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I needed a cover page for my new tabletop RPG binder, so, obviously an Up! quote was needed, as was a doodle.
A Simple Man- Part 1
Being a thug used to be so elementary.
There was this raw innocence to the whole process.
It was all about simple mob mentality. And, lots of boobs and booze.
Like, I’m talking “gives a new meaning to ‘Land of Milk and Honey’” lots.
Of course, there was an actual “working” portion of the job. But, most of the time, with us simple, low-ring tough guys, one just simply had to show up and look tough. In all honesty, it was not a very tiring job. And, when the time came, you’d just have to get up off of your ass and throw your weight around. Men are normally good at that sort of thing anyway.
We were in the business of vice, supplying the greatest hits of depravity and indulgence.
However, a couple of these were notorious for getting you killed: drugs and guns.
Tits and booze got one close enough, for my own taste, to getting kicked to death in the filthy gutter of your favourite dive. You know the one, with that cheap classy shit that you like to buy. Yeah, there’s literal shit in that gutter. And, you’re gonna die in that shit. That shit will be the last thing you see and smell before some cocky son-of-a-bitch brings a bat down on your head like some fucking Mortal Kombat fatality killing stroke. That’s the kind of trouble drugs and guns bring.
We all have your basic intimidating blunt weapons, like bats and crowbars. But, some of us thugs need to compensate for small dicks, daddy issues, or both. Those assholes will have concealed guns. These guns make things messy, and definitely more illegal. You can’t pull any “But, officer, I was walking down to the park to play some ball” bullshit with that gun that’s about to accidentally shoot your dick off because you think it’ll impress some cheap hoe. Want to know what doesn’t impress prostitutes? Guys missing dicks. People often get less intimidated, and more dead, when guns are involved.
I’m no idiot, though. Even a lazy-ass like me trained up a little bit. I took a few boxing classes, to get some basic handheld fighting experience. I really wanna’ try Krav Maga. So fucking badass. But, those are life goals for you- best left for tomorrow.
All of these things may have some major complications and flaws, but, hey, we’re all human right? We all have the same flaws, same vulnerabilities. I love that about mankind: underneath all of the bravado, and the lies, and the armour, we’re all just simple flesh. No magic, or superpowers, or aliens. I was a simple man, in a simple time.
That’s when everything changed.
Changed how, you may wonder. Well, for starters, I’m currently hanging from a catwalk in a warehouse, moments from falling to my fiery doom because some douche-nozzle blew a hole in the wall, and now the warehouse is on fire. A guy with nunchucks; a guy is shooting fire out of his hands; a guy is flying. What the fuck is going on; I was not prepared for this bullshit. It turns out that we’re not all just simple humans after all. Magic, superpowers, and aliens all exist, and they all just fucking lit the place on fire. I’ve been taking scattered jobs for months now; finding work that doesn’t get you killed is harder and harder to come by. God-forbid I have to actually make an honest living. I heard about this job from a guy, who heard about it from a guy. It was supposed to be a clean and simple fraudulent goods shipment, just some knock-off bags and shit, I think. Like, Juicy, or Gucci, or Scholl’s or something. No drugs or guns involved- how much trouble could I get into? I just keep my eyes open, and walk around up on this catwalk, until the stuff gets picked up. Simple enough, right? Not so simple, now, huh, trying to lift my heavy ass back onto a catwalk. Being a thug is all about appearances. I had to scope out soft jobs, without looking like I was going soft. That level of dedication, of not getting sent to jail for life or getting shot to death, while still appearing tough, is exhausting. However, I’d like to maintain a certain level of living that I’ve actually grown a tad sentimental toward. Speaking of which, I’m still hanging here, all exposed and about to die and such. That’s when I hear the catwalk creak. Maybe I’m just hearing things, right? There’s a lot going on in here, with people blowing shit up, screaming, and gunfire. Then I hear a creak and a deep groan; this catwalk is going down, and soon. The explosion must done more to this catwalk than toss me like a consensual salad. Things are warming up below, too, as the fire begins to spread. Wait a second- what the honest fuck. Did I say guns? Who brought fucking semi-automatics? I bet those knock-off bags weren’t empty at all, and I’m pissed about it. With my luck, I’d even bet drugs are involved too.
“We know about your shitty fake bags, and that you’re smuggling drugs and guns in them. Surrender now, so we can save you, and take you to jail,” some pretentious, self-righteous asshat, with a booming voice, declares to anyone who hasn’t burned to death already.
Turns out things aren’t always as they appear. And, this job has brought a particular amount of literal and figurative heat that I really can’t handle right now.
Remember that one time the wall blew up, sending shit everywhere, and I got hit in the face, and knocked off a catwalk? I did that super ninja grab, like in the movies, but, no one was around to see? Then I was about to fall to my death? Fan-fucking-tastic times.
He’s happy to heat things up, but, he’s taking leftovers… Your bratty kids. You are welcome.
Merry Christmas, all! May your holidays be Krampus-free, released from the tyranny of The Great Oppressor. Praise be to The Holy One, and his critical hit with his +3 Holy Masterwork Dagger during his surprise round. Amen.
