Couple of notches before the clock strikes 8, I follow the unwanted and the wanton off the Central Park station. Thoughts lingering in mind as if thorns twining into a knot for a son of bitch to kick and dribble in my skull. It's not the sense of loss or wavering, not even anger, more of an agonizing deja vu. The feeling of obliviousness. And it doubles down when I'm roaming Nochnaya.
Pacing through lights and neons of royal blue, hunching across empty alleyways, striding by colorful suckers. Cutting south through the tail of Lesnaya, is a run through a marquee of canvas framing things you fail to reach or let go before death grips you by the silent exit at Kirov.
Kirov St. never ceases to amaze me with how fast it could turn the carnival up north into a remark of ignorance of what lies behind. The better part of Noch residential still lurks the desolation and the failure destined from its motherland. What's the point of neon strips without an audience?
Few limos coming down from Lesnaya in supercilious miles. From the rebounds of music blaring inside and the laughter, but mostly the fact they're driving south, indicate they could not afford a room in a hotel. I stroll through the now empty crossroad and hug the wall of Central Park for two blocks before running through the empty traffic again, half of the lights on the street are off as if in agreement making the sound of my own steps against asphalt louder with......
Wait.
A tinge of pressure at the back of my head accompanied by the realization my footsteps wouldn't ring a bloody after-sound of crushed debris. My mind was in clarity.
Why don't you cunts tail me to bed and bring your girl along too?
I slowed my pace as if by a whim through the proximity of a closed beauty shop, its bay window and offed light serves as a mirror but I caught nothing in its reflection, not even my own shadow. Swallowing a curse and letting it out in my head, I can feel a lump pushing itself up my throat, boiling my blood.
When will you learn? You are in noch.
I keep the pace until the first alleyway as I dive into it like a photophobia animal. Along the dim lights and bleak street, there's a pair of offed headlights just out of the corner with the driver seat occupied.
Now, that's much more doable than a personnel on foot.
I navigate the maze among blocks of humming residents and closing shops, drawing a moonlit path as it shimmers above the roof outlines. The long way home felt second nature to me. I recognize all the little details behind tubes and aluminum back doors, always shut dumpsters. I found myself pacing faster through the turns and corners until I reached the one across the southern entrance to the park leading back to the Kirov main road, I can see the grocery stores blinds from here.
The only problem is, four men in baggy tracksuits and fitting hoodies are leaning against the crude brick wall. Two of them fidgeting subtly, the tallest fella in a black cotton shirt being a nuisance murmuring gibberishes that I'm too far to catch. And the fourth one's leaning closest to the corner, he's got steady eyes on the street and the rest of his face hidden in this angle, palm massaging behind his neck, four pieces of silver on his bracelet clings by his motion.
That's some luck straight from the other end of Satan himself. The moment such thoughts were composed in mind, the tall bloke in black cotton shirt bumps his friend's arm with elbow, strung eyes locked onto me. The guy next to him tilts his head over my end. His mouth opens an inch wider than needed for a human being to talk and suddenly my poor memory connects. Those three closer to me are the ones from this morning.
The gazes quickly spread like a flu from one to another, elbows to shoulders then mouth to ears, glee and a wriggle for relief appear in them.
The tall one stands side by side the loudmouth with brows subtly pointing above his right eye, mouth closed firmly. The tenth street and the third one's barely visible in the narrow angle, but the smell of restlessness and a need for focus disperses in the air, lingering around the corner.
"Friend. You lost?" The loudmouth in a gray featureless hoodie hollers with an obvious shiver behind his voice by slowly boiling adrenaline, substance and unreasonable excite.
"Just passing by." I tilt my palms up gesturing compliant and meekness without moving my arm. I take two steps forward and the third guy pokes his head out between the two with teeth biting down. He's bout a notch shorter than the rest, got a flat fucking face as if God slap that fetus himself. Eyes bloodshot red.
Long shot talking my way out of crackheads.
"Passing by now? What, you had a go at Lesnaya? No wait, then you wouldn't be here now...or is it that all the pubs, clubs, swine, skank told you to fuck off?"
The loudmouth grins without sound, the tall one cracks a smile on his tense expression which somehow makes him look more confused. I close in another step with a drag of a smile, squinting my eyes as if closing them.
Three steps and a skip. The fourth guy's completely off sight in this angle, so I'm assuming he's bout my height.
"Not much chance to begin with. Tuesday. Jose and Vin swapped shifts at the back of Resonance, Cammy's probably calling in sick again. Wouldn't bother with ice breaker, the place is swarmed with dogs and half of the girls would have you pay first." There's your final chance.
The tall one draws away his smirk, and the loudmouth tilts his head to the side as
the flat face pulls his shoulder with a hinting grip. The back of my hand grasp the prickly, uneven brick wall as I evaluate the pros and cons and if the grocery store across the street still has ice left.
"...You think this is how it works? You throw a couple of names," The flat face now standing at the front of the group, thumb tabbing middle finger on loudmouth's shoulder. "You think you can stroll around Noch at night cause you know a few fucking names?"
Now about three steps away, the lighting's still feeble behind them on the street. I can tell he's under influence, all three of them are on some level. Nonetheless he’s making a viable point.
"I'm just trying to get back home. I live across the street." I hinge my arm back, cracking a joint and two. No need for knuckle brass. It won't work on a group of more than two and now I'm looking at four presumably packing junkies, white teeth under venting breaths, pupils swollen on skate. I need all the little sways.
Thicket's 1 meter or so in width therefore…Two of them at once, at most.
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The flat face's waiting for the end of the moment, the loudmouth pressing down a grin, the tall one seems quite fucking determine after hearing the statement for some reason, he's got both hands in pockets. The tenth street's I'm most worried about, out of sight and out of reach, and hell knows what Arseny would do when he finds the leftover of tonight, whatever the result.
"Быстрая дрочка перед долгим трахом?" The flat face rolls his eyes to his pals behind him, the others don't say a word. They drag their upper lips down.
As he makes the first step forward, breaking the distance in between, a rush of adrenaline and pressure on my nose bridge sends me into a blissful frenzy. The faces in the dark don't matter, the heavy clothes on me weight none. I could've died here if any of them strapped a piece, and it won't matter more than any other inconvenience in my life.
Time doesn't slow down at the brink of dawn or the break of man. It's an illusion from having too much shit on your mind. Just like how Dean's words sounded elusively holy as it nagged a spot in my head.
"You, my friend. Fellas like you are meant for this city...." If there hangs a mirror or eye above us, I might just find myself no different than them, no better than myself 7 years ago. Grinning out a horizontal smirk, reveling the rush, the smell.
***
Left foot a step forward, right hand slips to the back of his belt. The flat face takes initiative and a small gap, about a stretch of arm was created between him and loudmouth.
Two steps away and a gambler I remain. My right foot almost leaps forward as it drags my left foot leaving the ground, and I bet on it swinging faster than whatever the fuck he's reaching. I aimed between the rib and pubic
that caught him by surprise, not sure if it's because he pulled himself back or I missed, the kick ended up barely grazing his armpit. But it matters not, I can hear a crisp 'clack' of metal and plastic hitting asphalt road. He dropped it.
Before I can retract my foot, the loudmouth's already gained forward past the flat face. Solid footwork. Sloppy defense.
The bloke comes in like a proper cannon folder under Igor's instructions, head forward and back and all around with both fists by his ears. Stepping in the gap between me and the flat face who's crouching down on the ground. When the tall one squeezes passes him, he accidentally bumps the flat face's shoulder.
I draw back a few steps and the loudmouth follows with steps as if sliding across the bumpy alley at impressive speed for his size. And back under moonlight between cables, his right jab came gushing through the dark. Aiming at the general direction of my head.
I clutch my teeth and dive into it with a tilt of my head, neutralizing the available distance for his left upper, chambered like a 45 under his chin, ready to follow up. The right fist impacts and numbs half of my face like chewing an iron screw with all your might. I can feel something chipping a wound in or outside my mouth.
And with my head almost next to his, I see a flash of fright in them small eyes before he starts furiously punching my ribs with short jabs of his left fist and twitching his right arm above my shoulder. I would’ve laugh if half of my teeth ain't shivering.
Both hands hugging under his armpit and over his shoulder, I lock it back behind his neck and the next two faces appear under the moonlight with the tall one rushing in without much plan in his head, lips bitting on each other flat and eyes full of doubt.
I step my right foot forward, bypass the loudmouth's right thigh, and circle around his feet. The guy's truly got great footwork for he immediately knew I'm trying to tackle him and pulls his right leg up.
In response. I crouch down. Locking his calf in a clamp and pulling his entire body down by crouching down myself, with both my arm's efforts on his torso. He falls as do I. Now he's in an awkward position, kneeing and lying down at the same time, the loudmouth's defenseless but before I can slam my fist down, the sole of the tall lad comes straight at my face.
Can't dodge it, reflexes made me close my eyes as it blares red and purple on my eyelids with a shock of my head. In the mellow of my senses, my arms find the back of his calf and I drag with all the irritation building up since it started. And I saw him falling onto me soon as my eyes regained sight.
Not willing to let this chance go to waste, I stretch my right arm forward in open palm, fingers bending back like the handle of a cane. And the end of my wrist caught his chin. With the acceleration of him falling plus my entire forearm lost its senses for an instance, the son of a bitch's getting a concussion and his mandible torn.
But I was wrong about this one. After a roll of eye, his face tilts back forward instead of falling down, if only barely on his feet.
The second wave of adrenaline kicks in along with the first wave of pain washes over me. I can feel a burn on my left cheek as if salt on ulcer. With the new encouragement and the sight of a switchblade back in the flat face's hand, frenzy smirk on his face. I pull myself up and off the loudmouth who immediately turns around and tries to pull my right foot to no prevail.
Between and before both the tall lad and flat face reach me, in half a second of response time as the tall guy trying to stand straight.
I raise my right hand above my head and swing it back, with a small boost of momentum into the straight kick right on the tall lad’s chest. It was utterly muscle reflexes, but it was the best call in that situation. The poor fella's still half conscious and falls like a mannequin on his friend, who struggles to catch him with a knife in hand.
And just when I'm about to turn to deal with the loudmouth, I feel an arm slip under my left armpit and another over my neck. And they squeeze in like a collar on hound. He got me first.
A lock is the worst that could happen in any fight. The pain is not present, just the pressure and a panic of no air coming into your system. By the speed of my venting, I'm less than ten count before losing conscious.
My body was less patient than my mind as it moves on its own relying purely on gut instincts and reflexes. As if I'm many years younger back in that fucking dig of sweat and shouts. My right hand found his face hiding behind my strained left arm, and my fingers found a strand of hair.
Never underestimate the last will of a person. It can help a father lifts a rebar twice his weight, a child to climb back from the edge of a waterfall, a god fearing man to commit double homicide in his own bedroom. And in this instance, dragging his head all the way downward to the point even in my state I can hear a barebone scream of agony and it gives my left arm just enough space to twist a turn and press his head even lower as I drag my entire weight to the left, leading his skull to the uneven brick wall.
There wasn’t a sound, but there's a clear shake of his arm before both lose most of their strength for me to escape the clutch.
My body on autopilot. Before I can take a much needed breath, I push my right forearm onto his throat and press the motherfuck with a chipped head and a huge lock of hair gone on the wall. And in those eyes, I see my euphoria.
I pull my right arm back just to send my elbow into his forehead with all my strength, his head was slightly off the wall, and it bounced back off it with a dull bang, like a rim click.
I did it again. This time with my left arm on his throat to lock his head in place between my bone and solid bricks. The moment it hit feels strange, as if punching an unmovable object made of hard rubber and you could feel a hazy sensation of it moving back despite it being impossible. The loudmouth finally falls down, with the back of his scalp still scrapping the wall as he lumps.
I turn around and first see the tall one lying on the ground then the flat face with knife in his hand, bloodstained. Not much fight in him. Shame, I haven't felt this fine in a long time.
I walk in strides and feel both ends of my mouth stretching wider and wider till it catches the blood dripping down my cheek. Of all the ways to use a 6-inch blade. He decided to come with a hammer grip thrust at my belly, like his first intent. And it came slower than I'd hope. I half a step back as it misses me entirely, and my fingers clutch my jacket sleeve over my palm as a glove. At the end of his reach, when he rotates the wrist for a slash, is the best timing you could find.
My right palm reaches forward as the edge of the blade presses against the thick cuff and I had his wrist in a grip. Right foot forward horizontally, and the rest of my body spins in said motion crushing my left elbow straight into his eye.
With the freedom of a breath as his head shocks backward I dive under his stretched arm with my right hand still gripping his wrist. Now both hands locking onto it like a hunting riffle on shelf, my left elbow lunges with a push of my shoulder, aiming at the joint between his forearm and Humerus. Once, twice, thrice.....like a pop of a balloon, he drops the knife followed by a whimper broken before uttered as my left leg stomps on his knee socket, making him fall on the other.
Before he comprehends the sudden shift of view and vision, I clutch the side of his head and slam it into the brick wall while my hands are still pressuring upon that flat face. Ordinary features, ordinary eyes, ordinary bewildering... I take another step forward and drag the other side of his face across the brick wall full of bumps and pokes. His skin trailing on the wall made the sound to a busted wheel on a privacy curtain in hospital. It rips.
Drawing a line of darker shade across, on again and off again leaving scraps of his face on the red marks.
He finally found the strength to scream, curling, covering the gone half of his cheek and it turned into a cry through the otherwise quiet night, amplified by the narrow alley.
I take a deep breath in, and trace my line of sight across the tall one lying on the ground with doses of blood sulking the back of his black cotton shirt as it wrinkles and his body wriggles lightly. Up along the dotted trail, to where the tenth street's standing at the end of this mess, left hand in pocket.