

The moment the aging mobster gets to his feet, men in suits rise from the nearby tables to flank him.

Price is left alone at the table, only a guilty pang in his gut to keep him company. He sets his elbows down and cradles his head in his hands. He debates what to do, if he should actually meet the man again or run. If this mobster wants to get out of striking distance, would he risk the time to show his wife the pictures? The ingredient has already been stolen, Price rationalizes. Even if Freeman is getting whacked, I have nothing to do with that.

Gil Price slaps his hand down on the fifty as he stands and heads to the bar. He finds a gap in the rowdy crowd to place his order. Can I get a gin and tonic, please?

He sips, lost in thought over what he’s about to do, too distracted within himself to hear the ladies around him.

Hey, KB, want to have some fun? The woman that had excitedly pointed out her own likeness on the screen has a young man by his belt.

Eww, her friend responds.

Suit yourself, the short haired woman pulls the man out of the bar behind her like a dog.

We’re heading to the pool, KB. You in? another friend asks as the party dissipates.

No thanks. I’m going to give Rocky some time. Then, I’m turning in.

The blonde is left all alone except for a troubled looking man at one end of the bar and a relaxed black man on the other that raises his glass to her when their eyes meet, a sign of solidarity in their solitude. Killer B stares passively at the television that has been switched from the little known sports network that broadcasts the league to the news. She wonders how long Rocky will need, it usually depends on the man in question’s stamina.

Buy you a drink? a well-dressed, older man asks as he takes the stool next to her, making sure she sees the thickness of his billfold as he places his order.

Her glass is nearly full. No, thank you.

How about some company instead? He eases his seat closer to her.

Killer B politely leans away from him. I was actually enjoying some alone time.

Me too. No reason we can’t enjoy some alone time together.

His statement is absurd, but she has certainly heard worse lines. She glances at him and finds him to be familiar, she knows his face.

I’m in town for the Republican convention. Political talk and heated debate always makes me thirsty, among other things. I’m looking for a little companionship for the evening. I’m willing to pay, I pay more for discretion.

The man casually taps his full wallet on the bar, if Killer B wasn’t struggling to place his name she’d be offended by his assumption that she is a prostitute. His identity is on the tip of her tongue. She feels she is close to naming him until his face appears on the local news. The bartender has turned the volume down since Rocky’s departure, the man sitting beside her is on the screen in a silent tirade, red in the face.

Oh, you’re Paul Coburn! I’ve seen you on TV before, she tells the man propositioning her.

I’m sure you have. Are you a fan?

Not really, The blonde says plainly. I love your wife though, what’s her name again?

Jennifer, he repentantly answers.

Give her my best when you call her tonight, Killer B tells the man with a smile as she leaves him alone at the bar with his shame.

Paul Coburn stares into his glass. The patrons of the bar have dwindled to just himself and a black man who is casually walking his way from where he had sat before the blonde left.

Notorious GOP, the man greets coolly. She was a lot nicer than most women would have been, showed real class as you brandished your wealth and fame like an extension of your dick.

The political spokesman stiffens his posture, regretting that he had sent his security detail away for the evening when he saw the sexy blonde he thought was a sure thing.

Weren’t you spouting off just this afternoon about the sanctity of marriage? the black man continues.

You saw the convention? Paul tries not to sound too surprised.

Oh, I’m a big fan of bigots, hypocrites, and double standards. I really love the part where you bashed the idea of gays marrying, now I see you here about to sully the institute.

He’s black, a liberal, and gay! Paul thinks with horror. He’s the perfect storm. He tells himself not to show fear, like dealing with a bear in the woods. He knows he must stand his ground and finish his drink.

Do you ever actually listen to yourself while you’re screaming to be heard over your opponents?

Well...

You call it debate, all it sounds like is a tantrum. A blowhard spouting off about morality yet doesn’t practice what he’s preaching.

All Paul Coburn can do is down his drink and run. He can’t have another altercation leaking out to the liberal media.

Have a good night, sir, the black man bids him farewell as Paul escapes to his room alone to call his wife.

3

He’s clear, boss.

Gil Price is allowed to enter room 402 after a rather invasive pat down by a very large man.

I’m not expecting any trouble out of Mr. Price, Angelo. You and the boys can relax. I’ll call ya if I need ya.

The mobster waits for his men to leave him alone with his guest before commencing with their appointed business. He holds a hand tightly over his stomach, he’d blame the room service cuisine if he didn’t know the true cause, stress. He may not let it show but he is afraid, you don’t cross a man like Benito Sartori and get away with it. He is not only the reason the capo is locked up, the lieutenant is the reason he will stay locked up. He supplied the don with blueprints of the prison for his escape, an outdated copy that will lead him nowhere but solitary with an extended sentence.

This is it? Price inspects the merchandise. He holds the vile of green slime to the light, it hardly looks like the miracle cure-all that has made Wilkes Pharmaceuticals so much money helping so many people.

Sure is. Take it to your lab. Check it out. Do whatever it is you smart guys do. That’s your side of Mercott and Price isn’t it? You do all the brainy stuff.

There’s more to it than that, Price defends.

Sure there is, the mobster concedes as he inspects his windfall. He figures he has no need to count it since guys like Gil Price never dare to short change guys like him. They have the cash to spare, only this is not exactly his. His side of Mercott & Price is the brain work, it's the Mercott side, his wife’s family, that funds his research. Do you recognize this room, Mr. Price?

Of course Gil knows the room, it’s the exact suite where his indiscretion occurred. He wonders how his affair was captured but can’t bring himself to ask, he just wants to get out of this hotel. I want the negatives.

Negatives? the mobster laughs. His laughter builds until tears form in his eyes and he must sit down on his bed. His chest feels tight as he tries to find his breath. No one uses film anymore!

How do I know you deleted the pictures?

I guess, you just have to trust me, the man pants. He’s sweating from the unexpected hilarity and still having trouble catching his breath. The air seems thicker. He struggles to gulp it in as if he can’t get enough oxygen. Gil Price watches as a grimace of panic forms on the man’s face, right before he collapses to the floor.

4

After a few aimless laps around the fountain in the lobby and a visit to the pool to see her teammates splashing in the water with some of the guys they met at the bar, Killer B finds herself standing outside her own room. She should have killed more time, Rocky is still in there with her most recent conquest.

The Pivot leans against the wall and waits for her Captain to finish. The raucous liaison embarrasses her whenever someone walks past, but she hasn’t anywhere else to go. All she can do is look at the floor and try not to hear what’s transpiring inside.

Hi, I’m looking for Rocky Roadkill, a voice startles her.

Killer B looks up in an instant, while the woman in question moans and shouts orders beyond the closed door. She had been avoiding eye contact with the passersby. It takes a second to focus on the face she meets in the hall, the coach of Pornstar Galactica, also one of Rocky’s ex-flames.

She’s a little busy at the moment, Killer B hitches a thumb to the door.

Oh, he says, knowing firsthand what that means. I know I just saw you at the match, but you look familiar.

I signed your cast.

The man had once dated Rocky Roadkill, been on the receiving end of epic romps such as what is happening beyond the door, and of a very bad break-up. That’s right.

I’m sure Rocky feels bad about what happened, Killer B tries to console. It ended your career, and I think...

Its fine, he assures her, though she is opening an old wound. I didn’t want to play for the Bruins anyway. At least this new gig with the league pays better than the minors.

The door opens suddenly so Rocky’s random lay can be pushed out holding his clothes. Thanks. That was great, she tells him dispassionately.

Finally! Killer B says on her way into the room.

What the hell are you doing here? Rocky asks her ex, the last person she was expecting, or wanted, to see.

Gross, Rocky! Killer B complains from their shared room. On my bed? Again?

Rocky closes the door, sealing her disappointed Pivot in their room so she can confront her one time boyfriend alone.

Can we talk? he asks.

’Bout?

The commissioners and I are upset over what happened tonight.

Our winning? she asks acting innocent and hurt.

Thai Fighter, he corrects her.

Fuck Thai Fighter! Rocky exclaims. The man looks away, just for an instant but it’s enough to speak volumes to her. You already have.

That’s not the point, he assures.

As if I care. I’d much rather ride my pick-ups like Mr. Breckinridge you just met. Rocky always dubs her conquests with the town they are bedded in until they are replaced by a new one, or simply forgotten.

The league wants you off the track! he gets to the point. You can coach, but you aren’t to play anymore.

Why? Because we win?

You’re a liability.

That’s bullshit!

Your overzealous aggression! he pointedly says. The injuries!

That’s derby! she counters.

Not this derby. The decision’s been made. There’s nothing you can do.

Rocky Roadkill lives for the brawl, now it’s being taken from her. She already feels as if a piece of her is missing. Fine, she numbly accepts her fate.

I’m sorry it has...

Get the fuck outta here!

From a bone jarring slam of the door, Rocky heads to the room’s mini-fridge for her bottle of booze. She downs the remains, unable to believe that her benching has only to do with her actions tonight. She thinks it has to be with their winning, a conspiracy to give these centerfold cunts a fighting chance. They all but told her to take a dive tonight, now they are handicapping Man’s Ruin. She can’t fight the decision, if she tries they’ll just boot her whole team, they need this. She’ll have to find a new player and watch from the sidelines, she’ll just have to accept it.

A bottle shattering against the wall startles Killer B. She looks to Rocky where she seethes. You all right, Rocky?

Peachy, she answers unconvincingly. I gotta shower. Be a lamb and get me another bottle. Rocky locks herself in the bathroom, where most may cry she refuses to give them that power. She resolves to train her girls even harder, to be ruthless like her. It’s survival of the fittest, she tells herself. We’re still gonna be great!

5

Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. The streets of Breckinridge should be silent, instead sirens can be heard. A man in a red suit drops his bell into his charity kettle and calls it a night. He’s been working hard for a good cause and it’s time to retire, but not before a drink.

He feels something in the air, something odd. For a Sunday there are an awful lot of ambulances and police cars wailing in the night.

Evening, Santa, the night clerk of the Hammond Suites greets the familiar visitor and receives only a mittened wave as a response.

This time of year Santa avoids his usual haunts when dressed as he is. He heads for the bar knowing he won’t see anyone that may recognize him.

Usual, Santa? the bartender asks.

...so, I came here for a girl, only to meet a different girl... a young man prattles to the barkeep. I mean, she is much different... she knows her.

The youth has pointed out a blonde that leans on the far end of the bar. Like a deer caught in the headlights, she can only stare wide-eyed. She’s arrived at the wrong moment. Bottle of vodka, please, she recovers, just wanting to get back to her room as soon as possible.

You girls are going to drink me out of business, the bartender jokes. Any particular brand?

Nope, whatever you have.

The blonde avoids the young man’s gaze while she waits for the bartender to retrieve a brand new bottle from the back. It’s no use, he’s closing in on her.

KB, did Rocky mention me at all? he asks, his voice thick with hope.

No, Killer B quickly breaks the news. But, I never ask for details.

I left her my number, he explains. She’ll call, right?

No. She’ll never call you, sweetie. To her teammates, Killer B is a saint. She puts up with Rocky’s behavior and takes care of her like a mother tends to a child.

Really? It seemed like we had hit it off very, very well.

I’m sure you did, Killer B tries to ease the ego of the man Rocky will refer to as Mr. Breckinridge for the next few days. She’s done this before, in countless cities, for countless men that become enamored by Rocky’s aggressive sexual nature. But, what you had is all it will ever be. Rocky isn’t the sort to... she had fun, don’t get me wrong. I know she enjoyed herself, but that’s all it was for her.

She tried to break it as gently as possible, yet she watches the young man’s heart break. His optimistic puppy love is euthanized, put to sleep before it can grow into something else. Bottle in hand, Killer B drops enough cash on the bar to cover it before retreating back to her room as fast as possible.

Mr. Breckinridge slumps on his stool beside Santa, across from the smug looking bartender. He wishes he could just play it off, say something to assure these men that he’s already over it, but he can’t. All he can do is pay his tab and make for his room. If that was the real Santa, he thinks, trying to find the lighter side of his heartache. And he was able to see all the naughty stuff Rocky and I did. I’m getting a lump of coal this year for sure.

6

Excuse me, Mr... Gil Price realizes he never caught the name of the scary man on the floor of the suite he once held an illicit affair in. Mr. Mob Guy?

He feels for a pulse but isn’t able to find one, leaving him to wonder, Is this good or bad? The guy is dead. He can leave with the sample and his money. One of his biggest concerns has been how to explain the substantial missing sum should his wife notice. That’s one problem solved, he says over the corpse.

He has people, Price remembers the goons. People that will miss him, and retaliate. He sits on the bed at a loss as to what to do now, he just knows he must do something. I should just take the sample and leave the cash. That was the deal. He has a golden opportunity to help millions, and make millions. Why not do it for free, take the cash so Ramona doesn’t notice. His wife’s name clinches it, with this guy no longer able to send candid pictures he knows he’s safe. That just leaves the matter of the body.

The man was shady, he can’t imagine that it might be beyond his ilk to skip out on his men, leave the country without paying them for services rendered. He had dismissed them for the night, said he’d call if he needed them.

The man’s luggage backs up his claim that he planned to leave the country, a massive rolling case. Price hefts it onto the bed and unzips it. The expensively tailored suits that were packed so neatly are crammed into laundry bags provided by the hotel. Everything is removed; socks, underwear, toiletries, a pistol with a silencer, and a few bottles of prescription medicine. Everything goes into the plastic bags except for the gun in case he runs into the goons and a shaving kit that just won’t fit. Now all he has to do is stuff the heavyset man into his own suitcase.

The limp corpse unwittingly resists Price’s efforts, flopping opposite to where he is placed. It takes a few attempts to get the man’s torso stuffed into the bottom of the case. It’s a snug fit, his head is craned at a painful looking angle into the corner. The arms and legs are the next problem, the man is so girthy Price can’t get them all in at the same time. When Price tries to get all the limbs in one pops out, he must juggle and stuff them until he gets the cover closed, even with all his weight on the suitcase he can’t get the zipper to go around.

Gil Price must step back to think this through. He feels hot under the collar and frustrated, sweat beads on his forehead. If only his arms and legs had a few extra bends. It dawns on him what he’ll have to do.

The elbows and knees will have to bend differently. Price holds the mobster’s leg to his chest and braces himself for what he’s about to do. He won’t feel it, the desperate man tells himself before forcing the joint against its normal range of motion.

A chill runs through Gil’s body after hearing the sickening crack and feeling the tendons give. Oh, my god! he exclaims yet knows it isn’t over yet. The way he plans on packing he needs to be able to stuff the man’s legs alongside him, and the arms will have to be laced on top of his chest as neatly as possible.

After three more grisly snaps Price is able to get the zipper to go around the bag. He checks the room for any items that may be left behind, using one of the dead man’s socks as a glove to prevent leaving any prints. He’s not thinking since his prints are already all over the room from his previous visit, among other traces of evidence. The drawers are empty, the bathroom is clear. He needs to go to the lobby to snag a luggage cart without running into the guy’s men or looking too suspicious. He needs to take everything out of the hotel to give the illusion the mobster just took off in the night. Simple.

7

The shower cuts out. Killer B waits outside the bathroom with Rocky’s bottle. She wants to turn in for the night, but won’t be able to sleep until she knows what happened between her friend and her ex.

Steam spills from the bathroom like a sauna, Rocky always takes especially hot showers after a conquest. She dries herself in the room, starting with her short brown hair and working down her glistening body. Oh, KB, you’re awesome! she says joyfully taking the vodka. I was just starting to sober up.

Killer B watches her Captain head to the beds, just dropping her towel on the floor and leaving wet foot prints behind her. She forgoes the use of a robe to conceal her wiry build. Curiosity forces the question, What did Remy want?

To fuck me, Rocky answers. More or less.

Nothing else is shared, Killer B knows there’s more to it than that. She waits knowing her friend will tip her hand eventually.

Rocky cracks open the bottle and sips from it, the burn of the spirits on her tongue doesn’t even phase her as she lays on her bed and flips though the television channels. She’s looking for footage from tonight’s match on the upper sports networks.

Hey, I think I might let you take the star in Waterloo, Rocky says meaning Killer B will be the lead Jammer. Maxine can Pivot.

You don’t want to play in the championship?

I’m tired. Getting too old for it, Rocky explains unconvincingly. Don’t worry, you’ll be great.

Before Killer B can delve deeper into the decision Rocky speaks. While we’re there, we can drive past you-know-who’s house, the words are meant to entice Killer B into acceptance, like bargaining with a child.

This is just out of the blue, since when do you ever want to be benched? What did he say?

Nothing. The curt response is delivered intently to cease the subject. Do you want to creepy stalk Kelly Peel, or not?

The pop star is Killer B’s idol, when she learned that the championship was being held in her hometown her first impulse was to ask if they could see her home. Yes, but...

Then drop it, Rocky instructs. Even with me off the track we’re going to win. You will lead the charge. Max will back you up. You can see that bitch’s home. Then, we will all head back to Bedlam, Mass reaping the rewards and training for next year. Sound good?

Killer B turns off lights and crawls into bed. She doesn’t have to know all the details of the conversation to know what it all boiled down to, the league doesn’t want Rocky to play anymore. Man’s Ruin still has the advantage over the other teams with her coaching from the sidelines and all their combined experience, what troubles Killer B now is how her friend will handle it. Rocky lives and breathes the game, brawling keeps her alive. If she can’t derby, how will she survive?

8

Fortunately for Gil Price the dead man had left his room key on the nightstand, the idea that he may need to unpack the suitcase had him a bit alarmed. He needs to slip down to the lobby to retrieve a cart. After splashing some cold water on his face, as casual as he can, he ventures down the hall and to the elevators.

He moves through the lobby, consciously trying to act as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he belongs. It’s after eleven, no guest would need a cart at this hour, his brain screams at him as he wraps his hand around the thick brass bar of one of the rolling racks in the vestibule. Price can feel the eyes of the staff behind the desk on him as he makes his way back to the elevator. He ignores their curiosity without making eye contact, his main concern is being seen by the dead man’s burly body guards.

He fights the cart’s swiveling wheels all the way to the lift, thankful for another guest’s need of assistance that prevents one of the staff from inquiring if he needs help. A man is at the desk complaining about stomach pains he attributes to the food he had ordered.

He’s in the elevator and able to relax for a minute, half of his battle is almost over.

Hold the door! a woman calls after him, he obliges out of reflex hitting the ‘door open’ button, cursing himself for